Tidal Rage by David Evans (best big ereader .TXT) 📗

cave illuminated by sunlight from an underwater cavity; or having tea in cafes and restaurants once used by the stars of Hollywood.

Stahmer had flown into Naples Airport Capodichino and took a taxi for the short trip to the port of Molo and Calata Porta di Massa. Sean Wright had informed the captain of the Classical Canta Libra that Stahmer was on his way, and he organized for a tender to transfer Stahmer to the ship.

During the two hours it took in the calm azure blue of the Tyrrhenian Sea, Stahmer recollected quite clearly his last trip to Naples. For their wedding anniversary, he had arranged a long weekend in the city, followed by a day in Pompeii and the last couple of days in Sorrento. They had spent all day in Pompeii together, traversing the ruins and looking at the magnificent artifacts.

Too soon, the tender had been expertly guided alongside the massive hull of the Classical Canta Libra. Even though the sea was calm, the small tender still rose up and down on the swell a few feet, Stahmer needed the strong arm of a general seaman to assist his boarding the ship.

Stahmer was escorted to the palatial quarters that housed the captain’s day and night cabins. The captain greeted him in a cordial and professional manner and engaged him in some trivia before getting down to business.

“I believe you wish to re-interview a crew member. Sean Wright reported he had no idea who the crew member was,” the captain said, a little perturbed at being kept out of the loop.

“Sean doesn’t know. We have only just found a particular piece of evidence; could be something, could be nothing. We wish to re-interview Sebastian McKenzie.”

The captain paused for several seconds, trying to put a face to a name, as he had nearly a thousand names and faces to recollect.

“The piano player with the bad hair,” he finally said.

“Yes, the piano player. First, I would like to see his cabin, obviously with Mr McKenzie not there,” requested Stahmer.

The captain leaned back in his leather chair, swivelled it around, and opened the oak cabinet that was directly behind his desk. Stahmer could see the rows of files with little tabs on them, denoting a crew member’s name. He extracted a file from the middle row, Stahmer thinking that must be the row for anyone with M at the beginning of their surname.

“Cabin 17a, sole occupation due to his status as one of the entertainers,” the captain stated, as he picked up the phone and dialled the number for the entertainment manager. Several seconds later he asked for Sebastian’s schedule and present whereabouts.

“You’re in luck, Mr Stahmer; McKenzie is playing classical background music for the next hour in the main restaurant for those guests that find the food much more appetizing than the delights of Capri.”

“That is good news, Captain. If you could allocate a guide to show me his cabin, I would be most grateful.”

“The subject of a guide, as you call it, has already been taken care of, Mr Stahmer. Much to my annoyance, my rather pleasant lunch was interrupted by a direct telephone call from your Mr Cutler.”

Stahmer raised his eyebrows as the captain continued.

“I got the impression that by coming here alone you are breaking with your company protocol. Mr Cutler has requested, and I have granted you, a personal bodyguard while on this ship. Once your interview is completed, you are to return to your hotel and wait for Mr Cutler, who will be with you in the next several days.”

“I see,” was all Stahmer said.

The captain made another short telephone call, a small, thin Nepalese security guard entered the captain’s day room. Stahmer immediately recognized him as a Gurkha, probably ex-British soldier, he thought.

“This is Lachiman. He will be your guard and will not leave your side until we sadly say au revoir to you later today, Mr Stahmer.”

Stahmer nodded towards the Gurkha guard.

“Lachiman and his three counterparts are ex-soldiers from the Brigade of Gurkhas. As you probably are aware, all ships have had some problems with Somali pirates. The Gurkhas are some of the toughest men in the world, so you can feel quite safe with him, just as Mr Cutler requested.”

“I appreciate the assistance,” Stahmer replied.

“Lachiman, like his comrades, would not travel anywhere without his knife, Mr Stahmer. Show him your knife, Lachiman.”

The Gurkha just stood there without movement, expressionless.

“Very good, Captain. I get the joke. I know if a Gurkha takes out his khukuri he can’t put it back into his scabbard unless he draws blood.”

“You are most astute, Mr Stahmer. His khukuri is a work of art. I have never seen the blade, thankfully, but I can tell you the scabbard appears as if it has been crafted by Leonardo da Vinci himself. Would you be so kind, Lachiman, as to show Mr Stahmer the scabbard?”

Lachiman placed it on the captain’s table just in front of Robert Stahmer.

Stahmer could see why the captain took every opportunity to display the weapon, for it was a vision of beauty. The forward-curving twelve-inch Nepalese knife was housed in a handmade leather scabbard. It was the ornate handle which stood out; it was carved out from buffalo horn, which had an engraving of a shark, and was separated by a band of gold leaf from a pair of crossed khukuri knives and topped at the top of the handle by a cow’s foot. This indicated that it belonged to the Brigade of Gurkha, and as such, its owner had been professionally trained in its use.

“It’s very impressive. Thank you for the honour of letting me see it, Lachiman,” Stahmer said honestly.

“Well, I’m sure if you wanted to look at beautiful things all day you would have gone the Louvre, so I suppose we had better get on.”