Ghost Ship (NUMA Files 12)

It would take another twenty minutes for them to find the bridge. It was eerie, standing there, with mud smashed up against the ship’s windows. It was as if the ship itself had been buried in some gigantic grave.

Paul looked through every drawer and cabinet. “No charts, no logbooks, nothing of value.”

“Just like the storeroom,” Elena said. “Someone cleaned this ship out.”

Finally, Paul found something that was too heavy to carry: a bell the size of a laundry basket, lying on its side. He rolled it over until he found another engraving. This time the carved markings were deeper, and once he’d scraped the corrosion and tarnish away, Paul could see the letters clearly. A name was engraved on the side of the bell, a name he recognized, a name that all those who’d ever studied shipwrecks knew quite well.

“The Waratah,” Paul said out loud. “I can’t believe it. This ship is the Waratah.”

He showed the engraving to Gamay, who seemed as surprised as him.

“Why do I know tha

t name?” Elena asked.

“Because it’s famous,” Paul said. “The SS Waratah, of the Blue Anchor Line, vanished with the crew and passengers in 1909. She was believed to have gone down in a storm somewhere between Durban and Cape Town. No wreckage was ever found. Not so much as a life jacket or a buoy with the name Waratah stenciled on it.”

Elena narrowed her gaze at the two of them. “You’re saying this ship we’re on, covered in mud and wrapped in vines, is actually a hundred-year-old derelict that’s supposed to be sitting on the bottom of the sea?”

Paul nodded. “Sitting on the bottom of the sea a long way from here.”

“I told you those stoves were old,” Gamay said.

Paul laughed and considered the irony. “Everyone who is anyone in undersea exploration has searched for this ship at one time or another. Treasure hunters, naval historians, adventurers. NUMA even took a stab at it with the help of this famous author whose name escapes me at the moment. We thought we’d found it, but the wreck turned out to be a different ship called the Nailsea Meadow.”

“No wonder no one could find it,” Elena said. “It never actually went down.”

“Which begs the question,” Gamay said, “where has she been hiding out all these years? And since she seems to be empty, what happened to her passengers and crew?”

Incheon Airport, South Korea

The passengers of Air France Flight 264 from Paris to Seoul gathered their things in the orderly but eager fashion of those who’d been cooped up in a metal tube for too long, as if the eleven hours on the aircraft were more easily endured than the five minutes it took to unload and escape into the terminal.

An announcement that the Jetway had malfunctioned was met with a universal groan. But the opening of the rear doors allowed fresh air into the cabin, and soon the passengers were streaming down the stairs at the rear of the aircraft.

This odd method of emptying the aircraft meant that the passengers in the rear went first while those in first class had to endure the interminable delay.

In the very first row, in seat 1A, Arturo Solano did little to hide his displeasure. The only solace was a few more minutes staring at the shapely American woman who sat next to him. They’d spoken all too briefly during the flight, but as the other first-class passengers filed out she turned his way.

He knew the look. A few words about art and parties and most women went weak in the knees. She was going to ask him if she might attend the party or perhaps even meet privately for dinner.

With a mischievous eye, she watched the last of the firstclass passengers disappear through the curtain and then smiled.

“I know what you want,” he said in his best English.

“Do you?” she replied.

“Of course,” he said. “I’d be delighted to put you on the guest list.”

“I’m flattered,” she said, glancing forward as the front cabin door opened. “But since you won’t be going, there’s no need for me to attend.”

Solano felt a moment of confusion. It grew deeper as three Korean men in dark suits appeared, entering through the supposedly broken Jetway. He stood up, indignant and suspicious, but the woman jabbed him with something. He felt a shock go through his body and then became rapidly drowsy. He fell into her waiting arms and began to doze even as she laid him down on the cabin floor.

Shortly before he passed out, another man entered. This man wore a white linen suit, identical to Solano’s own. His hair was coiffed in the same nouveau pompadour style and his face sported a goatee. In fact, as this new arrival stared down at him, Solano felt as if he might be looking in a mirror.

“Who . . . are . . . you?” Solano managed to whisper. “I’m you,” the man replied.

Baffled and too drowsy to form another thought, Solano closed his eyes and fell asleep.