The Perfidious Parrot Read Free Page B

helicopter?”
    “We were
sailing
about,” corrected Ambagt, “and the chopper comes with our ship. The tanker, the
Sibylle
was coming from Iran.” Ambagt held a finger upon his lips. “A secret, yes? On her way to Cuba. Nobody is supposed to know that either, yes?”
    “What’s with the secrets?” Grijpstra asked.
    “Uncle Sam just hates that route.” Ambagt kept smiling now, winking between bits of sentences. “Iran, that’s sheiksblowing up kindergartens … Castro is bad for American health too … the USA blockades Cuba’s supply route … only little fellows like us can sneak through … international waters … me and Dad don’t subscribe to anything … anonymous is the word … used to be South Africa that was blocked oil-wise … Ambagt & Son used to sell them Russian oil … that South Africa is niggerland now, dirt poor niggers won’t let you make a profit.…”
    “Your and your father are smugglers of crude oil?”
    “Free traders,” Ambagt said.
    “Is your chopper-equipped ship a tanker, too?” Grijpstra asked.
    “NononoNO.” Ambagt waved defensively. The Rotterdam accent returned. “Our
Admiraal Rodney
is a FEADship. FEAD like in
First Export Association of Dutch Shipbuilders
. Yessirree. Seaworthy super luxury.” He looked at Grijpstra. “Designed for superspenders like me and Dad. For the cat’s meow. For the crême de la crême. For the upper layer of the crust of an otherwise negligible humanity, Mr. Detective. Right?”
    “Ah,” Grijpstra said.
    “Be impressed,” Carl Ambagt said. “Who else owns a FEADship? The sultan of Borneo, richest man in the world. Some movie moguls, a merger billionaire or two. Freddie Heineken, maybe. The Chief Samurai of Mitsutomo. You know who does not own a FEADship? The Dutch queen. She can’t afford one.”
    How terrible, Grijpstra thought, to be really wealthy. Like himself for instance. Fortunately he did not have to tell anyone. Ambagt did—why else would he keep winking and raising histiny voice? Grijpstra felt increasing shivers. “Yes, Mr. Ambagt, so you live on a houseboat.”
    “Palatial motorized vessel.”
    “Tax free?” Grijpstra asked.
    Ambagt slapped his thigh. “Not one penny for the Dutch authorities. Our yacht flies the Liberian flag. Ever heard of Liberia, where American slaves were transported and freed so that they could keep slaves themselves?”
    “And your sailboat touched the island of St. Maarten and …”
    “Power boat,” Ambagt said. “Thirty million dollars worth. Gold and marble interiors. Very silent engines. Hot and cold water. Giant microwave oven. Direct TV-dish with five umpteen times umpteen channels. Twenty-four-hour suite service.”
    “My
my
,” Grijpstra said.
    “And yes, indeedy,” Carl Ambagt said. “We were visiting St. Maarten. We often do.
There
is an island that allows for pleasure. The authorities like to come on board for drinks before having us share their joys ashore. Me and Dad, from our master suites on the
Rodney
, were talking to the
Sibylle
when we lost our connection. The tanker was south of St. Eustatius then, about to cross to Cuba.”
    “You said south of Saba, just now.”
    “No matter,” Ambagt said. “Saba, St. Eustatius, St. Maarten—three pimples on the same ass. So me and Dad were sipping piña colada and nibbling caviar on toast and Dad is cell-phoning the
Sibylle
, like twice every day and nothing doing, yes, right, a canned voice talking bull.”
    “Answering machine?”
    “Satellite,” Ambagt said. “So Dad goes to the bridge of the
Rodney
and tries the radio and still nothing doing. Our business capital is afloat on that dumb tanker. Uninsured. So let’s have a look, Dad says. We couldn’t get off straightaway for the chopper had a problem. Moisture in the engine, she never liked sea air. And the
Rodney
herself was low on fuel.”
    “And because you couldn’t make contact you feared something bad happened to your chartered