Storm heard mörda at least four times as Tilda and Laird debated what they were going to do with their new captive.
Eventually they decided to wait, for reasons Storm could not quite determine. Perhaps they wanted to let the empress, Ingrid Karlsson, give the ultimate thumbs-up/thumbs-down on his fate. Maybe Storm was to be used as a bargaining chip of some sort. Or maybe they just wanted to wait until the hurricane passed so they could dump his body without worrying about it being blown to land.
Whatever it was, Storm was soon led to the only room aboard the Warrior Princess that was designed to contain prisoners. It was the one just down the hall from Laird and the other guards, the one where Dr. William McRae had been kept for a month now.
Storm walked there with his hands still up and Laird pointing the Beretta at his back. Tilda inserted the key and opened the door.
“Get in there,” Laird said.
Storm did as he was told. The door immediately clicked behind him.
Lying on top of the covers was a man of about seventy. He was trim, with a small amount of gray hair that looked like it was overdue for a buzz cut. He was reading a book by the late, great master of medical thrillers, Michael Palmer.
As Storm let his hands drop to his side, the man asked, “Who are you?”
“Hello, Dr. McRae. My name is Derrick Storm. I’m here to rescue you.”
“You’re the man Alida mentioned,” he said, brightly. Then he considered Storm for another second. “Although, to be honest, she made it seem like you would be a little better at this whole rescue thing.”
“I admit, this is not among my finest efforts so far. But this is just a temporary setback. We’ll get you out of here somehow.”
“Mr. Storm, I don’t want to discourage you, but I’m not sure it’s possible.”
“Really? Why?”
McRae set down the book and sat up. “Because I’ve been in here for a month now and only managed to get out once. And it hasn’t been for lack of effort. The one time I got out was only because a guard slipped up and left the door open. That’s when I called Alida. But the other guards tracked me down pretty quickly. They’ve got cameras everywhere, including in this room. And I don’t know if you noticed, but that door you just came through doesn’t have a handle on the inside. That’s just one of the details that makes the room escape proof. I’ve spent a month trying to figure out something and you’ll notice I’m still here.”
Storm nodded thoughtfully. “Are you familiar with Enrico Fermi, Dr. McRae?”
“Of course I am. What does he matter?”
“Well, he was one of the leading practical physicists of his time, as you know. Good enough that he won the Nobel Prize in 1938. We’re talking about a supersmart guy. And yet when he joined the Manhattan Project, people told him his method of creating an atomic bomb was impossible, because you couldn’t get the neutrons that resulted from the splitting of one atom to then split other atoms. And if you couldn’t do that, there was no way the bomb would work. Fermi kept trying and failing, but with each so-called ‘failure,’ he was really getting closer to the solution. Fast-forward to 1942, and Enrico Fermi was the man who directed the first controlled nuclear chain reaction. How? Because he kept his belief in himself and didn’t let past failure deter him. The point is, if you work hard enough, nothing is impossible.”
“That’s a lovely speech, Mr. Storm, but—”
“Also, I’ve got C-4 strapped to my leg.”
“Oh. Why didn’t you start with that?”
“Because I wanted to give the speech first, so you’d be impressed with my knowledge of physics.”
McRae smiled. “I should have known Alida was right about you. The last time she was wrong about something was 1978, and she swore it wasn’t going to happen again.”
“She’s one of a kind all right,” Storm said. “Now let’s get out of here.”
Storm began surveying the room, assessing it in a clinical manner, going low to high, then high to low. The walls and ceilings were brushed steel, riveted into what were likely girders. He tapped it here and there. It felt thick. Certainly thicker than standard Sheetrock walls.
He pulled up a corner of the carpet to reveal a metallic subfloor. Then he went into the bathroom and gave it the same kind of inspection. The place really was designed to be a cell.
When he returned to the bedroom, he said, “You said there are cameras in here. What about the bathroom?”
“No. None.”
“Excellent. And, tell me, you must have a laboratory or workshop where you’ve been putting the lasers together.”
“Yes.”
“Where is it?”
“Just down the hall and across the way.”
“Are there cameras in there?”
“Not that I’m aware of. They always had a man in there with me, to make sure I wasn’t sabotaging any of the equipment or doing anything else they wouldn’t like.”
“Perfect. In that case, I think you’re getting a little seasick, Dr. McRae.”
“Actually I feel fine.”
“No, trust me, you’re looking quite peaked.”
“My stomach is iron, I never get motion—”
“The guards answer when you press this button, yes?” Storm said, walking over to the intercom.
“Yes, that’s right.”
Storm hit the button, waited. A voice came promptly to the line. “Yes?”
“Dr. McRae is feeling seasick. He says he’s about to lose it. Is there any Dramamine aboard?”
“We’ll be right there,” the voice said.
Storm turned so his back was to the camera he had spied in the near corner. “When they come in, I expect seasickness. I’m talking Academy Award-worthy, you’ve-just-watched-Kevin-Costner-in-Waterworld seasickness. And it had better end with your head in a toilet, making a really nasty retching sound.”
FIVE MINUTES LATER, the door opened. There were two of them: Laird, who had the Beretta drawn, and one of the underlings, the one McRae called Delta.
McRae had closed his eyes and was on the bed, moaning.
“He’s suffering,” said Storm, summoning his inner Clara Barton. “How long until this storm blows through?”
“The worst of it has already passed,” Laird said. “It’s still going to be bad for a few more hours, but the marine forecast says the seas should be down below twenty feet by morning. That won’t budge this boat much.”
“Uhhhhh. I’m not gonna make it,” McRae moaned and launched himself into the bathroom, where he began making heaving noises.
Laird and Delta looked appropriately grossed out. “Just toss the medicine on the bed,” Storm said. “I’ll make sure he’s okay. Sometimes you just need to get it out of your system. Did he have a big dinner?”
“Two helpings,” Laird said. “Spaghetti and meatballs.”
“Eww. That is not going to look good coming back up. All right. This might be a while. I’ll hit the intercom if we need anything.”
McRae chose that moment — a brief lull in conversation — to begin a new fake assault on the toilet. Delta tossed the Dramamine on the bed then joined Laird in full retreat.
Storm went straight for the bathroom, where McRae was already reaching for the toilet handle to flush away the vomit that didn’t exist. Storm waited a moment, then returned to the bedroom to grab the medicine.
By then, the door had closed. Laird and Delta were gone. To anyone watching on the camera — if anyone even was — it would look like Storm had simply forgotten the Dramamine and now, having retrieved it, returned to the bathroom to continue his ministrations.
Instead, he shut the bathroom door, then stood up on the sink and lowered his pants. He un-taped the C-4 and studied it for a moment.
“Have you ever worked with explosives?” he asked McRae, who had stopped with the dramatics and was watching Storm.