Read Once Upon a Time in the North for Free Online Page A

then settle on his front, watchfully, great paws tucked under his chest.
    "She's nearly lost to me now," the Captain said. "Your ship? Are you the owner as well as the skipper?"
    "Not for long, if that man has his way." "How so?"
    "Look at this," said van Breda, and took a crumpled envelope from his pocket.
    Lee drew out the letter inside. It carried the letterheading of the Novy Odense Harbor Company, and it said:

    Dear Captain van Breda, In accordance with the Merchant Shipping Act 11.303.(5), I am required to give you notice that unless the cargo currently stored in Number 5 East Warehouse is loaded by high tide on the morning of April 16, it will be impounded by the Harbor Authority and held for disposal by public auction.
    Yours truly,
    Johann Aagaard,
    Harbor Master

    "April the sixteenth," said Lee. "That's tomorrow. When's high tide?"
    "Eleven thirty-two," said van Breda. "It's impossible. He knows it's impossible. He orders me to load my cargo, I want to load my cargo, but they refuse to open the bloody warehouse. They say I owe the Harbor Authority money. It's a goddamn lie. This is a concocted new charge that never existed before—they especially made it up to apply to this cargo. I ask for their authorization for this new charge and they refer me to some goddamn law I never heard of. I know Poliakov is at the back of this. Him and Larsen Manganese. The Harbor Authority will impound my cargo and then Poliakov will bid for it at this goddamn auction, on behalf of Larsen, and no one will dare bid against him. Meanwhile I lose my ship. Who cares? Huh?"
    "Let me get this clear," said Lee. "First they hit you with a new kind of charge for storing your cargo, and then they refuse to let you load it, and then they threaten to impound it if you don't?"
    "That's it. They want to send me mad."
    "Why? What is this cargo?"
    "Drilling machinery and rock samples."
    "Rock samples . . . Wait a minute. Would that have anything to do with oil?"
    Van Breda dragged his gaze away from the schooner and looked at Lee directly for a moment.
    'You're right. See, that's what it's all about, at bottom. Oil and money."
    "Who's the shipper?"
    "An oil company from Bergen. See, I have the bill of lading . . ."
    He fished another document out of his pocket.
    "You sign the bill of lading before you load the cargo?"
    "That's the system here. When the cargo is delivered to the warehouse, it becomes the carrier's responsibility and the bill of lading is signed there and then. That's the problem, see. I've already taken responsibility for this cargo, and I can't get the damn . . . can't even . . ."
    He swallowed the rum convulsively.

    "Why don't you talk to the Customs?" said Lee after a moment. "I understand they're the law around here."
    "I tried. Not a Customs matter. All the Customs papers are in order. They wrote me a letter to say they're not concerned."
    "How long would it take to load?"
    "A couple of hours. Not long."
    "And once it was on board, could you leave right away? Would you have to engage a tug, or a pilot?"
    "No. I have an auxiliary engine, and enough fuel, and pilotage is not compulsory."
    "What about your crew?"
    "All on board, but they won't be for long. They know the fix I'm in."
    "Because, you see," said Lee, stubbing out his little black cigarillo, "if you had the cover, you could take the cargo and run."
    Van Breda stared at him. He didn't seem to understand. His expression trembled between hope and despair.
    "What are you saying?" he said.
    "I'm saying I don't like Poliakov. I don't like the way he talks and I especially don't like the men he keeps company with. And I'm saying if you want to load that cargo, Captain, I'll stand guard for you while you do it. All you have to do is open the warehouse door."
    He pushed back his chair and went to the bar to pay for their drinks.
    A thought occurred to him and he said to the bartender, "Say, do you know a man called Oskar Sigurdsson?"
    "The journalist?" said the bartender. "Ja,