Of course, first he’d have to survive this cab ride. Faced with what seemed to be an impenetrable line of traffic on Eleventh Avenue, his driver had somehow managed to weave his way to Fifty-fifth Street. With a defiant blast of the cab’s horn, he made a left there, followed by another left onto Twelfth Avenue. A large sign indicated that the passenger ship terminal was to the right, and it was at that point that Vince caught his first glimpse of a towering red and black funnel that dominated its Hudson River berth with the same surreal presence of an Empire State Building.
The passenger embark gate was on the terminal’s upper ramp, and there Vince saw the forward position of the immense ship belonging to the distinctive funnel. The sharp, dark blue bow of the vessel was on the same level as the two-story ramp on which the cab was now parked. A bright red pennant flew from its forward jack staff with the name queen elizabeth 2 embossed in black against the ship’s upper hull.
“She’s quite the ship,” observed the cab driver, noting Vince’s preoccupation with the vessel.
This being the first time that Vince had actually seen the QE2 in person, he concurred. “That she is.”
He paid the driver, and was soon standing alone on the concrete upper walkway, with his majestic home for the next week floating before him.
The videotape of the ship that he had been studying did little to prepare him for its sheer immensity. At 963 feet in length, over 100 feet wide, with a gross tonnage of almost 70,000 tons, the massive ocean liner had a certain modern elegance to it. She was surely the most beautiful ship that he had ever laid eyes on, and Vince knew that very shortly, he’d be intimately acquainted with her.
A group of white-uniformed sailors were congregated on the spacious bow swabbing down the deck. The ship’s crane was lifting a large crate onboard behind them. As this piece of cargo was carefully guided into the ship’s hold, Vince spotted a single individual standing on one of the long, protruding exterior observation wings that were positioned on each side of the glassed-in bridge. This bearded figure appeared to be an officer. He had binoculars snug to his brow, and it looked like his line of sight was focused directly on Vince. Fighting the urge to acknowledge him with a wave, Vince’s attention was diverted by the approach of a uniformed policeman.
“Excuse me, buddy,” greeted the burly, Port Authority patrolman. “But this entire area is currently off-limits to the general public.”
“Morning, officer,” returned Vince as he matter-of factly pulled out his plastic, laminated government identification card from his breast pocket.
One look at the card’s distinctive gold, five-pointed-star logo was enough to dramatically change the patrolman’s attitude. “Good morning to you, Special Agent. I gather from this luggage that you’ll be boarding this morning. Do you need a longshoreman to give you a hand with your bags?”
“I can manage,” Vince answered.
The cop excused himself to continue his rounds. Vince was anxious to see the ocean liner from inside, and he picked up his two-suiter and small duffel bag, and headed for the nearby elevator.
The terminal’s passenger-embarkation area was located on the floor below. It looked much like an airport waiting room, but ten times the size.
Although the first dignitaries weren’t due to arrive until later that day, the terminal was already bustling with activity. Porters, longshoremen, crew members, and blue-blaze red Cunard Line representatives were busy making final preparations to the passenger-embark area. Brightly colored, red, white, and blue bunting hung from the cavernous terminal’s rafters, while various roped-off viewing sections were being set up, apparently for well-wishing VIPs and the press.
One enterprising television news crew had already arrived, and had positioned its cameras beside the covered gangway. A shapely, blonde-haired reporter was in the process of interviewing one of the ship’s officers. The blindingly bright light of the video camera was hitting the sailor full in the face. Vince sensed that he was doing his diplomatic best to keep smiling throughout the improvised interview.
Uniformed patrolmen from both the Port Authority and New York Police Department were conspicuously present at the terminal’s entry ways Vince was forced to show his identification card to several of these individuals, one of whom escorted him over to a registration desk. Once more his credentials were checked, this time by a Cunard employee, who in putted Vince’s name into a laptop. Vince handed over his VISA card to set up an onboard account to cover any incidental charges that he might incur during the crossing, and received a V. I.P Gold card showing that he had been assigned to cabin 1037. His actual ticket was placed in a blue leather document holder, and with this in hand, he headed for yet another security checkpoint.
His bags were placed on a table, opened up, and carefully inspected by a serious-faced, middle-aged woman, who Vince suspected worked for the U.S. Customs Service. Yet another security official arrived with a golden retriever in tow. The dog deftly jumped up onto the table top, and curiously sniffed the exposed contents of Vince’s luggage.
Vince’s duffel bag caught the retriever’s attention. After the briefest of sniffs, the dog let out a series of high pitched yelps, prompting its concerned handler to take a closer look at the bag’s contents.
“It’s my ammo,” said Vince, referring to the sealed box of 9mm shells which the security official rummaged around for and extracted.
Vince discreetly opened his jacket to reveal his Clock 17 pistol firmly stowed in a chamois shoulder harness. “And I imagine you’ll be interested in taking a look at this as well.”
“That won’t be necessary,” replied a deep male voice from behind him.
Vince turned and set his eyes on a smiling, sandy-haired gentleman, nattily attired in a hand-tailored black suit.
“Just wanted to show you that we’re on the job, Vince,” added this distinguished newcomer. “Glad you could make it.”
“It’s good to be here, Doug,” said Vince as he accepted his coworker’s firm handshake.
Special Agent Doug Algren was assigned to the Secret Service’s New York office. In this respect, one of his prime responsibilities for the summit was insuring the security of the terminal area.
“I see that you’re traveling light,” said Algren, who signaled the dog handler that it was okay to pull off the retriever.
“Agent Sykes,” he added to the woman seated behind the inspection desk.
“Would you be so kind as to repack Special Agent Kellogg’s bags and give them to a porter to be stowed in his stateroom?”
As she got on with this task, Algren escorted Vince over to the gangway.
The news crew was just finishing up its interview here, and while the reporter initiated her on-camera summation, Algren quietly relayed the latest operational update.
“I just got word that the prime ministers of Britain, Japan, Canada, and Italy have arrived at the United Nations. All the rest are due to arrive in town as scheduled, except for President Li of China.”
“Hope he didn’t get cold feet,” remarked Vince.
“It’s nothing like that,” explained Algren. “Because of unexpected headwinds, his plane is being forced into making an unplanned refueling stop in San Francisco. That will make his ETA at Kennedy sometime around nine p. m.”
Vince grimaced. “That’s certainly cutting it close to the bone.”