The Informationist by Taylor Stevens

Author:Taylor Stevens
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: Random House Digital, Inc.
Published: 2011-03-08T05:00:00+00:00

chapter 13

2.40° N latitude, 9.30° E longitude

West coast of Cameroon

It was midafternoon when Munroe first heard the sounds of activity around the ship. From the wheelhouse she had a view of the entire deck. Alongside the trawler were three smaller boats, each loaded to capacity. Five of the crew had already boarded the trawler, and one stayed on the water to guide the deck cranes as they were manipulated over the boats to lift them out. None of the faces were familiar.

One at a time, the cigs were brought over the cargo bay and lowered directly onto the wheeled storage racks that waited below. A smaller crane located inside the ship unloaded the cargo from the boats, which were then wheeled into place and locked down. Halfway through the loading, Munroe left the pilothouse for the hold to get a better view. In less than half an hour, all three boats and their cargo had disappeared from the ocean and into the belly of the ship, and it wasn’t until the lockdown was complete and the crew headed for the stairwell that they noticed her watching them.

The echoes that had reverberated off the walls fell silent.

Beyard wiped his wet hands on the back of his pants. “My apologies, gentlemen,” he said. “Let me introduce you to our guest. This is Essa Munroe.”

Their words came fast, a jumble of accents and languages overlapping one another. Beyard held up his hands, and there was quiet.

“It appears,” he said to Munroe, “that your reputation precedes you.” He winked at her. “For some inexplicable reason, you are something of a legend in these parts. I’m sure these gentlemen will enjoy the opportunity to discover whether the tales they’ve heard are true.”

Beyard introduced his team, and one by one she shook their hands. They hailed from four countries—Romania, the United States, South Africa, and in addition to Beyard there were two others from Cameroon. English was the lingua franca, although some spoke it less than others, and French filled in the gaps.

Over a midday meal, Beyard regaled his crew with stories of times gone by, exaggerating with poetic license events that needed no exaggeration. Munroe enjoyed the humor and the retelling of happenings she had blocked out for nearly a decade. Beyard spoke animatedly and caught her eye on more than one occasion. When he did, her face flushed.

After the meal the mood of the crew changed from festive to somber. They would be traveling north through the night, and preparations would need to be made before the handoff. The galley emptied, and the ship fell ghostly silent.

There was nothing but time—that and the rocking of the ship. Munroe walked the vessel, familiarizing herself with every space, and then, restless and with nothing more to do, she searched out Beyard’s team. The only member of the crew who appeared to be left on board was in the pilothouse. George Wheal was Beyard’s second-in-command on the ground and first mate at sea. An African-American ex-SEAL, at six foot six he towered over the rest of the crew.

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