Kingdom Keepers VI(51)

The girls looked toward Philby, expecting him to counter Finn or object as he’d been doing for months.

“Go on,” Philby said, acquiescing.

“There isn’t a lot of choice of where he can go,” Finn said. “He’s not going to drag himself up that staircase. And he’s not going to get very far across the Atrium without someone seeing him, without someone trying to help—only to find out their hands go right through him. At that point Security’s called, I think, and it’s Uncle Bob’s problem. If Bob spots any of us, or gets hold of Maybeck’s hologram… He has the authority to shut us down completely. At that point, we’re toast.”

“They’ll shut down our server,” Philby said. “We do not want that. Our one chance to defeat the OTs…they can’t harm us.”

“So,” Charlene said, recapping, “no stairs, no Atrium. If he sticks to the wall, he could get down to the Shore Excursion Desk. Maybe hide back there—”

“That place is occupied every living second of every living day,” Philby said.

“The Royal Palace,” Willa said. “It’s huge. It’s empty a lot of the time. There are waiter stations, tables, a ton of places to hide.”

“Great idea!” Philby said, nodding.

“They close up between meals. I know that for a fact,” Finn said.

“All the better for hiding,” Willa said.

“All the trickier if we’re supposed to go looking for him,” said Charlene.

“Yes,” said Finn, “but we’re arriving at the locks—the ceremony. Everyone will be out on deck, even the crew.”





DAZZLED BY RAYS OF SUNSHINE streaming out through a few stray clouds like Hollywood searchlights, the sound of an off-key brass band, and the snap of flags in the wind, the Disney Dream crept forward into the waiting mouth of the new locks of the Panama Canal. Governors and politicians had been brought aboard for the inaugural ceremony. A canal pilot controlled the ship while the dignitaries occupied a forward deck just below the bridge, standing with Captain Cederberg in his starched whites, as well as Captains Mickey and Minnie, both dressed in festive south-of-the-border costumes and sombreros.

Over three thousand passengers and crew jammed every available stateroom balcony and open deck on both sides of the eleven hundred and fifteen feet of painted steel. Miniature flags—U.S. on one side, Panama, the other—waved from the ship and ground. Cameras flashed. Video rolled, professional and amateur alike. Tens of thousands of locals cheered.

Among those celebrating was a sturdy girl with dark hair that carried a few streaks of bright red highlights. While the other passengers were fully focused on the crowds below and on the spectacle, Mattie Weaver was on a mission. It was no easy task studying every face, every profile. She moved like a spy, her arm raised and waving, her eyes never straying from the passengers surrounding her. She moved slowly, one end of a deck to another. Deck 4 to Deck 11. Then 11 to 12. The sports area. The stern. Somewhere she would find him. The allure of the celebration would prove too enticing. He would not have the willpower to resist.

* * *

“We’ve got him!” Clayton Freeman informed Uncle Bob. The men sat thirty feet below the water’s surface in the air-conditioned confines of the Security offices.

With Bob’s attention jumping from one closed circuit camera image to another on the five hi-def television screens, with his earbud carrying the voices of twenty members of his staff and crew working to protect the Disney Dream on a historic day in foreign waters, with five recent e-mails from the FBI warning of threats to the ship, Bob failed to hear his right-hand man.

“Sir!” Clayton Freeman said, trying again. “I’ve got the stowaway!”

“What?!” Bob said, practically falling out of the chair as he lunged forward. He pressed a button on a wire and spoke into the radio microphone. “Stand by all for redeployment.” To Clayton, he said, “Go!”

“The RFT, sir. The laundry. You remember—”

“I remember!” Bob said. “Tracking the stolen laundry electronically…blah, blah, blah… As you can see, Freeman, I’m a little busy trying to keep my passengers and ships safe from terrorist threats, fake or not.”

Thankfully, the FBI listed all five “threats” as “Reduced Risk.” The company would not have gone forward with the inaugural had there been any “Legitimate Risk” cautions. Bob rubbed his forehead wearily.

“It’s just that—”

“Not now.”

“Yes, sir.”

“If you can handle it on your own,” Bob said, capitulating. He knew Freeman wanted the stowaway as badly as he did—though the timing couldn’t have been worse. “So be it.”