Cruising with Death: Thriller

By Katy O'Connor

A vibrant vignette of the modern cruise as a symbol of globalization with its inevitable conflicts, surprising encounters and unexpected love.

If the Sultan invites you on board, you need to accept. She is a luxurious ship sailing proudly between the Atlantic and the Mediterranean. In her lounges, unscrupulous art traders have frantic conversations. In her storerooms, highly prized artwork awaits its destiny: a very private, not-so-legal auction on the ocean. Let’s go behind the velvet curtain, to the personnel’s quarters, a world of equally sharp ambitions, raging dangers, and murder.
An idealistic musician and his beautiful partner collaborate to save art from money. But when they clash against the warped life of a pastry chef and the driven personality of the Cruise Director, these four people are thrown into a battle where the power of past and present feelings is only equaled by the force of the sea.
Cruising with Death is a vibrant vignette of the modern cruise as a symbol of globalization with its inevitable conflicts, surprising encounters and unexpected love.
Set yourselves towards new horizons. All aboard! Anchors aweigh!

With this thrillers, you'll go behind the velvet curtain, to the personnel’s quarters, a world of equally sharp ambitions, raging dangers, and murder.

EXCERPT

Javier entered the restaurant close to the arenas with the resolution of a bull before the cape : strong and silly. He went right to the bar.
“Hasn’t Lupe finished yet ?”
“She is working, leave her alone”, said Juan without raising his head.
He served a tourist, then another and yet another. Javier glared at Lupe’s boss as if he was pushing a sword into his flesh, searching for his heart (or something similar to it). Since he didn’t find anything, he raised his glass as a threat and marched right to a table on the terrace.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Katy O’Connor was born in Africa. She grew up in France but has also lived in Spain and in the Middle East. Presently, she lives in California with her family. Her books express her interest for all kinds of journeys and the challenge of being “from everywhere and nowhere.”

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ex Aequo
• Release date: Apr 7, 2017
• ISBN: 9782359622744

Book preview

cover.jpg

Cruising with Death

Katy O’Connor

legal deposery mai 2012

ISBN : 978-2-35962-244-4

Collection Rouge

ISSN : 2108-6273

©Couverture de Hubely

© 2011 - Tous droits de reproduction, d’adaptation et de traduction intégrale ou partielle, réservés pour tous pays.

Cruising with Death

Thriller

Collection Rouge

Éditions Ex Aequo

6 rue des Sybilles

88370 Plombières les bains

http ://www.editions-exaequo.fr

www.exaequoblog.fr

Dans la même collection

L’enfance des tueurs – François Braud – 2010

Du sang sur les docks – Bernard Coat L. — 2010

Crimes à temps perdu – Christine Antheaume — 2010

Résurrection – Cyrille Richard — 2010

Le mouroir aux alouettes – Virginie Lauby – 2011

Le jeu des assassins – David Max Benoliel – 2011

La verticale du fou – Fabio M. Mitchelli — 2011

Le carré des anges – Alexis Blas – 2011

Tueurs au sommet – Fabio M. Mitchelli — 2011

Le pire endroit du monde – Aymeric Laloux – 2011

Le théorème de Roarchack – Johann Etienne – 2011

Enquête sur un crapaud de lune – Monique Debruxelles et Denis Soubieux 2011

Le roman noir d’Anaïs – Bernard Coat L. – 2011

À la verticale des enfers – Fabio M. Mitchelli – 2011

Crime au long Cours – Katy O’Connor – 2011

Remous en eaux troubles –Muriel Mérat/Alain Dedieu—2011

Thérapie en sourdine – Jean-François Thiery — 2011

Le rituel des minotaures – Arnaud Papin – 2011

PK9 - Psycho tueur au Père-Lachaize – Alain Audin- 2012

…et la lune saignait – Jean-Claude Grivel – 2012

La sève du mal – Jean-Marc Dubois - 2012

L’affaire Cirrus – Jean-François Thiery – 2012

Blood on the docks – Bernard Coat -tr Allison Linde – 2012

TABLE OF CONTENTS

POSTAGE STAMPS 6

1 15

2 23

3 27

4 31

5 35

6 38

7 43

8 46

9 50

10 53

11 58

12 61

13 64

14 66

15 70

16 72

17 76

18 79

19 81

20 87

21 91

22 95

23 100

24 104

25 109

26 112

27 116

28 119

29 122

30 125

31 128

EPILOGUE 132

Postage stamps

February 12, 2003

Saint-Petersburg, Russia, latitude 59 ° 56' north, longitude 30 ° 18' east.

5 : 00 pm

Elan’s heart was falling into pieces. Just like his mother’s heart before his father’s body stabbed to death, five years ago, when he was twelve years old. And just like the piece of bread which had thickened his soup this morning. His stomach had had nothing since and roared like a jack hammer; the keys hanging on his neck followed the rhythm of his long stride, clashing angrily on his wet chest; the whole thing sounded like a construction site and his eardrums were ready to give up… He liked it when he could not hear anymore, when his sweat tears blinded him and the city vanished. The route was in his flesh. He would reach the following bridge.

Here now ! He waved to tourists passing below by boat as they encouraged him, hands raised. He ran again. To another bridge. This meant a lot to him. Or maybe not. Not quite. The one euro or one dollar bills people would leave him after the last bridge would be of some meaning as well... But only if this group here was in a good mood, rich enough, generous enough. If everybody had change. If Elan was lucky today. The last bridge. People arriving below greeted him as a sports star. They had stopped watching the monuments that lined the Neva. Those old buildings bored them. At this moment, they preferred the man. Elan was pleased. He sat on the wall, far enough away from the landing but not so far that he couldn’t be seen from the stairs that American and Western European visitors would soon climb. He stared ahead at the river sliding into the sea. One day, he would follow the Neva to the Baltic Sea, and after, the ocean.

Twenty-two euros and fifty dollars. Not bad. Now, he could go to mass. Then, he would still have enough time to buy dinner. Something good, tonight, something imported. He would keep his share for his music classes and for replacing his front tooth so he could smile openly to the people who gave him money and also to those who would hire him, someday, as a pianist. Whatever was left, he would give it to his mother.

The building, of Soviet design, had an earthy pride, blackened, with a sickle and hammer on the façade as a huge old fashioned brooch. However, new tenants liked to show how trendy they were by owning expensive and powerful dogs. One of these muscular hounds had off-loaded an impressive package in the entry; the stuff was smoldering pungently. Elan jumped over the turd; he climbed to the second floor and pushed the door on his left. It creaked vengefully.

The Pastor raised his head and gave him a look of deep compassion. The boy found a seat on a bench at the back of the room, his two hands on his thighs, nose on his knees, and in high spirit. He had rediscovered the religion of his ancestors until they became fed up with Russians, before they converted to Islam. His mother and his sisters could not even imagine that he was there, him, the Cherkess. If they knew, they would suffer (again !) but there was no chance that his family would find out. And if ever his secret escaped like a cockroach... it didn’t matter. Elan brought the meat to the table.

A man was watching him. Elan knew it. As a runner, he learned to look straight ahead while grasping images of objects and people from the corner of his eye. The foreigner attracted him too, like a magnet. He wore a blue grey suit. Steel hair, perfectly trimmed nails. His elegance was not dull. He bore the confidence of someone in his late fifties who had managed to retain some benevolence on his face. Elan would have liked to be him; but not right now. The boy stood up and walked resolutely to the piano. The Pastor smiled at him and announced what he would play while Nina and Varia took place to sing. Elan concentrated. After the bridges, it was his second performance.

Everyone was talking at the same time, in excited and happy murmurs. Elan closed the piano. He hesitated between cutting through the crowd to rush to a supermarket or exchange some kind and encouraging words with fellow evangelists. Little Olga jumped to him and grabbed his leg. She raised her face full of freckles and moved her nose in a perfect imitation of her mother when she wanted to talk very seriously.

A foreign gentleman told me to give you that.

Elan looked at the card on which someone had scrawled : You play very well the piano. A telephone number and the name of a five star hotel in the city were written above. This was not a business card. Only the name and address of the owner were printed : Christopher Donomarenko, 1202 San Pablo Avenue, Palm Desert, California… USA… It sounded nice.

The boy climbed down the stairs of sloughing cement. The hound’s fragrant package had dried. The door had remained open and icy cold came in. Tomorrow, it would snow. No more boats, no more tourists—for a long winter. Palm Desert. Elan saw high branches. They followed a thin stream. Behind the stream, there were rocks, with yellow flowers in the middle. If they were not yellow, he would be disappointed.

***

Ronda, Spain, latitude 36 ° 44' north, longitude 5 ° 10' west.

5 : 30 pm

"The Palacio de la Virgen Mora may generate eighty thousand euros per year alone with the rooms and the breakfast. So if you plan to open a first class restaurant... wow ! "

The little lady with the grey suit and the gray hair bun moved quickly from one room to another, so fast that her black Mary-Jane shoes seemed to raise her from the ground magically. They reflected like mirrors. Even the sole, thought Sauveur Selva while climbing painfully the tower’s narrow staircase behind the home’s owner. He threw a glance behind him to Suzette, his wife, who shook her head in approval, then to his daughter, Joline. She kept her eyes on all the alabaster and the wood from the ceiling, her nose pulsing with excitation and her brain working fast, adding bright and colorful numbers. They arrived in a round room, blue like the sea and shiny like dreams. Sauveur had to resist the urge to plunge into the silk mattress lying on oriental rugs. He imagined himself rolling down with a girl… She would wear sky blue Arabian baboochs, she’d be as light as foam, as light as her laughter, she’d whisk him away on a magic carpet… And maybe perform some special spell on him…

I still sleep here sometimes Doña Clara said. "That’s why I left the furnishings. At the same time it gives you an overview of what the Palacio really is when properly decorated."

It looks like you, Suzette said.

Sauveur did not pay attention to the words which were mumbled after his wife’s simple statement. He approached the paneled window, pulled it open and looked down at Ronda. The small Andalusia city was waking up. The siesta time was over. Tourists and natives were mixing like coils. They were still eating churros con chocolate or had already moved on to tapas before starting to choose a restaurant. Some would finish the night in the arms of their conquest of the day, or their lovers’; the smartest would rest their head against the best friend they had already married or planned to end up with. Others, like Joline, would be alone. That was not exactly true. There was her dog Pralin (called the Devil); he was a Pomeranian, cute as a Duke of the same land until the latter lost the battle against a German Knight. The doggy received his nickname after he adopted the habit of lying on the feet of his mistress while she was asleep. Sauveur hoped that his daughter would meet the same emotional devotion on the part of a male of her own species because once the Palacio deal closed, when the house— if we bought it—would bring money as opposed to just being cute, Joline would need to find a man—And make babies.

A finger slightly scratched Sauveur’s back. He had forgotten this kind gesture… He turned. Joline vigorously threw her dimpled chin towards the old bridge. The big arches, royal still, dived in the rocky womb of a ravine dried by time and life.

We shall find the path down to see that bridge from below, Joline said firmly. Her black eyes were two bullets. They were saying to her father : I’ll buy it, requiring—more than they were asking—his support.

Sauveur walked to the lady in grey who looked like a small mouse. His voice seemed to rise slowly from the bottom of a well.

Why are you selling your palace ? If I have understood correctly, it has been your companion, your child. Why not keep it a little longer ?

He threw a crafty look at the lady’s wrinkled hands, so proud of their diamond rings. They started shaking. The old woman lowered misty eyes on her hands that had always done what they wanted but not for long anymore.

You're right, she said, I am ready to die. My house will live. I spent thirty years to restore it. I uncovered its soul.

She looked intently at Joline as if her grey eyes had the power to designate that young woman as the new queen and she added, "I think you are able to bring the Palacio back to his former glory so I could go in peace."

It was the right moment for Suzette. She detached from her neck a red velvet ribbon with a gilded copper medal and handed the set to the lady in gray.

Saint Rita, she said, "You like it, so consider it a gift.

The woman hesitated a moment and then pressed her distorted fingers on the holy face. Earlier she had noticed the unusual jewel and asked Suzette about it. She closed her eyes for a long second. When she opened them, she said : I accept your price.

Javier entered the restaurant close to the arenas with the resolution of a bull before the cape : strong and silly. He went right to the bar.

Hasn’t Lupe finished yet ?

She is working, leave her alone, said Juan without raising his head.

He served a tourist, then another and yet another. Javier glared at Lupe’s boss as if he was pushing a sword into his flesh, searching for his heart (or something similar to it). Since he didn’t find anything, he raised his glass as a threat and marched right to a table on the terrace. Across the dance floor, he saw his image in the wall mirror and smiled widely : the pair of gold rings blazing at his lobes was a gift from a wife and a husband who had each bought one. It has an amazing effect on his amber skin beaten by his long black curls. He could seduce anyone and had need of no one.

She ran to him.  Her breasts were tight under her cotton blouse, whiter than the walls of the Palacio de la Virgen Mora (how was this possible ?). Her jeans were a little wide on her rather opulent rump. It was a legacy of the Indian, the Iberian and the Arab… and a fascinating object of mixed styles and cultures, according to Javier. She got embroiled in her golden sandals (they were not made for walking, only to be admired), tripped, caught her flying mantilla just in time and managed to drop on a metal chair still warm from the afternoon sun, facing Javier. According to her, the young Peruvian immigrant had failed her entrance again.  She wasn’t in a relationship with this boy… not exactly. But a woman is a woman ! According to Javier, on the contrary, Guadalupe Lopez had been perfect.

My aunt has sold her palace, he announced.

"Doña Clara ? The Palacio ?"

"The Palacio ! For a lot less money than it’s worth, I think, but for my aunt, it was priceless, so who cares, right ? Indeed, I feel better without it. I could have set it on fire myself."

Guadalupe laughed softly, a piece of pink tongue between her teeth.

Didn’t you tell me you loved to live there when you were a little boy ?

Climbing towers, running in empty rooms, seeking secret passages ! I could invent myself limitless adventures. It was more exciting than theme park rides, not that we had them often in Ronda… What do you want to drink ?

"I’ll have what you are having, a Manzana."

Choose something yourself.

I did. Today, I accompany you.

Javier shrugged and signaled the waiter. The man was busy selling as many orders of tapas as he could