Atomic Lobster (28 page)

PORT OF CALL

P
assengers streamed out of the ship under a hot morning sun. They hit the dock and hailed cabs for an ambitious bout of tourism in downtown Cozumel.

“What a crazy cruise,” said Coleman, wobbling down the gangway. “McGraw and Rachael are both dead.”

“I know,” said Serge. “That eliminates the two major obstacles to truly appreciating travel: mortal danger and bullshit. Now we can enjoy ourselves.”

They reached the dock and headed north; the Diaz Brothers arrived from the south and headed up the gangway. They produced stolen ID at the hatch, and Tommy Diaz set a shopping bag on the X-ray belt.

“What do we do now?” asked Benito.

A screener handed Tommy his bag with a small statue. “Check our e-mail.”

They took an elevator to the main lobby.

Three more men with stolen credentials came up the ramp.

“Why are we taking this cruise?”

“Because I don’t trust those stinking Diaz Brothers,” said the lead tunic.

“Seemed okay to me.”

“They’re either traitors or fools. Either way I’m not taking the chance.”

“What are you going to do?”

“We let them take care of Foxtrot. If they don’t, we let them lead us to Foxtrot, and then
we
take care of Foxtrot. Then we take care of the stinking Diaz Brothers. No loose ends.”

“But they have the statue.”

“I gave them an empty one.” He set his own shopping bag on the X-ray belt.

Three floors up, Tommy Diaz tapped a keyboard in the Internet Café. “Here it is.” He opened an e-mail and clicked a hot link to a rudimentary website. He scrolled down and stopped. He logged off the computer.

“You got the name?” asked Rafael.

Tommy nodded. He headed across the atrium lobby to the ship’s information desk. A short conversation. The woman behind the desk cheerfully looked something up. Then Tommy dashed toward a flight of stairs, and the others followed.

“What cabin?” asked Benito.

Tommy checked door numbers. “U115.” They reached the next corridor. “There it is.”

“Someone’s coming out,” said Rafael.

“Act inconspicuous.”

They pretended to be opening another cabin door. The person from U115 smiled as he went by. They watched him turn the corner.

“Let’s go,” said Tommy. They followed their target up to the pool deck.

“You sure he’s the right person?” asked Benito.

“Positive. I checked the name from the website at the information desk. Only one Davenport registered on this ship.”

“Wasn’t that the name on the scrap of paper we found in Bodine’s trailer?”

“The same,” said Tommy. “Now it all fits together. It wasn’t some random rip-off. A government agent’s been onto our operation the whole time.”

They continued tailing Jim.

“But he doesn’t look anything like some super-dangerous agent,” said Rafael. “He looks like a wimp.”

“Don’t be fooled,” said Tommy. “I’ve read about these guys. Anyone can possess physical strength, but it takes an ultra-rare psychological makeup. They’re the people you’d least suspect.”

“Look, he’s being insulted by those bodybuilders at the pool. He’s just taking it.”

“Fits the stuff I read,” said Tommy. “These guys thrive on intense pressure. That’s when they’re like ice. But back in the real world, many are understimulated and can’t function. Some become hyper-irritable and blow their temper at the least thing. Others go the opposite way and withdraw into a passive shell.”

“Those kids are hitting him with squirt guns.”

“Just keep your eyes open,” said Tommy. “He might have a backup team.”

Over on the mainland, Serge strolled past a quaint row of Cozumel shops. He suddenly stopped and spun around on the sidewalk. Six men in tropical shirts scattered and looked at postcards.

He began walking again. “Who
are
those guys?”

Every ten feet, people standing in doorways:
“Like Cuban cigars?…” “Cuban cigars here…”

“Coleman, hurry up. We need to get back to the ship.”

“Wait a second.”

“But you’ve stopped in every single pharmacy asking if they have ‘the good stuff.’”

“I like to shop.”

A satellite phone vibrated. Foxtrot read the encrypted text message. A pair of three-man teams had just come aboard: the Diaz Brothers, who’d been under surveillance for the last week, and a previously undetected cell the brothers had been observed with outside Cancún. It wasn’t known which had the statue…. Oh, and your cover might be blown.

Foxtrot deleted the message and headed for the Veranda Deck.

Serge and Coleman returned to their cabin. Now that Jim was safe from McGraw, Serge could relax on his bed with a Travis McGee novel about a cruise ship.

Coleman tried tuning his spherical TV but only got grainy Spanish stations. “I’m bored.”

Serge turned a page. “Read a book.”

“Then I’ll be more bored.”

“I’m trying to read.”

“What are you reading?”

Serge closed
Darker Than Amber
in frustration and went over to his DVD player.

“What are you watching?” asked Coleman.

“Yellow Submarine.”

The TV showed a series of strange creatures opening and closing doors, darting across a long hallway.

Coleman picked up his round television. “I think I’ll go out.”

“Good.”

Coleman left the cabin and began walking down a long hallway, people opening and closing doors. He was still fiddling with his TV when he came to a cleaning cart and a half-open door. He took a step inside. “Helllooooo? Anyone home?” The maid wasn’t there. Good. He’d done this a million times. The cleaning crew couldn’t possibly know every person in every room. If the maid returned, he’d just act cool like it was his own cabin. Then, ever so nonchalantly, he’d leave with the valuables.

Coleman closed the door and went to the dresser. He quickly found a watch, some rings and loose currency.

The maid returned.

“This really is my room! I didn’t take anything!” He ran out the door.

The Diaz Brothers continued surveillance of Jim Davenport, now beneath the waterslide.

“What’s he doing?” asked Benito.

“Looks like they’re setting up for a wedding.”

“Wedding?”

“I don’t like the feel of this,” said Tommy.

“Think we have the wrong guy?”

“No, we have the right guy,” said Tommy. “I’m just having strong second thoughts about our friends from Cancún. I don’t think they’re who they claim to be.”

“Why’s that?”

“Their website. MyJihadSpace.com.”

“What are you going to do?”

Tommy walked to a railing with his shopping bag and removed the statue. It splashed into the sea. “Deal’s off.”

“Uh-oh,” said Rafael. “We have visitors.”

“Who?”

Rafael tilted his head toward the other side of the deck, where three men in tunics tried to conceal themselves behind a faux tiki hut.

“What are they doing here?” asked Benito.

“A double cross,” said Tommy. “That’s the last straw. We may be smugglers, but we’re still Americans!”

“What are you going to do?”

“Warn Davenport.”

“Look, he’s leaving.”

“Probably heading back to his cabin. This is our chance.”

Three men behind a tiki hut watched the Diaz Brothers follow Jim across the deck and into a stairwell. The leader smiled.

“Why are you so happy?”

“They just told us who Foxtrot is.”

Coleman had found another cleaning cart outside an open door. He rummaged through luggage.

Across the hall, another person stepped up to a door. The magnetic room key was different. It had a pair of wires running to a handheld device that looked like a department store inventory scanner. Digital numbers tumbled in the device’s display. They stopped.
A red light turned green. The person darted inside. A swift, professional search promptly yielded a dusty Mayan statue wrapped in a bath towel.

A maid arrived at a cabin and swiped her magnetic key. She opened the door and found Coleman going through a handbag.

“It really is my purse!” He ran out the door.

Coleman safely made it to the next level. He walked up the hall, changing channels on his round TV.
“Buenos…”
Another cleaning cart. U115. He went inside.

Coleman set his TV on the dresser and began checking all the usual places. Slim pickin’s. He scooped a handful of dimes and nickels off a counter. Someone began fumbling with the doorknob. “Uh-oh.” He ran to a corner and covered himself with a discarded bedspread that lay in a bunch.

The blanket quaked as someone moved through the cabin. It sounded like they went in the bathroom. Coleman peeked from under the bedspread. They
were
in the bathroom. He threw the covers off and ran out the door without closing it.

He raced around the corner and crashed into three Latin men wearing white linen suits. He took off again.

“Watch where the fuck you’re going!” Rafael shouted down the hall.

“Forget him,” said Tommy. “We have to find Davenport.”

“How’d we lose him?”

“Because he’s good. Let’s check his cabin.”

They turned the corner. U115.

“The door’s open,” said Benito.

Rafael stuck his head inside. “Helllloooo? Jim Davenport?” He came back out. “Nobody’s home.”

Tommy thought a moment. “Okay, we can go running around the ship and risk missing Davenport if he comes back. Or we can wait here and risk him running into our friends from Cancún.” He squinted in thought, then nodded. “We wait here.”

They went inside and closed the door.

Benito sat on a bed. “But even if we take care of Davenport, what about Cancún?”

“I’ve got my own plans for them,” said Tommy. “They messed with the wrong Diaz Brothers…”

An undetected person in the bathroom quietly hid a towel-wrapped statue beneath the sink. Then a discreet hand slipped out of the bathroom and reached for a switch on the wall.

“Hey!” yelled Rafael. “Who turned off the lights?”

The action was efficiently merciless. Blazing-fast hands and feet.

Minutes later, the Diaz Brothers awoke in a pile in the hall.

ONE HOUR BEFORE SUNSET

C
abin U115.

Martha straightened Debbie’s veil for the twentieth time.

“Jim, doesn’t our daughter look beautiful?”

Jim looked curiously at something on the dresser. A spherical TV. He turned it on.
“Buenos…”

“Jim!”

“What?”

“Our daughter!”

“Debbie, you look beautiful.”

“I think I’m going to cry,” said Martha.

Jim smoothed out his tux. “I’ll check on the caterers.”

“Debbie,” said Martha. “Your veil’s crooked.”

“Mom!”

Jim arrived on the pool deck. Hundreds of chairs had already been set up. He walked over to someone unfolding more seats in the back row.

“Don’t we already have enough chairs?”

“No.” More unfolding. “We always do this for weddings.”

“Do what?”

“Like when a restaurant gets the whole room to sing ‘Happy Birthday’ for a complete stranger. The ship made a special announcement inviting everyone to the wedding.”

“But we already agreed on the price. I don’t think I can afford—”

“Complimentary.”

“Wow,” said Jim. “That’s awfully nice of you.”

“No, it’s not.” Another chair unfolded. “We sell more drinks, make a fortune.”

The preacher showed up, then Trevor.

“Holy smokes!” said Jim. “What happened to your face?”

“Don’t want to talk about it.”

They kept arriving: the best man, ring girl, ushers, DJ, florist with a $500 magnolia trellis-arch, two extra bartenders and a rolling ice chest of Bud and Bud Lite in the new unbreakable plastic bottles.

One floor below, Serge entered the dining hall. “Coleman, where are you? We’re going to be late for the wedding!” He reached the back of the restaurant; Coleman was sitting alone in a corner booth with six entrées.

Getting close now. The sun was a half hour from the horizon. Chairs began to fill: Midwesterners, New Englanders, spring-breakers, radio station winners, retired machinists, budding salesmen, blackballed labor organizers, the G-Unit, Steelers fans, clowns, mimes, the Diaz Brothers, the Brimleys, the
Backup
Backup Team, Gaylord Wainscotting, Serge, Coleman, Agent Foxtrot, Johnny Vegas and three men from Cancún.

“I don’t understand what could have happened to our statue,” said one of the tunics. “We searched the entire room.”

The leader groused. “Foxtrot is what happened.”

Finally, everyone was in place, the deck bathed in that magnificent golden glow when the sun is at the perfect angle. All the guests hummed with anticipation of Debbie’s entrance.

Almost all. The Diaz Brothers watched the tunics; the tunics glared at the Diaz Brothers; Trevor and Wainscotting sneered at Serge; six men in tropical shirts eyed Trevor and Wainscotting; Steelers fans followed an important game on small pocket TVs; Johnny Vegas winked at the maid of honor.

Someone cued the DJ. He inserted a CD.
“Here comes the bride…”

The audience turned around. Jim swelled with pride as he escorted his daughter under the waterslide.

They reached the front. Everyone hushed. Trevor stepped up next to Debbie.

The preacher began reading the usual. Blah, blah, blah. Mimes dabbed their eyes. They finally got to the part: “…speak now or forever hold your peace…”

Tunics jumped up. “Foxtrot!”

Diaz Brothers jumped up. “Jim, look out!”

Wainscotting jumped up. “Serge, you son of a bitch!”

Steelers fans jumped up. “Touchdown!”

Tropical shirts jumped up. “Nobody move!”

Serge jumped up, pointed over the starboard side and pumped a fist. “Rogue wave! Yessssss!”

No time to prepare. The rogue wave was only a sixty-footer but closing at a wicked ninety miles per hour. It hit the
Serendipity
broad-side, flooding the bow and splashing over the gunwales. Screaming passengers slid fast across the deck, vainly clawing wood. Fuel and hydraulic lines ruptured. Explosions, fires. It looked like the wedding would have to be postponed.

The ship listed thirty degrees and slowly came back. The deck was level again. People lay in shock, surprised they were still alive with just bruises and the occasional broken arm. They began climbing out from under pool furniture. Alarms clanged everywhere. Thanks to carefully rehearsed safety drills, people ran the wrong way and fought over life preservers.

Amid the chaos, several pairs of eyes locked in polygonal matrix: Jim Davenport, the Diaz Brothers, three tunics, six tropical shirts, Gaylord Wainscotting, Trevor and Serge.

“Davenport!” yelled Tommy Diaz. “Come with us. You’re in danger….”

“Jim!” yelled Serge. “Don’t listen to him. Come with me….”

Jim took off running. Everyone scampered down a flight of stairs, then another, and another. The Riviera Deck was ankle deep
in water that had gushed through shattered portholes. Jim splashed his way toward the bow, and the others followed. At midship, the lights flickered, then went out for good, plunging the passageway into darkness. Everyone caught up with one another, and the fists began to fly.

It was pathetic. Off-the-mark punches on the wrong people, hair-pulling, kicking.

Then: different-sounding pugilism. Deliberate, precise. A new person at the party? Or somebody already there?

Everything changed at once. Agent Foxtrot spun through the hall, a martial arts tornado. Loud snapping, desperate shouts. It was over in moments. Voices silenced. Emergency lights came on. The floor was littered with unconscious Diaz Brothers and three men from Cancún. Jim and Serge were left standing without a scratch, along with a half dozen men in tropical shirts.

One of them grabbed Serge by his arm. “You’re not safe here….”

“Who
are
you guys?”

Calm had been restored topside. The ship was in no danger of foundering, but all engines remained stopped as a precaution until the Coast Guard could arrive to inspect structural integrity. Everyone had to keep their life preservers on. The Florida coast sat tantalizingly close on the horizon. Crankiness replaced terror. Drinks on the house.

Four decks below, a man in a gleaming white uniform had a magnum of Dom Pérignon in one hand and a bridesmaid in the other.

“I’ll save you,” said Johnny.

“I think everything’s okay now.”

“They just said that to avoid panic.”

“What’s the champagne for?”

Johnny stopped and broke the seal on an orange fiberglass drum. He dragged out a large rubber bundle, pulled a lanyard and threw it over the side. A round, twelve-foot raft inflated. Johnny stepped over the rail. “Come on…”

“I don’t know.”

“Trust me. I have a captain’s uniform.”

With the bars open again, the mood turned festive. Someone started an impromptu limbo contest, which the G-Unit won by simply walking upright under the bar.

The Coast Guard arrived and gave the
Serendipity
a clean bill of health. Miraculously, only minor injuries were reported, with the notable exception of three passengers from Cancún discovered in a lower hallway with fatally snapped necks, which were attributed to freak falls when the wave hit. Engines restarted. Serge circled the pool. “Coleman? Coleman, where are you?”

He walked around the smokestacks to the afterdeck, where Coleman staggered toward the stern, juggling three drinks.

“Coleman!”

Coleman came in two distinct flavors: drunk, and free-liquor drunk.

He was weaving all over the deck, bouncing off bulkheads and lifeboats.

“Coleman!”

He turned around, stumbling backward. “Hey, Serge. They’re giving away booze!”

“Watch out!”

“Wha—”

Coleman hit the railing with the small of his back and flipped overboard. Serge took off in a mad dash, executing a perfect swan as he dove in the water after him.