Kathleen Argent was waiting for them in the mellow light of her kitchen. She had prepared a small box of leftovers, snacks, and bottled water. Somehow, she knew they were leaving. They thanked her profusely for her hospitality and set out immediately on the four-hour drive across Ireland to the city of Dublin. Peter dozed in the passenger seat while Davila took the wheel, silent and stern.

A little after midnight, they reached the rendezvous, a shadowy gravel drive outside a sports park in the city's industrial district. Davila pulled the white Honda Civic to the shoulder, killed the engine, and tapped the brakes five times. Sixty seconds later, she repeated the signal. She was about to do it a third time when they heard the crunch of tires behind them. A door opened then closed, heavy footsteps approaching.

The shadow of a large man loomed outside Peter's window. A meaty hand thumped the roof four times. Davila lowered Peter's window, and in peered a bearded face, tanned and wind-worn.

"Good weather," said Davila.

"Coming and going," the man replied in deeply accented English. His brown beard was streaked with white. "My name is Einar Thorkildson. I am captain of the Gudrun." He reached in and shook their hands one by one. The sleeve of his jacket smelled of cigarettes and smoked meats. "Put the keys under the front seat. Then take your things and get into my car. Come now."

It was a tiny electric two-seater, steering wheel on the left. Thorkildson stuffed himself into the driver's seat while Davila sat on Peter's lap.

"There is a flask of whiskey under your seat," the captain said. "Drink from it—both of you—and splash a little on your clothes, but not too much."

The gravel road delivered them to a paved boulevard and a guard booth, the stripes of a lowered boom glowing in the headlights. Thorkildson brought the car to a stop. "Pretend you are sleepy with drink, both of you."

Davila took Peter's arm and wrapped it around her narrow waist. Then she leaned back against his chest, her soft hair brushing against his lips. Peter let his head loll to the side, his eyes narrowed to slits so that he could watch the captain.

Thorkildson lowered his window as the guard approached.

"Morning, captain," said the guard with an accent nearly as thick as old Eamon's. "I see you have the company car again."

His beard twitched with an aborted smile. "Nordstar puts its money where it matters."

The guard ducked his head through the window, sniffing at the odor of whiskey. "Crew?"

"One of them."

The guard smiled. "How many passengers shall I mark down in the log?"

"Zero." Thorkildson handed over an envelope fat with something, cash no doubt.

Pocketing the envelope, the guard rubbed his hands together and affected a shiver. "I hope my hands don't shake when I'm writing in the log."

"What more do you want?"

"A proper heater for my guard house."

"I already brought you one."

"It was shite."

"I'll talk to the harbormaster before we sail."

Apparently satisfied, the guard returned to his booth and raised the boom. The paved road continued through an industrial yard of corrugated metal buildings and stacked shipping containers, blue and red. Most bore the Nordstar logo, a capital N overlaid on a white compass rosette. The deckhouse of a large white ship towered above the containers, illuminated by floodlights.

"Vakker, ja?" said Thorkildson, crooking his neck to look up through the windshield. "She is called Gudrun. Christened in 2001. Strong bones. I regret that you will not see more of her." He wrenched the steering wheel hard left, and they careened through a narrow gap between containers. They emerged onto an open space two hundred feet across, walled in by blue and red containers stacked two high. Swinging right now, they slipped through another gap and came to a jolting stop. The butt end of a container blocked the way ahead.

"Back up!" said Peter.

Thorkildson reached for the glove compartment but froze before his beefy fingers could touch the latch.

"Don't move," said Davila. She jammed the muzzle of her gun into the captain's ribs.

He raised his big paws as far as the roof would allow. "Hva faen!"

"Where are you taking us?" she said.

"I am trying to take you to your quarters."

"You said we were to be in the cargo hold."

"With the cargo," he said. "Not in the cargo hold. The Gudrun is a container ship. She has no hold. Now please."

"Go on."

Thorkildson opened the glovebox slowly and retrieved what looked like a remote-control garage-door opener.

Davila withdrew her pistol and returned it to its ankle holster.

He clicked the button, and the shipping container's twin doors opened, swinging slowly outward. Thorkildson eased them forward, and they bumped over a stubby ramp before penetrating the container's lighted interior.

The rear half of the shipping container was walled off to form a living compartment roughly twelve feet long, eight feet wide, and eight feet high. A pair of bunkbeds hung folded up against the right-hand wall. A desk and mini refrigerator were bolted to the opposite wall. In the left rear corner stood a combined shower and toilet stall. A ventilation unit clung to the ceiling.

Thorkildson handed the remote-control device to Davila. "I will strap down the car before your container is loaded. Once I shut the outer doors, do not open them again until you are on the ground in Trondheim."

"How will we know?" Davila said quietly.

"You will know. There is food and drink in the refrigerator, and some things to read in the desk."

"How long will it take?"

"Twenty-six hours, longer if there is weather."

She gave a little bow. "We're grateful to you and your people."

He nodded his beard and reached into his pocket. "You will need these."

Davila received two small foil packets. "What are they?"

"Scopolamine patches," said Peter. "Put it on now so it'll have time to kick in."

"Akkurat," said the captain. "Your container will go on top. Even amidships, the rolling of the sea will feel extra strong."

"On top?" said Davila.

"You want to breathe, no?" The captain smiled. "Wish us good weather." Then he turned and left.

An earsplitting clang announced the crane's hookup. Instantly, they were thrown to the floor, pinned there by the container's rapid ascent. Then they were falling, their bodies lifting ever so lightly before slamming down again with a bone-rattling crunch and an echoing gong.

When it was over, Davila retreated to the corner behind the bunks and sat with her arms wrapped around her knees, face hidden.

Peter opened the mini fridge to a bottle of sparkling wine, some hard cheese, a box of crackers, and a half-eaten smoked sausage. He took the bottle and held it up. "We should try this."

"Are you trying to make me sicker than I already am?" she said through her knees.

"No. A little alcohol can help in rough seas."

She looked up. "Are they going to be rough?"

Peter released the latch on the lower bunk. It swung down, chains jerking taught under the combined weight of a flimsy mattress, a gray wool blanket, and a thick restraining belt. "Looks like it."

They drank from plastic cups and nibbled at the cheese and crackers. For a while, all they could feel were the fine vibrations of coastal wavelets transmitted up through the Gudrun's hull and the containers beneath them. But soon the vibrations grew stronger, coalescing into a deep, rhythmic sway. They had struck open water.

Captain Einar Thorkildson called the first mate back to the bridge. An early autumn squall had whipped up from the southwest, shuddering the Gudrun's hull as she bottomed the swells. Still, there was little for the first mate to do, and for all Thorkildson cared, he could sit there watching videos on his laptop, giant earmuff headphones clamped to his head. As long as he was there, another human to share the lonely bridge.

Coffee mug in hand, Thorkildson scanned the electronic displays around him. They were right in the slot, the Faroe-Shetland Trough. All systems green, and no traffic ahead or astern for fifty nautical miles.

The radio crackled:

This is Norwegian SSB marine network with a bulletin from ICPO office in Oslo. Interpol NCB London asks for all commercial ships originating in ports within the British Isles to be on the lookout for passengers or stowaways meeting the following description: male, one point eight meters, brown hair, light brown eyes; and female, one point six meters, black hair, brown eyes. Wanted in connection with multiple murders in London area. Considered armed and dangerous. May be heading to ports north—

Thorkildson switched off the radio and glanced over at the first mate and his oversized headphones. Then he returned to his vigil at the rain-streaked window. Bracing himself with one hand, he held the coffee mug close to his chest and watched the Gudrun's bow lights drowning under the icy water, sputtering to life, drowning again.

Peter awoke to near complete darkness. A single point of red light shone above like a distant star. It took a moment to realize it was the power indicator on the ventilation unit just above his head. He lay on the top bunk wrapped in blankets. His stomach fluttered as the Gudrun crested another swell, but the restraining belt held him down.

It was then he noticed Davila curled up beside him on top of the blankets, knees squished against the container's wall, her left arm hooked through the restraining belt. Terrified and alone, she must have climbed up from the bottom bunk. Her raven hair gleamed faintly in the red light, trembling.

Peter unbuckled the restraining belt, sat up, and pulled the blanket out from beneath her. She mumbled something incoherent and curled up like a child, nestling close. Peter turned on his side to match the curve of her back, pulling up the blankets and refastening the belt around them both. Then he fell asleep to the steady heave of her breathing and the vague scent of her hair. It reminded him of the mountains in fall, of dried wood and sun-bleached stone.

He awoke to warm lamplight. Gone was the ship's relentless heave. So too was Davila. She emerged from the shower stall with damp hair and wearing nothing but her black cargo pants and a sports bra. Peter could not help but notice the long surgical scar tracing an arc between the ribs on her left side. He propped himself up on an elbow, wondering. "What happened?"

Startled, she turned away and hastily slipped on a black T-shirt. "I'm sorry," she said to the wall. "I didn't want to be alone. I was so scared."

"That's OK. But I meant the scar."

She sat on the edge of the bottom bunk, just out of Peter's view.

"It's none of my business," Peter added.

"No. I ought to tell you." She paused. "I also lost my father."

"Oh. I'm sorry. What happened to him?"

"Gryphus murdered him. The night he took the Ramallah Ossuary."

Peter draped himself over the edge. "Your dad was part of that?"

She sat with her head bowed, hands folded in her lap. "He led the team who was to buy back the ossuary that night in the desert. And I was with him. I saw the ossuary with my own eyes. I touched the bones inside. They were wrapped in the most beautiful material I've ever seen. It was as blue as the midday sky, but in the moonlight, it shimmered more like water. I've never stopped thinking about it."

"What was it?"

"I wish I knew. The next thing I remember, I was lying face down in the sand. Someone rolled me onto my back. I saw his face, his eyes. They were the color of honey." She drew in a shuddering breath. "Then he shot me."

"Jesus."

"I don't remember how many times. I just remember feeling like I was drowning in a sea of sand. The desert has a taste, you know. It tastes like iron, like blood. I remember the sound of helicopters and the sensation of floating high above the desert. Then I awoke in hospital. Three weeks had passed. They said it was a miracle I survived. The Iraqi patrol that came across our party nearly mistook me for one of the dead."

"Is that why you have a limp?"

"If the bullet had gone a millimeter to the right, I would have been completely paralyzed."

"Was it Gryphus?"

"Yes, but I didn't know it at the time. When I was well enough to leave hospital, my surgeons gave me something." She opened her right hand, and to Peter's surprise it held a tiny metal charm, the same one she had showed him in London. "They found this inside me."

"Inside you?"

"Stuffed into one of my wounds." She clenched it in her fist. "Gryphus thought I was dead. Now I'm the only one alive who knows his face."

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Image taken from http://www.transcocargo.com.au/blog/importance-packing-cargo-correctly/