Cruise the Storm, Page 3

  There was a long silence. Alan fiddled with his glass, pushing it round on the beermat. Mike looked pensive, staring around the room.

  "Well?" said Bourne.

  "Sounds easy, but I don't think it will be. You just can't lug big cartons up to the passenger side of the ship," said Alan. "The game would be up, in about two minutes, then we would be in prison for five years, at least."

  "We could use a waiters' trolley," said Mike pensively. "With a cloth on, and coffee cups, and pots. The cartons would be under the cloth on the second shelf. Nobody would see them."

  Bourne chipped in. "You have at least six months or more to work out the logistics. It can obviously be done. Five minutes, and already you have a plan. You don't have to be involved in how the cartons are in with the fruit. That is my part. The cartons would be the same as the fruit ones, but marked with a cross.

  Give me a mobile number, and I'll phone you before the ship sails, when we are ready." A point occurred to Bourne. "Are you on a long contract, on the Helena?"

  "We've just signed on a new one. Twelve months, starting tomorrow."

  "Then that is the time scale. It will be one of the Med cruises. I am not going to tell you the port where the consignment is loaded, not yet. But you get half the money at that port, and the final half at the next port. There is a company called Western Union, have you heard of it?"

  Mike nodded. "You send cash with it, yeah?"

  "Yes, all I have to do is give you a password, and the address of the shop and you collect a bag of cash from them, no questions asked."

  Bourne reached in his pocket, pulled out two thick envelopes. He put them on the table, one in front of Mike, one in front of Alan. "There you are, boys, a signing on fee, one grand each; ten more to come, each. Give me your mobile numbers. I will know when you're in port." He passed them each a card for them to write on. When they had written the numbers, he picked them up off the table.

  "Have a good night out."

  And he got up and walked out of the bar. He was very pleased at the way things had gone.

  Chapter 5

  The Chairman, Cecil Rhodes (yes, named after the founder of Rhodesia, by a doting father) of Sun Cruises plc called a small special management meeting after the MI5 operative had telephoned him. He thought he would call together the ops. manager, finance director, and marketing manager. That should suffice for what might be a long series of meetings.

  They used the small meeting room interconnecting with his office. There were ten chairs round the table. He sat at the head of the table, and, as the people he had called entered, he placed them so that they all sat round the top of the table, the vacant chairs at the opposite end. First to arrive was the operations manager, Mark Spalding. Aged forty, blond, trim looking, he peeled off his suit jacket, and hung it over the chair back. Why do these young men do that, Cecil wondered? Must be due to the advent of central heating maybe, he mused to himself. The finance director bustled in, sat down, a file he had brought with him placed neatly on the table. He was never without a file, and if you asked him any financial question about the company, he would always be able to pull it out of his file; a dependable man, now in his mid-fifties. He didn't take off his jacket, too strait-laced for that.

  Both he and the chairman shared an interest in golf, and they chatted for a minute or two about the game. Last man in was Jon Acomb, the marketing manager. He took his jacket off, only in his late thirties, tanned, with hair trendily long, as befitted a man connected with the media world.

  "Gentlemen, this evening, in fact only about half an hour ago, I had a phone call from MI5. They told me that a terrorist, the leader of the WCL, was cruising on the Helena, with eleven of his friends. He thought that they might be trying to hijack the ship. Since he was too late to board at Southampton, he intended, with our permission, presumably, to board at Vigo, which is the first port of the voyage. Would you, Mark, like to speak first?"

  "Well, firstly, they must be travelling on false passports, because."

  "They were, I understand," said the Chairman.

  Mark shifted in his seat. "So our systems haven't failed in that respect. To conduct a hijack, you have to use weapons. Our security check-in for passengers in the most up-to-date system, in fact up-dated only two years ago, you might recollect."

  "Mark, I'm not criticizing you. Don't tell me how it's not your fault. I already know it, and I'm not blaming you or your department. It has even got past the spooks. This meeting is what to do about a potential hijack."

  "Yes, well, I am coming to that. The only way weapons could come aboard, in my opinion, is when we take stores aboard at ports on our itinerary. In Southampton, it is very doubtful. All goods come in via the chandlers, and the loading is well supervised. Also, of course, it is difficult to smuggle arms into the UK, especially since the end of the troubles in Ireland. So my bet is that they intend to smuggle arms on board at one of the ports en route. From memory, the ports are Vigo, Malaga, Naples, then Venice, and Athens. It has to be one of those, or it will be too late."

  "You could boost security, Mark?"

  "Of course. There are twelve security guys in uniform, but they are bouncers, really. That is their level, I'm afraid. Good enough to stop any drunken fights, searching cabins, and so on, but limited intelligence. But that is what we specify, and that is what we get. We've got two plain clothes security, as well. I recollect that they are armed only with tear gas grenades, to quell drunken riots. They haven't had to put it to the test, not surprisingly, given the type of guests we cater for. "

  "I can tell you that Morton, that's the MI5 man, as I say boarding at Vigo, intends to make sure, by instigating checks that arms don't come aboard."

  "That's great, job done."

  "Another suggestion could be to turn the terrorists off at Vigo. Refund their money."

  Paul, the finance director, looked up, appalled: "They could sue us for millions. I don't like that. And, of course, there are publicity implications."

  "We might get money back under our insurance," said the finance director.

  "The crucial word is 'might'. It has been my experience that insurance companies very rarely pay out on anything significant in cash terms. They usually have it covered in one of their exclusion clauses. I will check it out with our company secretary, but don't hold out hopes."

  "Don't worry too much about the publicity, it will likely be positive, the company looking out for the rest of the passengers. In fact even if the hijack went ahead it wouldn't, in my opinion, have a negative effect. A lot of people would like to sail on a ship with an exciting past. Also, they would think it was unlikely to happen again, you know, like lightning doesn't strike twice." Jon sat back in his seat after this interjection.

  "Shall I sound out MI5 about removing the WCL members at Vigo? They could ask the Spanish police to handle it, and then the British police could apply for extradition," said the chairman.

  "It would mean acting very fast, the Helena is due into Vigo in the early hours of the day after tomorrow, and is sailing again that evening," said Mark.

  "Just to round off the discussion, you might like to give us a cost estimate, in the event that the hijack took place, the ship had to curtail the voyage, and we gave all the passengers their money back, and, on top of that offered them another free cruise, as well."

  Paul had his file open, flicking through papers, his face grim. He hated to alter budgets, especially in the wrong direction.

  "Assuming there are five hundred passengers," said Paul, when Mark interrupted him, "That is the correct figure, give or take."

  "I know, Mark. I don't just ignore the statistics you supply. I work on them. As I was saying, five hundred passenger's credited, after commissions, about 750K,

  plus about the same again for free tickets, will come to one and a half million, straight off the bottom line."

  The chairman said: "That concentrates the mind, doesn't it?" He looked round the table at the other three. "Do we
need to vote? I doubt it. So I say try the extradition route, though of course, there is still the possibility of them suing us."

  The finance director said "More than likely. I don't think a judge would give the police an extradition order. What evidence to pull a crowd of people off a ship, and return them to the UK. What charges will they bring? It looked like they were going to hijack the ship? What with, if no weapons are found? Well, they are nasty people. Who says they are, and why. Well, they don't like Jews and Muslims. Plenty of people don't like Christians, and they don't get arrested. Cecil, with respect, I think you are going to get a big no from MI5. Anyway, try it, and we'll get together again to hear the results." To reinforce his remarks, he began to sort the papers on the table away into his folder.

  "Okay, you are probably right. So it is going to be one and a half million down the drain. Sometimes business is like walking up a mountain in a head wind."

  At the door to his office, he turned and said, "We will probably meet again tomorrow when I have spoken to MI5." Weary, he walked over to his desk, placed his papers on the blotter, and walked over to the window. Still light outside in September, at what, he looked at his watch, turned seven. A damp night outside, drizzly rain falling, he could see the spray gusting on the road. The rush hour traffic was easing off now, in suburban London, cars' brake lights reflecting in the wet road. He felt suddenly unhappy. That was odd, earlier he had been confidently thinking to himself he might go on working until he was seventy. Mind you, he would have to sort out his post of chairman, and also CEO. He had received a lot of flak in the City, they frowned on combining the posts. He was sixty-five next year, so that might be the time to appoint a new CEO, and he would remain chairman until he was seventy. What was happening on the ship at the moment, he wondered. It would be in the Solent, steaming eastwards past the Isle of Wight. Geoffrey, the captain maybe still on the bridge. No, Cecil looked at his watch, he would be going into the restaurant for dinner, entertaining his selected guests. And what about the terrorists? In their cabins plotting the hi-jack?

  Cecil moved away from the window, back to his desk, where he picked up some papers, put them in his brief-case to work on during the commute. He travelled in by rail every day. He would be home at just after eight, and having dinner at half past. He hoped the weather was going to improve by the weekend. He was too old now to enjoy golf in the rain.

  Chapter 6

  John McBride sprawled across one of the seats in the terminal reception area on the quayside at Southampton looking idly out of the huge window at the tarmac expanse. The ground was being lashed by the wind driven rain: an English summer. This was a good time to leave the country, if only for twenty-two days, he thought.

  Two weeks ago he had taken a call from his agent. McBride had laid down his brush, and pulled out his mobile, moving away from the easel to take the call. Wind ruffled his hair, standing there looking at the scene before him, mobile pressed to his ear. The group who had been watching him paint, looked across at him, still gathered round the easel, not giving up their prime positions.

  "Have I interrupted you? Ian Smith here, do you fancy doing some painting in the Med? All expenses paid for, luxury cruise ship?"

  "And the catch is…?" McBride had known his agent for a long time.

  "Well, you have to run painting classes on board. But you get a passenger cabin, with a balcony. And you get paid. You can paint on shore, when the ship's in port. And, of course, I'll sell your paintings. It's a win-win situation." Smith was known for his clichés.

  McBride agreed he would go and left Smith to sort out the details. He returned to the easel, and the onlookers closed round him again. McBride ran his eyes over the sable brushes, which were all there; an honest group of people this time. He picked up a number 16 brush, and said to no-one in particular,"Now, where had we got to?" Although he remembered exactly what he had been doing.

  A week later, a bulky envelope fell on the doormat, containing his boarding instructions; and here he was, checked in, and waiting until 13:30 hours, when he could board. His main luggage had already gone on to the ship; his carry-on item was his box easel, full of paints and brushes.

  McBride eyed the other passengers in the terminal lounge as they drifted in. They were mostly couples, late forties, early fifties right through to the very old, well dressed in casual clothes. They had to be well heeled to go on this cruise. A smallish ship by cruise standards, 600 passengers and 400 crew, quite a luxurious ratio. Nearly all the cabins had balconies. Passengers got good food, free wine. Lots to do whilst they were on board, entertainment, shows, lectures and handicrafts, three dress-up dinners, one a week. Priced for the middle/upper middle classes.

  The lounge doors burst open, and rain swept in with a crowd of passengers. To McBride, they appeared as a block booking of friends. No, it could be an office outing, maybe. Still not right, he thought. Someone had won the lottery and was treating his friends. They were younger than the other passengers. Surely they were too young to enjoy this cruise. He continued to watch them as they went to the counter, their documents in their hands. As he watched, they split into four groups: four men checking in, then a couple of women, after them a couple (man and woman), finally, four men.

  It still puzzled McBride. He had observed them running through the rain across the tarmac from the car parking area. He was sure they were all conversing together as they ran.

  He became bored with the puzzle, looked around at the other passengers. As he watched, one couple got up and made for the boarding door. These pioneers caused a general exodus, everyone in the lounge now standing up and ambling along to board the ship.

  McBride was impressed at the seamless transition from land to boat. He realised they were on board when they were invited to step through a body scanner by a couple of nautically-dressed men, wearing armbands reading SECURITY. Hand baggage went on a conveyor belt, just like airport security. McBride was pulled aside as his easel came off the belt, and he was asked if he would open the box. They poked amongst the paint tubes and brushes, and were finally satisfied and waved him along.

  He was in a large lobby with a long counter. Signs above the counter read: Reception over a central section, further along: Currency exchange, and past that: Tour Manager. There could well be other departments that McBride didn't assimilate at this time. He joined a short queue at the Reception. Uniformed men and women smiled and greeted the passengers, collected boarding cards, consulted computer screens.

  "Welcome aboard, Mr McBride," a woman said as she took his card. "I see you are staff. We have passenger accommodation for you, though. Here is a note of your deck level and cabin number. This is your entry key," she passed a rectangular plastic card to him. "Your cabin is ready for you, but you won't get your luggage until five o'clock, or thereabouts. It will be brought to your cabin. In the meantime, please make use of the restaurants and bars, and explore the ship." She gestured at the computer. "It says here that you have a meeting with the Entertainments Director at 5.00pm in the observation lounge. That's on the top deck. There'll be other people there, and I think they serve drinks. The director will just want to go through your programme with you."

  She turned to the next passenger in way of dismissal.

  McBride picked up a ship layout leaflet, and a tabloid copy of The Helena Post which was the ship's newspaper, printed on board daily.

  He glanced at the ship layout leaflet, and determined that this was deck 5. To the aft of the reception lobby was a bar, labelled simply as The Bar. It was a large area stretching the width of the boat, with large windows to either side. The bar counter was in the far right (or should he say starboard, wondered McBride, no, it would be port, since he was facing aft) from where he had entered. He threaded his way through the sparsely populated tables. Very few people had boarded, so this was not surprising. He bought a beer, and ordered a sandwich, and chose a table nearby. He had no sooner opened the ship's newspaper, than a waiter was at his side with the food.


  As he ate, he scanned the paper. There was a headline welcoming passengers aboard. Presumably the same story was repeated on each new voyage. It included the cruise itinerary, and details of the ship itself, dimensions, tonnage, when and where built.

  He noticed his own photo, head and shoulders, in the left hand column under the headline Welcome to our entertainers. McBride thought entertainers, surely the wrong word. He read the piece beneath his photo: 'John McBride the well known artist, will be giving painting lessons in the Craft Loft on deck 10, every morning between 10am and 1pm. All materials are supplied, and the lessons are for mixed abilities, from beginners up. John works in watercolour only. He will also be hosting Table 7 in the restaurant each evening, Contact the restaurant manager to reserve a seat on John's table.'

  The photo had obviously come from Ian Smith's press pack, the rest written by the entertainments director, presumably.

  There were photos and write-ups on several other 'entertainers': a lady who taught paper craft, two lecturers who were giving talks on ancient Greek culture and Roman buildings respectively. There was also on the front page a fairly large article featuring the nightly cabaret in the Show Lounge, which would include turns by 'international stars'.

  John McBride folded the tabloid and placed it on the table next to his plate, now empty. The ship plan he put in his pocket to refer to again.

  The room was becoming busier now, as more people came aboard. A man approached the bar, passing near McBride's table. He looked familiar. Where had he seen the man recently? Yes, he was one of the group entering the passenger terminal. The people he still thought of as 'the office trip'. The man was now at the bar. He was the one that McBride considered the leader. It was something in his manner. Only a short man, perhaps 5 feet 6" or so in his elevator heels McBride remarked to himself, slightly overweight, he projected arrogance. A woman had come up alongside the man, part of the crowd entering, but then checking in as a completely separate singleton. It wasn't just an accidental meeting, McBride could see. By their manner, they were familiar with each other, like brother and sister, or husband and wife.