Chapter 2 #3
Jean-Paul Simonet, an aging, lowly clerk in the back office of the Port of Marseilles, knew the shipping company Vega Maritime Transport well.
It was a small one, running only three ships, if that’s what you could call the rust buckets flying Liberian flags that plied the seas in its name.
The company’s ships were known among the port staff for cutting safety corners, sailing understaffed, even smuggling in crates of contraband goods.
Cigarettes. Twice, arms shipments. Once, packets of white powder.
Which meant there was always money to get port authorities to look the other way.
The shipping company was owned by a consortium of shady dealers who would close the company down and disappear in a heartbeat if one of their rust buckets ever caused an accident.
Today, the Marie Claire was in port. The Marie Claire’s crew had changed numerous times over the years.
It currently had a Turkish captain and crew from five different countries, and it was on its last legs.
Somewhere, in some office in some third-world country, a group of men around a table had decided that they could wring some more profit out of these rickety single-hulled ships, reckoning that if they stopped paying for maintenance, they could run the ship until every last penny could be squeezed out of it, and when it was no longer seaworthy, it could be scuttled at night in the middle of the ocean, out of sight of surveillance satellites, and they could collect the insurance money.
Profit all around.
Simonet’s boss, that merde Boisier, always looked the other way when Vega Maritime’s ships came into port.
Simonet had no loyalty to the Port Authority. He was underpaid, was a year from retirement, and was heart-broken over the loss of his family. He didn’t give a shit one way or the other.
He got the trickle-down effect from Boisier—ten cartons of Marlboros, a box of men’s sweaters made in China, once a dozen bottles of Glenfiddich.
He knew it was nothing compared to what Boisier pulled in to look the other way, to not raise a fuss over any safety inadequacies and to expedite the shipping company’s passage through Marseilles.
That con Boisier drove a brand-new Mercedes S class on a civil servant’s salary.
Simonet drove a fifteen-year-old Citroen.
The way of the world was right there.
Taking care of the Vega Maritime shipments was Boisier’s concern, but he wasn’t here today. A violent case of the grippe, Simonet had heard. Served le con right.
The only thing was, expediting the company’s ship’s transit through the port was now his concern.
The captain of the Marie Claire had failed to file an F–45 and Simonet had to go out to collect it because the captain wasn’t responding to his cell phone.
Without the form, the next port of call wouldn’t accept the ship.
It was the hottest day of the year so far, with 100 percent humidity.
It was almost half a kilometer from Simonet’s air-conditioned office in the customs house to the bulk terminal where the stinking, rusty Marie Claire was waiting.
For a moment, Simonet was tempted to just let it go.
Fuck it. Fuck them. He could have a heart attack walking half a kilometer along the dock in the broiling sun, unless he could grab one of the electric shuttles the fonctionnaires used.
But if he didn’t go, Boisier would miss out on his bribe and take it out on him.
Boisier was a master of bureaucratic rules and could make Simonet’s life miserable in any number of ways.
Simonet was retiring in December, all he wanted was to keep his head down.
So, okay, he’d make the trek out to the end of the dock, make sure the captain filled out the form and come back.
He’d let Boisier know what he’d done. Boisier could pick up his bribe next time around and he’d better be grateful to Simonet.
Simonet only found a shuttle about a hundred meters from where the Marie Claire was moored.
He stopped the cart on the dockside and looked up with disgust at the Marie Claire.
It was a miracle she hadn’t already sunk under the weight of the rust. She was scheduled to sail out at 1600 hours.
Her entire crew should have been on deck, preparing the ship for departure, but Simonet couldn’t see a soul.
Merde, he was going to have to do this the hard way. Grumbling to himself, he walked up the broad gangplank, looking around when he reached the deck. He was aft, near the forecastle, and completely alone on deck.
This was strange, and slightly eerie. Ship decks just before departure were hives of activity. Time was money, and docking at the harbor unnecessarily was expensive.
Simonet walked along the side of the ship, next to the huge containers that filled the mid-ship line. Doubtless there were double the number of containers belowdecks.
He finally reached the stern section, the radar tower and stack rising high above him. He still had not seen anybody. Simonet eyed the ladder leading up to the bridge and the chart room with loathing. It was steaming hot and this was way beyond the call of duty. Fuck Boisier.
But then again, Boisier definitely had the ability to make his life truly miserable in the remaining six months on the job.
With a huge sigh, Simonet started climbing and was dripping with sweat and feeling faint by the time he got to the chart room, where most captains spent their time while docked.
Empty. Merde.
It was perfectly pointless calling out, because of the noise of the overhead cranes. He’d simply have to go through the ship looking for the captain.
Simonet found the ladder down into the hold and scurried down it, welcoming the slightly cooler temperature belowdecks.
There was some noise at the end of a long corridor and he followed it, making no attempt to soften his footsteps.
Men’s voices, low and sonorous, concentrating on a task.
He heard the sounds of hammers striking metal.
Probably trying to repair the rust bucket themselves, without calling in the shipyard crew.
Simonet reached the end of the corridor—and froze. He took in at a glance a scene that sent ice through his veins, understanding it instantly. Heart thudding with fear, he backed slowly away, the form fluttering unnoticed to the deck.
He couldn’t be seen! These men were heartless, utterly ruthless. Unworthy of the name of human beings. They didn’t hesitate to massacre women and children. A low-level clerk was nothing to them.