Sea of Terror (7 page)

"Let's see what it is first," Darrow said. "What's the lading number?"

A cruise ship the size of the Atlantis Queen had a population as large as many towns--almost three thousand in all. The amount of food and other consumables required for a two-week cruise was staggering in its amount and in its variety. So far, Darrow had checked aboard twenty-five tons of beef, five tons of lamb, five and a half tons of pork, four tons of veal, a ton of sausage, seven and a half tons of chicken, three tons of turkey, nine tons of fish, and two tons of lobster ... and the loading was continuing as more and more shipments arrived at the pier. In two weeks, the four restaurants on board the Queen would run through almost twenty-five tons of fresh vegetables, four thousand liters of ice cream, four tons of rice, five tons of coffee, fifteen tons of potatoes, twenty tons of fresh fruit, five tons of sugar, and twenty thousand liters of milk. Her alcohol lockers routinely stocked over four thousand bottles of assorted wines, three hundred of champagne, four hundred of vodka, five hundred of whiskey, and a thousand of assorted liqueurs ... not to mention some eighteen thousand cans or bottles of a bewildering selection of beers.

The Atlantis Queen's guests and crew wouldn't consume all of that vast mountain of food and drink in two weeks, of course. A percentage was held against the possibility of a delay somewhere along the line and as a precaution against the unthinkable--that the ship's larders would actually run out of something toward the end of the cruise. The ship's commissary department would also have the opportunity to buy fresh provisions along the way--in Greece and Turkey, especially--if anything in the ship's computerized lists of stores appeared to be running low.

Odd, the manifest the driver handed Darrow was in a different format than the one routinely used by the Royal Sky Line. It listed the truck's contents as two tons of rice, three tons of potatoes, and one ton of sugar . . . but he'd already checked four tons of rice on board that morning and they weren't scheduled to receive any more. There'd been a screwup somewhere down the line.

"I'm sorry," Darrow said, handing the clipboard back.

"I can't take this. I'll need to check it with the commissary office."

"Is there a problem here?"

Darrow looked around and saw two of the ship's Security officers approaching along the pier from aft. He recognized one as a guy named Ghailiani. He didn't recognize the other one, though that was hardly surprising. There were nine hundred Royal Sky employees on board this ship; you couldn't possibly know them all.

"Nah, not a problem," Darrow told him. "I think this shipment is for someone else, though."

"What makes you say that?"

"It's not our inventory form, for one thing. And I can't tell if it's been screened. I don't see a customs stamp, either." All shipments of cargo and provisions were carefully checked before they were loaded aboard ship, by security personnel, by customs officers, and even by public health inspectors. Bombs, smuggled contraband, and diseases were three things that could give the company a very bad public image, and every step was taken to make sure that none of those got on board. "Come to think of it," he added, paging through the manifest, "I'm not sure how he even got in here."

"Let's take a look," the second security man said. "Maybe the right papers are in the back."

Darrow shrugged. "Sure."

The lorry had been backed up until it was directly alongside a huge Dumpster on the pier, and Darrow had to turn sideways to squeeze through the narrow passage. The truck's tailgate came down with a bang, and Darrow pulled himself up onto the cargo bed. It was dark inside, the space filled with a number of large crates masked in deep shadow.

"You have a torch?" he called back. "It's bloody dark in--" He caught movement out of the corner of his eye. "What the hell?"

"What's wrong?" the security officer called from outside.

"I thought I saw--"

Someone grabbed Darrow from behind, a hand clamping down over his mouth, an arm pinning his arms at his sides. A second shadow emerged from behind the crates in front of him, and he felt something hard and metallic rammed against his ribs.

He tried to scream.

Three sound-suppressed gunshots, sharp, hissing chirps, cut through the close darkness. Darrow bucked once, then sagged in the arms of the man behind him.

"Merciful Allah," Ghailiani said in the light outside the truck. "Forgive me."

Chapter 4

Royal Sky Line security queue Atlantis Queen passenger terminal Southampton, England Thursday, 1439 hours GMT

Arnold bernstein stepped through the metal detector, then stopped, reading the metal sign in front of the big white tunnel. "What's this?"

"X-ray scan, sir," the security guard standing next to the tunnel said. "It's completely harmless. Just step through like you did with the metal detector."

"Bernie!" Gillian Harper said, coming up behind him. "Why do they need to x-ray us?"

"They say," Reggie Carmichael said with a knowing leer, "that it looks right through your clothes, and lets them see you naked!"

"Who says?" Harper demanded. "I'm not getting naked for anybody!" They were standing in the short stretch between the metal detector and the white tunnel, confronted by a security guard and the metal sign. The rest of the Harper entourage was continuing to step through the metal detector, and the line was piling up.

"That's right, baby!" Jake Levy said. He was one of Harper's agents, and always had his eye on the bottom line. "Not unless they pay you for the peek."

"I'm sure it's nothing like that" Bernstein said. "See? The sign says it's not intrusive. It's just security!"

"Well, I'm no terrorist!" Harper said, her voice taking an unpleasant
e.g.
to it. "Bernie, you can get me in another way. I'm a star, for Christ's sake!"

"What seems to be the problem?" the guard asked. He looked weary, as though he'd been handling recalcitrant passengers all day.

"Do you have any
i.e.
who I am?" Gillian Harper demanded.

"No, ma'am, I have no idea. I'm sorry, but I have my orders. No exceptions."

"Gillian, I think we'd better do as the man says. You can let yourself be x-rayed, or you can let them feel you all over looking for . .. whatever it is they're looking for. Which is it going to be?"

"You can't talk to me that way, Bernie!"

God. Another temper tantrum coming on. "I'm sorry, Gillian. Rules are rules." Even for you, you strung-out little bitch, he thought. No amount of money was worth this.

Bernstein was disgusted. Gillian Harper's bad-girl image played great at the box office, but her attitude made her increasingly difficult to work with. Damn it, she was just another in a long line of high-visibility, high-maintenance models, movie stars, and MTV pop idols, no different, really, from Spears or Lohan or any of the rest. What was it about a little fame that, made these people think they were immortal?

But Bernstein was her manager... as if anyone could manage the brat. Getting her to do anything that wasn't her
i.e.
first was damned near impossible. It had been her
i.e.
to do this latest gig--shoot segments for her new music video, "Livin' Large," on board a luxury cruise ship and at various landmarks in the Mediterranean: on the beach at Majorca, in front of the Parthenon, along the Turkish coast. "Livin' Large" held the promise of being a top-of-the charts blockbuster, bigger than "Material Girl," maybe ... If the bitch could control her temper, stay sober, and keep her mind on the job. Her idiot boyfriend wasn't helping; Carmichael was a minor actor with delusions of grandeur, a pretty boy who'd hit it lucky in a film or two and now seemed bent on destroying himself. And her.

The drug use worried Bernstein.

Arnold Bernstein had already decided that he was through with this insane business. Let him get just one more big hit under his belt and he could say good-bye to Gillian Harper and all of her parasites. He had a fair amount of money tucked away. Maybe he would produce dinner theater somewhere, some place far away from the glitz and the lights and the high-living idiots.

"Gillian," he said sharply, "it's not like half the male population of this planet hasn't already seen you naked. Get your ass through that machine!"

He strode through without looking to see if the rest were following him.

Bridge, Atlantis Queen Southampton, England Thursdaiy, 1444 hours GMT

"Captain?"

Captain Eric Phillips was leaning over the chart table, reviewing the latest met print-out. Several hours ago, a low-pressure cell had begun forming off the West African coast, and by the time the Queen reached the Strait of Gibraltar in another four days, it might make for some rough weather.

"Can it wait? I'm busy--" "Sir, we have a problem. A real problem." "Now what?" Captain Eric Phillips looked up, exasperated. Why did problems always begin multiplying exponentially the closer the ship came to debarkation?

His staff captain, Charles Vandergrift, stood a few feet away, holding the bridge phone against his ear. "It's Ghailiani, sir. Security. One of our officers has been found ... dead." He sounded as though he couldn't quite believe the report.

That got Phillips' full attention. "Dead? My God, who? How?"

"Chester Darrow, sir. Ghailiani says he's been shot!"

"Sweet Christ Jesus! Give me that!" He took the handset from Vandergrift. "Ghailiani? This is the Captain."

"Y-yes, sir." The man's voice sounded weak over the phone, almost dull, as if he was dazed, or in shock.

"What the devil happened?"

"We're not sure, sir. Mr. Darrow was checking provisions into the aft A Deck cargo hold. I came down here to check something, and found him on the pier, dead."

"You said he's been shot?"

"Yes, sir. Several times, sir. In the chest."

This had to be some sort of sick joke. Please let it be a joke! he thought. "Ghailiani, if this is some kind of prank--"

"No, sir! It's not! Darrow's dead! There's blood everywhere--"

"Where are you?"

"On the pier. Just opposite the A Deck cargo gangway. There's a big green Dumpster there? We found him between the Dumpster and the main warehouse wall."

"Okay. Stay there. Don't let anyone touch the body. The police will be down there soon."

"Yes, sir."

Several thoughts and emotions battled one another in Phillips' mind. One of his men murdered! Who was the killer? A member of the crew? Or someone ashore? Had anyone seen what had happened?

Phillips didn't know Darrow well. The man had only joined the Queen a month ago. Phillips would have to check with Personnel to see if the man had any family.

He would have to write a letter, at the very least. Oh, God. . . .

Other, more selfishly motivated thoughts crowded in, jostling with the others. Could the incident be kept from the passengers? And, even more critically, would the murder prevent the Atlantis Queen from sailing on schedule?

Like a hotel, a cruise ship depended on filling available vacancies with paying customers. If the Atlantis Queen was kept in port by a police investigation, people would start canceling their reservations, and passengers already aboard might begin making other plans for their tightly structured vacations--and demanding refunds.

With the economy the way it was right now, a company like Royal Sky Line could go under with the failure of a single cruise--the profit margin was that slim.

A small and unworthy part of him was already wondering if the death could be covered up, at least until the ship was out of port. . . but he shoved the thought viciously aside. No, they would play this by the book.

He began punching numbers into the handset. First he would call Sir Charles Mayhew, the member of the board of directors who was Operations Director for the Atlantis Queen and Phillips' boss.

And then he would call the police.

Atlantis Queen pier side Southampton, England Thursday, 1446 hours GMT

Ghailiani snapped his cell phone shut. "It's ... it's done," he managed. He felt weak, on the verge of falling over. His initial terror was being submerged in a paralyzing numbness that made it hard to think, hard to know what to think.

They were within the narrow, deep-shadowed corridor between the Dumpster and the wall of the warehouse.

Ghailiani was leaning against the wall, trying to keep from falling as his knees trembled. Yusef Khalid squatted in front of him, crouched over the body. Two of Khalid's men stood guard in the sunlight outside.

ft had happened so quickly! Khalid's men had materialized out of Allah-knew-where almost at once--members of the ship's deck gang, Ghailiani thought. Dock wallopers, tough, hard-looking men who'd been helping to shift stores on board the ship. Careful to stay in the shelter offered by the back of the truck, they'd dragged poor Darrow's body out and bundled it around into the narrow alley behind the Dumpster.

He'd also seen them produce a briefcase from inside the truck's cab, which they'd tossed into the Dumpster.

None of this was making sense.

"Are they sending someone down here?" Khalid demanded. He'd removed Darrow's wallet from his hip pocket. At first, Ghailiani assumed Khalid was robbing the dead man ... but no, apparently he was stuffing something inside.

Khalid was wearing nylon medical gloves.

"He .. . the captain just said to stay with the . . . with the body," Ghailiani managed to say. "He said the police would be here soon. Allah! The police! . .."

"Calm yourself, Ghailiani," Khalid told him. "You are doing well."

"You didn't tell me you were going to kill him!"

"That is correct. I did not."

"You're going to take the ship." Ghailiani was on the verge of tears. He felt like he was going to be terribly sick. "You're going to kill everyone on the ship!"

Khalid stood suddenly, turned, and grabbed Ghailiani's collar with one blue-gloved hand. "Listen to me, Mohamed! You have heard of al-Qaeda, yes?"

Ghailiani managed a jerky nod.

"Yes. We are going to take that ship. By arranging for the truck to get past security and onto the pier, you have helped us do so."