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resuscitation, which looked like a tool chest rigged with an IV pole and a Hewlett-Packard cardiac defibrillator.
Shapiro glanced back over his shoulder to catch her eye. He gave her a “thumbs-up” as the helicopter eased back on its cruising speed of 160 knots and began its descent.
The pilot’s monotone suddenly crackled over the radio implanted in her flight helmet. “Coast Guard HH-60
Rescue 37 with five crew from OPBAT ready to rendez-vous with MS
Fantasy
for medevac.”
As the ship grew larger, Victoria noticed scores of passengers on the decks looking up and pointing at them.
She checked her watch. Right about now, she figured, a message was being broadcast throughout the ship, assuring passengers not to be alarmed about the “medical emergency.”
Victoria glanced around the six-foot-wide cabin, but each of the other agents sat with his head down, deep in thought, as if running through the plan in their head.
They’d been that way since takeoff from the Coast Guard’s OPBAT Unit in the Bahamas. She peered out the window. They were flying just a hundred feet above sea level, parallel to the ship, even with the Main Deck.
The seas were calm, so that the ship’s rocking motion was barely perceptible. The helicopter raced ahead of the ship, then slowed to a dead-even pace as the pilot struggled to synchronize the speed. Once he had it exactly right, the chopper moved laterally toward the helipad on the bow. It hovered for a moment, then touched down perfectly on the big black “H.”
The door slid open and the team sprang into action.
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The chopper filled immediately with warm, salty sea air, and four whirling rotor blades made it impossible to hear anything. Two men jumped out and lifted the gurney onto the deck. Victoria handed down the blood cooler and the oxygen tank, which they placed on the gurney.
She and McCabe unloaded the red crash cart, then jumped down to the deck. She grabbed the handle on one side and McCabe grabbed the other, and they sprinted for the entrance. Shapiro and the men with the gurney were right behind.
The ship’s physician met them at the door. He was wearing a white lab coat with a stethoscope draped around his neck, to make sure that anyone watching would recognize him as an MD.
“This way!” he shouted. He sprinted down the hall, leading the pack of paramedics.
The team rushed down the long, narrow hallway, then up an impressive wide staircase that seemed more befitting a hotel than a ship. Curious onlookers peered out of their doorways as the paramedics raced up two flights to the Aloha Deck, where the largest and most expensive suites were located. The doctor opened the door to a cabin suite, waving his arm as he directed them inside. Shapiro was the last to enter, and the door slammed behind him.
Waiting inside were six cruise line employees: a tall woman, three white men and a black man—the same makeup as the team of FBI agents—plus an old man whose face had been powdered a chalky white for a sickly pallor. Victoria and her team quickly stripped out of their Coast Guard jumpsuits and handed them over to their respective “doubles.” McCabe pulled the 380
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blanket back on the gurney, then tossed a fully automated M16 rifle to each of his hostage rescue teammates, keeping the 308 sniper rifle for himself. Victoria pilfered the drawers on the crash cart for the handguns—customized
.45-caliber pistols for each of the men and a 9mm SIG-Sauer P-228 for herself. She dumped the cooler on the bed, spilling out five hundred rounds of hollow-point, hydroshock service ammunition.
“Let’s move it!” barked Shapiro.
The agents quickly helped their doubles on with the dark blue jumpsuits and orange crash helmets. The old man lay on the gurney with a phony oxygen hose clipped to his nose. In thirty seconds the new team was ready.
The agents moved to the far side of the room, away from the door.
“Go!” said Shapiro.
The physician flung open the door, and the new team rushed out with their patient strapped in the gurney, retracing the path back to the helicopter. The hallways were filled with more onlookers now, and the physician shouted to clear the way. They were down the two flights of stairs and out the door in ninety seconds.
A crowd had gathered on the Pool Deck, looking down on the helicopter. Most were wearing bathing suits and sipping tropical drinks, smiling and chatting, as if the chopper were a welcome source of excitement.
From above, Frank Hannon leaned against the rail, watching, completely unamused. He was still wearing his touristy straw hat and sunglasses.
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“What’s going on?” he heard someone ask from behind.
It was a fat man in an electric blue bikini, sucking down a week’s worth of calories from a hollowed-out pineapple.
He was talking to an old woman with orange hair and a floppy hat who had been watching the whole thing through a pair of opera glasses.
“Oh, we see this at the condo all the time,” she said in a nasal New Yawk accent. “Heart attack, faw shaw. They gotta ahrlift him outta here.”
“Did they get here in time?”
She smacked and waved her hand. “He looked fine, thank the Lawd. It was the same bartenduh who was just yestuhday laughin’ and servin’ drinks to me and my guhlfriends. Such a nice man.”
Hannon watched carefully as the helicopter lifted away from the bow, his eyes narrowing with suspicion.
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t 5:00 P.M. Victoria and David Shapiro met with the ship’s chief of security and twelve carefully selected crew members in the linen storage room. It was secluded area of the ship below the waterline, off-limits to passengers. Sheets, towels and pillowcases filled rows of floor-to-ceiling shelves, surrounding them in white. Victoria could feel the steel floor vibrating beneath her feet as the ship’s huge engines churned in the hull below.
The crew stood in a semicircle, facing Victoria. They were dressed in the traditional black pants and white jacket of the old cruiser cabin boys, though five of them were women. All were young, in their twenties. Eight were Indonesian, and four were Jamaican. Each had in hand a glossy photograph of the old and new Frank Hannon.
“You’ve been handpicked by your director of security,”
Victoria told the group. “One lead cabin steward from each of the twelve passenger decks. You were 383
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selected primarily because your employer believes you can be trusted to keep this operation completely confidential. Do I have your agreement on that?”
They glanced at one another, then nodded slowly in unison.
“Each of you will be responsible for inspecting the cabins on your deck. We’re looking for a white American male who is six feet five inches tall. Apart from his height, however, he could look like anyone. He could have shaved his head or dyed his hair. Contact lenses might change the color of his eyes. He could make himself look fat or old, or he could even be traveling as a woman.”
“Question,” said one of the young Jamaican men. He was noticeably skinny, even in the face, but his rather aggressive stance conveyed more confidence than the others.
“Yes,” said Victoria. “What’s your name?”
“Leddy Coolidge. Most people just call me ‘Cool’.”
“You wish,” cracked one of the women.
“What’s your question?” said Victoria.
He spoke with a laid-back island accent, but his tone was slightly sarcastic. “If this mon can be dressed up lookin’ like anybody, then what in the world we sposed to be lookin’ for?”
“The one thing he can’t disguise is his height. So the first thing you need to do is make a note of anyone who appears to be over six feet tall—man or woman.”
“Dat could be five hundred people, mon,” he scoffed.
“Which means we’ve eliminated over a thousand people with just the first cut. Next, you need to be 384
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alert for any suspicious circumstances. A wig or hair dye in the bathroom would be an obvious clue, but look for more subtle things. For example, someone who eats dinner in the cabin instead of the dining room. Someone who doesn’t interact much with other passengers, never says ‘hello’ in the hallway.”
The Jamaican raised his hand, making a face like he was sucking lemons. “Shouldn’t we be focused on the single cabins?”
“You can’t limit yourself to that. We do believe he’s traveling alone, but the ship’s reservation system matches up single passengers with other same-sex singles in double cabins, so he could have a male roommate. It’s conceivable he hired himself a prostitute in San Juan as a cover, so he could be with a woman. Or maybe he bought a double cabin for himself and a companion who doesn’t exist. Every time you enter a double cabin, therefore, you should look for signs that there really are two people staying there. Don’t be obvious about it, but—”
“Excuse me.” It was him again. This time his peers glared, as if they all thought he was asking too many questions.
“Yes?” Victoria said patiently.
“What should we be doin’ if we think we spotted him?”
Shapiro interjected. “Above all, you must keep your routine as normal as possible. If you notice anything suspicious, let us know. We’ll take it from there. We’re not looking for any of you to become heroes.”
One of the Indonesian women shifted uncomfortably.
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“Just how dangerous is he?” she asked, her voice cracking with concern.
Victoria glanced at Shapiro, then looked back at the group. “Extremely,” she said in a serious tone. “We’d prefer to use FBI agents, but frankly we don’t have enough aboard yet. Even if we did, I would expect Hannon to have already made note of his cabin stewards and everyone else who works on his deck or who has access to his cabin. We wouldn’t want to make any personnel changes that might alert him.”
“What if he attacks one of us?” the woman followed up.
“This ship is an escape route for Hannon,” said Victoria.
“We don’t believe he’ll attack anyone—unless he’s provoked. In case of emergency, however, each of you will have an electronic beeper. Carry it with you at all times.
If you get into trouble, hit the button, and we’ll immediately know exactly where you are.” She paused to scan their faces, sensing the tension. “Does anyone feel like they’re not up to the task?”
The group was silent.
“Good,” said Victoria. She finished the discussion with a final reminder on confidentiality, then collected the photographs before everyone left. They didn’t want any of their materials circulating around the ship.
“Thank you, all,” she said, dismissing the group.
The stewards filed out in silence. The ship’s chief of security stood at the door, personally thanking each of them as they left. Victoria and David Shapiro stood alone, behind a stack of towels and away from the others.
“You worried about any of them?” Shapiro asked quietly.
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“Only Mr. Twenty Questions. I have this nagging sense he’s a James Bond wanna-be.”
“We have to trust the cruise line’s judgment on these things. They know their employees. He’ll be all right.”
“I hope so,” she said with a sigh. “For his sake. And ours.”
Mike had a travel-weary look on his face as he retired to his hotel room in Nassau. He hadn’t been to the Bahamas in nearly a decade, and he’d spent most of that last trip lying on Paradise Beach or cruising on mopeds, dressed in a bathing suit and purple tank top that said, HEY MON.
Tonight, though, he felt like anything but a tourist.
He pitched his travel bag on a chair by the tiny closet, then kicked off his shoes and flopped on the bed. It squeaked with his every movement—including, it seemed, when he merely blinked his eyes. Finding a decent room in high season with no reservation was no easy task, and this ground-floor special with the peeling cabbage-rose wallpaper was far less than decent.
He rolled onto his elbow—squeaks galore—and picked up the phone on the nightstand. He’d told Karen to leave her portable on, just in case the FBI was still listening to their home telephone. He dialed her number, and she answered on the third ring.
“Well, I got here okay,” he said.
“That’s good,” she said, but her voice had a nervous edge to it. “Are you going to be able to get on the ship?”
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“It’s completely booked, so I couldn’t get a ticket. I had to buy a pass on the black market.”
“What does that mean?”
“The ship gives out passes to its passengers when they’re in port so they can get back on the ship. It’s like I was telling you earlier. There’s a black market in these passes, mostly for illegal aliens who want to get into the United States. The only problem is I don’t have a cabin.”
“What?” She winced.
“It’s only one night until we reach Key West. I can hang out in the casino, sleep in a deck chair if I have to.”
“Isn’t that dangerous?”
“Nah. If I get caught, Captain Stubing’ll just throw me overboard.”
She chuckled nervously. “No. I mean sleeping in a lounge chair. Seems kind of risky, with Hannon on board.”
“You have to put it in perspective, I guess. Think of the war correspondents who crashed the beach on D day or waded through rice paddies in Vietnam.”
“I don’t want you wading through rice paddies any more than I want you sleeping in a deck chair. Why don’t you just go aboard for the day, while the ship’s in port?”
“You sound a little spooked.”
“No, I’m fine.” She sighed heavily. “Okay, I’m a little creeped out. After you left, I started thinking about all those innocent people Hannon killed. The horrible way they died. One of them was staying in the cabin right next to me. It could have been me, so easily. Hell, if I’d kept my maiden name I’d probably be dead now.”
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“Maybe I should just come home.”
“No. You went all the way down there to get the story.
So stay there and get it. I want you to.”
“What are you going to do tonight?”