Liu beckoned toward the doorway. His daughter met Ricky’s perplexed stare before meekly bowing and leaving without another word spoken. Liu pivoted, then he too was gone, leaving Ricky alone, dejected, and trying his best to figure out where he had gone wrong.
17
Vince Kellogg’s evening started off strangely enough-he almost slept through it. Upon returning to his stateroom to get dressed for the banquet, he lay down for what was to be but a short, fifteen-minute nap.
Lulled into a sound sleep by the constant rocking motion of the QE2’s hull, Vince was out for a good forty minutes.
He would have most likely continued his slumber, if it hadn’t been for a particularly nasty swell that sent a vase crashing to the floor. With groggy, unbelieving eyes, he glanced at the bedside clock and sat up with a start.
Dinner was to begin at eight sharp, which gave him less than thirty minutes to shower and dress. Fighting the rolling deck he accomplished this feat in record time, and jogged into the Queens Lounge with ten whole minutes to spare.
He spotted the ship’s security director seated alone at one of the cocktail tables, a well-limed Bloody Mary before him, and made his way over to him.
“Good evening, Special Agent,” greeted Hartwell. “Please have a seat and join me for a cocktail.”
Vince sat down opposite him, and looked on as a waiter approached.
Because he was on duty, Vince couldn’t have any alcohol, but he took Hartwell’s lead and asked for a Virgin Mary.
“Perhaps you’ll be able to join me in the Wardroom after dinner, and we can have a real drink together,” offered the Scotsman as Vince’s cocktail arrived.
Vince had to reach out and steady his glass when the ship rolled heavily. This prompted Hartwell to lift up his own glass, and toast.
“Here’s to following seas and fair winds.”
As the QE2’s stabilizers bit into the surging swell and evened out the ride, Vince was able to pick up his glass and clink its frosted side up against his table mate “I do hope you brought along your appetite,” commented Hartwell. “These galas are usually quite memorable.”
Vince took a sip and replied. “Even with these rough seas, I’m starved.
Is all this rocking and rolling being caused by the outer fringes of tropical storm Marti?”
“Actually, she’s now been officially upgraded to Hurricane Marti. And no, she isn’t responsible for these seas. We’re currently passing through the remnants of a low pressure ridge, and if you think this is rough, wait until you sail through a real storm.”
“I hope I can postpone that experience for another time.”
Hartwell noticed the strained expression on Vince’s face and did his best to ease his guest’s anxieties. “You’ll be pleased to learn that once we pass through this ridge sometime early tomorrow morning, the weather map looks clear all the way into Southampton. As for Marti, she might have been a factor had we left New York a day or two later.
But as it now looks, we’ll be well clear of her path, should she decide to pay the North Atlantic a visit sometime later in the week.”
Hartwell halted a moment to take another sip of his drink, then added, “I understand from Tuff that you completed your inspection of the ship.
I do hope that you’re satisfied with the results, and that you have a better understanding of why I was such a strong advocate of continuing the crossing. Any word as to the legitimacy of that supposed terrorist organization that issued the threat?”
“I finally managed to get a clear line to Washington shortly after we completed today’s sweep. I’m waiting to get an update from my brother, who’s still in the field.”
“I do hope you’ll let me know the second you hear from him,” said Hartwell as he watched the Chinese contingent enter the Lounge.
The party was led by four security agents, each dressed in a similar baggy black suit, white shirt, and bright red tie. President Li Chen could be distinguished from this group by the fashionable, double-breasted tuxedo that he was wearing. Close at his side was his translator, with a short, crew-cut young man on their heels. This last figure carried a black leather attache case, and as they passed through the Lounge on their way to the main Dining Room, Robert Hartwell discreetly whispered.
“I wonder if President Li has been able to keep in contact with Beijing?
From what I understand, that chap with the briefcase is carrying the unlock codes to China’s nuclear arsenal.”
“Back home, we call our version of that briefcase the football,” informed Vince. “I was shocked when our President made the unprecedented decision to delegate responsibility for America’s own unlock codes to the Vice President, for the entire duration of this crossing. This is the first time I’ve ever been with the President away from the White House, and not had the football close by.”
“As it turned out, your President made a wise decision, especially when you factor in the manner in which those sunspots are affecting communications. It appears that my prime minister also delegated the responsibility for Great Britain’s war codes to a land-based subordinate, with the French and the Russians doing likewise.”
“Who knows?” reflected Vince. “Perhaps after this summit, such things as the football will be anachronisms.”
“Here, here,” toasted Hartwell.
Quick to follow the Chinese into the Lounge were the German, Italian, Canadian, and Japanese delegations. Unlike President Li, each of these heads of state only brought along a pair of security men, and in each instance, they were dressed immaculately in formal attire.
“Scuttlebutt has it that the Japanese and Chinese got into a bit of a row last night,” Hartwell whispered. “What was intended to be an informal nightcap between old adversaries, supposedly turned into a shouting match that could be heard all the way out in the Grand Lounge.”
“I can personally attest to hearing a similar disagreement on the Tennis Court yesterday, between the German chancellor and the prime minister of Italy,” Vince revealed.
“Boys will be boys,” offered the Scotsman with a wink.
It was just as Hartwell was polishing off his drink that the French arrived, looking chic and dapper in their matching black-satin tuxedoes.
The Russians followed them in a large, animated group that included the British and the Americans.
Both Vince and Hartwell stood as the prime minister of Great Britain and the President of the United States walked by. The President’s physician was positioned between the two heads of state, in the midst of telling a joke. Vince could only overhear the words nurses and breasts, as they passed, with the apparent punch line delivered seconds later to a laugh-filled reception.
Samuel Morrison was the last member of the President’s party to enter the Lounge. He tried to maintain a strong bearing but his stomach was obviously in no mood for being professional.
“Evening, Chief. You feeling all right? You look a little green around the gills, sir.”
“I’ll survive,” said the SAIC who leadenly made his way over to their table, and was forced to grab onto Vince’s arm when the deck suddenly dipped downward. “Now I remember why I picked the army over the navy,” he added.
“You know, my brother was worried about getting seasick before he was called off the crossing,” remarked Vince. “I was going to try and get him some of those patches that Dr. Patton was telling us about.”
Morrison replied while trying his best to steady himself on the back of Vince’s chair. “Those patches might be effective, but I understand that there are too many friggin’ side effects for my likes.”
“We called them puss pads back in the Royal Marines,” said Hartwell.