The Informant

by James Grippando

  He wheeled quickly and pointed the pistol at the full-length mirror, like a gunslinger on the draw, as if taking aim at his enemy. Slowly, his aim drifted down toward the color brochure on the dresser, which featured a bronzed young couple in skimpy bathing suits, hugging and smiling as they stupidly proclaimed the islands’ official tourist slogan: It’s better in the Bahamas.

  “We’ll see about that,” Hannon said with a smirk.

  Mike couldn’t bring himself to eat in his fleabag surroundings, so he headed for Bay Street, Nassau’s busy main avenue on the waterfront. He had a light breakfast at the old British Colonial Beach Resort, an imposing pink edifice on the beach with a view of the cruise ships at Prince George’s Wharf. At 8:00 A.M. he took the ten-minute walk along the Western Esplanade, passing restaurants and shops on one side of the street and pink sand and palm trees on the other. A warm, salty breeze greeted him at the end of pier number 3.

  Even from a distance, the Fantasy looked about as big as the hotel he’d just left. A gangplank with an arching blue canvas canopy joined it to the pier. The tentlike booth at the end of the gangplank was where the attendant would check the passes, Mike presumed. A steady stream of passengers was already filing off the ship, besieged by the tourist industry from the moment their feet hit the ground. A friendly man in dreadlocks and a New York Yankees jersey greeted them with shouts of “Taxi, taxi!” Women in loud print dresses hustled straw hats and junk jewelry. T-shirts were available at every turn. The passing tourists just smiled at the commotion, flashing their teeth and American dollars.

  Mike was dressed in shorts and polo shirt, with a tourist bag slung over his shoulder. A baseball cap and dark sunglasses were enough, he felt, to keep from being recognized. He stopped near an old man selling hand-carved statues that were made in Taiwan. He wanted to board the ship, but he realized now wasn’t the time to try his bogus shore pass. Passengers were only coming off. He would have to wait a few hours, closer to lunch, when the traffic would flow in both directions. In the meantime, it wouldn’t hurt to watch for a while, maybe catch a glimpse of something to confirm his guess that the Fantasy was the right ship.

  As the parade of passengers continued down the gangplank, he wondered whether Hannon himself might come out with the morning rush. Out of curiosity, he started singling out every tall man who came down the plank. He was surprised to find how few he could say were definitely not Hannon. It chilled him to think he could be looking right at Hannon and not even know it. The corollary, however, turned the chill to a shiver.

  Hannon could be looking right at him.

  Frank Hannon wore a broad-brimmed hat and mirrored sunglasses as he headed down the hall toward the atrium lobby. His suitcase had a shoulder strap, and with his height it looked no bigger than the camera bags most of the other tourists had slung over their shoulders.

  From the housekeeper’s closet at the other end of the hall, the cabin steward watched as Hannon headed toward the stairs. He’d been ashamed of the way he’d lost his nerve at breakfast—the way he’d gotten so scared he didn’t even look around the room. He could have counted the number of suitcases or looked for women’s clothing, or even just glanced at the bed to see if it looked like two people had slept in it. He did none of that. He knew the FBI had told him to report anything suspicious, but the only thing he knew was that a tall guy had ordered room service. He couldn’t really say there’d been no Mrs. Ellers sitting in the bathroom.

  Nobody was going to call Leddy Coolidge a fool. Back in Jamaica, they just called him “Cool”—or at least that’s what he told everyone. He wasn’t about to blow his image by going back to the FBI with absolutely nothing to tell them. It was easy enough to go back for a minute and check out the cabin, the way he should have in the first place.

  He watched as Hannon disappeared down the staircase, then waited a few minutes, just to make sure he was really gone. When the hallway was clear, he started toward the cabin. He stopped outside the door to check left, then right.

  He drew a deep breath, then took out his key and opened the door.

  The early shift for breakfast was just about over, and a flood of land-hungry tourists was flowing from the dining room. Hannon planted himself in the middle of the crowd and shuffled toward the exit. He could see blue sky through the opening in the side of the ship. The crowd, however, soon reached a bottleneck. He was inching forward, pressed between some starry-eyed honeymooners and a pack of gray-haired fossils who belonged on a tour bus outside the Vatican. He bent slightly at the knees as he waited his turn, so that he wasn’t the tallest in the crowd.

  It took several minutes, but they finally turned the corner. The gaping exit was in plain view, straight ahead. People were marching off in pairs down the narrow gangplank. Hannon stopped just twenty feet from the exit.

  “Come on, buddy,” someone groused from behind.

  Hannon stepped aside, allowing them to pass. His face showed concern. There was a security camera.

  Was that thing there when we boarded in San Juan?

  He couldn’t remember, but he had a sneaking suspicion that it had been mounted just for him. He moved farther to the side, letting still others go around him. The glare from outside made it tough to see, but he could swear that on the doorframe opposite the camera there were little red markings every inch or so—like those height scales in the doorways at convenience stores that measured the height of robbers on their way out.

  Hannon felt that twinge in his gut again—that instinct that had never failed him. He needed to think through his options. Coolly, he broke from the crowd and started back toward his cabin.

  Leddy Coolidge had stood in the open doorway for nearly a minute, searching for the nerve to step inside. It suddenly occurred to him that there might really be a Mrs. Ellers, and that she might be inside or out on the private veranda. The last thing he needed was to be accused of breaking and entering. He rapped lightly on the door and called inside.

  “Cabin steward,” he announced, then waited. The cabin was perfectly still.

  “Anyone here?” he asked politely. He waited a few moments, but no one replied. Finally, he closed the door behind him and switched on the light.

  He stepped carefully, as if he were afraid that with one false move he might knock something over. He checked the bathroom first—where Mr. Ellers had said his wife was. There was no makeup or hair spray on the counter. He checked the tub. No little containers of women’s shampoo or conditioner.

  Carefully but with a little more speed, he moved toward the main part of the cabin. The curtains were drawn shut—unusual for someone who’d paid extra for an ocean view cabin with private veranda. The bed was a mess, making it impossible to tell how many people had slept there. He checked the closet. No women’s clothes.

  His brow furrowed with concern. He’d almost seen enough, but the room service cart caught his attention. Only one tray was on the tabletop, but they might possibly have put the other one back. Curious, he knelt down beside the cart and opened the cabinet. Sitting in the warmer was the second breakfast, completely untouched.

  His heart raced as he rose from his knee. He started toward the door, then froze in his tracks. He could hear the key in the lock, and the door swung open.

  He retreated quickly, even considered jumping off the balcony to the Lido Deck below. Just as he reached for the door to the veranda, Hannon had him in his sight.

  “What are you doing here?” Hannon said sharply.

  Coolidge stood frozen behind the cart. His throat went dry, and his voice cracked as he answered. “I, uh—I wanted to see if I could bring anything more to Mrs. Ellers.”

  Hannon shot a steely glare across the room, then closed the door and locked it. He took just three steps forward—large steps, the kind that nearly gobbled up the room. He stopped just a half-step away, towering above him, close enough to enjoy the fear in the young Jamaican’s eyes.

  “You and I both know my name’s not Ellers,” he said as he reach
ed for the silverware resting on the tray.

  Chapter 52

  the double bed was stripped, and what was left of the sheets lay in a shredded heap on the floor. Heavy blackout drapes were drawn across the glass door to the veranda, and a bath towel stretched across the threshold to block out light and sound. The FBI’s emergency beeper lay atop the room service cart, beside Hannon’s half-eaten plate of French toast. The coffee cup was empty, the fork and spoon lay crisscrossed on the tablecloth.

  Hannon clutched the serrated butter knife in his right hand.

  Leddy Coolidge sat erect in the guest chair, gagged and bound at the hands and feet with narrow strips of cloth cut from the bedsheets. His right eye was swollen shut. A trickle of blood ran from the corner of his mouth to the base of his chin.

  Hannon dragged the knife across the steward’s lower lip, scraping away dried blood. “I can think of nothing worse than being dissected with a dull knife.”

  Leddy’s eyes widened, and his teeth clenched nervously around the red-soaked gag.

  Hannon’s voice was calm but threatening. “I’m going to remove the gag now. You’re going to tell me who put you up to this, where they are, and what they know. If you shout for help, or even talk a little too loud, you’re going to be begging for a bullet. Understood?”

  Leddy nodded nervously. Hannon reached behind his head, unknotted the gag, and pulled it from his mouth.

  “It’s the FBI,” he blurted, before Hannon even asked the question. “Please, just let me go.”

  “How many?”

  “I dunno. A woman named Victoria Santos, lotsa others.”

  Hannon’s face flushed with anger. He rose and started pacing, thinking fast. The ship was probably crawling with FBI. No way were they going to let a man his size just walk right off. He was going to have to negotiate—and one hostage was not enough. He pulled his gun, then rushed to the door and peered out the peephole. He saw no one. He reached for the knob, then stopped. For all he knew there were FBI agents sitting at each end of the hall. He couldn’t risk another venture outside the cabin. He put the chain on the door, came back to the telephone, and dialed 7.

  “Housekeeping,” a young woman answered.

  Hannon put on his most charming voice. “Hello, this is Mr. Ellers in cabin nine-twenty-one. This is somewhat embarrassing, but my wife and I were having a nice romantic breakfast in bed and—well, the breakfast is now spilled all over the sheets. Could you please bring us a fresh set of linens?”

  “Of course.”

  “Oh, and it is rather urgent. Today’s our anniversary.”

  “Right away, sir,” she said, giggling at the lovebirds.

  “Thank you. You’re very kind.” And very stupid, he thought as he hung up the phone.

  At nine-forty Victoria and David Shapiro were on the Main Deck, standing side by side in the windowless communications center of the MS Fantasy. Both were disguised as tourists, so they could walk freely around the ship. Victoria wore a tropical wrap-skirt and matching blouse, and she’d dyed her hair blond for a whole new look rather than wear a wig in the tropics. Shapiro looked ready for shuffleboard in sneakers and plaid shorts.

  Bill Odoms, the director of security who had given the FBI a tour of the Rhapsody in Miami, was facing the control panel. He had boarded ship that morning with two of the FBI’s technical agents, both of whom were also in the room, both from “El-Sur,” short for Electronic Surveillance. They were part of the Engineering Division’s busy “TS Squad,” a dual-purpose acronym that meant “Technical Support” for the requests they met, and “Tough Shit” for the ones they didn’t.

  One entire wall was covered with seventeen-inch television screens, each with a different view of the ship sent back by security cameras. All eyes, however, were focused on the electronic equipment stacked on the table in the center of the room. For nearly half an hour, the two tech agents had been splicing wires and talking in some technical lingo that only they understood.

  “That should do it,” said one of the techies. He stepped back from the mound of wires and equipment and flashed a look of admiration, like Michelangelo and his Pietà.

  “Let’s see,” said Victoria.

  With a flip of the switch on the circuit board, the security screens on the control panel suddenly went black, then brightened. The pictures, however, had changed.

  “Allrrrright,” he said with a smile.

  “What are we looking at?” asked Shapiro.

  “We left the ship’s existing security cameras in place,” he explained. “Your dining rooms, purser’s office, and main entrance to the ship are all on screens one, two and three, just like before. The six screens on the bottom are taking the signal back from twenty-four new cameras we added this morning, two for each deck. Now you have a complete view of each hallway. You can leave the system on roam, so that the image on the screen changes every eight seconds. Or you can zero in on one specific deck. Of course, the new cameras are completely hidden in the air-conditioning ducts. No one will know we’ve added a thing.”

  “How soon can we be sending pictures back to the mainland Operations Center?” asked Victoria.

  “Should be up and running now,” he said. “They’ll get the same signal we’re getting. Hell, we’ve got enough equipment onboard to set up our own Op Center. The agents who came on the ship today have brought everything we need. When you’re simply augmenting an existing security system that’s as good as the one already on this ship, it’s really not that big a job.”

  Shapiro glanced up at the changing images flashing on the screens. “With these cameras roaming like this, how do we know what we’re looking at? The hallways tend to all look alike.”

  The techie shrugged. “You’ll just have to get used to the sequence. It’s on the Atlantic Deck now. In a few seconds—there it goes—it switches to the Dolphin Deck, then Caribbean and so on, bottom to top.”

  They watched for a moment as the cameras worked through the sequence. The team’s interest had already waned, however, by the time the cameras flashed to the Tropical Deck. Not that it was anything out of the ordinary, but no one really seemed to notice the attractive young woman in the housekeeper’s outfit rushing down the hall with a set of fresh linens tucked under her arm.

  Hannon stirred at the gentle knock on his cabin door.

  “Housekeeping,” came the voice from the hallway.

  He gave Leddy a threatening gaze. The hostage was still tied to the chair, but Hannon had moved him to the other side of the room, closer to the bathroom, so that he couldn’t be seen when the door opened. The gag was tight, but he wore no blindfold. Hannon could see the fear in his eyes, see what he was thinking.

  “Not one peep,” he muttered to his prisoner. With the pistol cocked he headed for the door.

  “Just one second,” he said as he peered through the peephole. She was a petite brunette, maybe twenty years old. She looked cute in her white blouse and blue jumper, thought Hannon, and he liked the way the darts at the waist showed the curve of her figure. She reminded him a little of Dominique in Antigua, but with lighter skin.

  He picked up the towel he’d laid at the threshold to help soundproof the cabin, then removed the chain. He opened the door and stepped behind it, with his back against the wall.

  “Sorry,” he said with an impish smile, exposing only the top half of his face from behind the door. “You caught me and my wife in the shower, and I’m afraid I’m not really decent. Could you just lay the linens on the bed there, please?”

  She smiled again, thinking of the romantic anniversary couple. “Sure.”

  She took three steps into the short entrance hallway, but the curtains were drawn and the lights were off, making it uncomfortably dark and difficult to see. The door slammed behind her. She stopped out of instinct, suddenly afraid. Instantly, a hand covered her mouth and she was knocked to the floor, facedown, as the sheets flew out of her arms and across the cabin.

  “Scream and you die,” he said,
pressing the barrel of the gun against the back of her head. He was sitting on her kidneys. She was completely pinned, yet her body trembled beneath his weight. He quickly gagged her and tied her hands behind her back with strips from the bedsheet.

  She was shaking, starting to sob. He noticed tears as he covered her eyes with a folded hand towel.

  “Don’t be afraid,” he said in a calm, even tone. “This blindfold is going to save your life. It’s absolutely essential that you never see how many people are in the cabin, where we sit, where you sit, how the furniture is rearranged—nothing. You’re my bargaining chip. Behave yourself, and you’ll get out alive. But if you see anything, then the FBI will make you draw a blueprint once I let you go. I can’t let you be a snitch. Do you understand?”

  Her lips quivered around the gag in her mouth, but she slowly nodded her head.

  “Good.” He lifted her to her feet, checked the blindfold once more, and switched on the light. As he tied her to the desk chair with the strips of bedsheet, he noticed that Leddy was trying not to watch. Still, the fright was evident in his uncovered eyes, as if the hostage already knew that he’d seen too much.

  He stepped slowly toward Leddy, then leaned forward and whispered, “Sorry, Jamaica man. You and I are gonna be a long way from this cabin before I can let you go.”

  Victoria and David Shapiro headed up to the stateroom to check on Kevin McCabe, who was taking inventory. In addition to the materials they’d snuck aboard in the mock medevac operation, FBI agents in plainclothes had been coming and going all morning, smuggling additional supplies—radios, tear gas, body armor, Kevlar riot shields, weapons and ammunition.

  There was a knock on the door. Shapiro unlocked it, and Bill Odoms, the cruise line’s director of security, rushed inside. His face flushed with excitement as he spoke. “I got him on the phone!”