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