by Tim Tigner
Ayden looked down at his hand, noting that it was beginning to sweat. While the hefty champagne bottle would have been fine for a surprise attack on an unsuspecting steward, it was a pathetic weapon against a primed combat veteran like Odi Carr. But what choice did he have? Odi had come to him. Think, Ayden. Think! What would Arvin do? He asked himself. The answer came as though God were whispering in his ear.
Ayden ripped the do-not-disturb sign from the door handle and slid it between the doorframe and the lock, disabling the latch. Satisfied that the door would now swing open beneath a firm knock, he grabbed the extra polyester blanket from the closet. He folded it in half and placed it on the parquet floor like a rug, a very slippery rug. It would not look right if studied, but Odi was hardly going to be paying much attention to the suite’s furnishings as he burst into the room. Ayden would sweep the rug out from under Odi before he realized that he was standing on slippery ground, and then he would give him the good news with the bottle.
Ayden returned to the bathroom and picked up the champagne bottle, certain that he had not a second to spare. “Come on, come on,” he mouthed, wiping his sweaty palms on his black steward’s pants as he shifted the bottle between hands.
The knock did not come. Nor did Odi attempt to use a key. Ayden waited and listened, assuming that Odi was out there doing the same. After a moment he loosened his tie, hoping to get more blood to his brain. He waited some more. Nothing. Not a sound. Finally, unable to take it anymore, he flung open the door, holding the champagne bottle high.
The corridor was empty.
He backed into his suite, puzzled but relieved that no one had seen him. Then he got it. So much for God’s whisper. Odi did not know that he was there. He had come to warn the man in the neighboring suite. He had come to warn Marshall.
Ayden decided to go out onto his terrace. From there he might be able to see if all hell had broken loose in the senator’s suite. Ayden knew that would be a bold and risky move—windows worked both ways—but he figured that the pouring rain would help to camouflage him. In any case, everything he did would be risky for as long as Odi was still aboard. And besides, he was in uniform.
He grabbed a black QM2 umbrella from the closet and slipped out the sliding-glass door.
The sky was dark as midnight and the rain was coming down in a torrent. Ayden did not care. He walked all the way to the edge and crouched down with his back to the rail. Despite the downpour, he could see clearly from there into the Marshall’s suite due to the lights inside. He saw one end of a dining table through the parted curtains. Mrs. Marshall and a female guest were seated there, drinking red wine and talking with friendly animation. Odi did not appear to be inside. Nor, it seemed, had he raised an alarm.
Ayden was puzzled. Was it possible that he had imagined the sighting? Could his eyes be playing tricks? “No,” Ayden muttered to himself. He had no doubt.
Although Odi’s plan of action remained a mystery to Ayden, the fact that he now had to switch tactics was clear. Perhaps he could just push Marshall overboard. All he needed to do was get him out on the terrace alone. Of course, given the weather that would require one hell of a trick.
As Ayden sifted through the possibilities, he felt another doubt tugging at the back of his mind. After a few minutes, it came forward. If Odi had come to save Marshall, then he was likely to have warned the authorities about the other bombers.
He sank down beneath the weight of the world until his butt rested on the wet deck. That last thought had taken the wind out of his sails. The flamboyant execution of all twenty-five members of the Senate Armed Services Committee would have captured the world’s attention for months if not years to come, just like 9/11. Now that it might not happen, Ayden felt as though he was about to let down a hundred-million kids. That thought was too much to take.
He groped frantically at the corners of his mind, seeking some solution. Nothing came. He watched the rain beat down on the deck around him. Each drop sent a tiny fountain into the air. Would taking out the chairman garner enough attention if the remaining members of the SASC lived? He wondered. The answer came immediately. No. To rivet attention he needed something huge, something personal, something rivaling 9/11. The modern world was numb to anything less.
Sitting there beneath the black sky and pouring rain, he felt as desolate as his surroundings. The emotional rollercoaster ride was not helping. For years he had struggled to make a difference, day by day. Each day had given him little rewards in the form of tiny upturned faces. But the hopelessness of the big picture had always loomed as large as the mob outside his clinic’s door. Then Arvin had walked into his life and talked of creating a world where the strong helped the weak and the rich cared for the poor.
Arvin had given Ayden hope that he could actually help cure the world’s manmade woes. The tipping-point was near, he preached, his eyes sucking Ayden in. Mankind had the technological means within its grasp. All the shift required was the right catalytic act. Today he, Ayden Archer, was to have tipped the balance. Today he was to have opened the door to a better world. Now everything that moments ago had seemed so certain was suddenly up in the air. Ayden began to shake with a fear that he was about to fail the children.
“No,” he said aloud. “Not without a fight.” At the very least he would take out the chairman. Perhaps the other twenty-four would also find the means to prevail—at least a few of them. His mind racing, Ayden spied a thread of hope. He was aboard the new Queen Mary. Nearly three thousand of the world’s elite were there with him, plus a thousand crew—and he had a lot of Creamer. Given that combination, the power to focus the world’s attention had to be in his grasp. Ayden felt it in his bones. He just had to think—think and then act.
He began running through the ship’s systems in his head. He knew the vessel’s construction inside out. He could not use the airplane approach and make the ship itself the weapon. The heavy oil powering the ship would not explode. But cruise ships were some of the largest, most complicated machines on earth. There had to be another way …
Ayden was soaked to the bone by the time the solution came to him, but it was a grandiose, eloquent, audacious plan. Getting excited, he reminded himself that radical action might not be necessary. He had seen no commotion in the chairman’s suite. For whatever reason, Odi might not have sounded the alarm. Perhaps he was afraid of jail. Or perhaps he had tried but been ignored. The why hardly mattered. However, now that he had devised a grand solution, Ayden found that his original plan held far less appeal. Simply assassinating the chairman of the SASC seemed so uninspired.
The question he had to ask himself now was: Did he have the courage? He decided to put off handling that prickly pear for now. Better to see how Plan A turned out.
He was about to get up and head for the bar where he could check CNN and weigh his options, when movement crossed his peripheral vision. He refocused. Someone was rappelling down from two decks above. Someone was attempting to drop onto Marshall’s veranda.
Ayden smiled with great satisfaction as he recognized the figure. Once again, Odi Carr had dropped into his lap.
Chapter 65
The SS Queen Mary 2
SEARCHING THE LAVISH corridors, Odi was trying hard to look like a privileged vacationer rather than a hired gun. As tired as he was, he was finding it increasingly difficult to pretend. Still, he knew that Ayden was somewhere in the honeycomb of those thirteen decks, plotting away, so he would not stop.
His plan for getting to New York and sneaking aboard the ship had worked, but it had been hard on both body and soul. Poor Kostas Tzemos, the Assistant Ship’s Engineer whose identification Odi now wore, would soon awake to a pounding headache and a nasty lump. Odi vowed to make it up to him, along with the others. He cursed himself as he thought of that growing list, ashamed of the gullibility at the root of it all. How bloody naïve he had been, naïve and blinded by revenge.
Odi was not sure where this was all going, or how it was going to play ou
t. An hour earlier, he had watched with surprise as Senator Marshall and his wife boarded the ship. He had expected them to cancel after Cassi put out the word. Yet there they were. There were plenty of possible explanations for their presence, he knew, the most likely being that they were just used to living with threats. After two decades in the senate collecting a hundred threats a year, virtually anyone would be numb. As he mulled that over, Odi quickly latched on to the upside of the Marshalls’ nonchalance. Without the Marshalls aboard, he was searching for a needle in a haystack. Now he had a magnet for Ayden.
Walking past Marshall’s suite again, Odi knew that he was pushing his luck. On his first pass he had been surprised to find that they did not have a Secret Service Agent posted in the hall. He knew that one was undoubtedly on lookout either via a hidden camera or from the peephole of the suite, but he had expected one in a more visible spot as well. This made it less awkward for him to roam the surrounding halls, but it would still be the third time he pinged the Secret Service’s radar by passing Marshalls’ suite. He knew that was a mistake for any man, much less one with a wanted face, but he had no choice.
Odi was racing against a clock. Although the voyage to Southampton would take six days, he had to find Ayden before Mr. Tzemos awoke and sounded the alarm. Once the alarm went out, his freedom would last about twenty seconds. He imagined that the conversation would go something like this:
“He’s about thirty years old, six foot one with broad shoulders, thick dark hair, steely gray eyes, and oh yeah, he stole my glasses.”
“Hey Lou, that sounds like the APB we got from the FBI.”
“Did he look like this guy Mr. Tzemos?” The police officer would ask, producing a poster.
“That’s him! That’s the thief who took my ID and stole my clothes ...”
Odi’s own wanted status was not the only complication on his mind. The Marshalls’ nonchalance continued to nag at him. He had called the Coast Guard as agreed, and sent them to Asgard for Cassi. Was it possible that they had ignored his call? He wondered. Probably not. Could the Secret Service have ignored Cassi’s warning? Again Odi’s answer was no. The threat was too serious, and she was a FBI Agent. Odi concluded that his concern was the result of exhaustion combined with an over-stimulated imagination. Still, he hated to take the risk of having two corpses prove him wrong.
With the third pass of Marshall’s suite yielding no sightings of interest, he went to the Future Cruises boutique and took a virtual tour of the Marshall’s split-level suite on an interactive screen. He paid particular attention to the windows, doors, and terrace. Then he turned his attention to the rest of the ship. The Queen Mary 2 was enormous. It covered an area equivalent to four city blocks and carried 3,900 souls. With just one man looking, Ayden could stay hidden there for months.
As he clicked from screen to screen, Odi became increasingly nervous about spending time away from the Marshalls. Ayden had fooled him, he might also be able to fool the Secret Service. Still, Odi knew that knowledge of the ship’s floor plan would be invaluable if he had to pursue, escape, or hide. He bit his lip, rolled his shoulders, and decided to invest ten minutes in cramming the floor plans into his head. Fifteen minutes later he shoved a map in the pocket of his slacks and headed for deck eleven.
Odi pressed the button that opened the sliding door to the promenade, and walked into the darkest, wettest day he could remember. Never before had he considered such misery so perfect. He walked all the way to the rear of the eleventh deck and stood alone by the whirlpool. He looked over the edge. The terrace of the Marshall’s Balmoral Duplex beckoned to him from two decks below. He pictured the Scottish residence from which the suite drew its name and decided that it was time to storm a castle.
The whirlpool may only have been three feet deep but the railing beside him still proffered a life ring. He took the measure of the rope. The Atlantic raged a hundred feet below and there appeared to be enough rope to reach it. Certain that there were the fifty feet he needed, Odi removed the coil from the hook. He wrapped the ringed end twice around a post and tested the friction. It felt right. He tucked the ring between his legs and hopped over the rail.
The rain beat down upon him and the wind tried to steal his balance, but Odi was not deterred. Stopping Ayden was something he was prepared to die for. He rappelled down just far enough to see through the wet glass of the Balmoral Duplex’s picture windows. He saw the companionway connecting the two floors immediately before him. Beyond it he could see through the open door of the master suite. Judging by the visible portion, the top floor was deserted. So far, so good.
He raopelled half way down to the terrace, stopping at the blind spot between the ninth and tenth decks. He adjusted his grip on the rope, and wiped the rain from his face with his free hand. He tried to think of the rain as refreshing, but in truth it just made him cold. He still had that Chesapeake chill. What a day this had been.
He surveyed his surroundings while evaluating his next move. If the Marshall’s were home, they would be just below him on the other side of the glass. The dark and rain might hide him from their view, but it probably would not. He was too close to the glass. He decided to jump backwards, out away from the wall. This was the kind of move his CRT colleagues called brave but he knew was decidedly stupid. Today it was par for the course.
He picked his target landing spot and practiced bending his knees twice before finally pushing off. Landing close to the window was dangerous, but there was a bigger penalty for going too deep. The rope made a zipping sound as he flew back in a relatively controlled drop toward the puddled terrace. Two breathless seconds later he landed squarely on his feet between two lounge chairs. He felt an impulse to take a bow but crouched instead. The life ring was still between his legs. He tucked it behind the leg of a lounger where it would be handy for his retreat.
He studied the sliding glass doors three paces before him, the lighting working in his favor. The Marshalls were there. His rainstorm rumba had not been in vain. The distinguished couple was drinking red wine and chatting animatedly with another elegant pair. No one else was visible in the suite. Odi’s stomach did a nervous somersault. Where was the Secret Service? Something was either very wrong or very right. Perhaps Ayden had already been apprehended.
Straining to keep his nerves under control, Odi continued to examine the scene. The dining table before the Marshalls held several plates and bowls. The second he saw them, Odi knew he needed to see what was inside. If something was cream based, he was going to have to make a very awkward knock on their rain-streaked sliding door. He decided to sneak closer.
Dropping to his belly, he low-crawled through puddles to the wall. Then he slid sideways until he could peer around the edge of the curtains. The first thing he did was study the occupants, paying special attention to the hue of their fingers. Everyone looked fine and festive. Mrs. Marshall wore a red silk dress with a matching manicure, her companion a jungle-patterned pantsuit with gold jewelry and matching shoes. The men both sported dark suits with bright shirts sans ties. Their gaiety presented a harsh contrast to the torrent outside, and ran contrary to the danger lurking within.
Odi didn’t get it. How could they be so nonchalant? He stood up and turned his attention to the table, his stomach seizing that joyous moment to remind him that he had not eaten in twenty-four hours—excluding the Creamer. One of the bowls closest to him held mouthwatering strawberries, the other tempted him with mixed nuts. Further back was a crusty French baguette on a cutting board and a large wedge of ripe Brie. As his stomach grumbled his heart rejoiced. There was no chance of secreting Creamer in any of those. The Marshalls were safe for now.
While considering the option of knocking on the glass and confirming that Ayden Archer had in fact been captured, a squeak emanated off to his right side. As he pivoted to investigate, someone plowed into his stomach, sweeping him off his feet and into the air. Odi felt himself being carried backwards on his assailant’s shoulder but his exhausted m
ind took a second too long to react. Before he could gather his wits he was falling backwards through space. That sensation and a fleeting glimpse made everything instantly clear. Ayden had just hurled him overboard.
Chapter 66
Asgard Island, Chesapeake Bay
AS THE COAST Guard vessel dropped over the horizon and Stuart piloted into the marina, Cassi sprinted for the house, running as she never had before. Wiley kept a pair of miniature walkie-talkies in the coat closet by the front door. She needed them. As the Norse Wind’s motors had roared to life, she had cobbled together the components of a desperate plan.
She grabbed the pair of Motorolas and was out of the house within ninety seconds of Stuart revving the motors. He would be docking by now, she figured. She tested the batteries as she ran to the garden and found them strong.
Flanking the south side of the manor house was a mature and elaborate garden an acre in size. It ran all the way out from the porch to the cliff. According to Wiley, twelve generations of Proffitts had spent their declining years tending to that garden. Wiley was not declining yet, he had told her, so he employed a gardener. It was spectacular during the summer when the flowers were in bloom and the fountains were running, but even this time of year the ancient fruit trees and manicured maze of hedges gave it an elegant grace. This morning, however, Cassi did not notice the aesthetics. This was a battlefield.
She crashed through a hibernating rose thicket, ignoring the protesting thorns. Once she reached the garden’s center she plunged one of the walkie-talkies into the dense branches of a spherical sculpted hedge. She secured it at chest level, gauging the distance to be about twenty feet from the front corner of the porch. She turned it on, cranked the volume up to high, scampered back out of the thicket, and said, “Testing.” Her voice came back loud and clear. Motorola made great equipment. For a moment she had the feeling that this was actually going to work.
