The Informant (44 page)
Two other agents were nearby, retrofitting a room service cart, loading on the scuba gear. She helped Mike with the body armor.
“This is the most inconspicuous full-coverage 438
James Grippando
armor we have. It’s made of Kevlar 129. Front, back, side, groin, shoulder and upper-arm protection, with an extra steel trauma plate covering the sternum. This getup would get you through a prison riot. It bulks you up a little, but with a baggy shirt no one can tell.” She pulled the Velcro strap snugly around his waist, below the belt line. “Too tight?”
“Only if I want children.”
She gave him a half-inch of slack, then pulled an extra large Hawaiian print shirt from the box beside her. It was a ghastly mixture of red, green, yellow and orange tropical flowers.
He made a face. “Dear God, please don’t let me die in that.”
“Don’t even joke about it,” she said, her voice shaking slightly.
“You getting soft on me or something?” he jested.
She bit down on her upper lip. “I just want you to be
careful,
” she said. She looked down self-consciously as he worked his arms into the shirt.
“It must be hard,” he said, slowly doing the buttons.
“What are you talking about?”
“Always keeping up that tough-as-nails exterior.”
Her eyes met his. The moment hung there. “Sometimes,” she said. “Sometimes it is.”
Then the connection was gone and she was all business.
“Our technical agents wanted a loud color print shirt to hide the video camera,” she said. “The lens is sticking through this patch of begonias here on the breast pocket.
It’s such a busy pattern, there’s no way Hannon will notice any of the electronics. All you
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have to do is face the open doorway, and we should get a nice wide-angle view of the cabin.”
“Is it bulletproof?”
“No. But in addition to your vest, we’re mounting a Kevlar shield on the room service cart. If bullets start to fly, just duck behind it. Don’t try to run unless I tell you to.”
“How will I hear you?”
“With this,” she said as she tucked a LASH unit into the utility pouch beneath his shirt. A clear wire channeled through the vest to an electronic collar around his neck that looked like a thick, gold chain. She plugged the tiny receiver into his ear. “Just talk in a normal voice and I’ll hear you fine. I’ll be giving you instructions all the way through, from the moment you start down the hall until you get back safely. There’s a microphone around your neck, so I’ll be able to hear everything you or Hannon say.”
“What about a gun?”
“Sorry. We can’t risk letting another weapon fall into his hands.”
His eyebrows arched. “You want me to go up against Hannon completely unarmed?”
“Not at all. You’ve got two Hostage Rescue Teams on either end of the hall. My guess is that if you actually see Hannon, he’ll be holding the hostage at gunpoint. If you notice the barrel turning toward you, even in the slightest, just hit the deck. We’ll shoot the door right off the frame.
We won’t have the angle to hit Hannon, but he sure as hell won’t come running out of the cabin after you.”
“Then what do I do?”
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“Just lay on the floor and pin yourself against the wall.
The rescue team will come flying through the back door, off the veranda.”
“They know I’m one of the good guys, right?”
“Of course. They can be pretty bad guys themselves sometimes, but at times like these, I’m glad they’re on my side. If you just listen to my commands, however, it won’t come to that.”
“What are you going to do, call a time-out?”
“I’m serious, Mike. If we get any inkling that he chose you for any reason other than to deliver the gear, I’m pulling you out. We’re letting you do this only because we
think
he has no idea of the role Karen played in his rape conviction. If he does
anything
to suggest he does know—or even suspects—you’re pulling back immediately.”
One of the agents from the Technical Support Squad came up and said, “Cart’s all set.”
Victoria looked at Mike. “Ready?”
He took a deep breath. “I guess so. But if this turns out badly, can you do me a favor?”
She looked at him reprovingly. Her eyes were getting glassy again. “Name it.”
“Tell CNN to find a better picture of me.”
The last swirl of color from a glowing sunset had just faded into the dark ocean as the Hostage Rescue Team silently moved into their outdoor positions. Outfitted in SWAT tactical armor, they were three black silhouettes in the night. Their ballistic military vests came with inflat-able flotation devices, in case they were 441
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swept overboard, and radio channelization for two-way communication with Victoria. Black Nomex bodysuits, gloves and tactical hoods made them virtually invisible in the darkness. Each was armed with a Heckler & Koch MP5 submachine gun, and an FBI .45 HRT pistol holding thirteen rounds of .45 ACP ammunition for ample backup.
McCabe was the first to step out onto the veranda to state-suite 1021, one deck above Hannon’s cabin. Twenty feet below was the narrow teak-planked Lido Deck and lifeboats. Beyond that single tier was a sheer hundred-foot drop to the black ocean below. The brisk wind beat against their faces, filling the air with salt spray. The ship rocked gently with the rolling swells. The noise from wind and waves would have made conversation difficult.
McCabe waved the other two men forward to the glass balustrades, where they huddled in a crouched position.
He checked his watch, then raised three fingers and jerked his arm forward three times. Without a word, the others nodded in silent confirmation.
In three minutes, the team was going in.
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m
ike took a deep breath and started walking from the bow stairwell. The cart rolled smoothly across the carpet. Two sets of scuba tanks lay on top. Wet suits, masks and fins were tucked in the shelves below.
The narrow corridor stretched more than a hundred feet to midship, like a long, straight tunnel. The walls were covered with nautical art, with teak and brass accents. Were it not for the slight sense of motion from the sea, Mike would have thought he was in a luxury hotel.
Straight ahead, he could see a team of snipers crouched in the main stairwell. They seemed closer with each step, which was a momentary comfort, until he realized that the closer he got to them, the farther he was from the home base behind him.
The cabin doors were evenly spaced, each one exactly like the other. Odd numbers were on portside; even, on starboard. Mike counted them off, knowing he’d pass five of them before reaching cabin 921.
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Victoria’s voice was suddenly in his earpiece. “Slow down a little, Mike.”
He drew a deep breath, calming himself. With the adrenaline pumping, he hadn’t noticed how fast he was going. He was beginning to sweat beneath his Kevlar vest.
“Slower still,” said Victoria as he reached cabin 925.
Two more doors. Thirty feet to go.
His throat went dry as he passed 923, the last door between him and Hannon’s cabin. He felt a sudden urge to turn back and forget it. But then he thought of the stories he’d written about Hannon and his victims—Gerty Kincaid in Georgia, Timothy Copeland in San Francisco, and all the others. He thought how close Karen had come to being on that list. He imagined Shelly Greene and Leddy Coolidge on their knees in the cabin, begging for mercy, praying for a miracle. Most of all, though, he remembered telling Aaron Fields how much he really cared about the victims he wrote about each day—and how he hadn’t stayed in touch with a single one of them
after
the
Tribune
had run their story.
The cart stopped directly outside cabin 921. His earpiece buzzed again.
“Don’t stand in the line of fire when the door opens,”
said Victoria. “Stand to the right side, so that if you have to run, you can run back to me without passing in front of the door.”
Mike positioned the cart facing the door, then stepped to the right. He checked his watch. Six o’clock exactly—Hannon’s designated time.
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“Are you out there, Posten?” came the voice from behind the door.
His heart leapt to his throat. Hannon even
sounded
large. “It’s me. I’m alone.”
“Come out where I can see you through the peephole.
And don’t even think about shooting at the door. You’ve got a fifty-fifty chance of hitting my hostage.”
Victoria jumped in. “Take the Kevlar shield from the cart, Mike. Stand behind it, so he doesn’t shoot
you
through the door.”
Mike detached the shield from the front of the cart. It was solid black, except for a clear window that revealed his face. He held it like a cop marching on a riot as he stepped in front of the door, directly behind the cart. He stared at the peephole, wondering if Hannon was staring back.
“No need to be a hero,” said Hannon from behind the closed door. “I know this is personal, but keep your head.”
Mike winced at the “personal” remark. Victoria’s voice was suddenly in his ear. “Don’t get sucked into a dialogue, Mike. Just deliver the goods, get the hostage and get the hell out.”
He licked his dry lips. He’d heard her plainly, but he couldn’t resist letting Hannon talk. “What do you mean, it’s ‘personal’?”
There was a long pause, then Hannon replied: “I know it was your wife who got me convicted.”
Mike bristled, but said nothing.
“When I dropped that sailboat in Puerto Rico and started hunting for a cruise ship, I knew I’d be making 445
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my way back home through Florida. There was just one Floridian left on my list, so I figured I might as well take advantage of being there. Imagine my surprise when I dialed Mrs. Malone of Clearwater to check on her daughter’s whereabouts for the alumni association and learned she’d gotten hitched—to a Mike Posten, no less.
Now don’t even try to tell me it’s a coincidence that my old shipmate and my favorite reporter ended up tying the knot. You wouldn’t be here, Posten, if it was a coincidence.”
Mike’s heart raced, but he stood his ground, staring at the door. Victoria’s voice blared through the earpiece.
“Step
back
, Mike. Abort. I repeat: Abort!”
Slowly, Mike’s right foot slid back an inch—then stopped. Her command made sense; Hannon was obviously out for blood. But something told him he had to play this out. Take his chances. Even before he’d walked down the hall, he knew there’d be no turning back.
He waited for Hannon to make his move.
A hundred feet away, Victoria cursed and stared helplessly at the scene that was unfolding.
Suddenly, Mike heard the chain lock coming off the door inside. But it didn’t open.
“We’re moving away from the door,” said Hannon from inside the closed cabin. “Count to five, slowly. Then open the door and push the cart inside.”
Mike drew a deep breath. “One.”
Victoria was on one knee, watching intensely. “McCabe, stand by. He’s entering in five seconds.”
“Two.”
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“McCabe, do you copy?”
“Three.”
Her voice shook with urgency. “I need confirmation
now
. Digital if not verbal.”
“Four.”
“Dammit, McCabe!”
“Five,” Mike said as he swallowed hard and opened the door.
At that same instant, McCabe yanked open the door to enter from the veranda, and a drapery cord that was tied to the handle snagged the trigger on the missing flare gun, which was aimed at the fuel tank stuffed behind the mattresses.
The spring gun triggered a fiery explosion that obliter-ated the veranda. The major force was directed outward, away from the mattresses and through the open doorway.
A tube of flame shot out the side of the ship like water from a hydrant. A shock wave shattered windows and glass balustrades on neighboring cabins. Little pieces of the veranda splashed into the ocean. McCabe landed with a thud on the Lido Deck below.
Inside the cabin, the blast sent everything flying toward starboard. Mike slammed against the door across the hall, then tumbled to the ground. He cried out in pain as the cart landed on his leg. His clothes were shredded down to his Kevlar vest, and his body was blackened with ash and debris. Thick black smoke filled the cabin and the hallway. He sat up and choked on the heavy smoke, so he laid flat on his back for the fresh air down low. The sprinklers came on throughout the corridor, soaking him with cold water.
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Victoria stood at the end of the hall, drenched from the sprinklers, yelling into her receiver. No answer from McCabe. Nothing from Mike. The smoke and spray had filled the hallway like a foggy thunderstorm, reducing visibility practically to zero.
“Snipers, hold your fire!” shouted Victoria. From their positions at the end of the hall, it was impossible to tell Hannon from Mike, from Coolidge or even from Shelly.
Victoria grabbed a flashlight and goggles from the equipment box, then drew her gun and headed up the hall. An HRT agent in SWAT regalia was flanking her.
Two people suddenly burst through a cabin door into the smoky hallway.
“Freeze!” she shouted—but it was an elderly couple, two of the portside passengers they’d been unable to evacuate earlier. Two other doors flew open with still more passengers who were coughing from the smoke that had seeped into their cabins. Victoria looked at her HRT
escort. “Get the passengers out of here!”
He broke away quickly to tend to the passengers. Victoria was suddenly on her own.
The smoke began to clear as she forged ahead, and the sprinklers were producing more of a mist than a shower.
The hallway lights, however, were completely blown out within fifty feet of the cabin. Victoria ran to the edge of darkness, then halted. She waited a moment for her pupils to dilate. With her back to the wall, she quickly scanned the debris. She could see the cart and scuba equipment.
