Ghost Writer(6)

Lily grimaced. “You just say that because he was the responsible one. Your mother remembered him fondly.”

The rest of the questions were about AFFA and getting the current expedition together. Reuben did most of the talking with Lily contributing when her husband forgot to give himself credit for all the work he put in.

When the answers started to get too involved, Tim called “Cut. Wonderful! Very thorough. We should have just enough time to do the interns.”

After thanking Lil and Reuben, I started making notes while my thoughts were fresh.

“What do you think so far?” asked Tim.

“It wasn't as weird as I thought it would be. I almost forgot that I was on camera.”

“I meant the Dawes. Great human interest, huh? Maybe we don't need so much detail with the others. We want to keep things moving.”

I shrugged and went back to typing my notes. I didn't care if he wanted to film it all. I had a book to write and my interviews were going to be thorough.





Chapter Six ~ Conspiracy Theories



Bruno ushered Dora's grad students, Jamal Martouk and Tracy Dern, into place. At their request, I interviewed them together. After some warm-up questions, the students unfurled before the cameras.

“It is clearly a conspiracy,” Jamal announced. “We have uncovered only the tip of the iceberg. There are layers to this that we cannot yet fathom.”

Tracy rolled her eyes. “The only conspiracy is that the military wants to cover its ass. Everybody knows that they spy on everybody and everybody spies on them. No one wants to be caught with their pants down, that's all.”

This degenerated into an argument that Tim allowed to continue for about five minutes, signalling me not to interrupt. Then he cut and we wrapped for dinner.

“Guys,” I said, coming up behind Jamal and Tracy, “if I wanted audition pieces for the next reality show, I would have said so.”

Tracy blushed.

Jamal looked defiant. “The director liked us.”

I shook my head. I thought that maybe Tim wasn’t the best choice of directors for a documentary, but I wasn’t about to undermine him. “Even documentaries need comic relief.”



I thought we were done for the evening. I was wrong.

For the first time in days I was enjoying a cooked meal. I wasn’t gobbling it up with the gusto of Dora, but I was eating hot food in the wardroom instead of a cold sandwich on the deck. Tim was sitting with us, briefing the Dora on the day’s work and explaining why he didn’t have the daily rushes ready for her to review. When I saw Gravell approach, I was grateful for the interruption. I was especially pleased that he seemed to be focussed on me, not Dora or Tim.

I should have known it was too good to be true.

“Madame Kirby, the Skipper wants you to know that this evening would be a convenient time for his interview. Can you be ready for him in twenty minutes?”

“I gave my crew the night off,” said Tim.

“You left everything set up. I thought you’d be continuing to work after supper.”

“That’s for tomorrow morning.”

Gravell shook his head. “You can’t do that at sea. Equipment has to be secured when not in use. Since you’ll have to do that, you might as well do the interview first.”

Tim looked like he might argue the point so I stood up and stepped in.

“Gather the troops. I’ll go freshen up.”

He heaved a sigh and got up. “Fine. Just wear something other than khaki. You looked like a beige blob on camera.” With that uplifting comment, Tim walked out, followed by Zoe and Bruno, who were close enough to hear the discussion.

Dora looked at the exiting director and then at me. “You didn’t bring anything that’s not some shade of brown, did you?

“I told you I didn’t pack for the camera. I told you.” I was embarrassed and a bit hurt by Tim’s wardrobe critique. I was pissed off too. I hadn’t wanted to go in front of the camera in the first place, and I didn’t see the point. It wasn’t like I was a celebrity or anything, so why were they picking on me?

Gravell cut in on my internal pity party. “Come with me. I have something not beige for you.”

Thirty minutes later, I took my place wearing a form fitting black turtleneck with the ship’s logo over the right breast. Tim gave me an odd look, but he was satisfied with my choice. Franchot was tickled pink.



I mentioned that Guy Franchot was handsome and charming. He was also highly entertaining. He managed to make the technical details of the upcoming dive sound exciting. The only drawback was that he kept going off topic, weaving stories of other wrecks, in other seas. I eventually curbed his tales because the video crew was starting to wilt, I was starting to feel nauseous and it didn't seem as though Tim was ever going to say “Cut!”

Franchot took my subtle hint. “You look like you need air, Ms. Kirby. Shall we call that a wrap?”

Tim took Franchot’s heavier hint. “Yes. Let’s pack up guys. Skipper, I'd like to talk to you later about getting access to the crew areas for establishing shots.”

“Work it out with Gravell. Ms. Kirby, if I might have a moment of your time.”

I gathered up my stuff and followed Franchot. He led me to the forward deck. Above, the windows of the bridge bowed outward. Below I could see the anchors and rigging. Beyond that, light from the setting sun played on an inky black sea. Above, stars could be seen in the twilight that passed for night in the arctic summer. Cold mist soaked my face and hair. It was glorious. He made a sweeping gesture, indicating I was welcome to enjoy the view.