Day of Wrath

Helen offered her hand and flashed a smile, trying to turn on the charm without making it too obvious. “I’m Susan Anderson, with the ETS News Service.” She handed him a business card, imprinted with the false name she was using, the name of the fictional news service, a phone number, and an Internet address.

She still felt somewhat awkward about operating under a phony identity.

But years as an FBI agent had taught her the annoying truth that witnesses who often clammed up when questioned by someone with a badge were only too happy to spill everything they knew to the first journalist who came strolling along — especially one who was an attractive woman. Besides, flashing her American FBI credentials in a Norwegian port city was far more likely to generate the kind of official interest they wanted to avoid.

The airport hotel they’d checked into immediately after arriving in Oslo catered largely to international businessmen. Its facilities included a fully equipped computer center — complete with PCS for rent, laser printers, and the latest software. So an hour’s work with some word processing and graphics programs had produced a small set of what appeared to be professionally printed business cards for each of them — Helen’s as a journalist and Peter’s as a photographer.

“You are a reporter?” The young Norwegian dockworker seemed curious, and a little interested, although she couldn’t tell if he was responding to her smile or her occupation.

“I’m doing a story on a tramp freighter that sailed from here to Russia a week ago. Have you heard of the Star of the White Sea? She was moored at Pier 91A.” Helen and Peter had spent the afternoon puzzling over back issues of the local newspaper’s Shipping News section to dig up that piece of information.

“So? What is so special, this ship?” The man was interested, but seemed cautious.

il!

Helen ignored his question and pressed on. Telling him that the entire crew had been murdered might make him clam up altogether.

“I just want to talk to men who might have seen her.”

She let the corners of three hundred-kronr notes show in her hand. At current exchange rates, that was worth about fifty dollars enough to loosen a few tongues without raising too many eyebrows, she judged.

He waved it back. “Knut and Fredrik, they work on the docks.

I am inside, in a warehouse.” He fired a string of Norwegian at a pair of men sitting three tables over. They perked up, obviously curious about the attractive foreigner, and answered.

The first man broke off the conversation after about three exchanges and turned back to Helen. “I am sorry. They do not know this ship.”

She smiled again. “That’s all right. But do you know anyone else we can ask? It would be a real help to my story. We could even take his picture for the article,” she added, gesturing to her photographer.

Peter fiddled with the Canon’s lens, trying to look professional.

The Norwegian looked around, then asked another older man, and then another group of three. All replied, “Nei.”

He shrugged and smiled at Helen. “I am sorry.”

Helen smiled back, grateful for his efforts. “Never mind.

Thank you anyway.”

Peter had already gotten up. She turned toward the door, then changed her mind and went over to the bar. The Viking bartender took the bill she offered, and evidently understood her instructions to get her translator another beer and make it the best he had. No point in leaving sour feelings behind them.

Once outside on the street again, they turned toward the harbor.

Helen shook her head. “Well, that was a bust.”

“Isn’t this what you law enforcement types call legwork?” Peter asked.

He shrugged. “Hell, we knew this wasn’t going to be fast, Helen.

This place must see dozens of ships come and go in the space of a week.

Finding some of the guys who unloaded the Star, and who remember doing it, could take some time.”

She drew a deep breath. “Yeah, I know. I just think of how easy it would have been to go straight to the port authorities, flash my badge, and ask to see the Star of the White Sea’s cargo manifests.”

“We can still do that. You’re still an FBI agent,” Peter reminded her.

Helen grimaced. “Jesus, I get bad vibes at the thought. The last time we went barreling into a harbormaster’s office, we got shot at.”

They went on to another tavern, misnamed the Grand Cafe Smaller than the Akershus, its clientele was similar. Workingmen gathered around tables to play cards and drink. This time, Helen was immediately successful in finding someone who spoke English.

Arne Haukelid was a college student, studying literature, who’d taken a job at the docks to earn money between semesters.

He also watched the news, and was well versed on current affairs.

“You want to know if any of us saw the Star of the White Sea, Miss Anderson? The one where they killed everyone and they found the drugs?”

His voice carried in the quiet room, and Helen winced inwardly, then remembered Haukelid was still speaking English.