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 idea first was damned near impossible. It had been her idea 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."
"You're going to blow up the ship--"
"No!" Khalid released him, then, shoving him back a foot. "No, we are not! I promise you, by the word of the Prophet, no. We intend to take that ship, yes. We will threaten to blow it up, yes .. . but I promise you that we will not. The people on board are innocents, women and children, and the holy Qur'an tells us not to shed innocent blood."
Ghailiani looked down at Darrow's body. Blood continued to ooze from the chest,
soaking the uniform, pooling on the concrete beneath. He'd been an innocent... .
Khalid seemed to read Ghailiani's mind. "As a man, he was responsible for his actions, for ignoring the words of the Prophet. Understand? We are at war, we are engaged in holy jihad, and men will die in this war ... but we will not kill the innocents on board that ship, I promise you! Do you believe me?"
"I... I don't know what to believe--"
"Then listen to this, and believe it, Mohamed Ghailiani. You have already helped us in this operation. You will continue to help us."
"I can't!--"
"You willl You can't pull back now."
"You're going to kill us all anyway!"
"I give you my word, upon the holy Qur'an and if Allah wills, that I will not. If we succeed in this, the governments of Great Britain and the United States of America will pay us one-point-five-Z?////on euros. Think of that, Mohamed! Two billion American dollars! And we will arrange for a small percentage of that.. . say, one million euros? To be transferred to a private numbered account in your name. You will be a very wealthy man."
"I don't... I don't want money--"
"If we fail, you will be arrested as a co-conspirator. They will find a record of what you have done to help us .. . getting those security keys, and getting the truck past the security checkpoint."
"Please--"
"And I am certain that I don't need to remind you of your wife and daughter. If you fail us, I promise you that both Zahra and Nouzha will suffer terrible pain and terrible humiliation before they finally die. Their deaths will take a very long time. Your Zahra will be forced to watch everything we do to your daughter first. It may take a week, perhaps more. And then, when Nouzha is finally dead, we will start working on her. Do you understand me?"
For just a moment, defiance stirred within Ghailiani. "I... I thought you said you didn't hurt women and children!"
Khalid seemed to think about this for a moment. "This is war. Terrible things must be done in war. I am willing to die to see this thing through. .. and I am willing to shed the blood of innocents to accomplish this. We require your help, and this is how we have chosen to get it. But our goal, the goal of this mission, is to take from the governments of America and Great Britain the sum of two billion American dollars in order to finance our operations elsewhere. It will not further our goals to slaughter the people on board the ship. You must believe me on this. Help us and we accomplish our mission, you will become wealthy, and your wife and daughter will be released to you unharmed. This, God willing, I swear to you upon the word of the Prophet!
"But if we fail, or if you betray us or refuse to help us, you will die, and your wife and child will die. If it is possible, you will be there to watch both of them die first. I swear this by Allah! I swear this by Allah!" Khalid leaned forward, speaking directly into Ghailiani's face as his voice dropped to a whisper. "/ swear this by Allah!"
Mohamed Ghailiani did consider himself to be Muslim, though he was not an observant one, and he had little interest in the fine points of the Sharia, of Islamic law.
Still, he knew that a man who swore by the name of God three times was in earnest; lesser oaths, by other things than Allah Himself, often were not considered binding, especially if the oath taker added the words "if God wills" to his promise.
He knew that Khalid would carry out his threat if Ghailiani crossed him in any way. There was no way out... no way out for him, no way out for Nouzha or Zahra, save to do exactly what he was told.
"I. . . yes. I understand."
"We are absolutely willing to do whatever must be done to achieve our aims. You hear what I am saying?"
Again, Ghailiani nodded. His moment of rebellion was fast fading. There was no way he could fight men like these.
"Good." Khalid turned away and walked out from behind the Dumpster. Ghailiani followed. The truck, he saw, was gone. He'd heard one of Khalid's men moving it a few moments ago, and assumed it had been driven onto the ship.
He wondered what was on the truck. Explosives, possibly. He looked back at the Dumpster. What, he wondered, had been in that briefcase?
He wouldn't ask. He couldn't. He wanted to know as little as possible about these terrible men, and their plans for the Atlantis Queen.
He would do everything they told him, praying that they would be satisfied, that they would release Zahra and Nouzha unharmed.
And then he would die, because he knew these men would never let him live even if they succeeded in their scheme. Khalid had said "if Allah wills" and sworn upon the Qur'an when he'd promised that Ghailiani would be rewarded, which meant it was not a binding oath.
Not as binding, at least, as Khalid's solemn three-times invocation of Allah, promising what would happen to Ghailiani and to his family if he failed.
Ghailiani's stomach gave a sudden, sharp twist. He turned away, doubled over, and vomited on the pier.
Atlantis Queen passenger terminal
Southampton, England
Thursday, 1505 hours GMT
Fred Doherty said, stepping through the glass doors onto the Atlantis Queen pier, "Jesus, is that a police car down there?"
"Flashing lights, anyway," Sandra Ames said, following him outside. "Let's check it out!"
"We don't have our equipment," James Petrovich said. He hefted the small video camera in its case that he'd just rescued from the conveyor belt at the security checkpoint. "Just this."
The three of them were a reporter team for Cable News Entertainment. Doherty was the field producer and director, Ames the reporter, and Petrovich the camera and sound man. From here, just outside the terminal door in front of the ship's gangway, they could see the flash of amber and red lights a hundred yards away, toward the right and near the aft end of the ship.
Technically, they were a part of Gillian Harper's entourage, though neither Harper's people nor CNE outwardly acknowledged the liaison. They'd been assigned to this cruise to shadow the rock diva; Terry Carter, Gillian's publicist, wanted the exposure, while Doherty's bosses at CNE hoped that Harper would have yet another major and public meltdown and provide even more highly profitable sound bites and video clips for their celebrity news broadcasts.
Not exactly an inspiring way to make a living, Doherty thought, but it was a living, and a pretty good one. The challenge, of course, was getting close enough to Harper at the right time to get the right footage. She was traveling with her entourage, of course, which included several beefy personal security guards. Despite the arrangement CNE had with Harper's support people, the bodyguards seemed to have the impression that the CNE field team were some kind of paparazzi.
Which, perhaps, they were. Doherty didn't even know if Harper herself knew the news team was dogging her. It was, he decided, all part of the game, a means of titillating CNE's viewers and making them come back for more. How close can we get this time?
Maybe by the end of the cruise they could arrange a real interview. Carter had promised something of the sort... or at least suggested that an in-depth interview was possible.
But no matter how that worked out, CNE's viewers expected the hot steaming inside shit on media stars great and small, and Doherty's team was there to give it to them--even if they had to follow the Harper slut around with a pooper-scooper.
She was also traveling with her latest lover, so at the very least they might manage a telephoto shot or two of the lovebirds lounging by one of the ship's pools in thongs. Show the viewers how the glitzy-rich set lived in a thirty-second segment.
And with luck the bitch might do something interesting. Journalism at its finest.
What a crock.
He studied the flashing lights for a moment. The three of them were news professionals, and they knew how to work a story. Police lights suggested that something newsworthy was happening down there--maybe someone hurt on the docks. They could chase that story even if it didn't involve Ms. Harper.
"Sounds good, Sandra," he said after a long pause. "Let's go see what's
shaking."
"I'm sorry, sir," a big man in a camouflaged uniform and a red beret said. He had an assault rifle slung from one shoulder, and he'd just stepped out from wherever he'd been lurking to block their path. "That end of the pier is closed."
"I'm a reporter," Ames said, producing her press card and flashing it at the soldier. "This is my crew. Let us through, please."
"No, ma'am," the soldier said. "I can't do that."
"Look," Doherty said, holding up his ID as well, "you don't understand. We're the news media! We have clearance, and we have a right to see what's going on!"
"No, sir. I can't allow you through here, sir. Orders."
"What orders? By whom?"
"Sir, if you will just board the ship--"
Doherty had already pulled out a notebook and a pen. "What's your name, soldier? And who do you report to?"
The soldier told him, carefully spelling out both. Neither name meant anything to Doherty, but he took them down. He would file a complaint later.
The soldier was wearing a radio on his jacket. It crackled, and Doherty heard something about an ambulance coming through. Interesting.
"Hey, Fred?" Petrovich motioned him closer. He was holding a cruise booklet open to a deck plan of the ship.
"What?" Doherty leaned over so Petrovich could whisper in his ear.
"If we go on board, it looks like we can follow the Promenade Deck aft, maybe get a good look at what's happening from the ship. Good camera angle, anyway."
Doherty considered this. Of course, Sandra wouldn't be able to interview anybody from up there, but they clearly weren't going to be able to interview anyone down here, either. The soldier seemed blissfully content to ignore their protests and keep them away from the incident for the rest of the evening. They could film from up on deck and come back ashore later and get comments from Royal Sky personnel, the police, and maybe even this soldier. It might be worth it questioning the ship's security officer, too.
"Okay," Doherty said. "Let's go." He glanced at the soldier. "You'll hear from us again later, Sergeant," he promised.
"As you wish, sir. Security, sir. I'm sure you understand." They jogged up the gangway, brushing past the ship's officer as he started in on his welcome-aboard spiel. Doherty hung behind to get the passkeys for all three of them, then excused himself and hurried after the others. Into the luxurious Grand Atrium and up the sweeping curve of the Atrium stairs to the Promenade Deck. Gillian Harper could wait. This smelled like news. Real news.
Sea Of Terror (2010) Page 6
