The Last Passenger by Manel Loureiro Read Free Book Online Page A

more secure fiscal havens of the Caribbean. That was all the information she had to go on.
    Why would a mobster bookie—with an economic empire—dedicate nearly all of his efforts to launching a ship nearly seventy years old? It simply didn’t make sense. The more she thought about it, the more confused Kate got about the matter. The pieces didn’t fit together.
    The young woman sighed, disheartened. Getting an interview with Feldman was completely out of the question. By all appearances, he hated anything that was remotely related to journalism. The only lead she had was the photo of the ship.
    Before he’d died, Robert had traced the Valkyrie ’s location to the naval harbor of Denborough, close to Liverpool. Kate had to hold back tears as she looked over her late husband’s spidery, tight scrawl. His notes, always hurried and marked with a small asterisk in the bottom left corner— my lucky star, he’d say—were all over the dossier. Kate could almost imagine his hand dragging across the paper while he listened to some obscure jazz group in the background. Just Robert being Robert.
    Kate was en route to Denborough. From the editorial office she had confirmed an interview with the commander in charge of public relations at the military base where the Valkyrie was in dry dock. She was in dire need of information about that ship. Kate glanced at her watch. If all went well, she would be in Liverpool in a few hours.
    She took advantage of the train ride to sleep. In fact, she fell into such a deep sleep that she did not awake until she arrived. The sky was coated dark gray as she left the station. Curtains of rain were falling, propelled by powerful winds.
    Another taxi drove her to the base’s front gate. As the guard checked her credentials, Kate looked out the window. Illuminated by two magnesium lanterns that stained everything yellow, an enormous sign announced that she’d reached “Military Depot No. 19” of the Royal Navy.
    Kate was surprised to note that this was more of a repository than an active military base. The guard at the gate possessed an air of boredom, and the fence surrounding the compound didn’t look capable of stopping anyone truly determined to break in. When the taxi finally rolled onto the base, she understood why security seemed so lax.
    The place was practically a junkyard.
    Parked side by side, huge rows of trucks from the 1960s were slowly rusting in the rain, their tires deflated. Rectangular shipping containers were piled up in uneven pyramids as if some giant kid had decided to leave his Erector set scattered around the base. God only knew what they held. Crates could be seen everywhere. There were vehicles that had been out of service for years and huge spools of cable all covered in ivy. An air of neglect permeated everything.
    As the taxi rolled slowly forward along the macadam surface and headed toward the buildings located by the dock on the bay, Kate could make out the twilight silhouettes of more than a dozen docked military vessels. Getting closer, she could see streaks of rust splintering away from the portholes. It didn’t look like any of the ships had much of a chance of setting sail in the near future.
    The taxi stopped in front of the main building’s entrance. A uniformed serviceman was waiting, holding a wide umbrella.
    “Welcome to Denborough Naval Depot!” The man’s voice sounded loud enough to project over a hurricane. “I’m Commander Collins. I believe we spoke by phone this morning.”
    “I’m Kate Kilroy.” Kate extended her hand to the officer, who grasped it with surprising gentleness for a man of his size.
    “I don’t detect any Irish accent,” he remarked.
    “Kilroy i s . . . was my husband’s surname. My maiden name is Soto. I’m Spanish. From Barcelona.”
    “Ah,” murmured Collins. He didn’t require any further explanation for the time being. “Please, come inside. It’s a terrible evening out.”
    The interior of the office