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