In deference to the ruse they were playing on their guests he’d removed his suit jacket and tie and had actually rolled up the cuffs of his dress shirt. Although Juan had a complete dossier on every member of the Corporation, the one piece of information even he didn’t know was Maurice’s age. Speculation ran anywhere from sixty-five to eighty. Yet he held the tray aloft on an arm as steady as one of the Oregon’s derricks and set dishes and glasses down without spilling a drop.

“Green tea,” he announced, his English accent catching Tony’s attention. “Dim sum, pot stickers, and lo mein noodles with chicken.” He plucked a folded piece of paper from his apron and handed it to Juan. “Mr. Hanley asked me to give you this.”

Juan unfolded the note while Maurice set out plates, napkins, and silverware, none of which matched but as least the linens were clean.

Max had written: She’s lying through her teeth.

Juan looked toward the hidden camera. “That’s obvious.”

“What’s obvious?” Sloane asked after taking an approving sip of tea.

“Hmm? My first officer is reminding me that the longer we’re here the later we’re going to be at our next port of call.”

“And where’s that, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Thank you, Maurice, that will be all.” The steward bowed out and Cabrillo answered Sloane’s question. “Cape Town. We’re carrying lumber from Brazil en route to Japan, but we’re picking up a couple of containers in Cape Town headed for Mumbai.”

“This really is a tramp steamer, isn’t it?” Sloane asked. It was evident in her voice she was impressed. “I didn’t think any still existed.”

“Not many. Containerization has all but taken over, but there are a few of us picking up crumbs.” He gestured around the dingy dining room. “Unfortunately, the crumbs are getting smaller so we don’t have the money to put back into the Oregon. I’m afraid the old girl’s disintegrating around us.”

“Still,” Sloane persisted, “it must be a romantic life.”

The sincerity of how she said it took Juan aback. He had always felt the vagabond existence of a tramp ship roaming from port to port, living almost hand-to-mouth rather than being a cog in the industrial machine that maritime commerce had become was indeed a romantic notion, a way of unhurried life that was virtually gone forever. He smiled and saluted her with his tea. “Yeah, sometimes it is.”

The warmth of her return smile told him they had shared something intimate.

He roused himself to get on with the interview. “Captain Ulenga, do you know anything about metal snakes?”

“No, Cap’ain,” the Namibian said and touched his temple. “Papa Heinrick isn’t right in the head. And when he gets a bottle, well, you don’t want to know him.”