“Back blast?” Stark said.
Emma showed him the rear of the tube. “The exhaust shoots out of the back with a powerful force. It can fry anyone too close to it. You need to look behind you to ensure it’s clear before firing. Also, it leaves a visible vapor trail, which has the unfortunate consequence of revealing one’s position in the dark.”
“Have you fired one of these?” Stark said.
“Yes.”
Stark stilled, watching her. Just as she began to feel uncomfortable, he turned his attention back to the rocket.
Emma heard an alarm in the distance. A barely audible voice chanted a warning. The next warning, though, came through loud and clear. A recorded voice spoke in English and echoed over the water. “Warning! Do not approach. Leave the area immediately.”
Stark turned to Hassim. “Do these guys understand English?”
Hassim pursed his lips. “Probably not. But they should be bright enough to figure out that the cruise liner does not wish to be boarded.”
Out of nowhere came the blast of the most excruciating noise Emma had ever heard in her life. Stark yelled in response, holding his ears and lowering his head. There was another, cracking sound, and the pirates began to split up.
“They’re going to attack from all sides,” Stark said.
Hassim grimaced. “We’re moving as fast as this engine will allow. Get ready, we’ll be in firing range soon.”
Emma held on to a side rail, her assault weapon at the ready, as she watched the Kaiser Franz loom larger. She could see movement on the upper outside decks. One man in a white uniform stood on the highest level. He appeared to be staring at them with binoculars. Another man, slender and dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, stood with him. A frisson of recognition ran down her spine as she gazed at the second man. Despite the fact that she was too far away to make out any features, she knew, without a doubt, that it was Sumner.
39
STROMEYER TOOK A CIRCUITOUS PATH TO THE ROTARY MEETING. While anyone could have seen from the organization’s Web page that Banner was scheduled to speak that day, the most dangerous time for her would be en route. Once there she’d be surrounded by the other attendees, a much less desirable target. Getting there, though, was going to be time-consuming. She started from her house, leaving out the back door and jumping the neighbor’s fence. The neighbor’s name was Stan, and he took his morning coffee in a sunroom facing the yard. Stromeyer often jumped his gate when working on a particularly sensitive matter, or when she wished to avoid the press. Stan was a sixty-year-old former analyst at a right-wing think tank. Stromeyer considered herself a centrist, leaning toward liberal. Their divergent political views didn’t hinder the relationship in the least. Each of them had worked long enough in Washington to realize that most issues in the world were neither a simple black nor white but a complex shade of gray. They both lamented the violence that pockmarked the globe.
Stan was in his solarium when Stromeyer swung her leg onto his side of the fence and placed her toes on the overturned wheelbarrow placed there. He cranked open a casement window.
“I hope this doesn’t mean that the witch-hunt is getting you down,” he said through the screen.
Stromeyer smiled at him. “Just being cautious. If you see any shady characters floating around, you’ll be sure to call me?”
“I’ll shoot them first, then call you. How’s that?”
“Works for me,” Stromeyer said.
She waved good-bye before running past his garage to the alley behind, where Alicia was waiting for her. They rode Alicia’s cycle to the nearest Metro stop. From there Stromeyer took the train to a location three miles from the Rotary club, doubling back in a cab to the front door of the imposing redbrick building. The cab turned in to the circular drive and stopped.
She was thirty minutes early. The lobby was empty, with the exception of one lone man behind a reception desk. Stromeyer stepped up to him.
“I’m the speaker. I know I’m a little early. Is there somewhere I can get something to drink before we begin? Perhaps some lemonade?”
The man pointed to the lounge entrance on the far left side of the lobby. “Over there is the lounge. The bartender isn’t on duty yet, but you can get a water bottle from a refrigerator behind the bar. Senator Cooley’s there, pouring himself a stiff one.”
Stromeyer doubted that. Cooley was a notorious teetotaler. When campaigning in the South, he would put on cornpone airs and call alcohol “the devil’s brew.” Stromeyer thought it was an act, but no one had ever seen Cooley take a drink, so perhaps she was wrong. She strode over to the doors that separated the lounge area from the lobby. They were heavy leather-covered panels with studs outlining the perimeter. She hauled them open and stepped inside.
The doors closed behind her with a swishing sound. It was dark in the lounge, which was paneled in gleaming mahogany. A thick carpet covered the floor, and leather club chairs were scattered in small seating configurations. On the far wall was an elaborate carved-wood bar. The bottles of liquor gleamed in the faint light. Cooley stood at the cushioned edge, his back to Stromeyer. He didn’t turn when she walked across to him, leading her to believe that he didn’t hear her.
“Go away. Can’t a man even have a drink in peace?” Cooley slurred his words. When Stromeyer came abreast of him, she was aghast at what she saw. Cooley stood belly to the bar, with an entire bottle of Jack Daniel’s in his hand. It was already half empty. Stromeyer looked for a glass but couldn’t find one anywhere on the gleaming wood top. The lack of drinkware didn’t seem to faze Cooley, who took a huge swallow of the amber liquid straight from the bottle. He lowered the container a fraction while he raised an eyebrow at her. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
Stromeyer gathered her thoughts. Something was very wrong here.
“Senator, I’m surprised to see you drinking, especially this early in the day. I understood you to be a teetotaler.”
Cooley put the bottle down with a thud, resting it on the bar but never taking his hand off it. He looked about to weep.
“I am. Been sober twenty-five years.” He gazed at the bottle in his hand. “But guess that’s all over now. Gotta start from square one.” He took another huge gulp. “Right after I finish this bottle.” He took another swig. He was drinking so fast that Stromeyer was becoming frightened. It was as if the man were possessed.
“Maybe you should hand me the bottle. You’ve had a lot in a very short time. It can’t be good for you.”
He shook his head. “Never was good for me. Practically ruined my life, way back then. But I can’t give you the bottle. What you don’t know, but I do, is that once I start, I don’t stop.” He shook the bottle at the shelves lining the back of the bar. “I’ll drink everything on those shelves without stopping.” He took another swallow, and this time when he lowered the bottle, Stromeyer could see tears forming in the corners of his eyes. He wiped them away with the back of his free hand. “’Course, in those days I was what my first wife called a mean drunk. Now it looks like I’m a sloppy drunk.” He made a sound that was halfway between a sob and a gulp. “But I gotta finish off this whiskey and get the next. So go away and leave me to it.”
Stromeyer reached out. She wrapped her palm around the neck of the bottle above where his fingers grasped it. A fine line of blood ran down his hand.
“Senator, you’re bleeding.” Stromeyer pointed at a small puncture wound.
He nodded. “It’s nothing. Man bumped into me in the lobby and hit me with his pen.”
“What type of pen?” Stromeyer couldn’t keep the sharp sound out of her voice. The revelation that he’d been stuck with a pen rattled her. Just like Caldridge, she thought. But Cooley was six thousand miles away, so the odds of the two things’ being connected seemed remote.
He shrugged. “White one. Dug into me. Doesn’t matter.” He didn’t release the bottle.
“Let go. I’ll take it. Something’s not right about this.”
For the first time, he seemed to really look at her. Focus on her. “You’re Darkview’s vice president.”
She nodded.
He snorted. “You must be loving this. The great man falls. Bet you always thought I was a liar.”
He was so close to the truth that Stromeyer could feel her face coloring a little. She shook off the embarrassment.
“If you’ve been sober for twenty-five years, what possessed you to drink now?”
Cooley shook his head in what looked like true bewilderment. “I can’t tell you. I was only in the building a few minutes, and then I had the most overwhelming craving for a drink. I was here and with Jack in a heartbeat.”
Stromeyer tried to imagine a substance that would force a man to drink, but nothing came to mind. Cooley unwrapped her fingers from the top of his hand, breaking her train of thought.
Once again he was focused on her.
“You look scary smart just now. I can almost see the gears turning in your head.”
“I’m thinking you were poisoned,” Stromeyer said.
He had the bottle halfway to his lips, then stopped. “Poisoned?”
Stromeyer nodded. “Fast-acting. Somehow triggered a drinking binge.”
He stayed frozen, holding the liquor in the air. “Drugged in order to drink?” He burst out laughing. “Now, that’s a good one!” He brought the bottle closer to his mouth.
“Stop it!” Stromeyer snapped out the order. She used the tone she’d utilized for years in the military, when some grunt was insistent on doing some foolish thing that was going to get him killed, demoted, or both. Like the men before him, Cooley stopped. The whiskey stayed in midair.
“Put that alcohol down! Quit acting like your actions are out of your control. A man who’s been able to avoid drink for twenty-five years certainly has the wherewithal to avoid succumbing to a poison, for God’s sake. If you were drugged, then as soon as it fades, you’ll be back to where you were. Nothing lost, nothing gained. Status quo. Now, do it.”
Cooley put the bottle down with a clink. He shoved it at her. “Here.”
Stromeyer took hold of it. A garbage can lined with plastic sat in the corner of the bar. She tossed the Jack Daniel’s at it. It flew in and crashed to the bottom.
“You’d better get out of here. There’s an entrance to the kitchen in that corner.” Stromeyer pointed to a set of swinging doors. “Leave that way. Hit the Metro and go home.”
He straightened. “Yes, sir!” He snapped out a salute. The action made him stagger sideways, ruining the effect. He waved her aside. “Out of my way.”
“I’m not in your way.”
“Oh.” He paused. “I meant that metaphorically, of course.”
Stromeyer rolled her eyes.
He peered at her. “Do you scare Banner as much as you’re scaring me?”
“Nothing scares Banner.”
Cooley looked as though that answer made sense to him. “I’m learning that.” He staggered to the kitchen door and was gone.
Two hours later Stromeyer stood in Darkview’s reception area watching men in jackets labeled FBI carry out box after box of Darkview’s files, two of their computers, and even their telephone console. Alicia sat on the long couch in the waiting area and watched the procession with wide eyes.
Stromeyer’s cell phone rang. She flipped it open. “Stromeyer, that you?” It was Ralston, the attorney.
“They’re almost done here.”
“Get yourself to a safe location where you won’t be overheard.”
Stromeyer went through the swinging door down the hall to the very end. She stood opposite the back stairwell door that was Banner’s favorite way to leave the premises on the sly.
“I’m alone,” she said.
“Their subpoena is good. It was issued by Cooley’s committee as a part of their investigation into the pipeline bombing. Apparently Cooley signed it two days ago. Right now no one is able to find him. Seems he dropped out of sight.”
“Will it help if we find him?”
“Conceivably. He could halt the seizure. Or, if he’s feeling particularly benevolent, he could return the boxes altogether.”
Stromeyer watched as a group of agents headed toward her. All wore the same black pants and black windbreakers. She stepped aside while they swarmed past her down the stairs. Several jostled her.
“Last time I saw him, he wasn’t himself,” Stromeyer said.
“Maybe that’s good. Because in his usual mode he seems to be bent on destroying Darkview.”
Stromeyer hung up the phone, her stomach churning with worry.
40
EMMA HANDED THE ASSAULT RIFLE TO STARK. HE TOOK IT FROM her without comment.
“It’s on semi. I can’t shoot, and neither can you—”
Stark looked about to protest. Emma put up a hand to silence him.
“—despite your years of skeet shooting. I’d recommend that you keep it on semi most of the time. Its recoil is hard to control when it’s on autofire.” She grabbed the RPG and lifted the cushioned seat on the boat’s side. She attached a rocket to the weapon’s muzzle before turning to Hassim.
“Get us as close to the lead craft as you can. They’ll try to take out the captain and anyone piloting the boat first. When the Kaiser Franz slows, the others will begin bombarding it.”
Stark gave Emma an impressed look. “Where’d you learn that?”
“It’s only logical. If you want to stop a car, you can either kill the driver or disable the car. Or both. Even with RPGs they may not be able to disable a vessel that large, so going for the bridge makes the most sense. Plus, without a captain the crew and passengers will be less likely to put up a fight.”
Hassim turned the boat to follow the lead pirates. “You should work for Banner. You’re a natural,” he said.
Emma wasn’t sure if Hassim meant it as a compliment or not, so she remained quiet.
“Our real problem,” Hassim continued, “is getting them to regroup. We need all three on one side so we can drive around the other side and have you climb up the back.”
They surged toward the Kaiser Franz. By now the Somalis were within firing range of the ship. Emma, Hassim, and Stark, though, were not. Emma watched with a helpless feeling as the lead attacker fired his own rocket launcher. Flames shot out of the back as the missile climbed toward the cruise liner.
“They’re too far!” Hassim yelled over the sound of their own boat’s engines. “That was a waste of a grenade.” Sure enough, Emma was pleased to see the grenade self-destruct a full twenty feet in front of the ship.
The popping sound of gunfire was followed by a yell. She watched a pirate in the lead boat fly back. He landed on the boat’s floor, out of her range of vision.
“That was a nice shot,” Hassim said.
Emma looked at the men on the topmost deck. Sumner was no longer standing but was a dark mass on the edge, by the guardrail. He was on his stomach aiming a gun.
“I know that man. He’s an expert marksman,” Emma said.
Hassim looked thoughtful. “Is he the one that you’re coming here to help?”
She nodded.
Hassim pointed his chin at the messenger bag at her feet. “Take the bag with you. There are some grenades in there you can light and throw if you need to. Roducci sent them. He insisted you have them.”
Emma aimed the RPG without comment. “Tell me when we’re within range,” she said. She didn’t want to make the same mistake the pirates had and fire too soon.
Hassim eyed the screen before him. “I’ll tell you in detail. Stark?” Hassim didn’t turn his head.
Stark stepped up.
“Your weapon has a firing range of a hundred fifty to two hundred fifty meters. The RPG can get about three hundred. More, in the hands of an expert. Let Caldridge shoot first, then cover her by targeting anyone who looks like he’s even thinking of retaliating.”
Stark moved up behind Emma.
“Don’t stand there,” s
he said.
He started. “Oh, right. Back blast. Don’t fire that thing without warning me,” he said.
They came within four hundred feet of the lead pirates. By now Emma could make out the people on the Kaiser Franz, as well as a large gash on the vessel’s side. The ship was huge compared to the tiny boats surrounding it. It churned through the water but seemed unable to maintain a steady pace. At one moment it appeared to surge forward before slowing and then surging again. It was like a barely functioning car lurching in its last throes.
The pirates shot another grenade. This one aimed true, headed right to the deck where Sumner waited. Emma held her breath. A cracking sound echoed in the air. The pirate holding the RPG went down. A second gunshot was followed by the grenade exploding in midair.
“Get ready to fire,” Hassim said.
Emma aimed at the lead pirates.
“Now,” Hassim said.
She fired. The rocket catapulted out of the tube just as the boat hit a wave. She stumbled backward. She kept going in that direction to allow Stark to step forward. He aimed, held the position for a second, then fired. Emma saw the gun buck on recoil.
Her grenade exploded five feet from the back of the pirate boat. Shrapnel rained down on the inhabitants. They were close enough now that she could hear their yells as the bits of exploded ordnance pelted them. She couldn’t tell if Stark’s shot was wide or not, but he followed it up with another that did hit its mark. A pirate at the boat’s rear dropped like a stone. She saw a muzzle flash from Sumner’s gun as he fired another shot and the pilot fell, hitting the side of the small craft and tumbling overboard. There were three men left in the boat. The two other pirate ships appeared from behind the cruise liner and roared toward the front.
“Here come the troops. Excellent. When they bunch up together, we’ll veer off to the back,” Hassim said.
The attackers formed into a roughly triangular pattern, joining the lead ship in firing at the Kaiser Franz’s bridge. Several flashes of muzzle fire from Sumner told Emma that he had turned his attention to the new attackers. One pirate in the second boat raised a rifle in their direction.
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