The FACEBOOK KILLER: Part 2 (9 page)

Albert and I booked into a cheap room near the Old Town. No butler. No silver service dining.

Ahmed Rustam and Meena Hamid

The final apples... for now. Hamid’s little sister and his cousin. Anna used to tell me that when she did our washing she would always lose a sock, or when she did the washing up she would inevitably end up one teaspoon short. Malik and Shaher were my sock and teaspoon.

Albert and I searched for them, day and night, to no avail. Eventually we resorted to opening a new Facebook account. During my online studies I had read about the new face-recognition technology that had been introduced to the site and we decided to give a try.

We opened an account named Albert Norman. No avatar, no details. We had twenty-eight photographs on file from their accounts. We uploaded them into “my photos”, logged out and let the billion-dollar big brother do its work.

It took a further three days. Three days of eating takeaway meals and sharing a dirty bathroom with six other guests. Seventy-two hours stamping on cockroaches and being kept awake by rattling water pipes until the goods were delivered.

Four days later Albert and I found ourselves in the sweltering Miami heat. I had never been on a cruise before and if this was anything to go by, I wasn’t going to enjoy it, except for the final outcome perhaps.

The cruise terminal resembled a holding pen for the criminally obese and stupid. Albert presented his documents to an old woman behind a counter who had an exaggerated smile and received his blue “ship-card”; he was smilingly told that all on-board purchases would be made with this. Something we didn’t quite understand.

The ship wasn’t due to set sail until 4:00 pm but by 10:00 am the queues of the obese and stupid had already formed. The food onboard was free; we were informed. Albert and I decided to remain seated until the masses had departed. We had to come up with something quickly. This cruise only lasted three days and knowing that they were both working onboard I felt that the end was, at last, in sight.

The face-recognition had worked a treat. It suggested that we might like to become friends with, amongst others, Andrew Rust. I found a picture of someone in a naval uniform, used it as our avatar and we were immediately accepted by Mr. Rust as his new friend. I knew that Albert Norman and Andrew Rust were going to be much more than just friends.

I spent two hours reading about Ahmed Rustam’s new life. He had run away to join Carnival Cruise Lines after a successful interview, over the border, in India. Meena had joined at the same time to escape an arranged marriage. His photo album was full of pictures of the two of them standing in front of a colossal white cruise liner with a massive blue and red funnel, which resembled the letter Y. I would soon learn it was referred to as the whale tail. Ahmed was working as a waiter and Meena, a bar waitress. None of their original friends appeared on Andrew Rust’s page. They were hiding. A fresh start; away from the law and the unwanted husband. We had found our sock and teaspoon.

By 3:00pm the mad dash to get on board was over, no doubt they were all stuffing their faces by now. A few stragglers were still arriving, complaining about traffic or late flights.

Albert took his ship-card, emblazoned with a whale tail, and followed the numerous signs designed to lead the stupid “TO THE SHIP”. I must admit, I was nervous. From what I had seen of my fellow passengers, I doubted very much if I could stomach three full days in their collective company.

Albert was asked to stop to have his picture taken by a very effeminate young man whose name badge read simply, “Robert – Dancer – Brazil”. The machine pinged when he punched in the ship-card and we were through. Little did Robert the dancer know that this innocuous old man was here to execute two of his crewmates.

After a few seconds of harassment by a trio of Indian photographers, demanding he poses for a “welcome aboard” photo in front of a huge, wrinkled cartoon depiction of the ship, he succumbed.

We followed the never-ending ramp up to the ship. Occasionally jostled by Hispanics pushing past us or held up behind mountainous people in electric buggies complete with personal oxygen tanks. I wondered briefly just how much food these ships could carry.

Another punch of the ship-card, a brief “welcome aboard” by yet another Indian, a further spurt of harassment to have a photo taken with someone dressed as the ship’s funnel and we eventually made it to our cabin, or stateroom as they had the nerve to call it. Our hotel suite in the Avari had been stately; this rabbit hutch was no better than a roadside motel. There was a double bed, an old television, a stereo and the biggest pair of speakers I had seen in my life. We had tried to book one of the better cabins onboard, one with a private balcony, but they sold out long ago. One of the occupants, a twenty-one year-old single mother of two from Alabama, made certain that most of the ship knew she had only paid fifty dollars for one, “cheaper than staying at home y’all.”

We soon met our cleaner, “I Madu – Stateroom Steward – Indonesia,” he seemed polite enough, if a little limited in his grasp of the English language. It wasn’t long before he had informed us of his twelve starving children back home, his terminally ill parents and the fact that he relied on tips to survive. I decided that the flimsy safe in the cabin wasn’t the best place to leave the cash. Albert decided to go and find the Purser’s desk.

“
Tatjiana – Steakhouse Server – Russia” promptly informed Albert that they weren’t called pursers anymore, but Guest Services. She was one of a handful of flustered looking crew adorned with red “Just Ask” t-shirts. They should have printed on the back, “But don’t expect a polite answer.”

Albert waited in line for over an hour. “Next in line!” came the cry. A young spotty boy was craning his neck over the desk. Albert approached him, Goran from Bosnia, and handed him the ship-card.

“
Forgive me,” Albert began, “but this is my first cruise and I’m not quite sure how things work. I was told that I have to use this card for all purchases. Is that correct?”

“
Yes Sir.”

“
I can’t use cash?”

“
No Sir.”

“
But I can give you cash to put on this card?”

“
Yes Sir.”

“
One million two hundred thousand pounds please.”

It took five minutes of speaking slowly, writing the figure down and clarifying that it wasn’t hundred, thousand or billion before Albert was taken into the “Chief Accountant from the Philippines” office to sort out the matter. After almost another hour of negotiations he returned to the cabin to take a nap. His ship-card looked and felt the same, it didn’t weigh any more, but it was fully loaded. He also had fifteen thousand dollars in cash.

Albert lay down on the bed and had just closed his eyes when it came. The annoying English voice over the PA system above his head.

“
Good afternoon Ladies and Gentlemen, this is Debbie, your Cruise Director speaking from the navigational bridge. I’d like to wish you all a very warm welcome aboard the Carnival Glory for your three-day cruise to Cozumel, Mexico. In about fifteen minutes time there will be a mandatory safety briefing...”

Somehow Albert managed to doze off, only to be woken by the shrill scream of what could only be described as an ear splitting “beep”, followed by another seven blood curdling “beeps”. It was at this point that “I Madu from Indonesia” burst in and ordered him to take make his way to deck four.

Still half asleep, we were convinced that the ship had already begun to sink. Thousands of people were heading in the same direction. The corridors and stairs were lined with crewmembers in their life jackets, shouting directions, demanding to see our ship-card and pointing. We didn’t know what the fuck was going on, but believe me, after half an hour standing in that Miami heat wearing a latex mask, suffocated by another thousand passengers, we were ready to kill all of the crew, never mind just two.

Chapter 17.

It was well worth the ninety dollars. “Behind The Fun” is what they called the tour. We sat in the ship’s library for twenty minutes drinking orange juice and eating biscuits whilst listening to fellow passengers brag about how many cruises they had been on. After a quick security check by Albert from the Philippines we were on our way. The tour leader was an attractive young lady from Croatia who spoke with a distinct South African accent. So, stripped of any photographic equipment or potentially dangerous implements, we trooped off towards the main galley where, she informed us, they prepared over nine thousand meals a day. Boy, I could tell this was going to be riveting.

The general idea of the tour was to take us behind the scenes of this gaudily decorated vessel, deep into the crew areas where we would normally not be allowed access. Our idea was a little more sinister. I knew as much about ships as I did about the space shuttle, I hoped this three-hour jaunt around the bowels of this giant steel monster might offer me some inspiration into how we could pick our last two apples.

The huge stainless steel galley had plenty of opportunistic weapons but it would be virtually impossible to get in and out without being spotted. Something I noticed very early on was the fact that security cameras covered almost every square inch of the ship. However Ahmed and Meena were to meet their demise, one thing was for certain; it would have to be quick.

Next stop was the photo laboratory, where an Indian managed bragged about the twenty thousand pictures that would be taken during the cruise, abruptly shutting up when quizzed how many would be thrown away at the end. The lab held nothing of interest to me. No means of death. Neither did the crew bar, the mess nor the outdoor smoking areas. Even the Bridge didn’t excite me. It was such a sterile, bright fluorescent environment that even an accident was nigh impossible to happen. The only thing I learned throughout the most boring three hours of my life was that the two apples would be making their salaries via tips only and I had learned early in life that money talks.

*

Word had definitely spread about our well-endowed ship card. That evening at dinner, the Maître d' plucked Albert out of the long queue waiting outside the dining room for their free food, and asked if he had any preference to seating arrangements. Albert informed him that he would like to dine alone but insisted that he be served by a waiter named Ahmed Rustam, as friends of his had cruised recently and told him what an outstanding waiter he was. The Maître d' ushered Albert past the waiting pigs and led him to a corner table for two. He then checked with a hostess on the main desk. Yes, Ahmed was on duty that night but he was assigned to work in another dining room but they would rearrange the roster so that he could attend to Albert in person. It would be their pleasure. Albert handed the Maître d' two thousand dollars, wrapped in a napkin.

He was given a complimentary bottle of champagne, “From the Captain himself,” the Maître d' informed him. Albert wasn’t impressed. Two minutes later his personal waiter arrived, Ahmed.

It was a surreal setting. I took a sharp mental step back. I felt the latex pressing on my cheek. Here I was in this Las Vegas-style dining room surrounded by a hundred or so monkeys trying their utmost to take our money. Smiling but with dead eyes. And here I was, about to be waited on by the bastard that helped kill my beautiful family. On this huge planet of ours, inhabited by billions, there were only two people who knew the truth about what that happened that night, almost a year ago, and one of them was standing here offering me a fucking menu.

To be honest I can’t remember what we ordered to eat. It took me all of my strength to hold the rage back. This little fucker even
looked
like his cousin. Halfway through the champagne we managed to get back on track, back to business. We were professionals now, with a job to do, we couldn’t let emotions get in the way. Not yet.

It transpired that Ahmed’s boss had relieved him of all other duties except for attending to Albert for the next three days. Whether he chose to eat on the top Lido deck or in one of the restaurants, Ahmed would be there to serve him. This was our first cruise and it was to be Ahmed’s last.

He returned with the starter and stood at attention next to Albert’s table like some fucking butler.

“
Please,” said Albert, “take a seat. People will think I’m someone special if you stand there all night.”

“
I’m not allowed to Sir.”

“
Take a bloody seat, will you? I’m the guest here and I’ll tell you what you can and can’t do,” he reluctantly sat across from Albert. Looking around nervously, “Now let me explain this little situation we have here. A few weeks ago some friends of mine were on this ship, they told me how wonderful you and some bar waitress were. They said that you two really made their cruise. Unfortunately, however, they aren’t very well off and felt guilty about not being able to compensate you enough for your trouble. That’s why I’m here. To put things right. To tie up the loose ends.” Albert was staring hard at Ahmed, who looked more nervous than ever, “Do you know this barmaid? My friends said that she is called Meeny or Meena, something like that.”

“
Yes Sir. It’s Meena. She’s sort of my girlfriend.”

And so during the next two hours the relationship was forged. On one side for the purpose of financial gain, on the other, pure unadulterated hatred. The Bar Manager was unwilling at first, but eventually agreed to allow Meena to act as Albert’s personal barmaid. They were the envy of the entire crew.