The kitchen, too, was deserted. Maybe the staff had all been gotten rid of, or maybe they’d just fled in panic. She raced down the center aisle, sidestepping pots and pans on the floor where people had dropped them, and came to the swinging door to the corridor. She pushed through it, bracing herself for more armed men beyond, but the hallway was empty, too. Right, left? Which way? She was breathing hard, and her heart was pounding. Disoriented now, she took a deep breath and placed one hand on the wall, willing herself to calm down.
Think, Fancha.
Left. The stairs were to her left, at the very end.
She ran all the way, took the steps three at a time down to the promenade deck. Her cabin was number 22, five or six doors down on the left. Her luck was holding. The corridor to her room was empty. Usually, there were one or two of the beautiful Slavic housekeepers pushing their trolleys up and down the hall.
Key, where’s the key? It was a card key, and it was still where she put it, in the inside pocket of her black velvet bolero jacket. She pulled it out and slipped it into the slot, praying for green, because sometimes the damn thing flashed red and she’d have to go looking for the steward or a housekeeper to let her in.
Green.
She pushed inside, just the sight of her turned-down bed and the lamp glowing softly on the bedside table doing wonders for her. She turned and double-locked the door, falling against it, her forehead against the cool wood, and then just let the tears come. She didn’t make any noise; she couldn’t allow herself that satisfaction, someone might be passing outside, so she just stood there crying silently, her shoulders shaking involuntarily.
Sweet baby Jesus, she whispered to herself, wiping her eyes, finally done with the tears.
She sat on the edge of the bed, looking at herself in the mirror over the dresser. And that’s when she remembered the phone, the sat phone Stoke had unpacked and placed on the dresser. He’d left without it, and she’d put it in the top drawer. He’d shown her how to work it once. It was pretty easy.
She pulled the drawer open, grabbed it, and lay down on the bed, her head propped up on two pillows.
She could hear it ringing in Miami, once, twice, three times.
Pick it up! Pick it up!
“Hello?” It was Stokely.
“Baby, it’s me,” she said, her voice breaking.
“Honey? You okay? Talk to me, baby…”
“Not so okay, Stoke. Not okay at all.”
“What is it? Tell me what’s happening.”
“I was singing, you know, and the lights went out. When th-they, when they came back on, the room was full of terrorists. Guns, knives, wearing g-gas masks and-shooting.”
“Who are they? They identify themselves?”
“Chechen Liberation, some damn thing like that.”
“Where are you? I mean now? How are you calling?”
“I’m in our stateroom. On the sat phone you left.”
“Oh, God, baby. I’m so sorry.”
“What do I do? I don’t know what to do, Stokely!”
“You got the door locked?”
“Uh-huh.”
“And nobody knows you’re in there?”
“I don’t think so…”
“Listen, baby. In the closet. On the top shelf. My canvas carry-on bag is up there. I forgot it.”
“Yeah.”
“My gun is in the bag, baby. The one we took out to the range together. The Heckler and Koch nine-millimeter. The one I showed you how to shoot at the range, remember?”
“I do.”
“I want you to get it down. It’s loaded. All you have to do is chamber a round, just like I showed you. There are two extra clips in the bag with fourteen rounds each. You get a chair facing the door, and you don’t let anyone inside, okay? Somebody comes through that door, you shoot, okay?”
“Okay.”
“Tell me what happened, best you can.”
She gave him the short answer. Her heart was pounding again.
“They already killed one hostage?”
“One that I saw. With a knife. But I heard shots just as I was leaving the stage. Maybe more are dead now…”
“Tell me about the leader again.”
“Blond. Big muscles. He looks familiar.”
“Yurin? The security guy at the party?”
“I don’t know for sure, but yeah, I think so. Chechen Liberation Front, that’s what he said.”
“Chechen? Or Russian?”
“He said Chechen, but he’s Russian, right?”
“Right.”
“Baby, I’m so scared.”
“You’re going to be okay. Now, what about the baker? Happy? The fat man who brought the cake to the party. You see him?”
“Yeah, he’s with them. He had two-two, uh, tanks strapped on his back. He had his mask down over his face. For the gas, I guess.”
“Gas? What about gas?”
“They’re all wearing gas masks, Stoke. They’re going to gas us? Is that it?”
“Baby, they ain’t going to do a damn thing. We are working on this right now. I just found out the baker might be aboard. I already told the CIA, the FBI, and the Pentagon. So right now, everybody in Washington is figuring out the best way to save you. The vice president himself is forming a rescue task force. Is his wife okay? I need to tell him.”
“I think so. She was when I left.”
“So, all you have to do is stay out of sight until the rescue, baby. And shoot anybody tries to come through that door. Can you do that?”
“Rescue how? They said if a plane or boat came within a radius of fifty miles, they’d start throwing people out the door, one at a time.”
“When we come, they won’t know what hit them, honey. Trust me. I am going to get you out of this.”
“Are you coming?”
“You damn right I’m coming. You hold on, okay? I’ll be there before you know it.”
“I told you I didn’t want to come on this damn trip without you.”
“I know you did. You were right. I’m sorry.”
“I need you, Stokely. We all do. You never saw such a scared bunch of people in your life.”
“I’m coming.”
“I’m going to hang up now, Stoke. Get the gun. But you answer the second you see this phone ring. You’re all I’ve got to hold on to.”
“I love you.”
“I love you more.”
“No way.”
“’Bye, baby. Be strong.”
“’Bye.”
51
President Jack McAtee said good-bye to the British ambassador, hung up the phone, shook his head wearily, and looked at the crisis team he’d assembled in the Oval Office. Those present included the vice president, Tom McCloskey; the chairman of the Joint Chiefs, Charlie Moore; the secretary of state, Consuelo de los Reyes; the new director of the National Security Council, Lewis Crampton; FBI Director Mike Reiter; and the director of the CIA, Patrick Brickhouse Kelly, better known as Brick.
His team.
The mood was tense. They had an American city in ruins, and the evidence pointed to a Russian terrorist as culpable. If that were true, and McAtee found out the Kremlin was even remotely involved, military confrontation with Russia was back on the table for the first time since Kennedy had stared down Khrushchev over Cuba fifty years earlier, sitting at this same desk.
And now there was news coming out of the Salina investigation that an airship carrying hundreds of VIPs and Nobel laureates, not to mention the vice president’s wife, might be a target for the same terrorists who had murdered Salina’s mayor and her family and destroyed the town. A key suspect had been seen in Miami just before the airship departed.
“You guys ready for this one?” the president asked, trying to smile.
McAtee was tired and looked it. He saw events spiraling out of control and knew he was powerless to stop them. All he could do now was try to learn as much as he possibly could about exactly what the hell was going on and make the very best possible decisions he could under the circumstances.