Eye of the Whale Read Online Free PDF

even there, demand had fallen over the past decade. Still, the whaling industry was actively working to expand the market by opening whale meat restaurants and getting whale meat into schools. As the executive director of the Japanese Department of Fisheries Development, Kazumi had been instrumental in getting thirty-five hundred schools to start serving fish sticks and burgers made out of whale meat. And, of course, there was China, an enormous untapped market for whale meat.
    Kazumi looked up from the binoculars and saw the steep slopes of the island near the small boat. The lack of rainfall and arable land had made it one of the last islands to be colonized, and the fierceness of the Carib Indians had helped ensure their independence and that of the runaway slaves who came to join them. But eventually, all people could be bowed by force, as the British had proved so successfully all around the world.
    Kazumi kept his receding gray hair perfectly tamed and wore a fashionably tailored blue suit despite the Caribbean heat. The British had never let the adversity of colonial life weaken their sense of propriety. At the elite boarding school that Kazumi had attended in England, the war had never ended, and he was seen as the enemy, despite the fact that his mother was British. Yet he never lost his love for England and felt that the British and the Japanese had many things in common, including their sense of propriety.
    Kazumi gazed into the binoculars once again. The American was heading back to shore. Kazumi would hate to harm such beauty, but he was prepared to do whatever needed to be done—or, more accurately, to have Nilsen do whatever needed to be done.
     
    I N THE NARROW CABIN, Halvard Nilsen’s eyes were still blurry from a night of drinking on the island. He should have known better than to guzzle the strong rum—it contained twice as much alcohol as vodka—and his throbbing head reminded him of that fact. In the mirror across from his bunk, he looked at his disheveled hair, the rough stubble on his red cheeks, and the bags under his eyes. Nilsen pulled out a pack of cigarettes and lit one, a puff of smoke momentarily eclipsing his face.
    He heard the high-pitched whine that he had been too liquored up to notice during the night. He scratched the bumps along the back of his neck. His eyes darted around the room, looking for any sign of movement. He saw the black speck bump along the wall of the small cabin, drunk on his blood. It hovered, heavy and sated, near the fluorescent light. Nilsen got up slowly, stalking one step at a time, raising his hands with the slow, deliberate patience of the hunter.
     
    K AZUMI TURNED AWAY from watching the small boat when he heard Nilsen’s heavy footsteps approach.
    The Norwegian’s ruddy face was lined and sun-damaged under his once white captain’s hat. The stubble on his unshaved face rose into the beginnings of a mustache and goatee around his mouth. Hewore a black T-shirt and jeans, disregarding the ship uniform, but technically, he did not work for the fishing fleet. Technically, he did not work for the government, as Kazumi did. His services were called “offshoring,” and his salary was deposited into a numbered bank account in the Bahamas once a month.
    Nilsen held up his right hand. On it was the crumpled remains of a large tropical mosquito, its legs and wings crushed, and a smear of blood across his palm. With his left hand, Nilsen pulled off each wing and each leg, dissecting his kill slowly. Once the mosquito had been utterly destroyed, Nilsen proceeded to suck the blood on his palm. “I got my blood back,” he said, a smile spreading across his face.
    Kazumi looked at him with disgust. “We have bigger problems than mosquitoes.”
    “That’s why you woke me, sir?” There was always a sneer in Nilsen’s voice. Kazumi knew that Nilsen did not respect him but had no choice other than to obey him. Few people ate whale meat these days, and as a former