Dark Harbor

by David Hosp

  AUTHOR’S NOTE: The initial drafts of this novel were completed late in 2003. No material changes have been made to the prologue since that time. Any similarity between events in this novel and recent events in Europe (or elsewhere) is purely coincidental. I extend my deepest sympathies to the victims of terrorist attacks and their families throughout the world.

  The events and characters in this book are fictitious. Certain real locations and public figures are mentioned, but all other characters and events described in the book are totally imaginary.

  Copyright © 2005 by Richard David Hosp

  All rights reserved.

  Warner Books

  Hachette Book Group

  237 Park Avenue, New York, NY 10017

  Visit our Web site at www.HachetteBookGroup.com.

  First eBook Edition: June 2005

  ISBN: 978-0-446-54981-3

  The “Warner Books” name and logo are trademarks of Hachette Book Group, Inc.

  Contents

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-one

  Chapter Forty-two

  Chapter Forty-three

  Chapter Forty-four

  Chapter Forty-five

  Chapter Forty-six

  Chapter Forty-seven

  Chapter Forty-eight

  Chapter Forty-nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-one

  Chapter Fifty-two

  Chapter Fifty-three

  Chapter Fifty-four

  Chapter Fifty-five

  Chapter Fifty-six

  Chapter Fifty-seven

  Chapter Fifty-eight

  Chapter Fifty-nine

  Chapter Sixty

  Chapter Sixty-one

  Chapter Sixty-two

  Chapter Sixty-three

  Chapter Sixty-four

  Chapter Sixty-five

  Chapter Sixty-six

  Chapter Sixty-seven

  Chapter Sixty-eight

  Chapter Sixty-nine

  Chapter Seventy

  Chapter Seventy-one

  Chapter Seventy-two

  Chapter Seventy-three

  Chapter Seventy-four

  Chapter Seventy-five

  Chapter Seventy-six

  Epilogue

  For Joanie, Reid, and Samantha

  With Love

  Acknowledgments

  The following people have provided invaluable advice, support, and substantive comments without which this novel would never have been possible: Joanie Hosp, Richard Hosp, Martha Hosp, Joan McCormick, Gary Mitchell, Ted Hosp, Betsy Hosp, Jeff Atwood, Jen Atwood, Breck Masterson, Elizabeth Masterson, Gus Coldebella, Tony Feeherry, John Englander, and Lynne Sollis.

  I would also like to thank:

  My partners and colleagues at Goodwin Procter, LLP, who, over the past nine years, have made me a better writer, a better lawyer, and a better person;

  Frances Jalet-Miller, whose insight and editorial skill was invaluable in preparing the initial draft of this novel;

  Larry, Jamie, Jimmy, Michele, and the entire Warner Books family, whose support I will always appreciate;

  Rick Horgan, who did such an exceptional job of editing the near-final draft of the manuscript; much of any success I have with this book can be credited to him;

  Lisa Vance, my agent (and the rest of the outstanding crew at the Aaron Priest Literary Agency), whose patience, perseverance, good humor, and hard work have already brought more success than I ever could have hoped for;

  Maureen Egen, who took a chance on an unknown lawyer-turned-first-time-novelist and has been a great supporter, friend, and final editor; I am honored to have the opportunity to work with her; and finally,

  Aaron Priest, who was the first person “in the business” to read the initial manuscript and agreed to represent me; without his belief and encouragement, none of this would have been possible.

  Prologue

  Monday, September 12, 2005

  ED TANNERYLEANED BACK into the vinyl seat as the commuter train pulled out of the station. He couldn’t remember ever having been so tired.

  “How’s the baby?” Harry Makin asked. The two of them had been riding the train together for three years. They were similar cogs in the great economic engine of corporate America: white, male, early thirties, married, blue suit, white shirt, red tie—just two among more than a thousand hardworking souls on the 7:34 a.m. train winding its way through the suburban sprawl west of Boston.

  “She’s great,” Tannery replied. “I just wish she was sleeping better.”

  “Yeah, well, get used to it, buddy. If you had any illusions about getting a good night’s sleep anytime in the next three months, you may as well abandon them.”

  Tannery smiled. “It’s worth it, though.”

  Harry laughed. “Tell me that when she’s sixteen and she’s not coming home at night anymore because she’s dating someone like you.”

  “No problem. I’ve already applied for a gun license.”

  Harry laughed again and closed his eyes, turning his head toward the window, away from Tannery. Tannery enjoyed riding to work with Harry. He understood that silence could be a commuter’s best friend, and recognized the difference between light banter and incessant chatter.

  The two men sat quietly next to each other as the train gathered speed. That particular day, a respectful silence seemed appropriate. It had been exactly four years and a day since the world had changed so drastically.

  They’d both known several people who perished in the attack on the World Trade Center. The financial community was small and inbred, and the ripples that spread across their industry in the wake of the loss were still deeply felt.

  “I thought you were going to take the day off,” Harry commented after a while, his eyes still closed. Tannery’s company allowed its employees to take September 11 as a floating holiday in memory of the great tragedy. Because the eleventh fell on Sunday, they had been given the option of taking the Monday off in remembrance of the dark anniversary.

  “Nah, I’ve got too much going on. I couldn’t.” That wasn’t exactly true. The baby was only two weeks old, and Tannery hadn’t logged any vacation time yet. He could have skipped work that day. But the markets were down, and he was young and ambitious; he was unwilling to give ground to his competitors. Besides, Amy seemed to be doing great with the baby, and he was planning on taking a week off in the beginning of October—the most beautiful time of year in New England. Go, A
my had told him, and then you can really relax when we’re on vacation. So he’d gone.

  Harry grunted his understanding and sank deeper into his seat, desperate to augment what little sleep he got at home contending with two children of his own. There just never seemed to be enough time in the day.

  Sitting on the train, a part of Ed Tannery knew he’d made a mistake. The baby would never be this young again, and he would never get this time back. At the same time, he had responsibilities now. He had to make sure he provided for his young family.

  He took a photograph out of his jacket pocket and held it up. Amy stared out at him from the delivery room, sweaty and tired, but radiant. In her arms lay their newborn baby, only minutes old, still sticky and red and grumpy. Tannery put the picture back into his breast pocket and patted his chest. He closed his eyes as a tired smile spread across his face. He’d have a lifetime with them, he thought.

  Three rows ahead of Ed Tannery, Alhari Al Sadria sat with his eyes glued to the window, following the train’s path parallel to the highway.

  He had short, neatly trimmed black hair, a thin mustache, and an olive complexion. Most people assumed he was Spanish, or perhaps Greek. In fact, Sadria had been born and raised in Tunisia on the shores near the ancient city of Carthage. As a boy, he’d played in the turquoise waters of the Mediterranean and watched the barbarians from Italy, France, and America claim the small African nation street by street, building by building, and family by family. It was there that he came under the influence of Nisar Ben Mohammad Namur, an outspoken mullah who shared Sadria’s contempt for Westerners. The great teacher had taken Sadria’s adolescent disenchantment and molded it with care into a hatred that burned with blind passion.

  In 1996, Sadria had arrived in the United States as a twenty-year-old college student, ready to study computer science at Boston University. He graduated near the top of his class and earned a spot in a master’s program at MIT. Upon receiving his degree, he turned down doctoral program offers from several top universities, choosing instead to enter the private sector. A large consulting company hired him and expedited the visa paperwork so he could stay in the country. In the two years since, he’d ridden this same train every morning. Never again, he knew.

  The call had come two weeks before. To anyone eavesdropping, the conversation with his old friend in Tunisia would have sounded innocent enough. They spoke of Sadria’s family and the goings-on in his old seaside town on the Mediterranean. They talked about the top African and European football stars and the latest matches. They laughed about the times they’d enjoyed when they were boys, and about the future. The conversation was so relaxed and natural that Sadria almost missed the signal.

  “We’re having an anniversary party,” his friend said.

  “Really?” Sadria’s breath caught in his chest.

  “Yes, and we’d like you to join us.”

  Sadria couldn’t believe it. He’d waited so long to hear such instructions that he’d ceased to believe they’d ever come. His manufactured life in the United States had become his reality. He found himself unable to talk, and the pause on the phone was noticeable.

  “Do you think you’ll be able to make it?” His friend’s voice was still nonchalant, but Sadria could feel the urgency from half a world away. Buoyed by the importance of his task, Sadria found his voice.

  “Of course, my brother. I’m already counting the moments until we can embrace each other again around the warmth of the desert fire. I know it will be soon.” With that, Sadria’s course was set.

  Now the culmination of nine years of waiting and planning and thinking was at hand. Sadria looked up toward the front of the car at the young man in the bright blue uniform. He couldn’t be more than twenty years old, and was of no concern. He was a member of the newly formed Massachusetts Transportation Safety Commission Guard Unit, which had been thrown together in haste when the American federal government blindly put up billions of dollars for states to use in developing homeland defense strategies. Fearful of losing out on the funding, politicians had fallen over one another to come up with pork-barrel schemes for “improved security.” The Guard Unit officers assigned to the transit rails were, Sadria knew, nothing more than window dressing.

  At the same time, the security wizards and political hacks had failed to recognize the real weaknesses in transport security. As a result, it had been child’s play for Sadria to sneak into the rail yard at night and attach bundles of explosives to the bottom of each of the train’s twelve cars. The hole he’d cut in the simple chain-link fence would be discovered later in the day, and the shouting and finger-pointing would begin. But by then it would be too late.

  The explosives were set on a two-second delayed detonation sequence, running from the back car to the front, where he was. In his pocket he held the detonator that would start the chain reaction. He was amazed that his palm wasn’t sweaty, and he took that as a sign from Allah that his cause was just and he would be rewarded. He found peace in his belief that he would indeed be reunited with his old friend soon.

  Sadria looked out the window again. The train had reached its top speed and was headed toward a sharp turn near Newton Corner. If his calculations were correct, each car would explode and separate in sequence, slipping the rails in a fury. Death would not be confined to the train itself. It would be carried off the tracks by each railcar, enveloping pedestrians, passing cars, and nearby buildings. It would be glorious.

  As the train entered the curve, Sadria took a deep breath and said a silent prayer. Then he flipped the switch.

  At first he thought there’d been a malfunction, and he feared he had failed his brothers at his most important moment. He lamented that he wouldn’t be able to regain the respect of the movement, and that his place in heaven was no longer certain. He was deep in despair when he heard the first explosion. It was distant, coming from the rear of the train. Two seconds later there was another, closer this time. Then another, and another. His heart was filled with joy as the explosions became deafening. The eleventh explosion rocked the car just behind his, and he was no longer able to contain his excitement.

  “Allahu Akhbar!” he shouted at the top of his lungs. He was barely able to get the words out before the final explosion ripped through the train’s front car, the fireball burning straight through his clothes and melting the flesh from his face, reducing it to an eternal grimace.

  Three rows behind, Ed Tannery had only a moment to grasp one final time at his jacket pocket to feel the outlines of the photograph that held the image of his wife and their infant daughter.

  Chapter One

  August 2006

  HER BODY WAS FOUND on a Sunday evening. It might have been discovered earlier, but floating in Boston Harbor it blended in with the logs and tires and trash that spilled over from the city.

  She was the seventh, or so they thought at the time. Two weeks had passed since the sixth, and people were holding their breath, greedy in their anticipation. Not since the days when the Boston Strangler prowled his way across Beacon Hill had a singular fear so titillated New Englanders.

  She was found by a police officer—Officer Paul Stone—who stumbled on her, almost literally. Twenty-two years old and fresh from the police academy, he spent his afternoons on foot patrol along the piers at the edge of South Boston—“Southie,” as it was known to the locals. It was a lousy assignment. Directly across Fort Point Channel from downtown Boston, the edge of Southie was lifeless on the weekends, particularly in the heat of late August. The Boston World Trade Center was deserted, as were the new Convention Center and the Federal Courthouse. Other than those outcast buildings, the area was dominated by warehouses, parking lots, and storage facilities, the majority of which were shut down on Sundays. Stone felt as if he were in some postapocalyptic version of his hometown as he patrolled up and down the center of empty streets.

  He walked halfway across the abandoned Northern Avenue Bridge at around seven o’clock. It was nearing dusk
and most of the lights were on in the skyscrapers in front of him. Many were of the fluorescent variety, beaming out unfriendly from office towers where the lights seemed to burn around the clock, but others glowed from apartment buildings, shimmering along the city’s edge and easing the evening’s transition. At the bridge’s center, he took one last look at the financial district, then turned and followed his patrol route back toward Southie.

  The top of his shirt was open to the summer heat as he walked back along the bridge, but there was very little wind. A nice sea breeze might have made the beat more bearable, but the water was still and silent, and he cursed the heat as his collar rode up on his neck, soaked through with sweat.

  It was high tide, and the piers seemed peaceful. The sunset over his shoulder cast a flat, pre-dusk light on the shoreline, highlighting the pockets of garbage floating by the shore along the harbor’s embankments.

  One particular clump caught Stone’s eye; a dark mass stuck on a piling twenty yards or so east of the bridge. A metal object in the center of the lump was clinging unnaturally high on the piling. It had found the last rays of sunlight and was reflecting them right into Stone’s eyes. He followed the glimmer out of boredom and curiosity, leaving the bridge, turning left, and walking along the shoreline.

  When he came to the piling, he leaned over the embankment to take a look.

  He could see the object now. It was a watch—a nice one, too. A Movado. The crisp silver casing that formed the simple, understated watch face still held the sunlight from the west. Stone was no longer focused on the watch itself, though; his attention was riveted on the wrist to which it was attached. It was delicate yet firm, and extended up from the water, supporting a slim hand that seemed to be reaching for help. It was so desperate in its pose that Stone’s heart skipped a beat, and he reached over the harbor wall to grab hold. It was foolish, he realized, but he did it out of reflex and instinct. The cold, dead feel of the skin returned him to reality and he jerked himself back.

  As he let go of the hand, the wrist slipped off its catch on the piling and the entire dark mass rolled over in the water. Stone found himself staring straight down into the face of a woman submerged just inches below the water’s surface. Her eyes were open, as if to take one final look at the late summer sky. She was dressed in what looked like a tight-fitting black outfit, and around her neck was a bright red ribbon holding a gold crucifix in place at the top of her chest. Stone had the feeling that she was staring at him, and his heart skipped again when he looked into her eyes. They were clear blue, and they were mesmerizing. Later that night, in trying to recall the entirety of the incident, his only specific recollection would be of those eyes.