been watching them, or possibly only her. He smiled a toothy grin and went back to work. Below deck, other locals of the boat yard were reassembling hand rails and more doors which led aft. An hour and a half before they had to disassemble everything to accommodate the passage of one 7 X 3 metal box through the Betruger’s companionway.
Yeah, that’s some mystery cargo, all right, Jason thought.
With four double staterooms with baths, this yacht, the Betruger, could double as a small hotel. The main salon and dining room were all art deco. Salmon-colored wall-to-wall carpeting, which ran to the ceiling, was trimmed out in black and gold tiffany molding. The word “exquisite” kept popping into Jason’s mind. He asked himself if this guy was a swish or something. The Betruger’s galley rivaled most restaurant kitchens in his home town. Even the engine room was carpeted. Her heart was driven by twin 343TA Cat diesels which could propel her at a speed of 10 knots for about 3,000 miles. To help make life comfortable aboard the 97-foot yacht, there were three generators on line which powered everything from the reading light in the head to the windless, which raised both 150-pound anchors. The bridge was fully enclosed with all the essentials; fore and aft thrusters, three VHF and a pair of single side band radios, two Furuno radars, a Furuno sonar unit, LORAN and SAT-NAV. Her lines were the pride of the Burger design team. For a million-five-plus, before amenities, she could be anyone’s pride.
In Jason’s case the Betruger happened to be the pride of a man named Lethe, and like the yacht, Lethe was full of amenities; elegant, stylish, respectable, and on a first-name basis with the word money. Jason met the owner of the vessel at one of the posh restaurants which overlooked Fisherman’s Wharf (Their money was paid upfront. Again another alarm.) Lethe drew the attention of the waitress just by sitting down.
Lethe was tall, about a head larger than Jason, slim and graceful. He wore his clothes in the way a king might wear a crown, an accentuation of his own power but not its source. His face was wan yet healthily so somehow, and his hair was a wave of salt and pepper. It made it impossible to calculate the man’s real age; late forties, early fifties, Jason could only guess. He could even be in his sixties.
“Did the Betruger pass your personal inspection, Captain?” asked Lethe. His eyes gleamed like polished onyx and his voice betrayed a proper English accent. It was properly spoken, like one would hear from someone who was taught the language.
“It’s quite a yacht, Mr.…”
“Just Lethe. It is the only name I go by.”
“Is the Betruger a corporate vessel?” asked Jason.
“Why do you ask?” he replied, but those eyes burned their way past all Jason’s thoughts to the secret recesses of his mind.
“It’s just that some marinas apply discounts to corporate vessels. Also some have kitchens that’ll provide catering.”
“No, the Betruger is my private yacht.”
“Most of the vessels that size usually have some big money to back them unless they’re doing charters,” Jason fished a little more.
Lethe smiled, a long finger unconsciously tapping the table by his napkin. “Ah, let me speculate, if you will. I’ve offered you the job of transporting my yacht up the coast, and entrusted you with making arrangements for transporting its cargo to my estate in North Bend, and you’re curious as to why I won’t be on the yacht myself, why I choose, instead, to meet you at the destination-point, hmm? Curious? And about the fact that I’m paying twice your fee, plus abundant expenses?”
“Well,” Jason began. “I, uh—”
“And more curious still are you, about the ‘strange cargo,’ yes?”
“Well, Mr., er—excuse me, Lethe,” Jason fumbled. “You have to admit, the cargo is kind of strange. I mean, sure, lots of owners prefer to pay someone more experienced to
Yeah, that’s some mystery cargo, all right, Jason thought.
With four double staterooms with baths, this yacht, the Betruger, could double as a small hotel. The main salon and dining room were all art deco. Salmon-colored wall-to-wall carpeting, which ran to the ceiling, was trimmed out in black and gold tiffany molding. The word “exquisite” kept popping into Jason’s mind. He asked himself if this guy was a swish or something. The Betruger’s galley rivaled most restaurant kitchens in his home town. Even the engine room was carpeted. Her heart was driven by twin 343TA Cat diesels which could propel her at a speed of 10 knots for about 3,000 miles. To help make life comfortable aboard the 97-foot yacht, there were three generators on line which powered everything from the reading light in the head to the windless, which raised both 150-pound anchors. The bridge was fully enclosed with all the essentials; fore and aft thrusters, three VHF and a pair of single side band radios, two Furuno radars, a Furuno sonar unit, LORAN and SAT-NAV. Her lines were the pride of the Burger design team. For a million-five-plus, before amenities, she could be anyone’s pride.
In Jason’s case the Betruger happened to be the pride of a man named Lethe, and like the yacht, Lethe was full of amenities; elegant, stylish, respectable, and on a first-name basis with the word money. Jason met the owner of the vessel at one of the posh restaurants which overlooked Fisherman’s Wharf (Their money was paid upfront. Again another alarm.) Lethe drew the attention of the waitress just by sitting down.
Lethe was tall, about a head larger than Jason, slim and graceful. He wore his clothes in the way a king might wear a crown, an accentuation of his own power but not its source. His face was wan yet healthily so somehow, and his hair was a wave of salt and pepper. It made it impossible to calculate the man’s real age; late forties, early fifties, Jason could only guess. He could even be in his sixties.
“Did the Betruger pass your personal inspection, Captain?” asked Lethe. His eyes gleamed like polished onyx and his voice betrayed a proper English accent. It was properly spoken, like one would hear from someone who was taught the language.
“It’s quite a yacht, Mr.…”
“Just Lethe. It is the only name I go by.”
“Is the Betruger a corporate vessel?” asked Jason.
“Why do you ask?” he replied, but those eyes burned their way past all Jason’s thoughts to the secret recesses of his mind.
“It’s just that some marinas apply discounts to corporate vessels. Also some have kitchens that’ll provide catering.”
“No, the Betruger is my private yacht.”
“Most of the vessels that size usually have some big money to back them unless they’re doing charters,” Jason fished a little more.
Lethe smiled, a long finger unconsciously tapping the table by his napkin. “Ah, let me speculate, if you will. I’ve offered you the job of transporting my yacht up the coast, and entrusted you with making arrangements for transporting its cargo to my estate in North Bend, and you’re curious as to why I won’t be on the yacht myself, why I choose, instead, to meet you at the destination-point, hmm? Curious? And about the fact that I’m paying twice your fee, plus abundant expenses?”
“Well,” Jason began. “I, uh—”
“And more curious still are you, about the ‘strange cargo,’ yes?”
“Well, Mr., er—excuse me, Lethe,” Jason fumbled. “You have to admit, the cargo is kind of strange. I mean, sure, lots of owners prefer to pay someone more experienced to
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