The Informant (42 page)
“Please,” she whimpered, “don’t hurt me.”
He cinched up the gag and took back the phone. “You hear that, Santos? Don’t hurt her.”
“I’m listening, Frank. But you’re not telling us something we don’t already know. Her name’s Shelly Greene.
She’s a housekeeper. We know everything. You can’t make a move, Frank. The ship’s loaded with FBI agents.
Come on now, you’re a smart guy. Let’s talk about this.”
“Enough talking. Get away from the lifeboats and get the power back on.”
“You’re asking an awful lot for a guy who gives nothing in return.”
“Nothing! You say I give
nothing!
Let me ask Mr. Cool about that. Hey, Mr. Cool, you want the power back on!”
Victoria cringed as she heard a light thud, then silence, as if Hannon were laying down the receiver. Suddenly, a shrill, tortuous scream rattled her speaker-418
James Grippando
phone. She closed her eyes in anguish. It sounded too real to be staged.
“Just as I thought,” said Hannon, back on the line. “Mr.
Cool
really
wants the power back on. And let me assure you: That’s his final word on the matter.”
“I’m warning you, Hannon. Do
not
harm those hostages.”
“He’s fine, bitch. It was just a fingernail. But the rest is totally up to you. Now here’s the deal. First, I want two extralarge wet suits, some black greasepaint and two full sets of scuba gear. Tanks, fins, mask, regulator, weight belt—the whole ensemble. I know they rent diving equipment from the ship’s sports center, so don’t give me the runaround. Second, I want the ship to change course.
Steer for Mexico, the Yucatán Peninsula. When you’re a half mile offshore, steer north and follow the coastline.”
“We can’t just sail into Mexican waters. We’ll need time to clear it.”
“I don’t care what you have to do. Just get it done. Call me when you’ve got my equipment.”
“Wait. You don’t need two hostages, Frank. Let the girl go, and then we’ll talk about the equipment.”
He scoffed loudly. “What do you mean, let her go? Go
where?
There’s no safe place on this ship. You’re
all
hostages. So don’t tell me what you need, don’t jerk me around and above all, don’t walk through the wrong door—or this entire tub blows, along with everyone on it.”
The phone slammed in her ear. Victoria looked at the others, but no one spoke for a second, as if they weren’t quite sure whether to believe their ears.
“Call Quantico,” said Shapiro. “It’s a whole new ball game.”
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v
ictoria dialed David Shapiro’s direct supervisor in Quantico, the Assistant Special Agent in Charge of the Critical Incident Response Group. In twenty seconds she explained the latest demand. As she’d predicted, the assistant didn’t want a decision this big on his head.
Victoria waited on hold while he tried to conference in Adam Levanthal, the Special Agent in Charge, himself.
She wasn’t holding her breath.
The house phone rang as she waited. Victoria picked up, with one ear still trained for Levanthal’s voice over the speakerphone. “Communications center,” she said.
“This is Agent Kozelka, down in the kitchen.”
Victoria could barely hear. The rumble of the unruly crowd in the ship’s main dining room was more than just background.
He spoke loudly over the noise. “Your reporter friend from Miami is here.”
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Her mouth fell open.
“Posten?”
“Yeah. He wants to speak to you.”
She stammered, unsure what to say. “Yes. Put him on.”
The agent lowered the receiver and waved Mike forward. He took the phone.
“Hey,” said Mike. “Bet you’re surprised to hear from me.”
“What the hell are you doing?”
“I’m here to talk Hannon into surrendering.”
“Since when did you become a hostage negotiator?”
“I’m not. But with a little imagination I could become an informant—
Hannon’s
informant. Or should I say
mis
informant. Interested?”
She hesitated, but she was thinking hard. “Put the agent back on,” she said finally. “I’ll have him bring you up.”
In thirty seconds Adam Levanthal, the Special Agent in Charge of the Critical Incident Response Group, was on the speakerphone. Odoms was excused from the room as Victoria and David Shapiro gave a full briefing. Kevin McCabe, the Hostage Rescue Team leader, stood by and listened.
“Does Hannon seem to have a coherent plan?” asked Levanthal.
Victoria grimaced. “I think he’s making it up as we go along, but he’s come up with a fairly decent one. The Yucatán coastline is pretty rugged and desolate for long stretches on both the Gulf and Caribbean sides. I went to Cancún a few years ago on vacation, and from 421
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what I remember most of the peninsula is just a thick mat of jungle. I presume he intends to jump from the ship in full scuba gear and swim underwater to shore. He’s probably correct in assuming we’ll have some difficulty coordinating with Mexican authorities and getting American law enforcement into position. If he slips into the jungle we may never find him. He could head for Central or South America, or come north to the States.”
“Have the snipers take him out when he jumps,” said Levanthal.
McCabe chimed in. “Not to underestimate my own men, sir, but I don’t think that’s possible. That’s why Hannon asked for
two
sets of scuba equipment. My guess is that in the middle of the night, we’re going to see two people flying off that balcony simultaneously, clinging to each other like Romeo and Juliet. We won’t know which is the hostage and which is Hannon. I assume that’s why he asked for black greasepaint, so we can’t single out the white guy. Even if we could tell one from the other, we couldn’t risk a shot. If the bullet were to rupture his scuba tank, the compressed air would cause a huge explosion, like the exploding shark at the end of that first
Jaws
movie.
With a full tank, you’re talking three thousand pounds of pressure per square inch. Our hostage would be killed right along with him.”
“What about the bomb threat? Is he bluffing?”
Victoria grimaced. “Possibly. I think he boarded this ship purely as a means of escape, with no intention of blowing it up. I doubt he came aboard packing explosives.
One thing, however, does give us concern.
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When our agents were preparing the lifeboats, we noticed that one was missing a flare gun and the spare tank of gasoline. A five-gallon container.”
“Five gallons,” Levanthal said with concern. “That’s like five sticks of dynamite. Does his background show any familiarity with explosives?”
“Possibly,” said Victoria. “He did have some arson activity as a juvenile.”
Shapiro leaned toward the speaker. “It wouldn’t take an expert to blow this ship up. She’s probably carrying a hundred thousand gallons of fuel in her tanks. Blow that up and you might take the whole Bermuda Triangle right along with you.”
“But how would he detonate it?” asked Levanthal.
“The flare gun?” she speculated.
Shapiro shook his head. “He’s not suicidal.”
“I think he’s got something rigged up so he doesn’t have to pull the trigger,” she said. “He told me, ‘Above all, don’t walk through the wrong door.’ The only reason he would say that is because he wants us to be too scared to make a move. That makes me think he set up some kind of makeshift spring gun, like store owners use to protect their property from burglars after hours. He could have soaked a closet or storage room with gasoline, then rigged up the flare gun to the door handle. If somebody opens the wrong door, it fires the flare gun. Five gallons of gasoline in one of these tiny cabins would be a major explosion. If it’s below the waterline, it could rupture the hull and sink the ship. If it’s anywhere near the main fuel tanks, it could blow us all to kingdom come.”
Levanthal’s sigh crackled over the line. “Put the 423
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agents on notice to sniff for gasoline before they open any doors. But let’s not paralyze ourselves. The gasoline and flare gun could have been missing from that lifeboat for six months. At this point, all we have from Hannon is a vague threat.”
“That’s true,” said Victoria, “but he’s got enough victims to prove at least one thing: He’s never threatened anything he couldn’t deliver.”
McCabe grimaced and moved closer to the phone. “Sir, Agent Santos just made my point. We have a hostage taker who is a known killer, not a negotiator. It’s time to be more proactive. He’s already tortured one of the crew, ripped off a fingernail. His tongue might be next. My men are ready to go in.”
There was silence on the line as Levanthal mulled it over.
Victoria was suddenly getting bad vibes. She could sense his decision going the other way, and flaming images of the Davidian disaster in Waco were filling her head. “Sir, before we pull the plug on negotiation, let me try one more strategy. I just found out Mike Posten’s on the ship.”
“The reporter?” he said.
“Yes. Maybe we can do something with him as a third-party intermediary, It’s worth a try.”
There was silence again. Finally, Levanthal spoke. “All right. Use him. But whatever you do,” he said in a serious tone, “don’t you dare
lose
him.”
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j
ust after 4:00 P.M., Hannon was kneeling in front of the mini-bar, trying to decide between peanut M&M’s and the last package of shortbread cookies. The second breakfast on the room service cart had gotten him through lunch, but dinner pickings were looking slim. Suddenly, the mini-bar kicked back on, and the cabin lights were back. Hannon wiped the sweat from his brow and reached up to the air-conditioning duct. They had power.
Leddy Coolidge grunted loudly through the gag in his mouth. Hannon shot him a look, then glanced at the television. An aerial photograph of the MS
Fantasy
was filling the screen.
“Good job, Mr. Cool,” he said as he grabbed the remote and switched on the volume.
It was a different CNN anchor this time, an attractive woman with a serious expression. She was in midsentence when the volume switched on.
“…late-breaking developments on the cruise 425
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ship MS
Fantasy
, which unexpectedly left Nassau a few hours ago with only half its passengers and crew aboard.
We now have word that the ship has veered from its normal course and is headed in the direction of Mexico.
Michael Posten, a reporter for the
Miami Tribune,
is aboard the ship and has made contact with us by portable telephone.”
Hannon’s eyes lit with anger as a photograph of Mike suddenly flashed on the screen.
“Michael,” she said, “can you tell us what is going on down there?”
The words LIVE, BY TELEPHONE, flashed beneath Mike’s photograph. The line crackled as he spoke, like a bad connection.
“Right now, rumors are flying, but it appears as though the ship has indeed been hijacked by an American named Frank Hannon. We’re told that Hannon has taken at least two hostages, which is a matter of grave concern. As I’m sure you’re aware, the FBI just yesterday identified Hannon as the prime suspect in ten serial murders committed over the past few months across the country—the so-called tongue murders.”
“What does Hannon want?” she asked.
“That’s not entirely clear,” said Mike. “What is clear, though, is that capture is inevitable. The ship is loaded with FBI agents who boarded in Nassau wearing civilian clothing. All of them are well armed and well trained in hostage rescue. They’re doing an excellent job of keeping the passengers calm and protected. The only question is whether Hannon will surrender peacefully without senseless bloodshed, or whether he’ll make a suicidal attempt at escape.”
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“But if he’s wanted for murder, what would Hannon have to lose by making a desperation move?”
“Much more than he thinks,” said Mike. “Ironically, should he kill one of his hostages, it would be the
only
murder authorities can actually link to him. While the FBI at first believed that Hannon was the serial killer, they’re now focusing on another man named Curt Rollins.
As you may know, I wrote a number of exclusive stories on these serial killings for the
Miami Tribune.
All of the stories were based on information I obtained from a source who professed to be very knowledgeable about the crimes. Curt Rollins was that source. An abundance of physical evidence connecting Rollins to the murders has been found at each of the crime scenes. I’m told there’s little, if any, physical evidence connecting Hannon.”
“Are you saying that Hannon has been framed by Rollins?”
“According to my sources, that’s what the FBI is thinking at this point. The only item linking Hannon to the crime is apparent motive. All of the victims were potential sources for the prosecution at a rape trial Hannon was involved in twelve years ago. I might add that Hannon was convicted—though he always maintained his innocence. The list from which the victims was selected was easily obtainable, and may have been used by Rollins to act out some sort of grudge against Hannon, to set him up. At this point, it’s difficult to imagine the authorities making a murder charge against Hannon stick.”
“Granting that Hannon is blameless, why would he take hostages?” the reporter asked, puzzled.
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“One theory is that he believes he won’t get a fair shake because of his past criminal record, that he’s convinced he’s being railroaded.”
“Michael, can you—”
The line crackled. “I have to leave you,” said Mike. “The FBI has prohibited any phone calls, and I believe I’ve been spotted.”
“One more thing,” the reporter tried, but the line went dead. “Well, I believe we’ve lost contact,” she said to her television audience. “Once again, that was Michael Posten aboard the MS
Fantasy.
”
Hannon sat on the edge of the bed, listening for any further coverage. When a colorful weather map appeared on the screen, he hit the MUTE button. He sighed and smiled thinly.