But he was concerned. He’d sent word to Macabee weeks ago, yet here he rotted. He was considering the likelihood of a double cross when a key rattled in the lock and Macabee entered, impeccably dressed and nose wrinkled, taking pains to avoid touching anything.
“Well, Mr. Braun, here I am.”
“Where the hell have you been, Macabee? Why the delay?”
Macabee shrugged. “I felt time would make you more fully appreciative of the benefits of my assistance. Then there was the matter of a trial. The court docket is quite full.”
“And when is my trial?”
Macabee smiled. “Last week. You pled guilty and were sentenced to hang.”
“What—”
“Don’t be tedious, Mr. Braun. A timely ‘death’ is perfect. Unless you want to stay?”
“No, no. I’m quite ready to leave.”
Macabee nodded. “Let’s hear your offer.”
“It hasn’t changed from what I offered on the plane, Macabee. Two million dollars.”
“Method of payment?”
“I’ll give you the number of my solicitor in London along with a code word. He, in turn, will give you account numbers and authorize the bank to verify availability of funds to you directly. I text you the authorization code to withdraw funds once I’m safely away.”
Macabee laughed. “And I’m to trust you? That’s as idiotic as your offer. Let’s settle that first. Ten million US dollars.”
“Preposterous,” Braun said. Macabee turned to go.
“Wait! Ten million leaves me nothing. Make it five.”
“Your ultimate solvency is both unknowable and irrelevant, Mr. Braun.” Macabee smiled at a gnawed rat carcass in the corner. “Ten million — final offer.”
Braun hid his elation. “Very well. Ten million.”
“Good,” Macabee said. “How is the money held?”
“Three accounts. Approximately two, three, and five million, respectively. Why?”
“You’ll give me the account number and authorization code to withdraw the two million now as a deposit,” Macabee said. “I’ll confirm the existence of the rest with your solicitor, in the manner you indicated. I’ll fly you under guard to wherever you want, but you won’t be released from the plane until the remaining eight million is in my account. Agreed?”
“Agreed,” Braun said, mulling plans to outwit the Liberian.
Macabee pulled out a notebook and pen. “Details, please.”
Four hours later, Macabee sat at his desk, undecided and regretful he hadn’t squeezed more from the German. He’d realized his mistake later as he mulled how easy it had been. He’d expected Braun to up the ante, especially after he’d tasted weeks of Central Prison hospitality, but still, it had been a bit too easy.
He sighed; perhaps he shouldn’t be too greedy. He hesitated a moment more, then made his decision. He picked up the phone and dialed a London number.
Braun trudged, wrists tied behind him and sandwiched between ragged guards with feet bare as his own, as the trio picked their way between puddles to the gallows. The ragged shirt provided by Macabee hid a wide belt around his torso. At the back of the belt, accessible through a rip in the shirt, was a strong eyelet. A thin wire braided into the rope above the noose would be hooked into the eyelet, transferring the force of the drop into the belt. The death certificate was signed, and the space below the trapdoor was shielded from prying eyes by plywood, concealing men waiting to help Braun down and into a coffin for his ride to freedom.
“Ah, Macabee,” he said, topping the crude stairs, “good of you to see me off.”
Macabee nodded as Braun was moved onto the trapdoor and hooded. Braun smiled under the hood as the noose was snugged and a metal tape unrolled to touch him at the heel and back of the head, measuring to set slack in the rope. Good showmanship.
Hands released him, and the trapdoor shifted as the others stepped off. Braun turned his hooded head toward Macabee. “The wire,” he whispered.
“Alas, Mr. Braun. There will be no wire. I’m afraid you’ve been outbid.”
“What? You can’t do this, Macabee!”
“Actually, I can.”
“Wait, Macabee! We can work this out. There’s more money, much more. I lied.”
“I know, Mr. Bruan,” Macabee said, “and it’s such a pity you waited until this late date to be forthcoming. And by the way, I’ve a message from Alex Kairouz. He asked me to tell you to enjoy your trip to Hell.”
Macabee nodded, and the hangman pulled the lever.
Milam clung to the ladder and looked down into the tank, bright with work lights, the crackle of the welding arcs mixing with the clang of steel on steel — the din of progress. He grabbed the top rung and pushed his head through the manhole to find himself gazing at worn boots and an outstretched palm.
“Need a hand, old timer?” Captain Vince Blake asked, grinning down at Milam.
Milam smiled back and gripped Blake’s hand to haul himself up onto main deck. He tugged sweat-drenched coveralls away from his skin as he moved to the rail in search of a breeze. “Christ. And the sun’s barely up. Calderon was right about more productivity on the night shift. By noon it’ll be tough to work down there.”
Blake nodded, watching a line of passing ships. “Good to see the canal at full capacity,” he said. “I can’t wait to get in that line.”
The ship had been refloated two days earlier, Blake and Milam dogging the salvage master’s steps until he threatened to put them ashore. They’d maintained silence with difficulty and shared relieved grins when Luther Hurd was finally towed sternforemost to the lake for temporary repairs.
They had debated taking other assignments, but leaving Luther Hurd to others didn’t seem right. Arnett had rejoined them, promoted to chief mate at Blake’s behest. A new first engineer completed the group, a man Milam recruited. They’d ride on the tow north, inspecting and making repair lists.
Blake looked around and shook his head. Generator sets and welding rigs crowded the deck amid debris of ongoing repair work. Clean decks and bright paint had fallen victim to blowing sand and dirt from dam construction, and rains had washed the filth into hard-to-reach places or carried it to leach down the sides in dirty streaks. The port side and starboard stern were masses of rust, twin legacies of rocks and equipment that laid the steel bare and impact with the guide wall. The ship rode deep at the stern, exposing the mangled bulbous bow.
“God, she’s a shit house.”
“Yep,” Milam agreed, “damn sand went everywhere: glands, seals, you name it.”
Blake nodded. “How’s the engine room?”
“Not as bad,” Milam said. “I closed the dampers, so not much got below. Crankshaft deflections are in limits. We’ll recheck when the engine is warm, but there’s no bottom damage aft; at least none that carried to the engine. Prop and rudder are OK. Except for the tank holed by the anchor and the forepeak tank, the hull’s tight. Divers are plugging those outside so we can make temporary repairs inside. When she’s tight and we patch the holes between tanks, we can go. Two days maybe.” His eyes narrowed. “If Little Dutch Boy gets his head out of his ass.”
Blake suppressed a groan as he saw Pedro Calderon approach with Captain Frans Brinkerhoff, the salvage master’s face flushed bright red. The Dutchman zeroed in on Milam.