”
LeSeur stared at her, breathing hard. It was incredible, an unbelievable situation. He peered down the wing and into the main bridge. Cutter was still pacing about, immersed in his own private world, his face an unreadable mask. LeSeur was reminded of Captain Queeg in
Mason said, “Mr. LeSeur, if there’s another killing—God forbid—we will revisit this issue.”
“
the issue? In all frankness, sir, what’s the point of more talk? If there’s another—”
“I’m not alluding to more idle talk. I’m alluding to an Article V action.”
LeSeur stared. Article V dealt with the removal of a captain on the high seas for dereliction of duty.
“You aren’t suggesting—?”
“That will be all, Mr. LeSeur.”
LeSeur watched Mason turn and walk back to the center of the bridge, pausing to confer with the navigator at the con as coolly as if nothing had happened.
Mason had guts. If it came down to that, so be it. This was quickly becoming a struggle—not just for safe operation of the
, but for survival itself.
40
KEMPER WALKED OUT OF THE CENTRAL COMPUTER AND DATA processing complex on Deck B, headed for the nearest elevator bank. It had taken him the better part of the night to arrange the false alarm. It had been a bitch resetting the ship’s safety management systems without leaving a trail, and it had been especially difficult to disable the sprinkler system. It wasn’t so long ago, he reflected grimly, that the only electronic systems on an ocean liner had been radar and communications. Now it seemed that the whole damn ship had been turned into a giant, networked system. It was like some massive floating computer.
The elevator arrived and Kemper entered, pressing the button for Deck 9. It was close to madness to set off a false alarm in the middle of an already nervous ship, with a master who was in denial at best, or deranged at worst, in a storm in the mid-atlantic. If this ever came out, he’d not only lose his job, he’d probably rot in jail. He wondered how Pendergast had managed to talk him into it.
And then he thought of Corporate, and remembered why.
The elevator doors opened onto Deck 9. He stepped out and checked his watch: nine-fifty. Clasping his hands behind his back, clamping a fresh smile onto his face, he strolled down the starboard corridor, nodding and smiling at the passengers returning from breakfast. Deck 9 was one of the ritziest on the ship, and he hoped to God the sprinklers wouldn’t go off after all his careful work. That would be an expensive disaster for North Star, given that some of the staterooms and suites had been decorated by the passengers themselves, with costly objets d’art, paintings, and sculpture.
Not the least of which was Blackburn’s own triplex.
He casually checked his watch again. Nine fifty-eight. Hentoff should be at the far end of the Deck 9 corridor with a security guard, ready to spring into action.
The fire alarm ripped like a screeching crow down the elegant corridor, followed by a recorded voice in a plummy English accent:
Up and down the corridor, doors were flung open. People crowded out, some dressed, others in nightgowns or T-shirts. It was remarkable, Kemper thought, how quickly they reacted; it was almost as if they’d all been waiting for something.
“What’s happening?” somebody asked. “What is it?”
“Fire?” came another voice, breathless, close to panic. “Where?” “Folks!” cried Kemper, hustling down the hall. “There is no need for alarm! Please leave your staterooms and move forward! Gather in the forward lounge! There is nothing to worry about, no reason to panic, everybody please head forward . . .”
“. . .
A large woman in a billowing nightgown came charging out of a stateroom and clutched at him with hammy arms. “Fire? Oh my God,
?”
“It’s all right, ma’am. Please proceed to the forward lounge. Everything’s going to be fine.”
More people crowded around him. “Where do we go? Where’s the fire?”
“Move forward to the end of the corridor and gather in the lounge!” Kemper forced his way past. Nobody had yet emerged from Blackburn’s triplex. He saw Hentoff and the security guard hustling down the hall, pushing past people.
“Pepys! My Pepys!” A woman, jiggling against the flow of the crowd, careened off Kemper and disappeared back into her suite. The guard began to stop her but Kemper shook his head. The woman popped out a moment later with a dog.
“Pepys! Thank goodness!”
Kemper glanced at the casino manager. “The Penshurst Triplex,” he murmured. “We have to make sure it’s empty.”
Hentoff took position on one side of the door while the security guard pounded on the gleaming wood. “Fire evacuation! Everyone get out!”
Nothing. Hentoff glanced to Kemper, who nodded. The guard whipped out a master key card and swiped it. The door popped open and the two went inside.
Kemper waited by the door. A moment later, he heard raised voices from inside. A woman in a maid’s uniform ran out of the triplex and down the hall. Then Blackburn appeared at the door, handled bodily by the security guard.
“Get your greasy hands off me, you bastard!” he cried.
“I’m sorry, sir, it’s the rules,” said the guard.
“There’s no bloody fire! I don’t even smell smoke!”
