Twenty-four Days (Rowe-Delamagente series Book 2)
Page 14
"Don’t think that, Anchor. The West is committed to finding a middle ground with your leaders so all people can live together in peace."
Anchor’s smile looked forced, his face impassive. "I know what you are thinking, Paloma. What does it mean Anchor is Muslim?”
Paloma’s ire rose. In fact, she cared nothing about Anchor’s religion. Why should she?
He continued talking. “Muslims put religion over country. The Qur’an is not only our religious guide, but tells us how to live our lives. Those," and he gestured at the TV, "are the opinions of frightened people."
He made it sound like she was close-minded. She should respond, but the deadness in his eyes made her doubt he’d listen. More reason to end it. She looked at her watch. "I’m sorry, I have to go. I enjoyed this."
They made their way outside and Kali was relieved when a stranger blocked their path. Anchor pulled her closer, or pushed her in front, but the stranger didn’t seem dangerous. In fact, she’d describe him as frail, like a strong wind would knock him over. His shoulders were slumped. He wore a t-shirt too small for his lanky frame, feet shod in tattered tennis shoes.
"Excuse us." She started to brush him aside, but the intensity in his eyes stopped her, as though he recognized her. Or Anchor. "Do I know you?"
He blushed. "My name is Sean—Delamagente." He stuck his hand out to Paloma first and then Anchor. "I-I know you. Ankour Mohammed? From my apartment building?"
Anchor blinked and looked away. “I don’t think so,” but something made her think he did indeed know Sean.
Sean grinned. "Oh. Sorry, man. Do we work together?"
"I'm in sales. I know everyone at my company. You're, uh, not one of them." H returned his attention to Paloma. "I must leave. I'll see you Wednesday."
Paloma let him go. Dumping him could come later.
The boy waited until Anchor left and then turned to Paloma. “I need to talk to you.”
Paloma looked him up and down, figured she could outrun him if her Black Belt in karate failed her. "OK, Sean Delamagente. You look harmless enough. Walk me home."
Sean fell in beside her. "I have no idea how to explain this to you, so I’ll just say it. Yeah. I feel like I know you because Ankour follows you and I follow him. He dated some officer on the Princeton who has disappeared. He shadows you from your apartment to the Naval Base. Evenings he’s not with you, he’s close by. Yeah. He’s obsessed with you.”
Paloma was appalled he knew so much about Anchor, and then realized the boy must be an undercover policeman or some other security sort. His youthful looks probably made people feel less threatened. She started to bluster a response, but he put his hand up.
"Here’s what else I know: Ankour is dating you for your access to the Navy."
She had enough. "That's ridiculous. Why wouldn’t he date me for me?”
Sean looked flustered and stammered out, “Oh, no, you’re beautiful, one of the most… Yeah, I said that wrong,” and he pulled a fist-sized black cube out of his pocket. "Lying stresses people and stress causes voice changes that can be detected by this device. I made it, but similar ones are used by police all over America."
Paloma knew about these. "How does someone your age know how to build this?"
Sean turned it over and over as though seeing it for the first time. "Anyone can make one. Yeah. It’s pretty intuitive." The read had a lot of spikes and bumps. "Anchor lied about where he lives and works. Why?"
Paloma felt her face flush. "I don't believe you."
"What do you know about him?" Sean’s voice was calm and reasonable. Then he waited, kind eyes hopeful like he wanted to be wrong.
Paloma thought through what she knew. "Well, he went to the USAFA."
"How do you know?"
Paloma thought back. "We talked about how he dropped out to help his family."
Sean tapped away on his phone in silence. “No one named Anchor or Ankour or any other derivation graduated or dropped out of USAFA. Nor do I find an Air Force member with that name. Do you know where he works?”
Paloma mulled that over and came up blank. "He's in sales, drives a company car."
"His car is leased by a shell company that traces back to a man in the United Arab Emirates. I checked his phone records—"
"How are you finding this out?" Even as she asked, she realized it would be easy if Sean was police. He smiled as though reading her mind. "I'll show you how when we know each other better. Trust me when I tell you no phones are registered in his name. He’s using a throwaway, the type people buy to hide calls."
Paloma stared at him. "I’m not going to listen anymore unless you explain yourself."
Sean’s eyes remained steady, unwavering, as he came to a decision. "Here's what I can tell you."
For the next thirty minutes, he told an amazing tale about submarines and warships and nuclear warheads, terrorists and hijackers and his suspicion that it all revolved around Ankour Mohammed, then asked her to keep it to herself.
By now, they reached her building. She stared at this boy with the incredible story that had enough details she recognized to ring true. "How can you know all this?"
"Paloma. I'm a problem solver. I had stuff in my past, my mom and I, and they left me unable to stand by when trouble happens to anyone. Like you." He scuffed his shoe on the ground, stuck his hands in his pockets. "Look. I need to find the truth. Believe me when I tell you, I would prefer an innocent Anchor to a guilty terrorist."
She chewed her lip. It cost her nothing to give this boy—man—a chance. "We have a ten-hour Tiger Cruise Wednesday. You can join Anchor and me. That should be enough time to see if he's innocent or I've been duped. I'll add your name to the list at the gate," and went inside her building.
Chapter Twenty-three
Day Nine, Tuesday, August 15th, evening
Columbia University, Zeke’s office
Rowe sat in his Columbia office, feet propped up on a wastepaper can, flipping his pencil. Kali had been shocked when he mentioned al-Zahrawi and lied about her injury. Why?
He rubbed his hand down his face and yawned. There still were no signs of Virginia, nor any virtual footprints explaining Mohammed’s purpose in San Diego. It couldn’t be to kill Parishers. Maybe to meet LT Chacone, but was it for her Navy connections? Her ship?
James would get a sample of the paint tomorrow. That would confirm Triumph could hide from sonar which would explain how it escaped after attacking the Iranian boat, how the American ships failed to find it in the Med, and why the terrorists thought they could passage fourteen hours through the Suez Canal without being stopped: Egypt, who owned the Canal, now knew the terrorists were not afraid to use the sub’s weapons.
He flipped his pencil, ideas bumping around, but nothing bubbled to the surface. His gut said Triumph and Virginia were redundancies. As long as one survived, the plan survived. And Haster slipped when he called Triumph the ‘safest sub’. Not degaussing Triumph during the wargames meant Britain could test the paint. It worked perfectly. Rowe would see Haster at George’s funeral tomorrow. If Haster didn’t level with him by then, he was going to shake the man until he gave it up.
His phone jangled. James. “Turn on the TV. North Korea is making an announcement.”
Rowe flipped it on to Fox and found a news conference with the North Korean ambassador:
This latest attack by the West makes it imperative we continue to use any and all means to protect our nation, our sovereignty, and our people. We will consider any attempts to deter or end our efforts an Act of War subject to a response of our choosing.
“You get that? No denial anymore. This is their excuse to launch a nuclear warhead into space. Japan is scared out of its rising sun. They want us on site armed to the teeth, but the President says and I quote, ‘the international community won’t support our interference in another nation’s exercise unless it endangers us.’ All he’ll authorize is one of our cruisers be on site to destroy the missile if necessary.”
“Yeah, but here’s what confuses me. How do they think they can prevent Bunker Hill from stopping them when it is backed by the 7th Fleet? Zeke, what’s going on?”
Tuesday, August 15th, 9 pm
Kali's apartment
Sandy curled on her foot, Kali waiting for sleep to claim her, but images of Dr. Zeke Rowe, a youthful professor lecturing in a high-ceiled nineteenth-century classroom, eyes aglow as his students listened, headlined as ‘Youngest Professor in University History wins Gandhi award’. Today’s Zeke Rowe was Steven Siegel in Under Siege, violence simmering just below the surface, this time eyes aglow as he brought justice to the downtrodden.
Once last summer as they fought to stop Salah al-Zahrawi from decimating the US Navy, James opened up to her.
"Zeke has always been aloof to his women friends no matter their kindness, intellect, or feelings for him. You though, Kali, are the oil in his gun, the passion in his fight, the hydrogen in his H2O. In a world without terrorists, you two would be deliriously happy.
“But in this world,” and James waved his arm slowly in front of them, “America needs him. His genius is unrivaled by anyone I've ever met. Zeke turns fragments of raw intelligence into a picture of enemy intentions. I can't count the times, if not for Zeke, lives would have been lost, plans collapsed, the future changed. I know the toll it takes on him, but I thank God every time he returns my call."
His affection for Zeke was as much for his service to America as the man himself. Kali liked James a little more because they both cared for Zeke.
Zeke let himself into Kali’s apartment, double locked the door, popped a beer can, and then tiptoed into her room. She watched him undress through slotted eyes, toss his clothes in a heap, down the last of the beer, and crawl in next to her. He curled around her body. She wanted to lose herself in the moment.
But no warm body or tingle of contentment would stop her tonight. To protect Zeke from the man who must be al-Zahrawi, she must make him think she no longer cared.
“Zeke. I-I can’t handle your life anymore.” She faced him, running through the reasons she had to break it off. “You carry a gun and are not afraid to use it. You work alone. You have no safety net. Worst of all, you like it. What if we had children?”
When Zeke’s eyes met hers, the mask disappeared. She had the power to destroy this man who had saved her life and her son’s, who had suffered more than anyone she knew and still believed a better world existed out there.
She struggled to continue, tears filling her eyes. “Give me one reason,” Please, “to continue, Zeke.”
A minute passed and another before Zeke responded. “Because I can’t do it without you. You are my barometer. You keep me centered. You give my work heart.”
Kali pulled him to her and stroked his hair, tears rolling down her face. “Playing the vulnerable hero card, hunh. That’s dirty.”
Zeke looked at her, fingers caressing the Band-Aid on her forehead. “This is about you getting hurt.” He spoke softly, but he didn’t need her to explain.
For the next hour, she forgot about submarines and dead sailors and international terrorists and anything other than how much she cared for Zeke. When they finished, her headache was gone. They lay in the dark, her face against the hollow of his neck, his arms wrapped gently around her body, a radio down the street playing an old love song. She was nearly asleep when he whispered, "I wanted to keep my promise, Kali. I felt so sure this time, nothing would derail our plans, but I can’t—not with Sean to think about, and George’s butchers free." A fat tear dropped from his cheek to hers.
And Sandy banged against the bedroom door
Kali giggled. "Sandy needs to go out."
Zeke grinned. "Me, too."
They threw on clothes, put a leash on Sandy, and walked 122nd to Riverside Drive and looped around the park. In the thin night air, she smelled the river mingled with the park’s American Yellow Wood and the exotic aroma of Chinese Ginkgoes and Japanese Cherries. They passed Grant's Tomb, the largest mausoleum in the world, and then the understated Amiable Child Monument. Sandy huffed, prancing along the stone path, hurrying back to Kali’s side whenever an unfamiliar noise popped up. No one would call him the bravest dog on three legs, but he was the happiest.
They walked in silence, each in their own thoughts, comfortable with the quiet. Time to bring up the elephant in the park.
"Zeke. It's not your fault George died."
"I know, but someone must pay. I’m taking time off teaching until they’re stopped. If I did that sooner, we might have saved George and Triumph. I’m damn sure going to find Virginia before someone else’s best friend doesn’t come home for dinner.”
Zeke looked away. “After George’s funeral tomorrow, I’m going to San Diego. I think Mohammed is the key.”
Kali smiled. “Please convince Sean to stay out of this.”
“If he’s set on protecting this Chacone, I’ll do it.” His voice was thick with conviction. “Knowing Mohammed’s interest in her will go a long way toward understanding what he’s after.”
“Kali?” Otto’s voice came out of her phone as Zeke's rang. “I found Virginia.”
Beside her, Zeke stiffened. "A submarine tried to sink a Chinese carrier. Luckily, they didn’t set the shot up well. There are massive casualties, but it looks limp back to port. Our folks are pretty sure it’s the Virginia—and so are the Chinese. In fact, they blamed America in a press release.
“I have to go.”
Tuesday, August 15th, night
Dr. Penbury's lab
Oliver Najafian no longer doubted he was being followed. Yesterday, he reversed quickly and someone ducked out of sight. Still, he wasn’t truly in danger until they no longer hid.
He checked his watch. Ten minutes. He patted his pocket, confirming he still had the paper with the phone number. He had to make the call this evening.
When he confronted al-Zahrawi about hijacking Triumph, al-Zahrawi confirmed his part but insisted sinking the Iranian sub was unintended. He had no such defense for Virginia’s attack on the Chinese carrier, reportedly on a goodwill mission to draught-torn Morocco. China didn’t believe the sub had been hijacked. They thought it was intentional.
Najafian believed it was all part of al-Zahrawi’s plot to discredit the West and sell the sonar shield to anyone with a fleet. Najafian had to save his brother’s life.
Najafian locked the door and was about to place the phone call when a noise stopped him. No one should be here. He walked the confines of the lab, found nothing but still called the guard desk. They promised to check, and then asked why he was in Penbury’s office. He said he was probably hearing things.
His phone call got no further than the FBI switchboard. A shuffle, a slash and something wet on his chest. A female voice asked, May I help you? as pain exploded. Najafian reached up, meaning to staunch the blood flowing freely from his neck, but within moments he no longer cared. Darkness crept in, bringing a calm he last felt as a child. Everything would soon be fine.
Chapter Twenty-four
Day Ten, Wednesday, August 16, morning
Naval Base San Diego
Sean bathed, dressed in nondescript jeans, a patriotic t-shirt, and flip flops. He'd buy a Bunker Hill cap when he got there.
He hated driving, but California’s public transportation sucked, so he jumped in his apartment manager’s beat-up Toyota, almost bumping another car as he edged out of the underground parking lot. He had five miles to travel and gave himself thirty minutes. Yeah. What if he got lost? He managed to merge onto the 5 Freeway south and exit at 8th street with no mishaps, and then wended his way toward Naval Base San Diego where he would meet Paloma.
For her sake, Sean hoped Anchor was innocent, but had no doubt how the day would end.
The sky glowed azure, spotted with fluffy whimsic
al clouds. A soft breeze carried a hint of salt water. What a perfect day for a cruise. He stopped at the entrance to the Naval Base, the marquis announcing, Naval Surface Forces. The guard looked up his name, compared Sean's student ID with his face, and pointed down Cummings Road.
“It turns into Mole Road. Proceed to the lot by Pier 9. You’ll see a crowd of civilians.”
Five minutes later, Sean parked near the USS Bunker Hill, Sword of the Fleet, sporting six massive E's on its hull.
"You see those."
Sean glanced at the wizened old man off his right side. The septuagenarian hobbled forward, one arm pumping, body rocking side to side as he leaned into a stout cane. He wore a Bunker Hill cap, t-shirt, and precisely creased tan pants held up with a thick brown belt adorned by a heavy aluminum Navy buckle.
"The E’s? Uh, yeah. What're they for?"
The man had to squint up at Sean. "Departmental Efficiency Awards. Each E signifies the ship's high level of overall readiness to carry out its assigned wartime tasks. Competition for that award is keen. CG52 is one of the best ships in the fleet."
Sean had to hurry to keep up. “How do they get an E?”
The old man raised the forefinger of his right hand, the other hand still gripping the wood cane. "To qualify for Battle E consideration, a ship's gotta win eighty percent of the Command Excellence awards. Things like," and he ticked them off on thick, bent fingers, "Maritime Warfare, Engineering/Survivability, Command and Control, Logistics Management. The cruiser must be nominated by," he stopped dead in his tracks, head down, and then started up again, cane thumping out his pace, boney body rocking side to side.
"Doesn't matter." He nodded, agreeing with himself.
Sean figured as much as this guy knew, he must have served. "Did you win one, you know, when you served?"
"Hell no. I never cared enough and no one could change my mind. My grandson, though, there's a sailor to be proud of. Petty Officer 3rd Class Drew Collins” and he pointed his cane toward the Bunker Hill. “The US Navy is lucky to have him."