Burn

Might have to use his handcuffs on Tiffany, though. She wasn’t particularly good at hanging back.

There was to be an art auction tonight, and the oil paintings that would be on display were worth a pretty penny. Might be just the right time for a robbery. Then again, the paintings weren’t going anywhere.

If he were staging a robbery, he’d choose one of the formal events to hit. That’s when the diamonds would be out, on display as surely as the paintings were. The artwork could be cut from their frames and stored in waterproof tubes. Cash? There wouldn’t be much, since so many of the expenses here were prepaid, or simply charged to one’s room, but these were rich folks who didn’t travel without cash, and some might have a hefty wad. Was there something else onboard that he didn’t know about? Some valuable item – or, God forbid, someone – worth taking this kind of risk?

It was the getaway that stumped him. There would have to be another ship of some kind nearby. The robbers could get there by lifeboat or helicopter, if the other ship was so equipped. It would make more sense to wait until they were closer to land, because as soon as the call went out, every vessel in the area would respond. Coast Guard, navy … there was no way to tell who would be in the vicinity.

He could see the security guards getting the drop on the passengers at one event or another, but what about the crew? This was a big ship, and there were crew members everywhere. It would be like trying to rob an entire small city, and even if all the security guards were in on the plan, and that was very unlikely, there were too many holes in the scenario he tried to imagine, too many things that could go wrong.

A mass kidnapping? A demand for ransom from hundreds of wealthy families and high-profile companies? That thought caused a chill to run down Cael’s spine.

Tonight he had to find a way to speak to Captain Lamberti about his concerns. He’d take the man aside, tell him what he suspected, and if necessary why and how he’d found out, and perhaps suggest precautions that could be taken to stop the robbery or kidnapping before it started. Sanchez already had a good idea about a handful of security guards who were in on the deal. Cael considered phoning the captain now, but unless he was looking in the man’s eye, how could he know if Lamberti was taking him seriously or writing him off as a nut? Ryan had established a relationship with the captain, and they had Sanchez on their side, too. Maybe that would be enough to get his attention.

If not, a viewing of a bit of the surveillance footage and a call from someone in D.C. who could vouch for their credentials, and the captain would have no choice but to believe.

Jenner caught his eye, as she walked out of the bathroom where she’d been fiddling with her hair. Her gown – black trimmed in white – hugged her torso, showing off her small but finely shaped breasts. The low scoop of the neckline teased him.

She continually surprised him in a world he’d thought held no more surprises. She’d never backed away from him, never shied away – not after that first night, at least. But now she stared at him even more boldly, as if she could see into him.

He’d never expected this; he’d never expected her.

"Look at me like that and you can forget about leaving the stateroom tonight," he teased, though damn if it wasn’t the truth.

She smiled. "Works for me."

He didn’t tell her what he suspected. She’d only worry. Worry, hell, she’d want a gun. Or a shoe.

Besides, it wasn’t like he was going to let her out of his sight.

*  *  *

FRANK FINALLY DECIDED on a letter of responsibility that suited him. There were no words to convey his contempt for the people he was taking with him, as well as those he was leaving behind, but this would suffice.

The Silver Mist will be my funeral pyre, and I suppose that’s fitting. I don’t give a damn about the passengers. They’re sheep, too stupid to realize they’re being led, and I’m tired of being their damn shepherd.

I take full responsibility for the destruction of the Silver Mist. I planned the attack and planted the bombs myself. Fuck you.

If they didn’t like that last part, they could cut it out of the news coverage. He thought it was important, because it conveyed exactly what he thought of them all. The e-mail would go to three major newspapers, an all-news network, and the three major networks.

He decided to write one more message, since he was in a mood for confessing.

The surly engineer who’d designed the EMP weapon was cautious to the point of being paranoid. Kyle Quillin didn’t like to use the Internet for any exchange of sensitive communication. He thought people were spying on him all the time. Larkin had made a nice profit – profit he’d never see – from the EMP sale, and so had Quillin, who could no longer complain that he was underpaid and underappreciated.

But truthfully, Larkin despised the punk. Hell, he despised everyone, but Quillin was such a self-important little bastard. The EMP technology was out there now. It was almost complete, and already in the North Koreans’ hands. If the e-mail was tracked and they arrested the kid, the completion of the weapon was still a given. And it would be kind of funny, that the technology Quillin had always feared led to his downfall.

Frank wrote one last e-mail, addressed to Quillin, this one without days of thought and rewriting. Fuck you. When something was worth saying, it was worth saying twice.

He’d set his e-mail program to send the messages at a preselected time, which meant he’d have to log onto the Internet and walk away, leaving his laptop on with the incriminating messages just sitting there. He didn’t care. He had the trigger for the bombs belowdeck in his pocket, along with a weapon he probably wouldn’t need, and the incendiary bombs on the higher decks, all five of them, had been activated. He glanced at his watch.