Gale Force

34

This was a nightmare zone.

Okura dangled in darkness, lowering himself slowly down a line of rope, his feet pressed tight to the deck as he walked himself backward, searching the long line of Nissans for the briefcase. The cars hung around him, rocking with the ship’s motion. They reminded Okura of an uncut sheet of dollar bills, one single unit moving in unison, rising and falling and rising again.

The weather outside must have worsened considerably. The creaks and moans had become more pronounced, the sway of the ship heavier. A couple times, Okura was thrust up and away from the deck with the force of the swell, tossed into the air and then down again, his grip on the rope slipping, his feet nearly giving out.

Somewhere below him was water. Okura could hear it sloshing in the darkness, something dripping. The decks were slick with oil. It leaked from the cars’ engines and drained steadily down the listing deck. Okura imagined the dark frothy mixture at the bottom of the cargo hold, imagined falling into the cold water, drowning in it, coughing up oil and freezing salt water in pitch-black surroundings.

Somewhere below, too, was Tomio Ishimaru. Okura had wrestled the stowaway’s body off of its little platform, sent it plunging down to the darkness, heard it collide with something, a car probably, then another. Then he’d heard the splash, and the stowaway was gone.

Fifty million dollars. Now it’s all mine.

THERE WAS STILL NO SIGN of the briefcase when he’d reached the end of his rope. Okura wrapped it around his glove, found another bulkhead wall to rest against, then stretched and drank water from the canteen he’d stuffed in his pack. Surveyed the situation.

There were cars everywhere. The darkness seemed to close in around them, bringing with them a lingering, primal fear. This was a madhouse.

Three or four rows down, Okura could see the portside hull of the Lion. There was a pool of oily water immersing the first row of cars completely, and part of the second row. Headlights emerged from the murky depths like shipwrecks. There was still no sign of the briefcase.

It must have fallen all the way to the bottom, was probably lying somewhere in that oily water. Okura hoped the briefcase was watertight, imagined coming all this way to find a case of sodden, pulpy stock certificates, unreadable and utterly useless, the perfect punch line to this entire sick joke.

The rope was too short to continue any farther. Okura suddenly felt exhausted, beaten, and he wondered how many hours he’d spent down here, whether it was still daylight outside.

Magnusson will salvage this ship, he thought, staring down the row of cars toward the icy water at the bottom. He’ll pump out all the water and bring the ship upright, and I’ll intercept the briefcase when the ship has been saved. To hell with staying down here any longer.

He stood and straightened, already feeling the fresh air on his face, tasting the hot food in the Salvation’s galley. But as he turned toward the hatchway and prepared to make the climb, he spied something, a blur as his headlamp passed over it, and then he looked closer and saw it was the briefcase.

It was lying on the windshield of a sports sedan, five or six rows away. Only God could tell how Ishimaru had managed to kick the damn thing so far, but there it lay, dry and unmolested.

Now all that remained was to retrieve it.