Twenty-four Days (Rowe-Delamagente series Book 2)

by Jacqui Murray

  And then she saw the sat phone on his belt, the one Zeke had thrown into a desk drawer as proof he and Bobby were done.

  “Is that why you’re late?” She tried to sound neutral, but it came out angry.

  He grinned sheepishly, but his mouth remained tense, eyes cold. “Is Bobby here?”

  “Why would he be? We don’t like each other.”

  Zeke’s eyes softened. “He is curious about Otto, that’s all. Kali, we need to talk. Will you wait for me?” He kissed her forehead and made a beeline for Eitan.

  “Sure.” Her voice cracked. She stared after him, his walk brisk and fluid with no wasted movement as though saving his energy for some future emergency. Zeke never coddled her, always told the truth, but something had happened to change. The row boat they called a relationship had sprung a small, steady leak. She needed a bucket, but had no idea where to find one.

  And then James arrived, immaculate as usual. Black blazer, white Oxford button-down dress shirt, black and pink striped tie, pink hankie, gray slacks, hair perfect. Before Kali could turn her back on him, a grinding noise and a thump interrupted whatever would come next. Kali turned to Otto as he toppled over, arms waving.

  “I better see what’s wrong,” she said to no one in particular. With a deft movement, she led Otto from the room. James yelled something about needing to talk to her.

  Why did everyone want to talk to her today?

  Chapter Seventeen

  Day Six, Saturday, August 12th, afternoon

  Eitan Sun’s Columbia office

  Rowe caught the drift of Kali’s perfume as she left, couldn’t stop a memory of Dmanisi from invading. Was he still that man or had he vanished?

  When he turned back, James was staring at him, a frown creasing his brow. “I got her clearance re-instated, Zeke, because we need her help,” and he started after Kali.

  Rowe grabbed his arm. “Let her fix Otto, then I’ll talk to her.”

  James shrugged off Rowe’s hand, but stopped. “She’s your blind spot, bud.”

  James was right. Time to put emotion aside, at least until they found the hijackers.

  Sun joined them as Rowe asked, "Have you talked to Virginia's Blue crew?"

  "What Blue crew?"

  "Every sub has two crews, Blue and Gold. Gold was aboard when Virginia disappeared. Blue would know about an embedded traitor.”

  Bobby took a note. “Triumph was sighted off the coast of France. From there, it can hit most of Europe.”

  “Or take a path through the Med and out the Suez Canal. It could reach North Korea in time for the missile launch. Who’s supervising the launch?”

  “There’ll be three or four warships there—including a sub. Their sonar will find Triumph without breaking a sweat.”

  “Like SOSUS did.”

  James paused. “Point taken.”

  “And what if it teams up with Virginia?” Rowe let that hang.

  James stuffed his hands in his pockets. “If we’d had access to Otto, he would have found Triumph yesterday.”

  Rowe bristled. “Or Virginia would have stopped you. Even without the nuclear warheads, they have Tomahawks.”

  James took a deep breath and let it out. “Bottom line, we don’t know what they’re up to which scares hell out of me.”

  Rowe was about to snap something about making it a priority to know why SOSUS missed Triumph when Sun spoke.

  “Sean found a suspect.”

  Rowe didn’t hide his surprise. “How does a California teen find a suspect in a sub hijacking? Is that why you called yesterday?”

  “Yes,” and Sun explained how Sean’s spycams led to Mohammed who Sean had reason to suspect was involved in the hijacking. As he spoke, he loaded a grainy snapshot of a gracile male, mid-twenties, with dark curly hair and a tentative smile.

  “Meet Ankour Mohammed. He looks Korean, his passport is Iranian, his culture Muslim, and he’s a doctor of nuclear physics. He’s currently traveling the US on a student visa to understand how capitalism and democracy promote national prosperity so he can replicate it at home. Problem is, he’s only touring Navy bases.”

  Rowe’s shoulders tightened as he studied the man who might have killed George. He had a flat face unmarked by emotion, a predator’s eyes that even from the murkiness of a low-res jpg chilled Rowe.

  “Is there any connection between him and Pakistan Taliban?”

  “No, but I uncovered an interesting fact: He was a friend of the late Salah Mahmud al-Zahrawi.”

  James stopped pacing. “Maybe he wants revenge.”

  Rowe’s stomach boiled. “Anger is a weakness we can exploit.”

  Sun brought up a second picture, a stunning woman in the uniform of a naval officer. She had glistening dark hair pulled back in a chignon, clear intelligent eyes, an aquiline nose, and a friendly almost impish smile shaped by generous lips.

  “Is she also a suspect?”

  "No. Her name’s LT Paloma Chacone, Mohammed’s girlfriend, though I think he’s using her for access to the base or her ship. She comes from a middle-class American family with no history of dissidence. She piled up awards like cordwood in high school and was accepted into Notre Dame, Stanford and USNA. She graduated tenth in her class two years ago and service selected the cruiser, USS Bunker Hill. She receives excellent fitness reports and is consistently ranked #1 among junior officers.”

  Sun opened a third picture, this of a stocky, broad-faced woman in her early twenties. Her blouse exposed the top of ample breasts. Her stretch pants were tight when she was ten pounds lighter. She hugged a miserable Mohammed.

  “This is an Ensign on another San Diego cruiser, Princeton. She appears to be another of Mohammed’s girlfriends.”

  He dated two women from the same tight community. “Does he need both, or doesn’t know which?”

  Sun tapped the Ensign. “This one’s missing. At least, failed to show up for her watch and her chain of command couldn’t reach her.” Sun pointed to a post-it note. "Sean also pulled three numbers from his surveillance—38 44 90—"

  Rowe jerked. "What?"

  Sun turned to Rowe. "I reacted as you did."

  When neither Sun nor Rowe explained, James threw up his hands. “Well?”

  What Rowe knew about these numbers was classified top secret and need to know. James had the clearance, but did he have the need to know? Rowe decided he did.

  "38-44-90—just south of Wonsan North Korea. It must be the satellite’s launch site."

  James whistled. "We’re set up at Musudan-ri. No wonder nothing is happening there."

  Rowe scratched the back of his head. “So they’re hiding from our Eye in the Sky because the comm satellite is something else, but why’s Mohammed have the coordinates?”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Day Six, Saturday, August 12th

  London, England, Lab of Dr. Penbury

  By the time the firemen cleared Imperial College’s Blackett Lab, students were arriving for morning classes. Oliver Najafian trudged home, trying to invent an excuse to be in the lab a second night. Allah provided. Dr. Penbury had an out of town commitment and asked Najafian to monitor an experiment for him.

  Alhamdulillah.

  Ten p.m. Najafian locked the lab and typed the password into Penbury’s computer.

  "Access denied."

  What? That was not possible. Penbury had provided him the computer’s password to facilitate monitoring the experiment. Najafian tried again.

  "Access denied."

  Perspiration beaded his forehead. He had one more chance before the system shut him out. He stared at the keyboard, eyes like saucers.

  And saw the caps lock on. Of course. He took a shallow breath and tried again.

  Allah smiled on him.

  It took only minutes to find the file.

  When the man named Salah first asked for help, Najafian refused. Sure, metamaterials could hide objects, but Najafian rejected the premise his long-time friend would use it to shield submari
nes. Salah insisted Penbury changed when his wife became ‘collateral damage’ to a peacenik protest. TV stations broadcast the protestors cheering as she bled out, the ambulance unable to reach her through the mob. Who wouldn’t change, Salah asked? If Penbury figured out how to shield subs from detection using metamaterials, shouldn’t the Muslim world be entitled to this device? Peace required protection.

  In the end, Najafian agreed, not to serve Allah but to find out if the Penbury he knew was a fraud.

  Najafian dug through a mountain of files before hitting pay dirt, a communiqué from the Royal Navy. They were eager to paint HMS Triumph with the sonar shield and required Penbury’s delivery date. Najafian’s brain stumbled. Triumph had been hijacked. Was there a connection?

  His phone pinged. Time to collect the experiment data.

  Thirty minutes later, measurements done, he located Penbury’s formula. He knew as much about this science as Penbury and spent the next four hours running it through his own highly technical brain, looking for flaws, mistakes, inconsistencies, but found nothing that would prevent its stated purpose of shielding a submarine from sonar. He copied the formula to his flashdrive so he could send it to Salah. If everyone had it, no one would benefit and peace would prevail.

  Before leaving, he browsed Penbury’s deleted emails and found another ‘metamaterials’ thread, this one with the Americans. They wanted to test the shield on the fast attack submarine, USS Virginia.

  Najafian’s stomach heaved. His brother served on Virginia.

  That changed everything. Najafian wasn’t a brave man, but he loved his younger brother fiercely. Najafian would be in an Iranian prison except for a timely warning from his sibling. If Salah was behind hijacking Triumph, he would go after Virginia next. Najafian had to stop him.

  The sun's first morning glow peeked over the horizon of blocky rooftops as Najafian walked home, lost in thought, the kernel of an idea percolating in his prodigious brain, vaguely aware of footsteps that mimicked his own. In Iran, scientists were always watched. Still, he was only a lab assistant. They would see they were wasting their time.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Day Seven, Sunday, August 13th, early morning

  City College of New York

  7 am and already the heat plastered Kali’s shirt to her chest as she sprinted the last hundred meters. A smattering of applause erupted as she pulled up panting, head hanging, every part of her sweating, even her fingernails. Six miles at a six-minute pace—she too wanted to applaud.

  She trudged to Convent Street and gasped when she got inside Zeke's Benz. It must be a hundred in the car. She cranked up the air, breathed in the maleness that made her heart stutter, and flew out of the parking lot. Zeke had offered his car to take Sean to the airport and Kali forgot to return the key when her son canceled. The man owed her.

  Twenty minutes later, she showered in the faculty lounge, changed into a flowered sundress and sandals, pulled her damp hair into a low ponytail, bought coffee and soda for breakfast, and collapsed behind her desk.

  "Hello, Kali. I thought you were staying home today. I'm glad you stopped by."

  Kali eyed Otto. “How are you?” Otto had a self-diagnosis module so this wasn’t an idle question. A mistake she’d made in yesterday’s upload had caused his meltdown. It took six hours to fix, but he forgave her faster than she forgave herself.

  Otto trundled closer. "Thank you for your assistance in repairing my algorithms. I visited Second Life after you left, but your world is more exciting. Did you enjoy your evening?" He adjusted his squat body and waited.

  Kali smiled. Eight-thirty on a Sunday morning, and she was chatting with an AI who, to be honest, she liked better than most people she knew. She started to explain how she spent the evening pouting, but settled for, "It was ducky."

  "Ducky? Like Zeke's friend, Mr. Duck Peters?"

  Kali shook her head and Otto’s drives whirred. "So this is ‘sarcasm’?"

  "Yes. 'Ducky' was a goal for last night, but not the reality."

  She might as well work on her dissertation. She pulled the keyboard into her lap and for four hours, lost herself in a world of tables and footnotes and pedanticism. By the time she stopped for a break, she'd completed the introduction, methodology, a summary of steps, and timeline for completion. The Dean would be happy.

  She stretched and padded to the vending machine. This time of the weekend, little remained so she settled for peanuts. When she got back to her office, Zeke was there, sandals on her desk, tank top tight over his muscular chest, hair tousled as though he just got out of bed.

  "Zeke. What a ... surprise."

  Without another word, Kali plopped into her desk chair and pretended to study her email which was a hopeless task with Zeke sitting three feet away. God, he looked good. Her heart quickened and she tamped down the smile that pulled at her mouth. She still wouldn’t forgive and forget. She dropped the peanuts in the trash and tossed him his car keys. “Thanks.”

  James popped up behind the bookshelf dressed in a Polo and Houndstooth pleated trousers, hair perfectly combed. He grunted a greeting as he ran a wand over her shelves, desks, drawers, and any spot that could hide a wireless snoop.

  She ate two Advil.

  Zeke sighed. “Before Bobby starts, how’s Otto?”

  Otto awoke at the sound of his name and rolled over to Zeke. “I am at 100%. I reworked my scripts to prevent this problem in the future.”

  He proceeded to explain in excruciating detail what had happened while Kali read her email. Someone wanted to put her in Who's Who. Someone else promised her the perfect date. Several people worried about her sexual satisfaction. Trash trash and trash.

  James’s phone rang and he left the room hissing, "I'm about to,” nearly ramming Sun. The scientist scuttled away, a quizzical expression on his face.

  Otto churbled and rolled in a circle until he faced Eitan. "Hello, Dr. Sun. I understand clothes are kept in houses, though I've never been to one. Did you not go home last night?"

  Sun offered a thin smile. "Like you, dear Otto, when I run out of energy, I fall asleep. In this case, it happened in my lab," and he wrapped one leg over the corner of the second desk in the office, which would forever belong to Cat, Kali’s brilliant best friend currently on medical leave. Only friends could use her desk.

  Sun’s gaze flicked to the trash can, to Kali, around the room, and back to the trash.

  Otto said, "I believe you can eat those. Peanuts give Kali headaches."

  Sun fished the bag out, dumped the remnants into his mouth and said between chews, "I assume Bobby explained Sean’s involvement with Triumph. I come to offer assistance.”

  Kali scrunched her brow. “What triumph?”

  Zeke started flipping a pencil. “Oh, I thought… They didn’t…”

  Kali’s headache flared. She rubbed her temples. ”This is why everyone said they needed to talk to me yesterday and why you’re all here today.” She wanted to throw something, but at whom? “I repeat: What triumph?”

  Zeke gave her the broad strokes, concluding with “Bobby re-activated your clearance which he’ll explain when he brings his chicken butt back in here.”

  That seemed to be James’s cue.

  Kali looked away. "Sean told me everything was fine,” which she believed because she wanted to. She sniffed. "Please, Eitan, what's going on?"

  James nodded to Sun and found a wall to lean against.

  Sun opened his laptop and petted the keys. "Sean has been obsessed with security since moving to San Diego. The past month, he picked up chatter involving slain submariners from a missing British sub—“

  “Triumph. I saw that on the news.”

  “LT Paloma Chacone, a lieutenant on a Navy cruiser, and her boyfriend Mohammed, a..." He struggled to find the right word.

  "Tourist," offered James.

  "Liar," from Zeke.

  "Stranger," Sun settled for.

  While Kali’s brain might be her greatest asset, emotion
s were her worst. She forced herself to take calm, measured breaths even though she wanted to scream, shake them for not telling her sooner, and … do something… to fix it for her son.

  "Chacone looks fine. Mohammed worries us," and Rowe explained what Sean’s cams had picked up.

  “They’re after my son because of what he heard or saw?”

  “There’s no evidence they know about Sean. No. He’s convinced LT Chacone is in trouble and insists on helping her.”

  Kali’s stomach lurched and she focused on Zeke. "But he’s in San Diego. The hijacking occurred in Britain."

  Zeke looked away. “We also have a missing American sub—Virginia.”

  “A continent away,” but judging by the circle of faces around her, no one thought that made a difference. Kali took more deep breaths as Otto churbled and Sun started bouncing.

  Zeke took Kali’s hands. “This is likely nothing, Kali, but the timing is odd, and 'odd' is what we look for.”

  ‘We’—Zeke admitted to working with James, and it would appear, so did Sun.

  Kali wanted to cover her ears. This was why she had to break it off with Zeke. At any given moment, she could wake up in an erupting volcano. Her eyes burned and chest tightened.

  "This is your fault, Zeke. If not for your stories." She turned away, but not before she saw the hurt in Zeke’s eyes.

  And immediately wanted to take it back. Where her security and Sean’s were concerned, Zeke would do anything. He took the street side of a sidewalk. He sat with his back to a wall in restaurants to have a view of the entrance. He knew where the best escape would be if the front door proved unavailable. She hated his past, but it also defined why she trusted him.

  Dammit. If Sean had gotten himself involved, she would too. "Give me Sean’s data. I’ll see what Otto comes up with."

  Zeke’s voice came out soft. "It’s more than that, Kali. No matter what Otto finds, Sean will never stop until this Paloma Chacone is safe, which won’t happen until the hijackers are arrested.”