Bon Bon Voyage (30 page)

“What are you people
doing
?”

We all whirled around to find Sandy Sechrest, the ombudslady, staring at us. She was wearing a nightgown, a robe, and fuzzy slippers, and her hair was rolled up in those big, pink plastic curlers my older sister used to use before her boyfriend came to call and caught her in them.

“Miss Sechrest, thank goodness you're here,” said Carolyn, cutting through the crowd to the door. “We just found Mr. Patek looting the safe.”

“But—” Sandy looked at the jewels and money scattered around the door of the safe and the three bags stuffed with them, and I could see that she didn't know what to say.

However, my friend Carolyn did. “We have to get Mr. Patek to the clinic. As you can see, he shot his own foot, not to mention the picture over there. And we have to lock the other hijackers up.”

“Hijackers?” echoed Sandy in a wobbly voice.

“Yes, so as the only representative of the cruise line here, could you take responsibility for putting all these things—” Carolyn waved at the loot “—back into the safe?”

Poor Sandy, who had been so excited and in charge when she was seeing that my missing clothes got replaced with stuff about forty times the value of what I lost. Now she looked completely bewildered, but we left her to it.

Sven picked up Patek and went off with Beau and me to the clinic to patch the alleged terrorist up and check on O'Brien, who was awake and shrieking when we got there. He wasn't making much sense, but evidently he thought, because of the stirrups, he was going to be given a gynecological examination, which scared the poor guy shitless. I don't like them myself, but I never make that much fuss if I have to have one. I couldn't resist telling O'Brien he had nothing to worry about, that Beau could get to his vagina through his penis. He fainted.

So that's how we captured the hijackers. There was a surprise waiting for the others in the brig, but I wasn't in on that. Beau told me to stop being a wuss and help him with Patek's foot, which was bleeding like a son of a bitch.

46

Barney led us off in triumph to the brig with our prisoners, all of whom were unconscious for one reason or another and had to be transported. With our full contingent together, we were able to carry rather than drag them. Frankly, I'd just as soon have gone to bed, but I felt I had to see the mission through since I'd been the one to suggest it in the first place. Lurking at the back of my mind was the uneasy thought that if I'd been mistaken, if they hadn't hijacked the ship, if, in fact, only a work stoppage had occurred, I and everyone else in our party would be in big trouble.

Consequently, I was reassured to find locked up in the brig five security officers and Captain Marbella. That poor man! His handsome uniform was rumpled and dirty, his hair uncombed; he looked as if he'd lost an appreciable amount of weight, and a stream of Italian was issuing from his mouth. Happily, no one could or would translate it; no doubt it was unfit for respectable ears. However, when he realized that we'd taken back his ship and had every intention of restoring him to his command, I thought he might weep. He called us angels of the seas and embraced those of us he could get his hands on.

I must say, he didn't smell very good, but perhaps his captors hadn't provided baths and deodorant. While our captives were carried into the brig and deposited in the cells just vacated, Captain Marbella spat on them as they passed. Since they were still unconscious, they couldn't take offense. He did notice the absence of Patek and asked, “Where is that traitor, Patek?” Owen explained that the head steward had shot himself in the foot and was being patched up in the clinic.

All the way down to the brig, the men had been mulling over John Killington's report on a helicopter, from which all passengers except Hartwig and Patek were to be killed by Muhammad and his colleagues. They decided that the best marksmen of the group should be sent to the top deck to shoot down this helicopter if it appeared. There were four guns, so Sven and Hank Povray were selected because they were experienced hunters.

Owen told the group that he'd been on fox hunts, but that didn't involve shooting the fox, and he had no dogs to contribute, nor did he think they'd be much use against a helicopter; Owen can be very amusing, which was one of the things I liked about him, as long as he wasn't amusing himself at my expense. No one else volunteered, but it was agreed that Luz, as an ex-police lieutenant, and Beau, another hunter, would make satisfactory volunteers once they finished with Patek's foot. The captain muttered, “Let the swine bleed to death for all I care.”

Owen, Barney, and I accompanied Captain Marbella to the bridge, where the ship's course had to be changed and the cruise line radioed about the stewards' mutiny, as the captain called it; the officers' hijacking; and the passengers' “brave and heroic retaking of the ship.” How nice to be called brave and heroic, I thought, dragging reluctantly behind the men. I didn't feel the part. I wanted to go to bed. Still, there were things I myself felt a need to do. Find Mrs. Gross's emerald necklace, for instance, so I'd know who killed her. Check on the chef to see if he'd be willing to prepare us a celebration dinner, not to mention something edible for breakfast and lunch.

Barney and the captain did necessary things to the radio and contacted Miami, where cruise line executives were relieved to hear that the ship, whose position and situation they didn't seem clear about, was now back in the hands of the captain, and that the hijackers were in captivity. Then the exchange got peculiar. They also hadn't heard anything about a stewards' strike. They wanted to know at what time we had taken over the ship. When they found out that it was after midnight, they expressed dismay.

I thought I heard a man named Balsam ask if the hijackers had been forced to disarm the explosives.
What explosives?
we all wanted to know. Were we prepared to evacuate the ship if necessary? they asked.
What, in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean?
we wondered.
Who would rescue us?
Miami said they'd have to make arrangements. We were instructed to tell our captives that they would all be tried in third-world countries and hanged if any harm came to the passengers. I mentioned Mrs. Gross and Mr. Marshand, as well as the deadly attempts made on the Crosswayses and me. In that case, if harm came to the remaining passengers, Mr. Balsam amended, they'd all be hanged.

“No telling when we can make any threats,” said Owen. “They're all unconscious. We drugged them with avocado soup, and those who were still half conscious, we had to knock out.” That upset the executives—more and more had gathered in the Miami offices and introduced themselves as higher and higher people in the chain of command. Finally, after instructing the captain to hold an immediate evacuation drill in case of need, they promised to get back to us with new instructions and strategies for rescue.

I thought the whole thing very peculiar, but I slipped away with Herkule's pass card and began a thorough search of the officers' cabins. Within fifteen minutes, I found the emeralds under the mattress in Umar Patek's cabin. Not only was the man a murderer and a terrorist, but he was greedy, as well. He'd stolen jewelry from a corpse and then attempted to loot the ship's safe. At that moment I didn't care if his foot fell off his ankle.

Next I headed for the kitchen to chat with Demetrios. He'd be so pleased to hear my news and would, I was sure, be delighted to recompense me and all the ladies for the Mother's Day celebration we'd missed. He and I reached the kitchen together, having taken the same elevator up. Demetrios was grumbling about having slept badly and dreamt of people making loud noises in the hall and entering his room. However, his pique was nothing compared to the explosion of fury that ensued when he discovered that not a single employee awaited him in the kitchen. “The soup, Demetrios,” I reminded him. “They're all unconscious.”

“My cooks don't eat the soup,” he rumbled angrily.

“Then they're all locked in.” We sat down in his office and had a cup of coffee and croissants while I explained the night's activities. He was, as I expected, pleased, and he began to plan the belated Mother's Day feast immediately,
real
avocado soup, a spicy shrimp pasta, rack of lamb with ratatouille . . . I didn't dare object, but avocado soup made me nervous, and lamb? Well, of course it wasn't going to be Mrs. Gross, but still—Oh well, I'd keep a stiff upper lip and enjoy it no matter what.
Mind over matter, Carolyn,
I told myself. “Might I suggest dessert?” I asked. “Could we have the double chocolate raspberry mousse again?”

“But of course, dear madam,” he shouted, embracing me. He might not have been so enthusiastic if he'd known that I planned to have two, one of which I'd pass on to Herkule. My dear steward, even though he'd thought he was on strike, had done his best for me with descriptions of food and keycards that made our mission ever so much easier.

“So now we will go to let my staff out of their dormitories,” said Demetrios.

I had to agree; he was being so nice about everything. We headed back to the elevator only to hear the rattle of gunfire high above our heads.

The helicopter,
I thought. They were trying to shoot it out of the sky, Luz and Beau among them if they'd finished with Patek's foot. And the terrorists probably had arms aboard their helicopter. If Beau and Luz were killed—I could feel the tears coming to my eyes—who would take care of the wounded? Bad enough that I'd had to help deliver a baby once. I simply could not deal with gunshot wounds.

47

After we finished with Patek, which was a matter of stopping the bleeding—Beau said he was no orthopedic surgeon, so someone else would have to take care of the rest—other members of the team hauled Patek away. But first they stopped to tell us that Carolyn had discovered Mrs. Gross's emeralds under the head steward's mattress. She had a one-track mind, that woman. She wanted to know who killed Mrs. Gross, and by God she kept looking till she got an answer. Carolyn would have made a great homicide detective except she'd have driven everyone in Crimes Against Persons completely nuts.

Beau and I were asked if we'd be willing to stand guard with two others and the two remaining guns up top in case some helicopter showed up. Sven and the rancher were already up there, probably swapping hunting stories. Beau would fit right in, but the only things I'd ever hunted were criminals and a good score on the departmental shooting tests. Still, I was happy to get out in the sunshine after being indoors so long. We scattered over both sides of the deck, scanning the sky with binoculars, and then sprawled in the shade so we could shoot from cover if the helicopter showed up. I never was quite sure why we were expecting a helicopter or why we were going to try to shoot it down or even if you could do that with these guns.

Still, sure enough the damn thing swooped in an hour or so later. Looked military to me, dull colors and all, but when it got close, I could see the Arabic letters on it. Crap! Maybe they really were terrorists. The damn thing made a hell of a lot of noise as it hovered over the end of the boat, blowing deck chairs down and sending sand and cigarette butts flying from ashtray stands. This was one of the few places aboard people could smoke.

A lot of shouting went on. The guys in the copter were hanging out the windows looking for someone on the decks and yelling in whatever their language was. The only word I caught was
Hartwig
, which was enough for me. Povray got in the first shot. He just stood up and winged one of the Arabs. I stayed under cover, took aim, and shot a rotor blade off. Then the helicopter slewed over and tried to turn.

I think Beau ran a line of shots along the side, while I tried for the nose, which promptly caught fire. Both the Arabs dived out into the sea and swam around shaking their fists at us. When Sven put some more bullets into the copter, it blew up and fell like a comet, fire and parts spewing everywhere. The Arabs must have had some special deal with their God, because they managed to dodge the flaming debris.

Of course, people began to get off the elevator to gawk at the helicopter sinking into the water. “Now,” said Beau, “we have to decide what to do about those two.” He was talking about the Arabs.

“Hell,” said Povray, pushing his cowboy hat back on his head, “let 'em drown.”

Barney disagreed. He'd seen enough to decide that they and their copter belonged to somebody's army. “We have to rescue them,” he insisted. “Geneva convention.”

“Terrorists,” Sven objected. “Probably booby trapped, like those suicide bombers.”

“Well, if they are, their bombs won't be any good after being dunked in seawater.”

Barney won the argument, and we hauled them up, took a good look at them before we brought them on board, and when we couldn't see any explosives, they got locked in the brig with the rest of the hijackers. That caused a lot of shouting, so I heard, between the helicopter Arabs and Hartwig.

My crew and I were in the process of reassembling the ship's filtering systems, which were clogged in places and had had to be cleared out. Some had been deactivated by placement of the wrong filters. It had been a long, messy, exhausting job carried out by sailors and Tenerife laborers under the direction of Spanish-speaking harbor inspectors and myself. I was also assigned more U.S. Navy sailors, as well as technicians provided by the harbormaster's office, men who, when asked, ran analyses on what was running in the pipes and through the filters. The results were often unexpected.