Jaws of the Tiger Read online

  Jaws of the Tiger

  By André K. Baby

  Digital ISBNs

  EPUB 978-0-2286-0399-3

  Kindle 978-0-2286-0400-6

  Web 978-0-2286-0401-3

  BWL Print 978-0-2286-0402-0

  Amazon Print 978-0-2286-0403-7

  Copyright 2018 by Andre Baby

  Cover Art by Michelle Lee

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  Dedication

  To my dear wife and first editor Louise, who convinced me to stick to my original story.

  Acknowledgments

  I wish to express my gratitude to the many people who contributed to the making of this book. In no special order, they include the readers of my early manuscripts Denise Faille, Harold Wilson, Jennifer Neri, Patricia Vollstaed, Karen Skinner and others, whose ideas and insights kept me on track.

  I would also like to thank my publisher Jude Pittman, whose organizational and managerial skills defy adequate description, my editor Gail Roughton Branan, for her unfailing eye for the right turn of phrase and her words of judicious advice. Thanks also to Michelle for the eye-catching cover and the rest of the team at BWL Publishing. It was a joy and privilege to work with you, an experience I hope to repeat in the near future.

  I would be remiss if I didn’t mention my wife Louise, who after all these years still supports me through the many ups and downs of the fiction writer’s world. Above all, she has taught me perseverance and patience.

  * * *

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products

  of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or

  locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Prologue

  Climbing through the window was easier than he’d expected. His senses on high alert, he crouched down onto his left knee, feeling the cold dampness of the hangar’s cement floor through his track suit, his right hand wrapped tightly around the canvas handles of his duffel bag. The place reeked of a musty mix of saltwater, diesel fuel and engine oil. He waited, watching, listening for any signs of life. None. He looked at his watch: 2.31 am. At 2.50 the night watchman would do his rounds again. His eyes adjusting to the semi-darkness, he could make out the shapes of the lifeboats resting on their cradles, some with electric cords dangling from their decks, others with masking paper taped to their fiberglass hulls, ready for painting.

  He got up, slung the heavy duffel bag over his left shoulder and started walking among the lifeboats, looking for his target, carefully avoiding the pieces of wood, coils of rope and extension cords lying haphazardly on the ground. Where is it? Hassan said it would be easy to find. Amid the two dozen or so lifeboats, none fitted the description given by Hassan. There will be a ladder on the side. He glanced at his watch again: 2. 37 am. Running out of time. He fought the sense of panic mounting from his gut.

  Then he spotted it: Caravan Star 9, the red lifeboat with the wooden ladder resting against its hull, leading up to the lifeboat’s open hatchway. He took in a breath of relief.

  He re-slung the duffel bag over his shoulder again, climbed up the ladder and into the lifeboat. Inside, he turned on his headlight, grabbed the bag and went forward. Overhead, life-vests hung above two opposite rows of seats. He put down the duffel bag on the seat to his right, knelt and lifted one of the floorboards, then placed it on the seat beside the duffel bag. He unzipped the bag and took out the six Micro-UZI submachine guns, five Glock pistols and clips of ammunition, each wrapped in a transparent, watertight bag. He tucked them underneath the floor, carefully wedging them between the hull’s fiberglass ribs. His task finished, he got up, looked at the bilge and smiled. Nothing showed. He replaced the floorboard, slung the empty duffel bag over his shoulder and descended quickly down the ladder.

  2.43 am. It’ll be close. He reached down, took the Sig Sauer 9mm from his leg holster and removed the safety. He walked across the hangar to the far wall and leaned carefully out of the open window. The yard was deserted. He threw the empty duffel bag out onto the ground. Replacing the Sig Sauer into his leg holster he climbed out, closed the window carefully, grabbed the duffel bag and walked, not too fast, not too slow, to the exit road, to the rented Opel. Reaching the car, he opened the driver’s door, threw the duffel bag onto the passenger seat and sat down. He threw a glance at the rear view mirror and caught sight of the night watchman, walking slowly, sweeping the front of the hangar with his flashlight. The watchman stopped and checked the locks. Satisfied, he started again and disappeared around the side of the building.

  Saquil turned the ignition key and put the Opel in gear.

  Tariq will be pleased.

  Chapter 1

  Southampton, October 13, 7.35 am.

  Inside P & W Cruise Lines’ one bedroom apartment on Stratford Street, Capt. Goran Peterson went to the closet, took out two of his white suits, folded them neatly and put them in his suitcase atop the bed. Next, he went to the small dresser, opened the top drawer and pulled out four shirts he’d picked up from the dry cleaners the day before. He deposited them carefully on top of the suits, mindful not to squash their lightly starched collars. Satisfied, he closed the suitcase’s lid and zipped it shut. He looked at his watch: 7.35 am. He still had time for a quick breakfast and a phone call to his wife Nelly and daughter Frida in Stockholm. He went to the kitchen, poured himself a cup of coffee and heated it in the microwave oven. Next he went to the fridge, took out a loaf of sliced rye bread and a jar of pickled herring. He pried out three pieces of herring and spread them neatly onto the bread, careful not to spill the fish oil onto the table. The pungent, salty smell always reminded him of the fishermen’s wharf of Smogen, his native town, and the wooden racks of drying fish lining the road from the harbor to the center of town. Nothing like a good Swedish breakfast, he thought.

  Moments later, Peterson got up, put the dishes into the sink, walked to the minuscule desk in the living room next to the TV and turned his on computer. Although P & W Cruise Lines would be sending a full weather report to his cabin on board ship prior to departure, he always liked to get a head start, so he scrolled down to the maritime weather channel to the radar section and typed in “Area 3, mid Atlantic. Animation”. Seconds later a large, dark green patch appeared, moving slowly from West to East indicating a major depression heading from Newfoundland and stretching from Bermuda to the southern tip of Greenland. Peterson felt a burgeoning dose of anxiety. If the track of the storm headed Southeast, he’d have to make a major course alteration to take his ship out of harm’s way. Schedules would have to be altered. Lost time would have to be made up.

  Next he typed into the National Oceanographic Atmospheric Administration tracking website, and immediately felt a modicum of relief: the storm’s anticipated trajectory was well north of the Caravan Star’s planned route, and NOAA was by far the most reliable of the weather tracking sites for the mid-Atlantic region.

  He clicked to his emails, and opened the one sent by James Archer, the company’s passenger coordinator. The text read:

  Caravan Star repositioning: Southampton to Miami via Gibraltar and Cancun.

  To all concerned. This is to advise you of the manifest of passengers and crew as of GMT 1800 hrs. 2017 October 12.

  Passengers: 353

  Crew: 154

  Please see attachment for details.

  Yours
truly,

  James Archer,

  Chief Passenger Coordinator, P & W lines.

  Peterson smiled. Barely a sixth of the ship’s passenger capacity had registered for the repositioning trip. Fewer passengers meant fewer problems, less daily obligations to be charming and show the ship to all and sundry. With any luck at all, he’d have a chance to catch up on his reading between quarters.

  He flicked onto the Skype logo and dialed his wife Nelly’s number. After three rings, her face, slightly distorted by the camera’s wide-angle, appeared on the screen. He couldn’t help noticing the black pouches under her eyes and deep lines on her forehead.

  “Hi darling,” she said.

  “Hi Nelly. Just a quick hello before I leave. How are you?”

  “A little tired, but I’m ok. Frida—”

  “How’s she doing?”

  “She had a bit of fever last night, but it went down this morning.”

  “How much?”

  “From 37.4 down to 36.8, but she’s still coughing. Sort of a dry cough.”

  “Did you see Luks?”

  “He’s out of town. I have an appointment tomorrow morning with Dr. Magnuson at the clinic. That’s the earliest I could get.”

  “Shouldn’t you go to emergency?”

  “And wait three hours like last time? No. Besides, the nurse at the clinic said to go to emergency only if her temperature went up.”

  Peterson didn’t have to be reminded how fragile Frida’s health was. Only nine years old and she’d already had pneumonia twice. Now even the slightest cold was cause for alarm.

  “Keep me posted,” he said, trying to mask his worry.

  “I will. Have a good trip, darling,” said Nelly.

  “Love you,” said Peterson, then clicked off.

  He looked at the picture on the desk of his wife and young daughter, blonde hair in pigtails, her sunshine smile showing a missing front tooth. Nelly’s arms were wrapped around her daughter’s small waist in a maternal embrace. He felt a sudden warmness in his heart as he carefully replaced the picture onto the desk.

  Chapter 2

  Dulac’s flight from Paris to London had been delayed half an hour at takeoff due to heavy fog, so he’d missed his earlier connection and taken the next train to Southampton. An hour and a half later, sitting in his plush first class window seat, Dulac looked distractedly outside at the drab gray buildings of the city’s outskirts as the London to Southampton Express began decelerating. Moments later, the train reached the entrance to the station and came slowly to a stop.

  Dulac got up, grabbed his suitcase and computer from the overhead bin, and made his way thru the doorway and off the train. He walked briskly down the quay, winding and jostling past slower passengers through the station’s main hall and onto the street, where he joined the taxi queue of waiting passengers. After what seemed like an interminable amount of time, Dulac was finally hustled brusquely into a black Skoda by the turban-wearing dispatcher.

  “Where to, guv?” said the cabbie, sporting a rust-colored handlebar mustache.

  “To dock four. The Queen Elizabeth II Terminal and make it fast. I’m late.”

  “Right, guv.”

  The taxi drove off, winding its way through narrow streets. Ten minutes later, Dulac caught his first glimpse of the dozens of cruise ships berthed along the quays of England’s busiest port. All along the shore, white behemoths were lining the docks, waiting to on-load their cargo of vacationers. He winced at the thought of soon joining the multitudes being carted off to sea on thousands of tons of less-than-seaworthy steel.

  As the taxi slowed amid thickening traffic, Dulac’s mind drifted back to Karen Dawson, his American 37 year old on-and-off girlfriend he’d met four years earlier during his investigation of the Archbishops murders, as the case was known in Interpol. Three months earlier, they’d had a particularly acrimonious falling out so he’d been somewhat surprised when three weeks ago she’d phoned and tried convinced him to join her for a cruise aboard the Caravan Star, on a repositioning trip to the Caribbean. She’d won two tickets at the faculty lottery at la Sorbonne, where she taught animal mythology.

  “Come on, it’ll be fun,” she said. “All the more so because it’s free. All expenses paid by P & W Lines. You can’t get a better deal than that.”

  He’d been torn between his intrinsic though slightly prejudicial, since he had to admit he’s never actually been on one, distrust of cruise-ships and trying to patch things up with Karen.

  His initial reaction had been “Yes, but what does one do all day on one of these ships?”

  “Well, for one, you can relax.”

  Her point had hit home. Two years without a vacation were beginning to take their toll: bouts of insomnia, quickness of temper with his secretary and Interpol’s junior agents, digestion problems, occasional melancholy even. All the signs were there. He’d known for months he was stressed out and needed a rest, but he kept pushing away, pushing back the very idea of a break. There was always another case to be solved.

  Now, the timing was perfect. He had nothing pressing on his agenda for the next two weeks. His professional conscience at ease, Dulac had concluded he really had no reason not to accept Karen’s invitation. And besides, Dulac was certainly willing to give the relationship one last shot. Being away from Karen had made him realize he cared for her much more than he was willing to admit. He hadn’t even begun to forget the easygoing, forthright Karen, her unvarnished, healthy beauty, her high degree of intelligence, that air of the exotic American women so frequently held for Frenchmen, and the greatest sex he’d had in decades. Besides, he really did need a break. As Deputy Director of Crimes against Persons at Interpol, Dulac had completely revamped a function his predecessor had let drift into a morass of disorganization and neglect. Now, the 16 hour days he’d spent doing so were taking their toll. He felt mentally and physically drained. Unwittingly, Karen’s timing had been perfect.

  Maybe a cruise-ship vacation won’t be so bad after all.-

  Dulac rolled down the window and took in a lungful of fresh salt air. In the distance to the right, he spotted what looked like a small marina, the morning sun bouncing off masts of sailboats piercing the blue horizon, instantly triggering memories of his youth in Sables D’Olonne off the coast of France. Sailing on Esmeralda, the family’s 41 ft. sloop off France’s Bay of Biscay, had been among the happiest times of his life. That is, until the accident. That day was forever etched in his mind. A clear, crisp autumn day in late September, Esmeralda, a bone in her teeth, running before the wind in a brisk Northeaster, his father at the helm.

  Then the sudden gust. The boom gybed over violently.

  His father shouted to his mother. “Look out!” Too late. Dulac could still hear the sickening crack of the boom on her skull. It had caught her squarely on the left temple, knocking her overboard. For a second he saw his mother wallowing in the turbulent waves, blood on the side of her head, her eyes half-dazed in confusion and fear while he stood, helplessly frozen in shock, unable to move. By the time they’d brought the boat about and attempted to rescue her, she’d disappeared beneath the waves. He was 14 then, and for years thereafter, he’d felt pangs of guilt for not jumping in to try and save her. Most of the time Dulac’s recollection of that tragic day lay dormant, but the sight of sailboats invariably triggered mixed feelings. Happiness, guilt and pain were interlaced and twisted together like the boughs of a grapevine.

  The cabbie honked his horn at a slow car ahead, jolting Dulac out of his thoughts.

  He looked at his watch again: 10.50 am. He took out the booking slip from his satchel and read it. “Boarding Time: 8.30 am to 11.00 am.”

  That’s when he felt his taxi come to a complete stop. He leaned forward and peered through the front windowat the lineup of jammed traffic that extended well beyond the next traffic light, a quarter mile away.

  Dulac pulled out his phone and dialed Karen’s cell. After three rings, an automated recording kicked in
. “I’m unable to take your call right now but—.” He pressed the redial button and got the same reply. He pressed off, took out his booking slip and dialed P & W lines’ help-desk number. “You are a valued customer. We appreciate your patience,” said a mellifluous voice. “Please hold until a representative is free. The approximate wait time is… seven minutes.”

  Dulac continued to press the phone to his ear, and his taxi started to move slowly again.

  Moments later, a sign to the left of the road read “QE2 Terminal, Next Right.” Dulac looked right and spotted a lone white cruise ship of modest size docked alongside one of the many quays. He counted only six deck levels and felt better already. The cabbie turned right, then stopped before the QE2 Departure Station.

  “Here you are, guv. That’ll be seven quid.”

  “What?” said Dulac.

  “Seven quid. Seven pounds if you prefer.”

  Dulac paid the cabbie, grabbed his bags and rushed out of the taxi to the entrance of the Departure Station. He looked about and spotted Karen standing next to the check-in counter. She started waving frantically as she recognized him. She was wearing a light blue two-piece pantsuit, which accentuated her long legs, and a dark pink scarf slung lazily around her neck. Her thick, auburn hair was drawn back and tied into a ponytail.

  Ravishing. Still holding his bags, he rushed up and kissed her.

  She broke away hurriedly and grabbed his arm.

  “Quick, they’re about to close the gate, and we still have to go through security.” She pointed at the doors leading to the dock.

  “Well, yes, my trip was fine. Glad you asked.”