Hannon clutched the serrated butter knife in his right hand.
Leddy Coolidge sat erect in the guest chair, gagged and bound at the hands and feet with narrow strips of cloth cut from the bedsheets. His right eye was swollen shut.
A trickle of blood ran from the corner of his mouth to the base of his chin.
Hannon dragged the knife across the steward’s lower lip, scraping away dried blood. “I can think of nothing worse than being dissected with a dull knife.”
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Leddy’s eyes widened, and his teeth clenched nervously around the red-soaked gag.
Hannon’s voice was calm but threatening. “I’m going to remove the gag now. You’re going to tell me who put you up to this, where they are, and what they know. If you shout for help, or even talk a little too loud, you’re going to be
begging
for a bullet. Understood?”
Leddy nodded nervously. Hannon reached behind his head, unknotted the gag, and pulled it from his mouth.
“It’s the FBI,” he blurted, before Hannon even asked the question. “Please, just let me go.”
“How many?”
“I dunno. A woman named Victoria Santos, lotsa others.”
Hannon’s face flushed with anger. He rose and started pacing, thinking fast. The ship was probably crawling with FBI. No way were they going to let a man his size just walk right off. He was going to have to negoti-ate—and one hostage was not enough. He pulled his gun, then rushed to the door and peered out the peephole. He saw no one. He reached for the knob, then stopped. For all he knew there were FBI agents sitting at each end of the hall. He couldn’t risk another venture outside the cabin. He put the chain on the door, came back to the telephone, and dialed 7.
“Housekeeping,” a young woman answered.
Hannon put on his most charming voice. “Hello, this is Mr. Ellers in cabin nine-twenty-one. This is somewhat embarrassing, but my wife and I were having a nice romantic breakfast in bed and—well, the
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James Grippando
breakfast is now spilled all over the sheets. Could you please bring us a fresh set of linens?”
“Of course.”
“Oh, and it
is
rather urgent. Today’s our anniversary.”
“Right away, sir,” she said, giggling at the lovebirds.
“Thank you. You’re very kind.”
And very stupid,
he thought as he hung up the phone.
At nine-forty Victoria and David Shapiro were on the Main Deck, standing side by side in the windowless communications center of the MS
Fantasy.
Both were disguised as tourists, so they could walk freely around the ship. Victoria wore a tropical wrap-skirt and matching blouse, and she’d dyed her hair blond for a whole new look rather than wear a wig in the tropics. Shapiro looked ready for shuffleboard in sneakers and plaid shorts.
Bill Odoms, the director of security who had given the FBI a tour of the
Rhapsody
in Miami, was facing the control panel. He had boarded ship that morning with two of the FBI’s technical agents, both of whom were also in the room, both from “El-Sur,” short for Electronic Surveillance. They were part of the Engineering Division’s busy “TS Squad,” a dual-purpose acronym that meant
“Technical Support” for the requests they met, and “Tough Shit” for the ones they didn’t.
One entire wall was covered with seventeen-inch television screens, each with a different view of the ship sent back by security cameras. All eyes, however, were 401
THE INFORMANT
focused on the electronic equipment stacked on the table in the center of the room. For nearly half an hour, the two tech agents had been splicing wires and talking in some technical lingo that only they understood.
“That should do it,” said one of the techies. He stepped back from the mound of wires and equipment and flashed a look of admiration, like Michelangelo and his
Pietà.
“Let’s see,” said Victoria.
With a flip of the switch on the circuit board, the security screens on the control panel suddenly went black, then brightened. The pictures, however, had changed.
“All
rrrright,
” he said with a smile.
“What are we looking at?” asked Shapiro.
“We left the ship’s existing security cameras in place,”
he explained. “Your dining rooms, purser’s office, and main entrance to the ship are all on screens one, two and three, just like before. The six screens on the bottom are taking the signal back from twenty-four new cameras we added this morning, two for each deck. Now you have a complete view of each hallway. You can leave the system on roam, so that the image on the screen changes every eight seconds. Or you can zero in on one specific deck.
Of course, the new cameras are completely hidden in the air-conditioning ducts. No one will know we’ve added a thing.”
“How soon can we be sending pictures back to the mainland Operations Center?” asked Victoria.
“Should be up and running now,” he said. “They’ll get the same signal we’re getting. Hell, we’ve got enough equipment onboard to set up our
own
Op 402
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Center. The agents who came on the ship today have brought everything we need. When you’re simply aug-menting an existing security system that’s as good as the one already on this ship, it’s really not that big a job.”
Shapiro glanced up at the changing images flashing on the screens. “With these cameras roaming like this, how do we know what we’re looking at? The hallways tend to all look alike.”
The techie shrugged. “You’ll just have to get used to the sequence. It’s on the Atlantic Deck now. In a few seconds—there it goes—it switches to the Dolphin Deck, then Caribbean and so on, bottom to top.”
They watched for a moment as the cameras worked through the sequence. The team’s interest had already waned, however, by the time the cameras flashed to the Tropical Deck. Not that it was anything out of the ordin-ary, but no one really seemed to notice the attractive young woman in the housekeeper’s outfit rushing down the hall with a set of fresh linens tucked under her arm.
Hannon stirred at the gentle knock on his cabin door.
“Housekeeping,” came the voice from the hallway.
He gave Leddy a threatening gaze. The hostage was still tied to the chair, but Hannon had moved him to the other side of the room, closer to the bathroom, so that he couldn’t be seen when the door opened. The gag was tight, but he wore no blindfold. Hannon could see the fear in his eyes, see what he was thinking.
“Not one peep,” he muttered to his prisoner. With the pistol cocked he headed for the door.
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THE INFORMANT
“Just one second,” he said as he peered through the peephole. She was a petite brunette, maybe twenty years old. She looked cute in her white blouse and blue jumper, thought Hannon, and he liked the way the darts at the waist showed the curve of her figure. She reminded him a little of Dominique in Antigua, but with lighter skin.
He picked up the towel he’d laid at the threshold to help soundproof the cabin, then removed the chain. He opened the door and stepped behind it, with his back against the wall.
“Sorry,” he said with an impish smile, exposing only the top half of his face from behind the door. “You caught me and my wife in the shower, and I’m afraid I’m not really decent. Could you just lay the linens on the bed there, please?”
She smiled again, thinking of the romantic anniversary couple. “Sure.”
She took three steps into the short entrance hallway, but the curtains were drawn and the lights were off, making it uncomfortably dark and difficult to see. The door slammed behind her. She stopped out of instinct, suddenly afraid. Instantly, a hand covered her mouth and she was knocked to the floor, facedown, as the sheets flew out of her arms and across the cabin.
“Scream and you die,” he said, pressing the barrel of the gun against the back of her head. He was sitting on her kidneys. She was completely pinned, yet her body trembled beneath his weight. He quickly gagged her and tied her hands behind her back with strips from the bedsheet.
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She was shaking, starting to sob. He noticed tears as he covered her eyes with a folded hand towel.
“Don’t be afraid,” he said in a calm, even tone. “This blindfold is going to save your life. It’s absolutely essential that you never see how many people are in the cabin, where we sit, where you sit, how the furniture is re-arranged—nothing. You’re my bargaining chip. Behave yourself, and you’ll get out alive. But if you see anything, then the FBI will make you draw a blueprint once I let you go. I can’t let you be a snitch. Do you understand?”
Her lips quivered around the gag in her mouth, but she slowly nodded her head.
“Good.” He lifted her to her feet, checked the blindfold once more, and switched on the light. As he tied her to the desk chair with the strips of bedsheet, he noticed that Leddy was trying not to watch. Still, the fright was evident in his uncovered eyes, as if the hostage already knew that he’d seen too much.
He stepped slowly toward Leddy, then leaned forward and whispered, “Sorry, Jamaica man. You and I are gonna be a long way from this cabin before I can let
you
go.”
Victoria and David Shapiro headed up to the stateroom to check on Kevin McCabe, who was taking inventory.
In addition to the materials they’d snuck aboard in the mock medevac operation, FBI agents in plainclothes had been coming and going all morning, smuggling additional supplies—radios, tear gas, body armor, Kevlar riot shields, weapons and ammunition.
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There was a knock on the door. Shapiro unlocked it, and Bill Odoms, the cruise line’s director of security, rushed inside. His face flushed with excitement as he spoke. “I got him on the phone!”
“Who?” said Victoria.
“Hannon.”
“My God,” said Victoria. “You didn’t tell him we’re here, I hope.”
“He’s
knows
you’re here. He asked for you by name.
And he wants to speak to you.
Immediately.
”
“Do you know where he is?”
“Yeah. All calls to security display the cabin number automatically. He’s in nine-twenty-one, Tropical Deck.
Says he has a hostage.”
“Dammit!” said Shapiro.
Victoria stayed focused. “Tell me exactly what he said.”
“Basically, ‘This is Frank Hannon, I got a hostage. Put on Victoria Santos, or the hostage is gonna scream.’”
She and Shapiro exchanged glances, as if they knew Hannon was a man of his word. “Let’s go,” she said.
The tiny, windowless office for the chief of security was down just one flight, next to the purser’s office. Odoms led the way with Victoria and Shapiro on his heels. The three of them gathered around the phone on the desk.
The orange HOLD button was blinking like a warning light.
Victoria took a deep breath as she reached for the phone, then stopped. “We need this on tape,”
The men looked at each other and shrugged. Odoms rifled through the desk drawer and came up 406
James Grippando
with a pocket Dictaphone. He laid it on the table beside the telephone.
“I don’t want to talk on speaker,” she said. “It might inhibit him.”
“Just hit the SPEAKER button and then the star sign,”
said Odoms. “That’ll put him on speaker, but you can talk normal into the receiver, so he won’t know it.”
Odoms laid the Dictaphone on the desk beside the phone, then clicked the RECORD button. Victoria picked up the receiver and hit the right buttons to activate the special speaker.
She took a deep breath, then answered in a cordial tone. “Hello, Frank.”
There was a brief pause. “I told you I’d call. You really shouldn’t give your phone number to strangers at airports.”
“I guess you’re just irresistible, Frank. I wish you’d called sooner.”
“Well, I’ve been kinda busy.”
“Really? Why don’t you tell me about it, Frank?”
He chuckled to himself, but his tone suddenly sharpened. “Why don’t you go fuck yourself?”
“There’s no need to get nasty, Frank. We got on pretty well last time, I thought.”
“Cut the small talk, and stop using my first name in every sentence, like you’re some kind of FBI hostage negotiating genius. Here’s what I want. One: Pull the ship away from the dock and out to sea. Nobody boards, nobody leaves. I’m sure you’ve got enough law enforcement onboard already. Two: Stay by the phone, and stay away from my cabin. I’ll be in touch. You got ten minutes.”
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“Wait,” she said. “I can’t just agree to anything like that.
These things take time. I have to check, get clearance.”
“Clearance, my ass. I know how the FBI works. It’s better to ask for forgiveness than for permission. Just do it, Santos. I want this ship
moving.
”
“Who’s your hostage, Frank?”
“Who said I only have one?”
“How many
do
you have?”
“More than enough.”
“I need names.”
Hannon grunted. “For now, just
one
name—Mr.
Coolidge.”
“Can I talk to him?”
“He ain’t talking.”
“I need to know he’s alive.”
“I said he ain’t talking. None of my guests are talking till I say so. Now quit stalling!”
She glanced at Shapiro, as if wondering how far to push it. She suddenly remembered the meeting in the linen room. “Ask Leddy what everybody calls him,” she said.
“His nickname.”
There was a muffled sound, as if Hannon were covering the receiver. He was quickly back on the line. “They call him ‘Cool,’” he said.
Victoria sighed—Hannon had himself a hostage all right. She wondered how many others might be involved.
“I want to talk to Cool.”
“Keep it up, and you’re gonna turn Cool into one cold corpse. Now float the boat. You’re down to nine minutes.”
“Wait—” she said, but the line clicked. The room 408
James Grippando
went silent. She laid the phone in the cradle and clicked off the recorder. She glanced at Shapiro. His face was ashen.
“Put the snipers on notice,” she said.