Whether you believe me or not, I like cruises. Yes, I really do! As a small child I even once toyed with the idea of becoming a captain, but very quickly ditched this at the tender age of eleven when crossing the English Channel with my mother; the two of us had a competition as to who could feed the most fish by the end. Whenever I’m aboard a ship these days I always wear a scopolamine plaster behind my ear – a sure sign of a sissy on the high seas – but I’ll happily put up with the indulgent smiles of sea dogs so long as I control the destination of the food I eat rather than the other way around.
Although I enjoy being on water, Passenger 23 isn’t an expression of my – admittedly sometimes strange – sense of humour. For me it’s no contradiction to like cruise ships while making one the setting for gruesome crimes. I mean, I like Berlin too and have no scruples about populating my home town with people who collect eyes and crush souls.
When I say that I like cruises I’m not talking about prescribed fun on the sun deck or the highly regimented excursions, the advertising of which is strongly reminiscent of those political leaflets that promise outlandish miracles. It might not read ‘More pay for less work’ but you could well see something like ‘Idyllic Robinson Crusoe experience’ to describe the visit to a bonsai-sized cave with eight hundred like-minded people!
I simply like the idea of pitching and tossing into foreign countries together with your hotel room, without having to endlessly pack and unpack suitcases. I also love the sea (I’ve been told by an astrologist that this is typical for an October Libra baby) but on a beach holiday I’m generally too lazy to move from the sun lounger, enter the water, dry myself off, then reapply the sun cream (as you never know if sun cream really is waterproof just because it says so on the bottle) and all that stress for three mere swimming strokes, because swimming isn’t my thing… whatever, I’m digressing. What I wanted to say was that for people like me who simply enjoy looking at the ocean, long days at sea are ideal.
Passenger 23 is a novel. This should mean that I’ve been lying to you. None of it happened. But, as I’ve said elsewhere, every good lie has a kernel of truth. And in this respect, Passenger 23 has more kernels than a watermelon. For example, the basic principle that a couple of dozen people vanish without trace from cruise ships every year is as true as the claim in the book by Captain Daniel Bonhoeffer that, in the US, large law firms have now specialised in representing the relatives of cruise victims. In fact, I’m sorry to say that all the mysterious missing-person cases Bonhoeffer outlines in chapter twelve are real. I’ve just changed the names of those concerned and of the ships.
In 2011 and 2012 a new sombre record was set: fifty-five people disappeared. If I’d based the novel on these two years alone, I’d have had to call it Passenger 27.5.
I hit upon the idea for this book back in 2008, when I read in Park Avenue (a magazine that has since vanished into the ocean of the periodical market) an article about the phenomenon of passengers that go missing from cruise ships.
The reason it took me until March 2013 to finally get going on the first draft is plain and simple: the flash of inspiration didn’t come until much later – that’s to say the idea that rather than putting a missing person at the heart of my story, I should feature a passenger who resurfaces and whose reappearance alone disproves the suicide theory that cruise lines often advance as a knee-jerk reaction. For it’s also true that the booming cruise industry has no interest in including in those glossy brochures the warning that every passenger with a half-decent brain can figure out for themselves: when several thousand people come together in a small space, conflict is bound to occur. And of the millions of people who now opt for this sort of holiday, you can be sure that not every single one of them is nice.
Crimes on the seas are by no means isolated cases and the websites quoted in the book, which act as forums for victims, relatives and lawyers, do actually exist. The incidents they document have reached such proportions that the International Cruise Victims Association (IVC) is calling for ‘sea marshals’ which, unlike air marshals on aeroplanes, don’t yet exist. These floating hotel forts are small towns without a police station. If there are any security personnel, these are financially dependent on the cruise line, which means in an emergency it’s unlikely that their own staff will be subject to scrutiny.
In all honesty, however, it must be stated – and here the facts in the book are equally true – that even a sea marshal would be able to do little when a person goes missing. The several-kilometre stopping distance of a cruise ship alone precludes a rescue operation with much hope of success, especially if the potential victim has not been seen for several hours. And, as has been adequately described, the ship itself is far too big to permit a thorough and rapid search.
Moreover, no uniform global regulations exist for such cases. As Martin Schwartz notes critically in the novel, the moment passengers board a ship they are stepping onto foreign soil, while Kendall Carver from ICV points out that they’re at the mercy of the authorities of the country where the ship is registered. For this reason, in 2010 the USA passed a law giving the FBI and the US Coast Guard wide-ranging powers, according to which officers from these bodies can launch investigations even on ships registered in foreign countries. But only following the disappearance of an American citizen.
Researching the subject was very simple so long as it related to the areas above the waterline. Deck and cabin plans, video documentation of the bridge, TV reports – all of these are only a mouse click away. It’s more difficult getting information on crew accommodation, the anchor room and the kitchen, but during a research trip I was permitted to go on a tour (before those responsible knew what my book was ultimately about). It is almost impossible (for security reasons) to access complete plans of the lower deck including machinery and cargo rooms, or the waste incineration unit.
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I come now to the official acknowledgements, beginning with a warm thank you to Captain Volker Bernhard, now retired, for his expert advice. He took the trouble to read the novel in advance and gave me valuable insights into those areas that would usually remain off limits to an ordinary cruise passenger like me.
All the mistakes that are still in this book are on my sailor’s head and, as usual, are rebuffed with the standard excuse of creative people: ‘It’s artistic licence!’
I’d happily take a cruise with the following people from Droemer Knaur Verlag and hope that none of them go missing, for without their sterling work Passenger 23 would not be in your hands now: Hans-Peter Übleis, Christian Tesch, Theresa Schenkel, Monika Neudeck, Sibylle Dietzel, Carsten Sommerfeldt, Iris Haas, Hanna Pfaffenwimmer. As always, let me make a very special mention of my wonderful editors, Carolin Graehl and Regine Weisbrod, whose intelligent questions and comments have again ensured that – to keep the imagery going – my story didn’t list or hit a reef halfway along its journey. Since 2006 the following man and his Zero agency have ensured that my books don’t appear naked on the shelves. And since 2006 I’ve consistently forgotten him in acknowledgements, but hey, that’s a bloody difficult name you chose, dear Helmut Henkensiefken. Many thanks for the cover!
Many people regard the author as the captain, but on my ship it’s Manuela Raschke who wears the cap. This superwoman organises my entire professional existence, and even some of my private life now, too – recently she’s been cutting my children’s hair! Thanks, Manu, and oh, before I forget, the recycling is now being collected on Thursdays ;).
Writing is a lonely process, but fortunately work around the book is not, and I’m delighted that over the years something akin to a ‘family business’ has emerged, which means I enjoy the privilege of being able to work only with good friends and relatives. Or at least the following people are very good at pretending they like me: Barbara Herrmann, Achim Behrend, Sally Raschke, Ela and Micha, Petra Rode, Patrick Hocke and Mark Ryan Balthasar.
I would like to thank Sabrina Rabow again for her outstanding PR work and for al
ways dabbing a bit of her powder on my face at photo calls, despite my protests. Although I can’t bear the stuff, I have to admit that without it the only use for my photos would be as ‘before’ images in Botox adverts.
Googling can change one’s life. Mine, for example. In 2001 I typed ‘literary agent’ into the search box and the algorithm spat out the name of the best in the world: Roman Hocke. Thanks are due to him and the rest of the fabulous team at AVA International: Claudia von Hornstein, Claudia Bachmann, Gudrun Strutzenberger and Markus Michalek.
I’d also like to thank the man without whom I’d never have managed fifty readings in a week and would have either turned up late to all my other appointments, or not at all: Christian Meyer from C&M Sicherheit.
Thanks to all the booksellers, librarians, bookbinders and organisers of readings and literary festivals. All of you are keeping alive the most important medium in the world and allowing us authors to follow our dreams.
Shortly before the completion of Passenger 23, I heard the sad news that one of my friends, to whom I owe a great debt of gratitude, is no longer with us. I know, of course, that the good ones always die young, but so young? Wherever you are now, Peter Hetzel, here’s a grateful hug from me. We all miss you!
Like Peter, the following friends have supported me from the beginning: Karl ‘Kalle’ Raschke (thanks for all the inspiration your ‘everyday’ experiences provide me with), Gerlinde Jänicke (thanks for your first name!), Arno Müller, Thomas Koschwitz, Jochen Trus, Stephan Schmitter, Michael Treutler and Simon Jäger.
Thanks also to Michael Tsokos. It’s always good to know an expert in forensic medicine, especially one who answers his mobile after midnight when you’ve got a question about the precise wording of traces of torture in a medical file.
I received dental advice from the wonderful Dr Ulrike Heintzenberg. (Yes, yes, I’ll get to the prophylaxis soon.)
Most people think it’s a joke when I say that I actually write family stories rather than psychological thrillers, but it’s the truth. Everything, good as well as evil, has its origins in the family, and I’m extraordinarily fortunate to have a fantastic community around me, first and foremost my father Freimut, as well as Clemens and Sabine, who also helped with medical advice for this book.
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If you’re currently toying with the idea of taking a cruise, or even if you’re on a ship at this very moment, I sincerely hope that I haven’t spoiled your enjoyment with this novel. I’m anything but a missionary as an author. My aim is to entertain rather than convert, despite the accurate figures in the book relating to the waste generation and energy consumption of giant ships.
In writing this thriller I may well have screwed things up for myself with the established cruise lines forever. After Passenger 23 my being invited to an author reading on a cruise is about as likely as a Titanic film evening in the on-board cinema. But you never know. On a transatlantic crossing that I took with my mother in 2005, the announcement was made a day before our arrival in New York that the ship was now exactly where the Titanic had sunk. Passengers rushed out on deck. Not in panic, but – no joke – to take photos of the water!
Life writes the most bizarre stories and you the nicest readers’ letters.
If interested you can contact me, as ever, via www.sebastianfitzek.de, www.facebook.de/sebastianfitzek.de or by email: [email protected].
Occasionally it can take me a while to reply; sometimes I’m submerged. But generally this is just because I’m writing…
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Many thanks and goodbye
Sebastian Fitzek
Berlin, on a stressful day for registry offices
(7/7/2014)
P.S. Oh, yes, for all of you who were wondering what happened to the doctor in the prologue… I’ve got some more for you…
Epilogue
Sultan of the Seas
Six weeks later
‘Shall we get rid of her?’
Yegor’s question was a serious one, but the surgeon merely offered a weary smile. They’d been observing Gerlinde for about twenty minutes via a security camera covering the portside corridor on deck 3, not far from the spot where Anouk had been picked up. This must have been the tenth time that the old lady – why had she chosen today of all days to be up and about at the crack of dawn? – had felt the joint in the cabin wall with her bony fingers, right where the wallpaper wasn’t completely flush.
‘It’s five o’clock in the morning – hasn’t the old bat got better things to do?’ Yegor said, while beside him Konradin Franz bent over the monitor and breathed into the ship owner’s neck a mixture of gin and peppermint. The fifty-six-year-old surgeon, who liked to be called doctor, even though he’d never completed a PhD, wiped his sweaty brow with the back of his hand. ‘If she doesn’t bugger off soon I’ll have her on my operating table too,’ he said, even though it was clear that he’d never be in a fit state for any surgery today, not even if he started drinking.
‘When is Tayo’s scheduled checkout?’ Yegor asked, even though he knew the answer. The ‘client,’ as the surgeon called all the patients he operated on aboard the Sultan, was to be disembarked in Barbados using the usual procedure. At six a.m. – an hour’s time – as soon as the ship had come into port. Wrapped in sheets, in a dirty laundry container from the infirmary, marked with the following warning in four languages: Contaminated, risk of infection.
This, together with the bribes paid to staff at the port authority, would ensure that it wouldn’t occur to anybody to peek inside the container on wheels, in which the world-class athlete would struggle to find enough room. The other clients before him had been substantially smaller and less muscly, and hadn’t caused any transport problems.
Tayo, on the other hand, hadn’t beaten the 400m record on three occasions for nothing. He ran the distance in under 43.20 seconds, not fast enough, unfortunately, to escape from the Nigerian gambling mafia, to whom he’d promised to fix races in the summer Olympics. Tayo had agreed to falter just before the finishing line; a tiny stumble, but a decisive one. In the heat of the race, however, he’d forgotten all about it, with the result that the clan had lost a lot of money on the wrong horse. Money they now wanted back from Tayo. There was photographic proof that they weren’t squeamish about collecting debts. They’d removed the eye of a drug dealer with a corkscrew for misappropriating twelve dollars. Tayo wouldn’t get off so lightly; he owed them twelve million.
After selling all his cars, his house and closing his bank accounts (Tayo had earned very well, not least through sponsorship agreements) he had enough money to pay back the mafia a good third of what they’d lost. Or to abscond with four million dollars.
Opting for the latter, Tayo had checked in on the Sultan.
‘It’s time we started calling him by his new name,’ the surgeon said. Yegor nodded, albeit reluctantly. Of all the suggestions on the list, why did their client have to plump for the name Sandy?
Sandy? Yegor didn’t even know whether men in the US were called Sandy. But what business of his was this man’s life? Or to put it more precisely: what did he care about his new life?
His work was over. He’d got Martin Schwartz on board and ensured that the crisis was averted. What happened to the girl didn’t concern him. Yegor had never been interested in solving the case and, in all honesty, he’d never expected that damaged detective to actually bring anything valuable to light. Schwartz was supposed to act as a scapegoat. Either he or Bonhoeffer, that clueless idiot who still hadn’t fathomed what was really going on aboard his ship. The captain continued to believe that it was all about salvaging a deal with a Chilean investor, but Yegor had never intended to sell his ship. Vincente Rojas and his useless lawyers were only on board the Sultan to fuel the rumours on the stock market of a takeover and send the share price soaring.
‘It’s infuriating.’ The doctor’s ranting snatched Yegor from his thoughts. The surgeon was bashing the table, causing the monitor to wobble.
/> ‘Oh, shut up!’ Yegor ordered, even though Gerlinde couldn’t possibly hear them. Although she was only ten metres away, the rooms of the in-between deck were completely soundproofed.
In principle, however, he could understand Konradin’s outburst. It was desperate.
Having spared no effort, they’d managed to stop their business being exposed at the last minute, but now this old bag was creating problems for them again. Was she going to prevent their client from being unloaded?
When Anouk Lamar unexpectedly reappeared some months ago, Yegor really did believe they were scuppered. A missing Passenger 23 wasn’t a problem. It was a regular occurrence, and so nobody searched a cruise ship in its entirety. But a Passenger 23 who came back from the dead? That was something else altogether. As soon as news of the girl had become public, all hell would have been let loose and their business would have been finished. Worst-case scenario. The FBI would have seized the ship and forensically searched it with an army of agents. Which mustn’t happen under any circumstances. Suicide? Fine! A serial killer on board? So what! Somehow the PR department would be able to iron all that out. But if a search of the ship uncovered the place where the cruise line actually earned its millions – the in-between deck – they’d spend the rest of their lives in prison. Him, the surgeon and everyone else who made a mint from the private witness and victim protection programme. A programme used by the rich and desperate of this world who wanted to vanish from the face of the earth forever, mostly for illegal reasons. Whether to escape imprisonment, taxation or – as in Tayo’s case – the Nigerian gambling mafia. Where better could you do this than on a luxury liner of these dimensions? A police-free zone, with countless opportunities to hide. A world in itself where entire families could easily be prepared for the new life they were literally heading for.
The in-between deck wasn’t actually a real deck. It consisted of lots of intricate and winding spaces distributed across several levels, cleverly designed so that the recesses weren’t apparent from the outside to those who didn’t know.
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