"But if we fail, or if you betray us or refuse to help us, you will die, and your wife and child will die. If it is possible, you will be there to watch both of them die first. I swear this by Allah! I swear this by Allah!" Khalid leaned forward, speaking directly into Ghailiani's face as his voice dropped to a whisper. "/ swear this by Allah!"
Mohamed Ghailiani did consider himself to be Muslim, though he was not an observant one, and he had little interest in the fine points of the Sharia, of Islamic law.
Still, he knew that a man who swore by the name of God three times was in earnest; lesser oaths, by other things than Allah Himself, often were not considered binding, especially if the oath taker added the words "if God wills" to his promise.
He knew that Khalid would carry out his threat if Ghailiani crossed him in any way. There was no way out… no way out for him, no way out for Nouzha or Zahra, save to do exactly what he was told.
"I… yes. I understand."
"We are absolutely willing to do whatever must be done to achieve our aims. You hear what I am saying?"
Again, Ghailiani nodded. His moment of rebellion was fast fading. There was no way he could fight men like these.
"Good." Khalid turned away and walked out from behind the Dumpster. Ghailiani followed. The truck, he saw, was gone. He'd heard one of Khalid's men moving it a few moments ago, and assumed it had been driven onto the ship.
He wondered what was on the truck. Explosives, possibly. He looked back at the Dumpster. What, he wondered, had been in that briefcase?
He wouldn't ask. He couldn't. He wanted to know as little as possible about these terrible men, and their plans for the Atlantis Queen.
He would do everything they told him, praying that they would be satisfied, that they would release Zahra and Nouzha unharmed.
And then he would die, because he knew these men would never let him live even if they succeeded in their scheme. Khalid had said "if Allah wills" and sworn upon the Qur'an when he'd promised that Ghailiani would be rewarded, which meant it was not a binding oath.
Not as binding, at least, as Khalid's solemn three-times invocation of Allah, promising what would happen to Ghailiani and to his family if he failed.
Ghailiani's stomach gave a sudden, sharp twist. He turned away, doubled over, and vomited on the pier.
Fred Doherty said, stepping through the glass doors onto the Atlantis Queen pier, "Jesus, is that a police car down there?"
"Flashing lights, anyway," Sandra Ames said, following him outside. "Let's check it out!"
"We don't have our equipment," James Petrovich said. He hefted the small video camera in its case that he'd just rescued from the conveyor belt at the security checkpoint. "Just this."
The three of them were a reporter team for Cable News Entertainment. Doherty was the field producer and director, Ames the reporter, and Petrovich the camera and sound man. From here, just outside the terminal door in front of the ship's gangway, they could see the flash of amber and red lights a hundred yards away, toward the right and near the aft end of the ship.
Technically, they were a part of Gillian Harper's entourage, though neither Harper's people nor CNE outwardly acknowledged the liaison. They'd been assigned to this cruise to shadow the rock diva; Terry Carter, Gillian's publicist, wanted the exposure, while Doherty's bosses at CNE hoped that Harper would have yet another major and public meltdown and provide even more highly profitable sound bites and video clips for their celebrity news broadcasts.
Not exactly an inspiring way to make a living, Doherty thought, but it was a living, and a pretty good one. The challenge, of course, was getting close enough to Harper at the right time to get the right footage. She was traveling with her entourage, of course, which included several beefy personal security guards. Despite the arrangement CNE had with Harper's support people, the bodyguards seemed to have the impression that the CNE field team were some kind of paparazzi.
Which, perhaps, they were. Doherty didn't even know if Harper herself knew the news team was dogging her. It was, he decided, all part of the game, a means of titillating CNE's viewers and making them come back for more. How close can we get this time?
Maybe by the end of the cruise they could arrange a real interview. Carter had promised something of the sort… or at least suggested that an in-depth interview was possible.
But no matter how that worked out, CNE's viewers expected the hot steaming inside shit on media stars great and small, and Doherty's team was there to give it to them — even if they had to follow the Harper slut around with a pooper-scooper.
She was also traveling with her latest lover, so at the very least they might manage a telephoto shot or two of the lovebirds lounging by one of the ship's pools in thongs. Show the viewers how the glitzy-rich set lived in a thirty-second segment.
And with luck the bitch might do something interesting. Journalism at its finest.
What a crock.
He studied the flashing lights for a moment. The three of them were news professionals, and they knew how to work a story. Police lights suggested that something newsworthy was happening down there — maybe someone hurt on the docks. They could chase that story even if it didn't involve Ms. Harper.
"Sounds good, Sandra," he said after a long pause. "Let's go see what's shaking."
"I'm sorry, sir," a big man in a camouflaged uniform and a red beret said. He had an assault rifle slung from one shoulder, and he'd just stepped out from wherever he'd been lurking to block their path. "That end of the pier is closed."
"I'm a reporter," Ames said, producing her press card and flashing it at the soldier. "This is my crew. Let us through, please."
"No, ma'am," the soldier said. "I can't do that."
"Look," Doherty said, holding up his ID as well, "you don't understand. We're the news media! We have clearance, and we have a right to see what's going on!"
"No, sir. I can't allow you through here, sir. Orders."
"What orders? By whom?"
"Sir, if you will just board the ship — "
Doherty had already pulled out a notebook and a pen. "What's your name, soldier? And who do you report to?"
The soldier told him, carefully spelling out both. Neither name meant anything to Doherty, but he took them down. He would file a complaint later.
The soldier was wearing a radio on his jacket. It crackled, and Doherty heard something about an ambulance coming through. Interesting.
"Hey, Fred?" Petrovich motioned him closer. He was holding a cruise booklet open to a deck plan of the ship.
"What?" Doherty leaned over so Petrovich could whisper in his ear.
"If we go on board, it looks like we can follow the Promenade Deck aft, maybe get a good look at what's happening from the ship. Good camera angle, anyway."
Doherty considered this. Of course, Sandra wouldn't be able to interview anybody from up there, but they clearly weren't going to be able to interview anyone down here, either. The soldier seemed blissfully content to ignore their protests and keep them away from the incident for the rest of the evening. They could film from up on deck and come back ashore later and get comments from Royal Sky personnel, the police, and maybe even this soldier. It might be worth it questioning the ship's security officer, too.
"Okay," Doherty said. "Let's go." He glanced at the soldier. "You'll hear from us again later, Sergeant," he promised.
"As you wish, sir. Security, sir. I'm sure you understand." They jogged up the gangway, brushing past the ship's officer as he started in on his welcome-aboard spiel. Doherty hung behind to get the passkeys for all three of them, then excused himself and hurried after the others. Into the luxurious Grand Atrium and up the sweeping curve of the Atrium stairs to the Promenade Deck. Gillian Harper could wait. This smelled like news. Real news.