Thomas Prescott Superpack (78 page)

There were six pools of blood.

“Oh my God,” Rikki muttered from behind me.

I looked down at where six men had been executed, then their bodies presumably thrown overboard. I thought back to the Professor’s words, “None of you will be harmed.”

Liar.

I turned, grabbed Rikki by the shoulders, and prodded her back towards the stairs. “Let’s go.”

She nodded, her face ashen.

We made it to Deck 5 with no problem. I had the gun out in front of me, just in case, but we didn’t encounter any trouble. Since I still had ten minutes of the thirty I’d allotted myself, we continued down the stairs to Deck 4 and the Computer Center.

As the room came into view, paneled wood and foggy glass windows, I asked, “How fast can you type?” I was a woodpecker when it came to typing.

“Fast enough.”

I pushed through the door and slid a chair out from one of six flat screen Toshibas and Rikki plopped down into it. The computer was on, which was a good sign, and the clock in the bottom right corner read, 5:22 PM. I asked, “Do you have any friends you could e-mail and tell them to forward it to the police or call the authorities?”

“I guess.” She tried to log onto the internet, but the page wouldn’t load, and she said, “Bollocks.”

“Did they shut off the internet?”

“No, it’s getting a signal, but really weak—oh, here we go,” she said, Google finally loading.

She logged into her Gmail account and said, “I’ll just e-mail it to everyone I know.”

Fair enough.

I started dictating and she started typing. “Tell them you are aboard the
Oceanic
Afrikaans
where an estimated ten pirates have taken the ship hostage.” I described the Professor and the Warlord best I could and Rikki’s fingers clattered away. “Write, ‘The pirates made a video of their demands and they may or may not have sent the video to high ranking officials in the U.S. They are demanding the United States help them with their AIDS crisis, especially in some small village.’”

Rikki looked over her shoulder at me and said, “Really?”

I’d forgotten that she hadn’t been with us. “Really, although I suspect this is simply a cover and that their main objective is to hold you for ransom.”

She nodded.

“You said something about money earlier.”

She took a deep breath and said, “My biological father is Track Bowe.”

Track Bowe was some European billionaire. England’s Warren Buffet.

“One of his other children was captured ten years ago and held for ransom,” she said looking up. “He didn’t pay.”

“Did they kill them?”

“They were dragging him into the woods, probably to kill him, but he got away. It was big news. It was even bigger news that my father had decided not to pay.”

“And this happened to one of your brothers?”

“He isn’t my brother. He doesn’t even know I exist.” She spent the next minute regaling me with the ins and outs of her relationship to Track Bowe. “What I don’t understand is how whoever wants to ransom me knows that he’s my father.”

Curious, curious.

But we needed to finish this e-mail and I needed to get back to the show lounge. “Tell them that we have reason to believe six men have already been killed. And then tell them that they are trying to hold you for ransom. Tell them to contact your mother and to contact Track Bowe, and if they haven’t heard the story on the news to make sure to call the media.”

I wanted as many people to know about us as possible. If that video the Professor made had been sent out, then I was guessing only a handful of people knew about us and I had a feeling those people would want to keep this thing quiet. The more people that knew about our plight, the better. “Send it.”

She clicked Send.

A progress bar popped up, then after five seconds it disappeared, replaced by the message, “Unable to connect to the internet right now.”

Rikki tried sending it one more time. Same error. She tried to get on Facebook, but the page wouldn’t load. She tried sending the email again. Three more times.
Bollocks
, which I’m pretty sure translates to,
Fuck you, you stupid computer
, was said frequently.

After several more attempts, she said, “I might just need to reset the router. I bet the servers are in that closet.”

There was a large closet at back with sliding doors. Rikki opened the doors and gasped.

I stood up and joined her. In the far corner were two large black computer-ish looking things, which I guessed were the servers Rikki was searching for. Lying on the ground next to them was a large black duffel bag.

I found myself gasping as well.

The duffel bag was partially unzipped. An opaque yellow baggy poked through the small opening. It appeared to be full of a chalky pink substance. I’d attended enough conferences on terrorism that I knew that I was looking at some sort of plastic explosive. I was guessing Semtex. A half-pound of the stuff was enough to blow up a small passenger aircraft, as was the case in Pan Am Flight 103. There had to be over fifty pounds filling the duffel bag. Enough to send the
Afrikaans
to the bottom of the Indian Ocean in pieces roughly the size of a Rubik’s cube.

There was an iPhone atop the bag connected to an assemblage of wires. Numbers filled the screen.

41:38:11.

41:38:10.

41:38.09.

I thought about the Professor’s words, “If you have not met these demands by noon three days from now, everyone aboard this ship will die.”

It wasn’t a threat. It was a countdown.

RURAL ENGLAND

3:27
p.m.

With three laps left in the 1983 Monaco Grand Prix, Track Bowe’s’ yellow number thirteen car was running in fifth place. After the left-right turn of Casino of Monte-Carlo, he was in fourth. With two laps to go, Track had moved into second place. When he slowed for the left turn at the Tobacco Shop, he was thirty yards behind the bright green number six car running in first place. As he came into the stiff right Rascasse, Track gave the six car a friendly nudge. The two cars flew past the 45,000 cheering fans in the Quay stands at over 230 mph, separated by a mere two thousandths of a second. As the two cars approached the treacherous Sainte Dévote curve, the six car slowed, the thirteen car did not.

Track Bowe exhaled deeply. He put the Maserati in fifth gear and flew up the long country road. He’d thought nothing could ever compare to the day his racing career had ended. Now, it didn’t seem all that bad. He would rather take the Sainte Dévote at 500 mph then fork over two billion dollars.

Track was an hour outside London, driving through a road that wended though western England’s many farms. Next stop Scotland. The last time he’d driven this road, he’d been on his way to Rikki’s restaurant for the second time in two weeks. He’d been so excited. He’d wondered if she would pat him on the back again. He’d hoped so. Maybe he would ask her name. Try to get her chatting. But she hadn’t been there and when he’d asked the owner about her, he’d said that she’d quit the week before. He’d never seen her again. And if he didn’t fork over two billion of his hard earned dollars by close of business tomorrow, he never would.

If he paid the ransom, he could kiss his title of 11
th
richest person in the world goodbye. Plus, where would he get the money. It’s not like he had a bank account with twenty billion dollars in it. He had a couple different accounts with a hundred million or so, but 95 percent of his money was tied up in stock, real estate, or other various investments. He looked at his phone and thought about how the conversation with his accountant would go. “So Will, I was thinking about selling some stock.”

“Oh yeah?” Will always said, Oh yeah.

“Yep.”

“How much?”

“Oh, I don’t know. How about two.”

“Oh yeah? Two mil?”

“Billion, Will. Two
billion
.”

At this point the conversation would be over because Will would be having a coronary. If he somehow survived his third heart attack he would say, “You do know this isn’t the best time to sell stock. You’d lose, well, billions.”

“Just do it.”

And that would be it. And
Will would do it. And the money would be in a bank account of his choosing within the day.

Track pulled the car over on the side of the road. A plume of dust kicked up and was carried west by the prevailing wind. He took a deep breath. Why was he even considering this? Was he out of his mind? Two billion dollars? Who cared if she was his flesh and blood? If it had been any of his other children, he would have laughed at the idea. When his first son was kidnapped, they asked for a hundred thousand dollars. The idea of paying the ransom didn’t even cross his mind. Not for a second. And the kid got away. If he hadn’t gotten away, if he had been killed, Track might have felt guilty, but then again, he might not have. His children were lepers. Parasites.

Track knew he wasn’t a good father. Hell, he could hardly be called a father. But, he’d done his fatherly duty. He’d given each of his children five million dollars on their eighteenth birthday. A going away present. It wasn’t his fault that all seven of them had run through the money before their 21
st
birthday. None of them had ever had a real job. And now he had another one he would have to deal with. Little Aiden. Damien himself. The kid was going to cost him a fortune.

But Rikki. Such a sweetheart. Track thought about the pirates. What were they doing to her? He’d said she would not die painlessly. How would they kill her? Did she know that they were ransoming her for money? Would she know if he didn’t pay? Would her last thoughts be about her old man who she’d never met not coming through.

Save Rikki.

Two billion dollars.

He went round and round. If he paid, his life as he knew it was over. If he didn’t pay, well, his life might be over as well. He might not be able to live with himself. But he would still be fabulously wealthy. Maybe even make into the top ten within the next couple years. Then maybe take a crack at the top five.

That was it. His mind was made up. He put the car in gear, checked for oncoming traffic, and did a U-turn.

COMPUTER CENTER

5:33
p.m.

I thought about picking up the duffel bag, scooting outside, and dropping it in the ocean. But, I didn’t want to mess with the bomb. I knew iPhone batteries only lasted a day, so this thing was connected to a secondary energy source, probably buried somewhere in the plastic explosives. And I also knew that iPhones could be set as antitheft alarms and when it was moved, it went crazy. For all I knew this guy downloaded a
Time Bomb
app and when I picked it up, I turned Rikki and myself into hot dust. In the end, I decided to leave it alone. My plans did not include being on the
Afrikaans
in forty hours anyhow. Plus, I needed to get back to the show lounge before J.J. Watkins started telling Knock, Knock jokes—which he did.

We made our way back up the steps and started back towards District 9, cutting through the lobby bar. We were three steps into the soft brown carpet when I heard the unmistakable ding of an elevator opening. I shoved Rikki and we dove behind one of the tan leather couches. After five long breaths, I inched upward and peeked over the top of the couch. A pirate was behind the bar, making himself a drink. I could only see his profile, but from the misshapen ear, I knew it was the pirate who had jumped overboard. I’d assumed the pirates had left him to die after he’d done his
forward one and a half tuck
, but apparently these were very considerate pirates.

I ducked down and put my finger to my lips. Rikki nodded. Hopefully, Greg Louganis would just make himself a cocktail and continue on his merry way.

I leaned backwards against the couch. I was left staring across the lobby and down the corridor that led to the aft passenger suites. There was something in the middle of the hallway. It was getting bigger each second. I squinted.

NONONONONONONONO
.

I tried to hide behind Rikki, but he’d already seen me. And if history was any indicator, he was going to sprint up to me and start barking his head off, then lick my face until his tongue fell off. That was if Greg hadn’t already blown my face off.

Baxter was now in the lobby, two and half seconds away from giving away our hiding spot. I fingered the gun. I was going to have to put Louganis down. I just prayed nobody overheard the shots.

I could see Baxter’s ears flopping, his brown eyes wide with recognition.
There’s that guy who is always telling me to shut the fuck up. I love him.
He had something pink in his mouth. I’d just made the move to my feet when I saw Baxter’s eyes close. He nose-dived, slid for a foot, then his forward momentum flipped him once, twice, then a third time.

I let out a long exhale. Thank God for narcolepsy.