Jaws of the Tiger Read online

  “Sorry, but cruise ships don’t wait for late passengers.”

  “What about you?”

  “I’ve already checked in.”

  He deposited his bags next to the counter where a young woman with jet black hair and thick horn rimmed glasses was waiting, twiddling her pencil and looking down at a document on her desk.

  “Passport and ticket please.” She looked up and smiled at Dulac.

  Past the security check and twenty minutes later, Dulac and Karen had deposited their luggage in their cabin, then joined the throngs of passengers along the metal railing of Deck Five, peering down at a group of waving well-wishers below. The boarding gangway had been withdrawn and large eddies were forming in the water below them, as the ship’s bow and stern thrusters slowly pushed her away from the concrete dock.

  Dulac turned to Karen. “That’s cutting it a bit close.”

  “Anyway, you made it. I’m so glad you did.” She smiled and hooked her left arm around his waist and brought him in closer.

  “Me too.”

  Chapter 3

  October 15th, aboard the Caravan Star

  After two days onboard ship and with Karen’s help, Dulac had to admit he was actually having fun. He’d managed to unplug himself from his files, leave his computer and the satellite phone his secretary had convinced him to take “just in case” in his satchel, and enjoy life aboard. The previous evening, Karen had talked him into the nightly karaoke contest, and Dulac had won first prize amongst 22 participants with his imitation of Elvis Presley’s You Ain’t Nothing but a Hound Dog. After an exhausting romp of lovemaking earlier that morning, they’d taken a late breakfast, then spent the remainder of the day lounging around the deck area, sipping Pina Coladas and Mojitos between occasional laps in the pool. Still, the underlying subject of their breakup hung in the air, neither of them wanting to bring it up and break the exotic albeit artificial atmosphere of the vacation. Three months earlier Karen had walked in on him unannounced at his apartment late on a Thursday evening and found him half-naked in the company of a nude, bosomy blonde. They hadn’t spoken again until her invitation to go on a cruise.

  Maybe it was time to clear the air, thought Dulac, but he hesitated, wondering if he shouldn’t let sleeping dogs lie. What the hell, here goes.

  “It was just a one nighter,” he said. “I’ll never see her again.”

  She turned slightly toward him. “Thierry, you don’t have to justify yourself. We don’t have any commitment of exclusivity and besides…”

  “Still, I felt I owed you an explanation. I was tired, had too much to drink at the bar that night and…”

  “Let’s just drop the matter, shall we?”

  “I just want you to know that it’s not my style.”

  “Fine.”

  “Sure?”

  “You wouldn’t be here if I thought it was.”

  “Got it.”

  Dulac reached down and took a sip of his Pina Colada, and Karen looked at her watch. “Gosh, it’s already 6.00 pm. I’d almost forgotten we have an invitation to the captain’s table tonight.” She got up and offered her hand. “Come on, lazy bones. A good supper will do us good.”

  Dulac stood up and looked into her eyes.

  “We okay?”

  “We’re okay,” she said. “Just don’t make it a habit.”

  Back in their cabin, Karen picked out a light blue dress from the closet, laid it on the bed and started selecting matching accessories. Dulac showered quickly, dried himself and returned to the bedroom. Donning his boxer shorts, he stood in front of the closet.

  “What’s the dress code for one of these gigs?” said Dulac.

  “The Captain’s steward said casual chic but I got the distinct impression the accent was on the chic.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Anything nonchalant and dressy.”

  “You’re a great help.” Dulac took his dark blue blazer, beige pants and white shirt off the hangers and turned back towards Karen. “This had better do, because it’s the dressiest I’ve got.”

  “I’m sure the captain won’t refuse you at the dinner table wearing that.”

  Dulac deposited the blazer and shirt on the bed, sat down and started to don his pants. He couldn’t help noticing the fit was significantly tighter than the last time he’d worn them at his neighbor’s cocktail party two months ago.

  “Any idea who else will be at the Captain’s table?” said Dulac.

  “None. We were lucky enough to get the last two seats.”

  Karen looked at her watch. 6.32 pm. “Let’s go. Don’t want to be late.”

  They left the cabin and walked along the richly carpeted corridor, past the two safety lockers housing fire hoses and axes and stopped before the elevator.

  “Let’s take the stairs,” said Karen. “I need the exercise.”

  “Sure. Where do we—?” Dulac looked right, then left down the corridor.

  “That way.” Karen pointed left to the arrow sign with a pictogram of stairs. Moments later, they reached the end of the corridor, opened the door and walked along the platform leading to the staircase.

  They paused for a moment as Dulac stood silent, overwhelmed by the flamboyance and glitziness of what lay before them. A monstrous crystal chandelier with multilayered circles of pink lights hung from the ceiling and illuminated the staircase and hall below, looking like a huge, upside-down Christmas tree. Underneath, the wide staircase descended in a slow swirl towards the main floor in castle-like opulence, its white marble stairs bordered by railings of wrought iron carrying small, winged cherubs in various poses of alleged cuteness. Dulac couldn’t help thinking the décor was more suitable to a casino than to the inside of a ship.

  Dulac took in a quick breath and shot a side glance at Karen, who seemed to sense his discomfort.

  “A bit much,” she said.

  “A bit? Welcome to Vegas-on-the-Sea.”

  “Oh come on, it’s not that bad.”

  “Gaudy comes to mind.”

  They took the stairs and upon reaching the bottom level, turned left towards the main dining area. The room was far from full and a number of passengers were busy chatting away, seemingly waiting for their first course. Overhead, clusters of gilded chandeliers with candle-shaped bulbs lit the room with their soft, yellow glow.

  In the center of the room, a dozen guests were sitting at an oval table, and a man in officer’s whites, seated at the head of the table, was busy talking to a grey-haired elderly woman dressed in a fuchsia colored dress.

  Dulac and Karen were standing at the entrance of the dining room when Dulac thought he recognized one the guests sitting at the large table in the center, next to what appeared to be the captain. Just then, a steward carrying a note pad approached them. “Your names, please?” He flashed an obsequious smile at Karen.

  “Karen Dawson and Thierry Dulac,” she said. “We’re at the Captain’s table.”

  “Ah yes, of course. Right this way. Please follow me,” he said, pointing at the table with his right hand.

  As they approached the table, Dulac’s intuition about the man he thought he recognized was confirmed. The man with light brown, short cut hair, a low forehead and slightly arched eyebrows that gave him the appearance of being in a constant state of sadness was none other than Governor George Dickinson of Florida, the front-runner Republican candidate for the upcoming American presidential elections.

  They reached the table and the steward introduced them.

  “Captain Goran Peterson, this is Karen Dawson and Thurley….”

  “Thierry Dulac.”

  “Yes, of course, terribly sorry Mr. Dewloc.” The embarrassed steward retreated slightly, turned and eclipsed himself.

  Peterson smiled and stood. “Welcome aboard Ms. Dawson, Mr. Dulac. Please,” he said, pointing to the remaining two seats. Dulac and Karen sat down, and Peterson continued.

  “This is Governor George Dickinson and his wife Mary, and to their right are
Senator Durward Easton and his wife Sandra,” said Peterson, eyeing the couples to his immediate right. “I’m not very good at remembering names, so I ask that everyone introduce himself or herself to Ms. Dawson and Mr. Dulac.”

  Dickinson looked much older than his 65 years, thought Dulac. Amazing what a TV makeup artist can do.

  “Hi, I’m John Panetti,” said the man with a strip of hair over his bald pate.He stretched over the table and offered his hand to Dulac. “And this is my wife Gina. I’m in the meat business in Pasadena.”

  Dulac shook his hand and smiled perfunctorily. To Dulac’s right, a tall man, good looking, mid 50’s with a definitely Mediterranean complexion was busy talking in Italian to a pulpous- lipped botoxed blonde fifteen years his senior.Her deep cleavage showed propped-up, tanned breasts. He summarily acknowledged Dulac and Karen with a quick smile, then returned to his conversation with the blonde.

  From across the table, another man reached over and proffered his hand to Dulac.

  “Sam Watson from Minneapolis. Since we’re talking shop, I’m in the garbage disposal business. We make bins for the whole of North America. Even sell into Canada. You could say I pick up where Panetti left off.” He laughed uproariously. “We stash your trash.” Another guttural laugh from the man in a pink open shirt, wearing a huge opal stone mounted on a gold ring ostentatiously occupying his right annular. He turned slightly and eyed Panetti.

  “Maybe you and I can do business, Mr. Panetti. You know—”

  “Whatever.”

  Watson reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a business card.

  “Here, take this. Now we can say we did business. That way I can say that this was a business trip.” He gave Panetti a conspiratorial wink.

  “And what do you do, Mr. Dulac?” said Watson, his expression patronizing and haughty.

  Dulac decided to wipe that supercilious smile off Watson’s face.

  “Actually Mr. Watson, I sometimes work with the IRS.”

  The conversation at the table suddenly screeched to a stop. All heads turned towards Dulac. Dulac locked his deadliest gaze onto Watson and continued. “What did you say the name of your company was?”

  The passengers looked at Dulac with a mixture of incredulity and awe, then all eyes fixed on Watson, whose face had turned white.

  “I, I didn’t mean.… I meant only to…”

  “Of course you did. Let me be more specific, Mr. Watson. I’m an investigator with Interpol, and I often work with Revenue departments of various countries in cases of tax fraud. But don’t worry. Cases have to be on a more sizable level to interest the likes of Interpol.”

  A look of relief came upon Watson’s face as he slowly regained his composure. The Mediterranean Golden boy turned away and resumed sweet-talking the blonde.

  “Mr. Dulac,” said Senator Easton, “your name sounds familiar. Weren’t you involved in the Archbishops murders case a while back? Monsignors Conti and—”

  “— Salvador. Yes, I was.”

  “So actually, you were involved with the Vatican scandal surrounding the—”

  “Sorry, but I can’t get into specifics of any case, even if concluded.” Dulac shot a side glance at Peterson.

  Peterson nodded back in understanding. “Ladies and gentlemen,” said Peterson in a warm, conciliatory tone, “this is hardly the place and time to be talking about such serious matters. Let’s enjoy this trip and as we say at P & W, leave your troubles ashore.” Peterson lifted his glass of red wine. “On behalf of the crew and everybody at P & W, we wish you all a most relaxing and enjoyable trip.”

  “Here, here,” said Easton, lifting his glass.

  An hour and a half later, after a dinner filled with idle chatter about the advantages of cruise ships over hotels, such as never having to repack and unpack, and sleeping in the same bed for the length of the cruise, Dulac signaled Karen he’d had enough banalities for one evening and they headed back to their cabin.

  “Strange, isn’t it?” Karen said as they walked down the corridor.

  “What’s strange?”

  “They never ask what the women do for a living.”

  Chapter 4

  Later that evening from the comfort of the 300 count Egyptian cotton sheets of their their first-class cabin, Dickinson lay awake beside his sleeping wife, wrestling with his conscience. The thought of being unfaithful to Mary again brought back pangs of guilt, which he thought he’d atoned for and absorbed long, long ago. In their thirty years of a relatively happy marriage, Dickinson had cheated on his wife twice, or five times, depending on how one counted. The first occurrence was twenty years ago, at the International Conference of Trial Lawyers in Kuala Lumpur, where he’d been corralled by a group of American colleagues into a visit to The King’s Choice, a high end brothel. There, four euro-Asian beauties had introduced him to sexual delights and positions beyond his wildest imagination. He’d rationalized that what Mary didn’t know couldn’t hurt her, but just the same, upon his return home, he’d assuaged the remaining traces of guilt at the confessional of St. Edward’s, in Palm Beach.

  The second transgression had occurred seventeen years agoat the Republican Florida Primary Convention in Miami, where Dickinson met Sandra Williams, a tall, stunning brunette and ex-model, presidential candidate Timothy Meakins’ assistant campaign manager. After a three day stint of scorching lovemaking, Dickinson had come to his senses and told Williams he’d made a big mistake, loved his wife very much, and was ashamed of himself. Predictably she’d initially thrown a fit of rage, but eventually resigned herself and moved on to greener, less complicated pastures.

  Dickinson had shoved the affair into the deepest recesses of his memory and all but forgotten about Williams, or at least he had until the evening he and Mary had gone out to dinner at Washington’s posh Lafayette’s and bumped into Senator Durward Easton of Florida, a long-time friend and mentor, and his dinner partner—Sandra Williams.

  Dickinson had nearly had a stroke when Easton introduced Williams, at least twenty-five years his junior, as his fiancée. Shortly thereafter, Dickinson contacted Williams and met her at a bar, to find out her intentions. An uncomfortable exchange of accusations made it clear that a mutual pact of silence was the best solution. He wouldn’t tell Durward, and she wouldn’t tell Mary. Reassured, Dickinson had left it at that, but Easton had taken advantage of their chance meeting at Lafayette’s to re-solidify his friendship with the Dickinsons. During the past years, Easton and Sandra had invited the Dickinsons to dinner in their house in Palm Beach at more than one occasion, and Mary had reciprocated.

  Mary had grown fond of Sandra, and found they had a common interest, golf. They’d arranged to take a week’s lessons together at Mary’s prestigious club, The Breakers.

  The idea of the Eastons joining the Dickinsons on the cruise to help celebrate their 35th wedding anniversary had been Mary’s, to which Dickinson had initially offered resistance. Upon his wife’s insistence, he’d finally agreed.

  Everything had gone well until that first evening during dinner, when Sandra had dropped her napkin and while retrieving it, squeezed Dickinson’s left thigh. At first, Dickinson thought nothing of it, passing it off as a momentary friendly gesture. But during the rest of the dinner, Sandra had insistently rubbed her leg slowly and sensuously against Dickinson’s, making her intentions unequivocally clear.

  Initially, he had retracted his leg slightly, but after her continuing advances, he’d stopped resisting and was enjoying the experience, fully aroused by her boldness and the clandestine nature of the situation. After dinner and nightcaps at one of the ship’s bars, the Eastons and Dickinsons had retired for the evening.

  At 2 am, while Mary snored peacefully beside him, Dickinson still lay awake wrestling with his demons, alternately praying and thinking of fondling Sandra’s full breasts.

  ……and lead us not into temptation but deliver us from evil.

  Chapter 5

  The following morning, Dulac was awa
kened by a streak of sunlight streaming in a slit between the curtains of the cabin’s window. Beside him in a fetal position, Karen lay sleeping, oblivious to the sun’s warm rays. He felt that somehow, something on board ship had changed since the previous night but couldn’t quite put his finger on it.

  Then it hit him. The ship had stopped.

  He got up, went to the window and, careful not to part the curtains too wide lest he disturb Karen, he peeked outside. The sight was breathtaking. Before him, its white limestone slope illuminated by the morning sun, the imposing mass of Gibraltar stood imperially, a small puff of cloud crowning its summit. At the foot of the mountain, the city of Gibraltar’s densely packed buildings filled the lower slopes, temporarily tolerated by the sleeping giant.

  Dulac looked directly below. The dock was a beehive of activity, stevedores rushing to and fro on their pallet carts, carrying provisions from the food trucks onto the ramps leading to the inside of the ship. To his right, the Port of Gibraltar extended from the edge of the peninsula to the coast of Spain, its calm waters harboring a few dozen ships at anchor, waiting their turn to dock.

  Dulac looked at his watch. 8.15 am. At that moment, Karen awoke and turned towards him. She smiled mischievously, stretching her arms open in a sensual invitation.

  An hour later, Dulac and Karen had breakfasted, left the ship and were on their way to visit The Rock. They had missed the ship’s organized tour, so equipped with a map and a booklet on Gibraltar, they decided to take the cable car to the top of the mountain. They walked along the narrow path of Main Street towards the base of the cable car, enjoying the scents of freshly brewed coffee and baked croissants emanating from the city’s quaint cafés. Twenty minutes later, they boarded the télébenne, already half-full of eager tourists speaking a variety of languages, and Dulac smiled as he read the small sign on the widow. “When near the apes, do not leave loose items dangling. You may never see them again.” The door closed and the cable car started up slowly at first, then accelerated. Dulac and Karen looked in amazement as the grandiose view expanded before them. To their right, the sun shimmered off the waves of the Atlantic. Directly across, Morocco and its rugged, mountainous shores, harboring the cities of Ceuta and Tangiers. To the east, a string of cargo ships, small dots on the dark blue sea, were funneling their way into the Straits of Gibraltar towards distant shores across the Atlantic.