The Shaws and McGarveys were greeted in a receiving line by four ship’s officers, including the captain, the purser, the concierge, and the chief steward, who assigned them their accommodations and dinner seatings.
“Mr. and Mrs. James Garwood,” the concierge announced.
“Welcome aboard the Spirit,” Captain Bruce Darling said, shaking hands. “If there’s anything I can personally do to make your trip more enjoyable, please, don’t stand on ceremony. Just ask.”
“Good scenery, good food, and good weather, Captain,” Kathleen said, smiling.
Darling chuckled. “How about two out of three, ma’am?”
“Fair enough,” she told him, and she and Kirk moved off with a steward’s assistant to their first-class cabin, as Grassinger went through the same routine. He would be bunking in a cabin adjacent to the McGarveys’.
The cabins were relatively Spartan compared to those aboard larger cruise ships. But the McGarveys’ cabin was equipped with a television, a reasonably sized bathroom, a queen bed, and a killer view from a very large window.
“Just leave the bags,” McGarvey told the steward.
“Yes, sir. We sail at five, and there will be a welcoming cocktail party in the Grand Salon at six.”
Katy went to the window and looked across the channel at the docks and the processing buildings for the fishing fleet.
“Should we dress?” McGarvey asked.
“No, sir. Casual will be fine,” the steward said. He was a slight man with an olive complexion and a ready smile. “There will be a lifeboat drill first.”
“Fine,” McGarvey said. When the steward was gone, he took off his jacket and tossed it on the bed, revealing a quick-draw holster at the small of his back that contained the 9mm version of the Walther PPK. He seldom went anywhere without the pistol. The German handgun was an old friend that had saved his life on more than one occasion.
“Well, we finally made it,” Kathleen said, as if a weight had been lifted from her shoulders.
McGarvey went to her and took her in his arms. She leaned her head back against his shoulder. “How do you feel, Katy?”
She chuckled at the back of her throat. “Pregnant, happy as hell, content, frightened out of my wits, fat, hungry, thirsty.” She turned her face up to his.
He kissed her for a long time. “A penny for the laugh.”
“You said Katy. I almost corrected you.”
“Kathleen. Old habits die hard,” McGarvey said.
They watched out the window, in each other’s arms, for a few minutes content with the peace and quiet after an extremely contentious year. Of all the places in the world they could have picked for a week’s vacation — the Caribbean, Greece, Wales to look up her relatives, Ireland to look up his — they had chosen an Alaskan cruise because of the isolation. They were both peopled out. If truth were to be told, they would almost have preferred a desert island somewhere.
She snuggled a little closer to him, pressing her breasts against his chest. “Hmm.”
“Tender?” he asked.
“A little,” she answered.
McGarvey felt a sudden surge of doubt. “We’re doing the right thing, aren’t we?”
She chuckled again. Her everything’s-really-okay sound. “If you mean being fifty and getting pregnant, no, we’re being reckless. But if you mean getting pregnant with our daughter and son-in-law’s fertilized egg because they can no longer have children, we’re being foolish, but loving.” She looked up at him again, her face open and vulnerable. “Is my knight a little frightened?”
“Yup.”
Her eyes filled. “It’s okay, because it’s you and me, darling. Nothing else counts.”
Someone knocked at the door. Kathleen stiffened for a moment, but then settled back. Life went on.
McGarvey gave her a brief kiss, then went to the door. It was Grassinger. McGarvey let him in.
“What’s the drill tonight, boss?”
“We’re going to the cocktail party, then dinner, and we’ll be turning in early,” McGarvey said.
“And sleeping in,” Katy added.
“What about Shaw’s bodyguard?” McGarvey asked.
Grassinger nodded. “Tony Battaglia. He’s good man. Ex-Army Special Ops. He’s up on the bridge deck in the captain’s sea cabin.” The Shaws occupied the owner’s suite, the only accommodation on that deck, except for the captain’s on-duty quarters, which he used only in an emergency when his presence on the bridge was required 24/7.
“I’ll talk to him, see if we can coordinate our activities so that you and Battaglia can have a little slack time,” McGarvey promised, but he gave Grassinger a stern look. “Let’s get something straight from the get-go. I’m here on vacation, which means I’m not going to jump through a lot of security hoops. The ship is secure, the passengers and crew have been vetted — twice — and I’d just as soon not see you until we get to Seattle.”
“The passengers and crew have been cleared, but I don’t trust anybody, boss.”
“Neither do I. But we’re here to relax.”
“Maybe you are, but I’m not,” Grassinger mumbled.
“None of the passengers are going to relax either,” Katy said. “Not unless both of you keep your jackets on all the time to cover up your arsenals. Guns make most people twitchy.”
McGarvey grinned. “You’re right, Katy,” he said. He took off his holster and stuffed it and a spare magazine in a side pocket of one of his bags.
“Do you think that’s wise?” Grassinger asked, skeptically.
“I’m a tourist on vacation,” McGarvey said, though he did feel somewhat naked.
“No, sir, you’re the director of Central Intelligence, and fair game for a good number of people who would like to see you become a permanent resident of Arlington National,” Grassinger said bluntly. He glanced at Katy. “Sorry, Mrs. M., I didn’t mean any offense, just doing my job.”
“None taken, Jim,” Katy said graciously. “And I would like it very much if you continued to do you job.”
McGarvey had been staring intently at his bodyguard. “What’s up, Jim, rats in the attic?” Every intelligence officer who survived long enough understood that it was wise to listen to hunches, gut feelings.
Grassinger took a moment to answer. “Not really. It’s just that we’ll be fairly well isolated for the next few days.”
“We’ll keep our eyes open,” McGarvey said. “What else is new?”
“Part of the business, boss.”
THREE
Twenty-nine hours later, a few minutes after eight, the forty-foot flybridge sportfisherman Nancy N. under the command of Khalil’s number two, Zahir al Majid, came out of the lee of Kuiu Island’s north bay into the teeth of a strong northwest wind that funneled between Admiralty and Entrance islands. The rain clouds had cleared, and the distant mountains and stark blacks and whites of the glaciers toward Mount Burkett on the mainland stood out in a beauty that was as harsh as the open deserts of the Saudi Arabian peninsula. This time of year, this far north, night came late, but it was twilight, and combined with the fantastic scenery, accurate depth perception beyond a couple of hundred yards was difficult at best. Almost nothing seemed to be in proportion out here.
Khalil’s seven soldiers were excited to finally be going into battle. They had been anxious all day. But Khalil appeared indifferent. He had been in battle before, and he expected that he would be in other battles in the coming months and years. He would continue the holy struggle until he was dead, a thought about which he was totally philosophical. His death would be of no more consequence than the death of a common soldier or a president or even an imam. Each man would either get to Paradise or not, according to the earthly life he had led.