by L. J. Martin
Angelina enters to see only seven others in the Panorama Lounge, all of them older blue-hair couples except for one beautiful blond who she immediately recognizes as Constance Nordstrom. Only one table separates her from another couple, and as Angelina gets coffee and a roll from an informal self-service counter, she listens carefully and notes the couple nearest are speaking English—U.K. accented English at that. As she and Harry were texted a quick background on Connie, she knows Nordstrom is fluent in Farsi, so she approaches and asks in the Iranian language, "You seem to be alone, may I join you?"
"Of course," Connie answers in Farsi, and Angelina sits, and they make small talk for a while. The rest in the room pay little attention, including the two attendants who are serving and bussing tables.
When Angelina is sure no one is close enough to hear, she leans close, "When and where can we get together to talk?"
"Mike is working, as I'm sure you know…”
"We know little of your reason to be on this cruise."
"He's got a bodyguard gig. A young very, well known singer."
"I saw her at the pool, signing a few autographs. When can Reardon get free...that is, if you think he should be read in on our mission?"
"He's as trustworthy as it gets, but he's tethered to his client whenever she's out of her cabin."
"Then it might be best if only you meet with Harry and me?"
"Fine. Time and place?"
"We're in suite 717. The sooner the better."
"Fifteen minutes?" Connie suggests.
"I'll take the forward elevators. Suggest you take the aft."
Connie stands and sticks out a hand and says, in English loud enough for others to hear, "Nice meeting you. Enjoy the cruise."
Angelina shakes hands without rising and finishes her coffee as Connie leaves.
When Connie finishes and gives herself five minutes to make her appointment, she waves to the attendants and hurries out to the aft elevator. She's not surprised that the door is ajar when she reaches 717. She glances both ways, then quickly enters and closes the door behind.
Harry and Angelina await, and Harry meets her with an extended hand.
"Have we met before?" he asks, with a curious look.
She studies him a moment, then, "Three years ago, a conference on Israel, Iraq and Syria. You gave a presentation, as Harry Weinberg."
He smiles. "Well, nice to be remembered." He nods Angelina's way. "We're both Drummond on this cruise. Coffee?"
"Sure."
They take seats around a small coffee table, with a view of the passing ocean out the sliding glass door.
Angelina smiles and reassures her, "You can speak freely. I sweep this cabin twice daily."
"So, what's up? What's got Langley's panties in a twist?"
"First," Harry replies, "this Reardon chap has never been part of the family?"
"Independent contractor, but who's done great service to the country. I worked with him when he made an incursion into North Korea and kicked some serious ass for Uncle Sam. Trust me, you can trust him."
"Trust, but verify," Harry said, with a smile and a nod.
"I'd bet my life on him," Connie said, returning the smile, but a more serious one.
"You may be doing so right now. We are onto, we believe, a plot to either blow this boat to hell or possibly to hold all passengers hostage."
"Perps?" Connie asks.
"Arab, Muslim, terrorists, as usual. Al Shabaab, we think."
"A high-jacking from outside, Somali style? We're to be stormed by pirates?"
"Inside, at least to begin with. The crew. We're onto three of them and have subverted four of pounds of plastic, without them knowing it, but think there's more, maybe much more."
"So, why haven't you called in the cavalry?"
"These are crazies as only these Al Shabaab types can be. If they see it coming, they'll trigger whatever is still out there. The good news is John Chang, ship security, is up to speed and is protecting the obvious…”
"Which is?" Connie asks.
"This ship is dual fueled, diesel and LPG, the diesel, of course, is as safe as fuel can be. The LPG is another story altogether."
She's quiet for a few seconds, contemplating that. "How many infiltrators do you think there are?"
Harry gives her a tight smile. "The crew is over two hundred fifty strong. Both our folks and MI5 are working hard to vet them, but we have over twenty possible...maybe more."
"Interesting, as I overheard some comments by the crew that may be of interest."
"And?"
"I have reason to believe they plan to meet up with a small freighter and could board a hundred more if so."
"Name?"
"I overheard the name Amir Al-Karim, checked with a friend who was called in by the director and who instructed us to get together. Amir Al-Karim owns a small freighter…”
"We have it all," he smiles, "just verifying it came from you."
"And," Connie asks, "we haven't sunk that tub because?"
Harry laughs again. "You're not a hawk are you, Miss Nordstrom? We don't normally sink vessels from other countries unless we're attacked. And this ship has not done so. We do have a drone watching her every movement or will as soon as she's located."
Connie shrugs. "So, should I advise Reardon to get his client off the ship? After all…”
"If we start bailing out, I'm sure these crazies will put this vessel on the bottom if they still have the capability. Even if not, if they have twenty shooters on board, this could make the thirty-two innocents in Brussels or forty-nine in Orlando look like a cake walk. We have six hundred souls on board, including the crew."
"We're planning to ease folks off at Malaga, our next stop. Over two hundred passengers have shore excursions scheduled. Fifty or more of the crew will be ashore. Spanish authorities have been asked, without any indication it's a true operation, to invite our people in country, but will not allow our Special Ops boys in, so that means we rely on them if and when we're forced to do so. So far, we don't feel we can chance a leak from either the cruise line or Spanish. The cruise line has been advised, but only the very top people."
"I have to read Reardon in on all of it."
"Your call. But remember, loose lips sink ships."
"Between you and me, he goes nowhere without hardware. He has refrained from carrying anything that would be picked up by scanners going on and off the ship."
"Good," Harry says. "God willing, no one will need to palm anything more than an ID to disembark."
"God willing," Connie repeats, thanks them for the coffee and heads for the door.
Harry calls after her, "Keep your ears open and watch for anything out of order."
"I will. By the way, Mike's been hobnobbing with some ex-military types who may be old but are damn sure experienced and likely willing."
"Keep them in the dark for now. Loose lips and all that."
She nods, and leaves.
28
Sa'id & Alia were able to meet in Bilbao, both found themselves infatuated with each other, and had to be very careful not to make that fact obvious to Mumin. Sa'id, in particular, knew Mumin to be a zealot, and it is not wise to upset a zealot, even if you're fairly zealous yourself. Still, Sa'id could not help but occasionally have an excuse to pass the poolside bar where Alia was busy bartending. He tried and tried to think of a way to speak to her without Mumin or anyone else seeing them together, but he could not figure a way. They were both off at the same time while the ship was docked in Lisbon, so maybe there. Sa'id's thoughts were wandering. Did he really want to give his life to the cause when for the first time he had a woman—a woman of virtue—who might spend her life with him?
Amir Al-Karim and the small one-hundred-two-foot cargo vessel Bit Tawfīq had enjoyed almost a month in the Algerian port of Oran, two hundred fifty miles west of Algiers, while being painted and refitted. She now had a deck house that extended twenty feet farther out onto what had been cargo area, a
nd a new deckhouse on the aft. Her masts and outriggers that had served as cranes to move cargo had been removed, and one repositioned far aft. Her bright green paint, which had enjoyed the name Al-Karin, in bright blue and covering the loaded-freeboard in letters six feet high on both starboard and port had been painted out. Aft, her ship's name Al-Karin had been painted over and she was now Bit Tawfīq, the Arabic word for good luck, and under that name was the port of origin, Casablanca. Although Amir Al-Karim was still captain of the Bit Tawfīq, she was now owned by Sheik Ali Hassan. All was in preparation for Azraq Zaraq, Bloody Blue, the operation Hassan had been five years planning and executing.
Even though she was a rusted tub, Ali Hassan was over five hundred thousand American dollars into the ship, Wahran, and the armaments she now carried, and over that amount again in wages and arms for those aboard the Blue Pearl, the two who'd now been working for Crimson Cruise Line in the supply facilities in Civitavecchia, near Rome, and the produce broker in Bordeaux.
Well before the Blue Pearl reaches the mouth of the Med and Gibraltar, the Bit Tawfīq has moved out of her berth and headed for the planned rendezvous south and west of Malaga, Spain. She’d be at sea two days before she goes dead in the water at a spot ten miles southeast of the Spanish town of Sitio de Calahonda.
Peter Zucker, John Chung’s number two security officer is on the other end of the line when John picks up the phone in his cabin. He checks the clock on his bed stand and sees it’s a few minutes before 4:00 a.m.
“You must come to the office,” Zucker says, his voice terribly strained, and John is immediately awake.
“What’s up?”
“I can’t say over the phone. Come quickly.” Zucker disconnects.
John pulls on a track suit and running shoes without socks and hurries out. He jogs to the stairway and takes them three at a time. His office door is closed, and he bursts in. Zucker is face down on John’s desk, face turned toward John, eyes open, but he’s in a pool of blood.
Before John can speak, the door is slammed, and he realizes there are two crewmen behind him. He spins, but both fire suppressed handguns and he’s blown across his desk but sinks to the floor as blood begins pumping from his chest wounds, then stops.
Captain Hans Van Groot is in the chartroom, just behind the bridge, when his First Mate appears in the doorway. His face is as white as the background of the chart the captain bends over.
"Yes?" Van Groot says, looking up from his chart. "How could we have had both engines shut down?"
"We have an event." And the first mate steps aside so the captain can see the tall thin black man standing behind, with a semiauto handgun leveled on his side.
"What is this?" Van Groot says, rising to his full six feet four inches.
"To the bridge, Captain," the black man commands.
Van Groot stomps on by, noting the two crewmen with long guns following the black man, and moves onto his bridge, where a helmsman is looking confused and says, "I was just coming for you, sir."
Before the helmsman sees the man with the gun, he eyes the captain and shrugs. "She doesn't respond to the helm, captain."
Mumin steps onto the bridge. "Your rudder controls have been destroyed. Your automatic systems have killed the engines as your fuel supply has been cut. You will now make an announcement."
"Get the hell off my bridge," Van Groot foolishly commands.
Mumin extends the handgun, and the roar of the Koch reverberates the wide thirty feet of glass overlooking the bow and sea ahead and fills the room with the stench of gunpowder. Van Groot stumbles back against his GPS screen, his hand on his chest, blood already seeping between his fingers, a very surprised look on his ruddy face, his ice blue eyes wide. He sinks to his knees then to his back. Blood bubbles from the hole in his chest as his hand slips away.
"Jesus Christ," First Mate Arnholt Armundsen says, stepping forward, but the muzzles of all three weapons wave him back.
"Go face the windows," Mumin orders, "Jesus Christ has no influence here.” The first mate and apprentice officer retreat, but Armundsen cannot help but look over his shoulder.
"You will make an announcement," Mumin orders him.
"And if I don't?" Armundsen snaps, his face reddens with anger.
29
Mumin steps forward, stoops, and places the muzzle of his weapon against Van Groot's forehead, and pulls the trigger. The blast splatters gore—blood, bone and gray matter—in a semicircle over the deck behind Van Groot.
"My god!" Armundsen shouts.
"Your God is not in charge, praise Allah. Now, you will make an announcement! Ship wide. All males are to report to the showroom, all females to the main restaurant. Announce this is an emergency. They are to report immediately or will be shot by those who have taken over the ship."
There are two microphones on metal snakes and Armundsen moves to one and switches it on. "Emergency, emergency." Then he turns to Mumin, "Crew also?"
"Crew also."
Armundsen repeats. "Emergency, Emergency. All passengers and all crew report as follows: All females report to the main restaurant. All males report to the show lounge. Repeat, all passengers and all crew. Men to the show lounge, women to the main restaurant. This is not a request. This is an emergency order."
"Good. You will live a little longer," Mumin says.
Armundsen turns. "Many will be confused, and some will go to their lifeboat stations. Some will sleep through even this loud announcement. Some will refuse to leave their companions."
"And many will die," Mumin says, his sardonic smile returning.
We've had two days and a night at sea and aren't due to arrive in Malaga until late this afternoon. I'm back to my normal pace as the kids are soaking up the sun, which seems to tire the little darlings and they hit the sack, or at least their suite, by ten. So, I'm awake at four and as usual can't sleep in—some say guilty conscience, but I prefer to think good old American initiative—so I'm up. This morning, I decide to make my darling happy—her conscience must be free of guilt as she can sleep until ten—and take our light laundry and head for the Laundromat. I should have no competition for the machines at this hour. The passenger laundry occupies a small area on Deck Three near the hatch to the engine room. That area off limits to us passengers.
The muffled roar of an explosion rocks the room slightly and I can feel the normal small shudder of the ship slowly grind to a stop. Not good. However, the washers and dryer still function so I go on with my task.
I hear the engine room hatch open and turn to see a ship's crewman, dark skinned, in coveralls standing in the doorway to the laundry.
It would not be disconcerting, except for the fact he's carrying an AK47 and motioning to me with the barrel, that and the familiar smell of cordite that's billowed out of the open engine hatch are both as unexpected and unwelcome as a cockroach in your shrimp cocktail.
"Back to suite," he says, motioning with the gun barrel again. He's a head shorter than me and I outweigh him by fifty or more pounds so I'm considering passing close and relieving him of the automatic and shoving it up his skinny ass, but then another AK47-carrying dipshit appears behind him.
I nod and give him a phony grin as I point to the machine. "My laundry?" I say, as if he doesn't have a weapon and I'm more concerned about my socks and shorts and Connie’s pink and blue lace valuables than I am the rifle.
"Leave. Go now," he says and is growing a little impatient. So, I move. He's no experienced law enforcement or military officer as he has to raise the muzzle of the rifle to let me pass. I could have easily booted him back through the door or into his amigo, and stuffed them both into a dryer, but I have other responsibilities—Connie and my charge, Simone, not to speak of the other smartass kids.
So, I head for the elevator, with the two armed crewmen close behind. Are these crewmen part of ship security? If so, I could understand sidearms, but AK47s on an American-registered ship? Don't think so. They ride with me in an elevator so tight only o
ne of them can keep the barrel in my gut, then to my cabin door and let me disappear inside, with an admonition, "Wait for instructions. Do not leave suite, or you will be shot dead."
Wow is that ever bad public relations for Crimson Cruise Line. I can't wait for that form asking how I enjoyed the cruise.
"Connie," I yell, as the door shuts behind me. "Time to rise and shine."
She rubs her eyes, stretches, then eyes the clock. "What the heck? It's five A M."
"Yep, time to lock and load."
“What?” she questions, rubbing her eyes.
I don’t have to expound. About the time she sits up in bed, the announcement to report to the show lounge for the men and the restaurant for the ladies, rings through the ship, awaking most who are vacationing, not expecting to be awakened at proverbial gunpoint.
Then even to my surprise, the announcement continues in another voice. “We are soldiers of Allah. You are all infidels and will die by gunfire or beheading if you don't do exactly what I command. Women shall have their heads covered and scarves over face as appropriate for the faithful. And all garments shall be buttoned at the neck. If you have no long garments you will devise them from bedclothes upon your return to your cabin, or you shall not leave the cabins again. Men shall wear no coats and have shirts tucked in. Your suites will soon be searched and all alcohol, identification, and valuables, confiscated.”
Of course, closely following the announcement, my wrist alarm goes off. I'm pretty sure Simone and crew will have a different attitude than the last time I showed up, if I can figure out how to do so.
Harry and Angelina, traveling as the Drummonds, come awake with the announcement and are in their robes, meeting in the living area of the suite.
