Free Crude Carrier by Rex Burns Page B

understand.”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œWell, I’d better get unpacked.”
    â€œRight.” The pale blue eyes shifted Raiford’s way for a second. “You’ll want to read up on the equipment manuals. Had a spot of trouble with one of the relay switches in tank five. We’ll want it looked at before we reach the next loading platform.”

IX
    The broker who located cargo for Hercules Maritime’s ships said he would meet Miss Campbell when the Baltic Ship Exchange closed at five. “Can you find my office?”
    Julie had circled Mr. Braithwaite’s address on her London A to Z map. “Shouldn’t be a problem.”
    â€œExcellent. I will look for you then and there.”
    The circle on the map turned out to be more of a problem than she expected. Mitre Street, easy to miss, was one of those tiny avenues that bent between larger thoroughfares. It had originated, probably, as a medieval public path cut between land holdings. The address itself was tucked beyond a narrow vehicle tunnel leading to Mitre Mews. In fact, if her eye had not been caught by one of those pale blue historical markers—stating that the young journalist Charles Dickens often lunched on this site when it held the Pickwick House and Pub—Julie might have missed the alley. But Mr. Braithwaite waited patiently in his third-floor walk-up, cigarette smoke thick in the air and ragged stacks of paper and reference books contrasting with the tables full of up-to-date electronics. Each of two desks held sleek computer screens angled toward a comfortably padded swivel chair contoured like an astronaut’s. A long table against a wall held additional modems, two fax machines, telephone answerers, printers, and even something that looked suspiciously like a security scrambler and decoder. Each desk telephone had about twenty service buttons, and a telex machine filled another corner.
    â€œAh, you found me! I was growing a bit worried.” He hopped up, youthful in movement despite the deep wrinkles of a chain smoker and hair that showed gray turning white. He had a white, clipped mustache that was fringed with nicotine and spoke of colonial service. “Bit difficult to locate, being in the mews and all, but a quiet location—delighted, Miss Campbell.” He held her hand for an extra second as if feeling the warmth of her young flesh. “Delighted!”
    â€œIt’s kind of you to take time to see me, Mr. Braithwaite.”
    â€œNot at all, dear girl. Not at all!” He pushed aside the book he was thumbing through— International Shipping and Ship Building Directory —and grabbed a dark blue blazer on a coat­rack. “Let’s abandon ship before the blasted telephone rings. Sun’s below the yardarm here, but not in New York or San Francisco, eh?” He jabbed another long cigarette butt among others that filled his ashtray, tucked his striped tie behind a pewter button, and herded Julie out the door.
    To Braithwaite, Julie was “dear girl”—possibly, she thought, because he could not remember her name. As he guided them to his favorite pub he rhapsodized about America and things American. “Love Florida, dear girl! And my cousin lives in Los Angeles. I visit quite often—travel’s the prerogative of a bachelor, isn’t it? And I’ve even been to your wonderful Colorado: the Grand Canyon. Magnificent!”
    The Grand Canyon, created by the Colorado River, was in Arizona. But Julie was reluctant to correct such enthusiasm. And even if she wanted to, the man would have been difficult to interrupt. Maybe because he worked in the shipping industry, Braithwaite had caught the Ancient Mariner syndrome.
    The pub—the New Roses—was a short two blocks away on Leadenhall Street, busy with afternoon traffic flowing out of the city. Etched glass, brass lamps, and dark oak. No ferns. Ashtrays on every table. Julie had a shandy, the