Free The Wheel of Darkness by Douglas Preston, Lincoln Child

the dock.
    “No need to make haste, Constance,” he said, taking her arm lightly and slowing her down to a leisurely stroll. “We might as well enjoy the moment—of keeping the world’s largest ocean liner waiting, that is—not to mention its more than four thousand passengers and crew.”
    “How did you manage it?” she asked as they stepped onto the gantry.
    “Mr. Elliott, principal director of the North Star Line, is a warm acquaintance of mine.”
    “He is?” she asked dubiously.
    “Well, even if he wasn’t ten minutes ago, he certainly is now. The gentleman and I are recently acquainted, and he is warm now—
very
warm.”
    “But delaying departure? Getting the ship to return to the dock?”
    “When I explained just how much it would be to his advantage to accommodate us—and how much to his
personal disadvantage
not to—Mr. Elliott was most eager to be of assistance.” Pendergast glanced up at the ship, then smiled once again. “You know, Constance, under the circumstances I think I’m going to find this voyage tolerable—perhaps even agreeable.”

10

    F OR R OGER M AYLES, CRUISE DIRECTOR OF THE
B
RITANNIA
, ONE OF THE earliest and most important decisions of the voyage had been at which table to dine on First Night. It was always a prickly question, very prickly, made all the more so by the fact that this was First Night on the maiden voyage of the world’s largest ocean liner.
    A difficult question indeed.
    As cruise director, his job was not only to know the names and needs of all the passengers, but to mingle with them as well. At all times. If he disappeared during dinner, it would send a message to them that he didn’t love them, that his was just a job.
    It wasn’t just a job.
    But then, what do you do with a passenger list that is almost three thousand names long, spread over eight dining rooms and three seatings?
    Mayles had fussed and fussed. First he had decided on the restaurant: it would be Oscar’s, the movie-themed dining room. It was a spectacular art deco room, one wall a single curtain of Venetian cut crystal, with a waterfall behind, the whole thing backlit. The whisper of water was designed to raise the ambient white noise, which had the curious effect of lowering the apparent volume of sound. Two other walls were of real gold leaf, and the final one was of glass, looking out into the darkness of the ocean. It wasn’t the biggest restaurant on the ship—that was the King’s Arms, with its three opulent levels—but it had the smartest decor.
    Yes, Oscar’s it would be. Second seating, naturally. The first seaters were to be avoided at all costs; they were generally cretins who, no matter how rich they were, had never managed to shed the barbaric habit of eating before seven.
    Then came the question of the table itself. It would, of course, be one of the “formal” tables—the large ones where guests could, on request, still observe the old-fashioned tradition of assigned seating, in which they would be mingled with strangers, as in the glory days of ocean liners. Formal dress, of course. To most, this meant black tie. But Mayles was very fussy about such things and he always dressed in a white dinner jacket.
    Next, he’d had to choose the guests at his table. Roger Mayles was particular and he had many private, admittedly vicious prejudices to satisfy. His list of guests to avoid was a long one: topping it were CEOs, anyone involved in the stock markets, Texans, fat people, dentists, and surgeons. His preferred list included actresses, titled nobility, heiresses, television talk show hosts, airline stewards, mobsters, and what he called “mysteries”—people who defied placing—as long as they were intriguing, very rich, and X-class.
    After hours of poring over the guest lists he had come up with what he considered to be a brilliant party for First Night. He would put together tables for himself every night of the voyage, of course, but this one was special.