Читать книгу The Plot to Cool the Planet - Sam Bleicher - Страница 6

Chapter 1

At Sea

The excursion to the Buddhist shrine is the perfect opportunity to meet her, he thought. Sri Lanka was the seventh stop on the twenty-one-day cruise, and he was ready. He had noted her well-tailored wardrobe, elegant jewelry, and lighthearted conversations with passengers and crew. He was confident he understood her personality and style.

He caught her eye and tentatively offered a slightly ironic, cynical comment.

“For a mere mortal, the Buddha certainly seems to have acquired some superhuman qualities, don’t you think?” The remark was designed to provoke a longer conversation. She took the bait.

“Well, perhaps he actually was more in tune with the universe than the rest of us,” she rejoined.

“Maybe so, but I’m not persuaded yet.” After a bit more good-natured sparring, he introduced himself.

“I’m Mark O’Mara, from Ireland.”

“Ingrid Halvorson, from the Netherlands,” she answered carefully.

“Really? I would have expected Halvorson was Swedish.”

“It is. My family moved to Amsterdam when I was a child. I still speak some Swedish.”

The conversation flowed from there. Ingrid was delighted to talk about something more intellectually stimulating than the weather and the food, though she was enjoying both. Mark was younger, more charming, and more sophisticated than most of the cruise passengers. After a bit, he suggested dinner at La Petit Brasserie, the French dining room aboard the ship. She cheerfully accepted.

The Royal Asia Explorer was the world’s newest, most exclusive cruise ship. Though registered as a Canadian flag vessel to reassure passengers and minimize taxes, it was conceived, owned, and managed by an Italian line. This trip was the ship’s maiden voyage from Dubai to Bali and Singapore, and the June weather was perfect.

The next day was at sea, crossing the Bay of Bengal. Mark and Ingrid spent most of it together, eating and talking. They eased into the subject of world affairs and found similar perspectives on climate change and global politics. She found him intelligent and well-informed, appropriately dressed, and aware of which fork to use at dinner.

They danced that evening around the pool under a full moon as the ship glided toward Myanmar. By dinner the next day, she was entranced, and he seemed equally intoxicated with her.

The three years since the election of President Donald Trump had been a continuing public policy disaster from her perspective. The paralysis of global climate policy particularly distressed her professionally and personally.

Climate deniers have captured the US Government, she railed to herself. Since its reversal on the Paris Accords, other governments have been quietly slipping away from their own commitments. Humanity is facing a fatal catastrophe, probably sooner than later, and the world’s leaders are in deep denial, pursuing their petty dreams of power and glory.

The past three years were even more upsetting because industry flacks and certain environmental activists were continually challenging her scientific competence on climate change and scoffing at her highly visible, “alarmist” policy recommendations. She knew the disparaging attacks were fraudulent, but that made them even more distressing. These people aren’t seeking the truth. They’re suppressing it. They prefer to manage the planet as a business in liquidation, rather than a going concern, she raged, sometimes audibly when alone.

Incognito cruises with shipboard romances had become Dr. Ilsa Hartquist’s escape from the stress and depression engendered by her daily exposure to the stark scientific realities of damaging climate change. Although she was not in the same class as a Hollywood personality, she appeared in the media often enough that people occasionally recognized her on the street, even in foreign countries where she traveled for speeches and conferences.

The internal and external demands of her work as a Johns Hopkins University professor, climate scientist, conference speaker, and media personality left her almost no opportunity for pursuit of the supportive male relationship she longed for, and increasingly any social life at all.

So she escaped at sea by posing as Ingrid Halvorson, a recently widowed woman of forty-four with money, time, no particular plans or ambitions, and an interest in meeting men. Only the last of these was true.

She was thin for her 5'9" height. Dyed black hair hid her natural dishwater blonde color, further protecting her anonymity. Dressed in a flashy style, quite different from the usual cruise wardrobe. Not strikingly beautiful, but attractive enough to find willing men on ocean voyages.

She had found playmates on earlier cruises, even on this one. Ten days earlier, near Mumbai, she had persuaded Xavier, one of the new ship’s waitstaff, to visit her stateroom for a few hours of wine and small talk, followed by energetic sex. He was a solid, handsome, talkative young man from a small village in Kerala, with beautiful dark skin and deep, coal black eyes.

It was what she needed. She invited him back the next two nights and enjoyed their physical liaison immensely. To her, it was obviously just a once-around experience. He hardly knew anything about her and could never understand her world.

Neither did she tell Mark O’Mara anything about her real life. Ingrid had learned long ago to be cautious about expecting anything more than a brief affair. She tried to remind herself they had met only about seventy-two hours earlier. We hardly know each other’s names, much less each other’s pasts or future. This lapse did not strike her as unusual for a brief shipboard romance with no expectation of an encore.

Still, she fantasized that Mark might be more than just an extended hookup. He seems really attracted to me. Knowledgeable about science and world affairs. Intellectually and psychologically strong enough to cope with a successful, independent woman. Physically attractive as well, with a full head of blond hair, bright blue eyes, and a muscular body. Well-mannered, well dressed, considerate, charming, wry sense of humor.

No red flags so far. But there is so much more to learn about a potential mate—about temperament, honesty, financial stability, desire for a permanent relationship.

Then she smiled. All that can wait. There’s one crucial fact I can learn right away, is he any good in bed? Happily, I can find that out without a tedious computer background check. A definitive answer will be apparent at once.

That evening at dinner with Mark, the bouquet of the wine and the tang of the salmon entrée seemed particularly delightful. The Chocolate Volcano dessert was so delicious she thought about having another. After the ship’s entertainment, they went to the Panorama Lounge to listen and dance. The Filipino vocalist’s sultry voice crooned Sinatra-era love songs with beguiling visions of romance.

Soon her cautionary self-admonitions were no match for the rush of adrenalin at the prospect of days and nights of passionate sex and emotional connection. After another hour of drinking and dancing, Ingrid was more than ready for a tryst. With Mark at her side, her keycard silently unlocked the door to Stateroom 712.

This is going to be easier than I imagined. He watched quietly as Ingrid opened the curtains. Reflections from the moonlit ocean beyond the veranda were the only light—more than enough. Somewhat tipsy, she steadied herself on his arm as she kicked off her shoes and dropped her purse. She reached for one of the chocolates on the turned-down bed, unwrapped it, and touched it to his lips. She felt him becoming physically aroused, and her own body responding enthusiastically.

She undid his tie and slowly unbuttoned his shirt while he softly kissed and caressed her arms and neck. There was no need to speak. Soon they were fully undressed. In the small but elegant quarters, the freshly made queen bed was right beside them.

She playfully pushed him down, then allowed him to take charge of their lovemaking. Their bodies came together gracefully—gently at first, then with greater fervor. She surrendered with passionate intensity, losing herself in the erotic sensations. He responded with equal enthusiasm. After a brief pause, she urged him on a second time. He was reluctant, but with oral stimulation to aid and encourage, he complied energetically.

In time, overcome by the dancing, the wine, and the enervation that comes after copulation, she nestled comfortably in his arms, pleased to know that Mark fully satisfied her needs for a sexual companion. As she drifted into sleep, she dreamed of more intimate times together in the days ahead.

When he was satisfied she was completely asleep, Mark took one of the extra-large pillows and softly closed it over her face. For a few moments, she struggled for air, but finally succumbed to the lack of oxygen. He waited anxiously for her movements to subside completely.

Satisfied that she was dead, he slid out of the bed and rapidly into his clothes. Sorry, Ilsa, you’re a delightful person. But the livelihoods of millions of people depend on your radical ideas never gaining public support.

He carefully opened the stateroom door. Seeing no one, he slipped out and walked as quickly as was seemly to the stairs leading to his own stateroom. Now he was again merely one of the 648 passengers enjoying an Asian cruise adventure.

Barely twenty-five minutes later, Xavier entered Stateroom 712, using the pass key “Ingrid” had given him six nights before. He felt he must talk to her. He could not believe she could discard him after those ecstatic nights. He had seen her together with Mark all day yesterday and today as he served at meals and performed in the staff show. He had hoped to catch Ingrid’s eye, but Mark was the sole focus of her attention. Watching them later, dancing so romantically in the Panorama Lounge, was a humiliating torture.

The scene in the room seemed peaceful enough. She was alone, though she had obviously shared the bed with someone. Her clothes and purse were in a pile on the floor, unlike his nights with her, when she had carefully put them aside. She must have been quite eager. A painful revelation. He was still captivated by his desire for her, so close, yet so far beyond reach. He tried waking her by whispering her name, but to no avail.

He was desperate to confront her, to tell her how much he wanted her, to express his anguish at her indifference. Suddenly, he came to his senses. Frightened by his own dereliction in entering the room uninvited, he retreated out the door, hoping no one saw him.

Captain Christian Ricardo, the very model of a cruise ship captain, with over thirty years’ experience and the physique and bearing to match, stared at his Chief Service Manager, Angelo Simonie. He was as annoyed by the interruption as by the news that Ingrid Halvorson was dead. Docking the Royal Asia Explorer for its first visit to Yangon demanded his full concentration. He knew his obligations and priorities.

“Ingrid Halvorson, that attractive, dark haired young woman, is dead? That’s unfortunate. We’re about to arrive in Yangon, and I need to stay on the bridge and concentrate on docking the vessel. Please follow the standard procedure for handling deaths aboard the ship. Store the body. Notify the authorities in her home country.”

Angelo didn’t leave. He had more to say. “We may be jumping to conclusions, but she seems to have been murdered.” He paused, knowing this information would command the captain’s attention.

Ricardo turned to look at Angelo. “What did you say? Murdered? I’m sorry, Angelo, but a possible murder deserves my undivided attention, as does docking the ship. I can only do one thing at a time. Come see me in thirty minutes, after we are secure.”

Thirty minutes later, Angelo was waiting for Captain Ricardo in his private office. Ricardo sat down at his desk, fidgeting uncomfortably.

“So, what makes you think Ms. Halvorson was murdered?”

“The Chief Medical Officer called me. He said the condition of her face and skin indicates that most likely she died of asphyxia, by suffocation, but a full autopsy would be necessary to confirm that conclusion.”

Captain Ricardo, a fan of Agatha Christie’s fictional Inspector Poirot, was intrigued as well as concerned. “What do we know about her?”

Angelo grimaced as if punched in the stomach. He wasn’t eager to give the Captain more disconcerting news.

“After I talked to the Medical Examiner, I immediately examined her EU passport. It shows her to be a Dutch citizen. We contacted the Dutch authorities. They have no record of a passport issued to anyone by that name or on that date. On closer examination, the passport name and dates appear to have been professionally altered.

“The valid passport with that number originally belonged to a staff member of the Dutch Ministry of Health who is currently living in Amsterdam. It was stolen eight years ago.

“We don’t know who Ingrid Halvorson really is.”

He stopped to breathe and allow the Captain to digest this information, then proceeded.

“According to the butler, here’s what happened this morning. Ms. Halvorson had a standing order for breakfast in her room at 7:00 am. Today she didn’t answer when he knocked on the door. On the assumption she was asleep or in the bathroom, he took the liberty, as he had done before, of opening the door and setting up the breakfast table. As he finished, he saw she was still in bed, but something about her face looked wrong.

“He looked around the room carefully. There was no sign of anything else unusual, though her clothes and purse were on the floor beside the bed. His speculation is that a man had joined her in the evening. The veranda door appeared not to have been opened after he turned down the bed around 8:45 pm, but the curtains had been opened afterward. He decided not to touch anything. He called the infirmary. The Medical Office personnel confirmed that she was dead and took her to our makeshift morgue.

“The butler—”

Captain Ricardo interrupted, his eyes narrowing with intensity, and began a cross-examination. “And do you trust this butler? How long has he been with us? Is his record clean? How much contact did he have with her?

“No one else on board would have had a key to the room, unless she gave it to someone. We can’t afford to have anyone think even for a moment that any member of the crew has done anything untoward. It would damage the reputation of my ship and the whole Royal Asia fleet!”

“Yes sir,” Angelo answered. “I completely understand your concerns. I have asked every member of the crew to report any contact with her and any activity they saw. So far, only Sylvia, the singer in the Panorama Lounge, thinks she remembers Ms. Halvorson dancing with another passenger last evening. She didn’t think there was anything unusual about it, though they were obviously in a romantic frame of mind. She doubts she could identify the man from among the other passengers in the Lounge that evening.”

Ricardo threw his hands in the air. “Wonderful! So we have a female passenger traveling alone who has died, probably murdered, and it turns out she was traveling on a forged passport, so we don’t even know who she really is. This is starting to sound like fiction! Where’s Inspector Poirot when we need him?”

Ricardo instantly caught himself, embarrassed at making a flippant remark amid a calamitous situation. Regaining his authoritative demeanor, he barked his instructions.

“Allow no one in her suite for any reason. Call the Royal Canadian police at once, before some amateur sleuth on board thoroughly botches the investigation. We can’t keep this secret for long. We’re only in Yangon for thirty-six hours, and we must have this matter under control before the passengers return to the ship from today’s excursions. Passengers who knew her will no doubt wonder where she is and start asking questions. Great publicity this will be!”

“Yes, sir. I’ll get everyone working on it.” Angelo stood and turned toward the door, eager to avoid more of the Captain’s displeasure.

Alone, Captain Ricardo sagged in his chair. There would be no hiding this disaster. He had never wanted any other career than cruise ship captain from the time he was a child in Livorno. But he knew that cruise ship captains are routinely relieved of duty even for minor mishaps, and even if they are not found legally responsible. He suddenly realized he needed a career plan B, something he had never contemplated seriously—until now.

On June 20, 2020, Mark Miller checked into the five-star Hotel Ciputra in central Jakarta, a first-rate establishment where Winthrop, his handler, had reserved a room for him. Before flying out of Yangon, he had made use of an airport fitness club to shower, take out his blue-tinted contact lenses, and return his eyes and hair to their natural deep brown. Neither the Mark O’Mara passport nor Mark O’Mara any longer existed.

After discarding his clothes and showering again at the hotel, he wrapped himself in the hotel’s plush Turkish cotton robe and called Winthrop.

“The assignment has been completed successfully,” he reported.

“Excellent! And you’re sure you can’t be traced?”

“Traced? Hardly possible. At this point they probably don’t even know who Ilsa is, since she was traveling incognito with a forged passport.

“I was one of the first people off the ship after it docked, supposedly intending to visit the Shwedagon Pagoda on my own. I took a taxi to town, reverted to my original identity, and flew to Jakarta this morning.

“They no doubt discovered that passenger Mark O’Mara, who was traveling on a forged Irish EU passport, failed to return to the ship that evening. But I expect they would see that as just a coincidence. And anyway, they’ll never find me.”

After a slight hesitation, Winthrop responded, “I’m sure you’re right, but please be careful. They’ll be looking for you. The money is in your bank account. Thank you for your service to a worthy cause. Sleep well.”

Mark checked the bank account set up for just this purpose, and the five million euros were indeed there. With any luck, he was fixed for life. Next week, after a few days of relaxation, he would talk to his financial advisor about how to invest the funds.

Satisfied that his assignment was now compete, he called room service for a double Smirnoff vodka and tonic, his favorite drink. He wanted to treat himself well; he felt his successful feat warranted it. He sipped the beverage slowly. It was a satisfying reward, although the flavor of the local tonic water seemed a little off.

Compulsively, he reviewed each step of his “campaign,” which he had executed with military precision. His first big problem was finding a way to meet Dr. Hartquist. Getting her vacation schedule was not so difficult; her secretary at the Johns Hopkins Climate Science Department was happy to help him find a date when she would be available for a news interview.

He gleaned the crucial information about Dr. Hartquist’s vacation by suggesting he might interview her on her vacation. Then he needed to get his own cabin and the necessary documents. He was surprised when she introduced herself as Ingrid Halvorson, but he knew who she was from photos and news stories, and later from tidbits of their conversation.

His anxieties aboard the ship had revolved around finding a way to get into her room at night and the fear that he would accidentally call her Ilsa instead of “Ingrid.” He almost slipped once as they were making love, but he swallowed the sound at the last instant. Not listening carefully, she missed it.

He had coated his hands with a thin layer of wax hours before the crucial evening to obscure his fingerprints. Pretending to acquiesce to Ingrid’s insistence, which she took for thoughtfulness, he had worn a condom. It captured bodily fluids that could easily be used for DNA analysis by whoever investigated the death. He had flushed it down the toilet before leaving Ilsa’s stateroom.

Feeling proud but exhausted after the adrenaline surge of the last forty-eight hours and a little woozy from the drink, he lay down for a moment, subconsciously fearing a policeman’s knock on his door in the night. But rationally, he felt confident no one could track him down.

The only knock on his door was the maid in the morning, and Mark did not answer. The local coroner ruled his death natural, from heart failure, never thinking to test for exotic poisons. His belongings showed no sign of illegal drugs or the presence of any visitors to his suite. Mark Miller never knew the worldwide consequences of his murderous act.