Three sound-suppressed gunshots, sharp, hissing chirps, cut through the close darkness. Darrow bucked once, then sagged in the arms of the man behind him.
'Merciful Allah,' Ghailiani said in the light outside the truck. 'Forgive me.'
Chapter 4
Arnold Bernstein stepped through the metal detector, then stopped, reading the metal sign in front of the big white tunnel. 'What's this?'
'X-ray scan, sir,' the security guard standing next to the tunnel said. 'It's completely harmless. Just step through like you did with the metal detector.'
'Bernie!' Gillian Harper said, coming up behind him. 'Why do they need to x-ray us?'
'They say,' Reggie Carmichael said with a knowing leer, 'that it looks right through your clothes, and lets them see you naked!'
'Who says?' Harper demanded. 'I'm not getting naked for anybody!' They were standing in the short stretch between the metal detector and the white tunnel, confronted by a security guard and the metal sign. The rest of the Harper entourage was continuing to step through the metal detector, and the line was piling up.
'That's right, baby!' Jake Levy said. He was one of Harper's agents, and always had his eye on the bottom line. 'Not unless they pay you for the peek.'
'I'm sure it's nothing like that' Bernstein said. 'See? The sign says it's not intrusive. It's just security!'
'Well, I'm no terrorist!' Harper said, her voice taking an unpleasant edge to it. 'Bernie, you can get me in another way. I'm a star, for Christ's sake!'
'What seems to be the problem?' the guard asked. He looked weary, as though he'd been handling recalcitrant passengers all day.
'Do you have any idea who I am?' Gillian Harper demanded.
'No, ma'am, I have no idea. I'm sorry, but I have my orders. No exceptions.'
'Gillian, I think we'd better do as the man says. You can let yourself be x-rayed, or you can let them feel you all over looking for… whatever it is they're looking for. Which is it going to be?'
'You can't talk to me that way, Bernie!'
God. Another temper tantrum coming on. 'I'm sorry, Gillian. Rules are rules.' Even for you, you strung-out little bitch, he thought. No amount of money was worth this.
Bernstein was disgusted. Gillian Harper's bad-girl image played great at the box office, but her attitude made her increasingly difficult to work with. Damn it, she was just another in a long line of high-visibility, high- maintenance models, movie stars, and MTV pop idols, no different, really, from Spears or Lohan or any of the rest. What was it about a little fame that, made these people think they were immortal?
But Bernstein was her manager… as if anyone could manage the brat. Getting her to do anything that wasn't her idea first was damned near impossible. It had been her idea to do this latest gig — shoot segments for her new music video, 'Livin' Large,' on board a luxury cruise ship and at various landmarks in the Mediterranean: on the beach at Majorca, in front of the Parthenon, along the Turkish coast. 'Livin' Large' held the promise of being a top- of-the charts blockbuster, bigger than 'Material Girl,' maybe… If the bitch could control her temper, stay sober, and keep her mind on the job. Her idiot boyfriend wasn't helping; Carmichael was a minor actor with delusions of grandeur, a pretty boy who'd hit it lucky in a film or two and now seemed bent on destroying himself. And her.
The drug use worried Bernstein.
Arnold Bernstein had already decided that he was through with this insane business. Let him get just one more big hit under his belt and he could say good-bye to Gillian Harper and all of her parasites. He had a fair amount of money tucked away. Maybe he would produce dinner theater somewhere, some place far away from the glitz and the lights and the high-living idiots.
'Gillian,' he said sharply, 'it's not like half the male population of this planet hasn't already seen you naked. Get your ass through that machine!'
He strode through without looking to see if the rest were following him.
'Captain?'
Captain Eric Phillips was leaning over the chart table, reviewing the latest met print-out. Several hours ago, a low-pressure cell had begun forming off the West African coast, and by the time the Queen reached the Strait of Gibraltar in another four days, it might make for some rough weather.
'Can it wait? I'm busy — ' 'Sir, we have a problem. A real problem.' 'Now what?' Captain Eric Phillips looked up, exasperated. Why did problems always begin multiplying exponentially the closer the ship came to debarkation?
His staff captain, Charles Vandergrift, stood a few feet away, holding the bridge phone against his ear. 'It's Ghailiani, sir. Security. One of our officers has been found… dead.' He sounded as though he couldn't quite believe the report.
That got Phillips' full attention. 'Dead? My God, who? How?'
'Chester Darrow, sir. Ghailiani says he's been shot!'
'Sweet Christ Jesus! Give me that!' He took the handset from Vandergrift. 'Ghailiani? This is the Captain.'
'Y-yes, sir.' The man's voice sounded weak over the phone, almost dull, as if he was dazed, or in shock.
'What the devil happened?'
'We're not sure, sir. Mr. Darrow was checking provisions into the aft A Deck cargo hold. I came down here to check something, and found him on the pier, dead.'
'You said he's been shot?'
'Yes, sir. Several times, sir. In the chest.'
This had to be some sort of sick joke. Please let it be a joke! he thought. 'Ghailiani, if this is some kind of prank — '
'No, sir! It's not! Darrow's dead! There's blood everywhere — '
'Where are you?'
'On the pier. Just opposite the A Deck cargo gangway. There's a big green Dumpster there? We found him between the Dumpster and the main warehouse wall.'
'Okay. Stay there. Don't let anyone touch the body. The police will be down there soon.'
'Yes, sir.'
Several thoughts and emotions battled one another in Phillips' mind. One of his men murdered! Who was the killer? A member of the crew? Or someone ashore? Had anyone seen what had happened?
Phillips didn't know Darrow well. The man had only joined the Queen a month ago. Phillips would have to check with Personnel to see if the man had any family.
He would have to write a letter, at the very least. Oh, God…
Other, more selfishly motivated thoughts crowded in, jostling with the others. Could the incident be kept from the passengers? And, even more critically, would the murder prevent the Atlantis Queen from sailing on schedule?
Like a hotel, a cruise ship depended on filling available vacancies with paying customers. If the Atlantis Queen was kept in port by a police investigation, people would start canceling their reservations, and passengers already aboard might begin making other plans for their tightly structured vacations — and demanding refunds.
With the economy the way it was right now, a company like Royal Sky Line could go under with the failure of a single cruise — the profit margin was that slim.
A small and unworthy part of him was already wondering if the death could be covered up, at least until the ship was out of port… but he shoved the thought viciously aside. No, they would play this by the book.
He began punching numbers into the handset. First he would call Sir Charles Mayhew, the member of the board of directors who was Operations Director for the Atlantis Queen and Phillips' boss.
