The Heisenberg Legacy

by Christopher Cartwright

  But there was nothing.

  “Sam Reilly?”

  A man in his fifties wearing a greasy apron came out of the alley along one side of the pizza place and waved to him.

  Troy must have called ahead. Sam said, “That’s me.”

  “Come this way. I have a booth saved for you.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I’m Tony, by the way.” He wiped his hand on his apron and Sam shook hands with him.

  “The owner?”

  “Eh, now I am. The original Old Tony was my great-uncle. I’ve grown into the part, no?” He rubbed his gray-speckled chin stubble.

  Sam chuckled. He was led through the busy kitchen to a back booth.

  “It’s just coming out of the oven,” Tony promised.

  “What is?”

  “Your pie!”

  Tony disappeared back through the kitchen door before Sam could ask another question.

  He looked around. The place had dim lighting and smelled like pepperoni grease and yeast. The walls were dark green to match the front door sign. They were covered with old black-and-white photos.

  The kitchen door burst open and Tony came out again, carrying a big white box, a tin plate, and a roll of silverware.

  “No need to pay,” he said as Sam reached for his wallet. “Your friend already took care of it for you.”

  “My friend?”

  “Called about an hour ago. Paid and left a big tip. Enjoy!”

  A note was taped to the top of the box.

  FOR SAM REILLY – I THOUGHT YOU MIGHT BE GETTING HUNGRY. W.H.

  W.H.? Who was W.H.?

  Sam lifted the lid. A meat-lover’s pizza with sausage, salami, pepperoni, ground beef, and Canadian bacon. It smelled delicious. He pulled off a slice, cheese stringing between the pie and his slice, and ate it steaming hot.

  Tony brought him a Coke and a straw. “Good, yes?”

  Sam nodded.

  Sam leaned back. For a guy intent on destroying the city, he seemed to appreciate the place. And finding a terrorist thoughtful enough to order lunch – that stuck out, too.

  Who was this guy?

  A couple of slices later, Sam still didn’t have a clue. He looked up. The photos in the frames above his booth showed a New York skyline, not one of D.C. That was odd, yet Sam was certain of it. There was no way that the body of water along the shoreline in some of the pictures was the Potomac.

  In fact, he recognized the docks in one of the photos.

  He’d been there before.

  Unlike D.C., Sam had been around New York a fair amount, especially as a kid, accompanying his father back and forth from his various cargo ships.

  Sam tossed the crust of pizza back into the box, wiped his hands on a napkin, and stood up.

  Almost gingerly, he lifted one of the photographs from the wall.

  In it, there was a boat floating along a dock, a big shipping boat. On the side was a name that Sam recognized.

  Global One.

  He turned the photo, tilting it back and forth.

  Although Sam’s division of his father’s company was known as Deep Sea Expeditions, the overall holding company was officially Global Shipping, Inc. It had been founded by his grandfather. His very first ship had been optimistically called, Global One.

  Standing in front of the boat were four people. In pen, someone had written the initials of each of them directly above the faces. He recognized the first of them. He had the initials M.R. and how could Sam not recognize him, the man was his very own grandfather, Michael Reilly. The second had the initials, A.S. and was Andrei Sakharov the Soviet scientist. The third person was shaking Andrei’s hand, and had the initials W.H., just like the pizza.

  Werner Heisenberg.

  Sam studied the fourth person in the photograph. The initials were, C.F. He looked very young, with intelligent green eyes. Sam searched his memory for the face but came up blank. As far as he knew, he’d never seen the man before. That didn’t matter, he had no doubt Elise would be able to put the image into a database and come back with a name.

  He turned the photo over. On the opposite side was a handwritten note.

  It read: I thought I’d remind you of this meeting. I hope you’re all happy with the outcome. May God rest your souls, because I know my grandchildren never will.

  It was signed, Wilhelm Gutwein.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  “Hey, Sam. You all right?” Tony asked. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  Sam turned to face him, still holding the photo.

  “How long has this picture been here?”

  “That one? Let me see. Ah! That’s an old one. It’s been here since the place opened. My great-uncle and grandfather immigrated here all the way back in the Forties,” he said proudly. “This is one of the photos they took when they got here. They were shutterbugs, you know? Took pictures of everything.”

  “And who are these people standing in front of the boat?”

  “Whatdya mean, people? There aren’t no people.”

  Sam showed the photo to Tony. Now that he was taking a second look, he could see that the four of those in the photo had been clipped from another photo and pasted in.”

  Tony’s face reddened. “What’s going on here? What kind of moron pulls a stunt like that?”

  Sam turned the photo over and looked at the back.

  “Hey, what’s that doing there?”

  Tony reached over Sam’s shoulder and snatched the piece of paper that had been tucked inside the frame.

  “I don’t even know what this means,” Tony said. “What is this? Must be some joker of a college kid does something like that. Thoughtless is what it is.”

  “May I see it, please?” Sam asked.

  Tony handed him the piece of paper.

  Sam frowned at it. It was a code of some type.

  “Can I have this?”

  “You think that it’s a message from your friend? He seems like the bad kind of a joker, you ask me. The kind of guy who superglues his best friend to a toilet seat.”

  “Oh yeah, he’s a real joker, alright,” Sam agreed wryly, taking a picture of the photo using his phone before returning it to the wall. “But do me a favor and leave it for a few days. The guy’s not all right in the head. I wouldn’t want to piss him off.”

  Tony gave him a sharp look. “You’re working on the bomb case, aren’t ya?”

  “Good guess, but don’t spread the word around. He’s already thrown one fit that got innocent people killed.”

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Sam checked the burner phone again as he stepped outside Old Tony’s and onto the sidewalk.

  Now what?

  He couldn’t call Elise or he’d piss off the terrorist. He couldn’t miss his next “clue” or he’d piss off the terrorist. Damned if you do, damned if you don’t.

  He’d never heard any family history about his grandfather being somehow tied to Werner Heisenberg, let alone taking a photo with the famous scientist. Or Andrei Sakharov for that matter.

  A taxi pulled up to the curb. The front passenger door popped open and a hand waved at Sam. “Call for a cab, mister?” a man with a broad east coast accent asked.

  “Thanks!”

  Uber had captured much of the D.C. taxi trade, but there were cabs available. Sam climbed into the seat, as happy as if the good fairy had granted him a wish. The moment he slammed the door, the cab pulled away from the curb.

  Incredibly, traffic had cleared somewhat, so the car was able to move.

  “Where you headed, mister?”

  “To this place.” Sam handed over the piece of paper.

  The cabbie said, “Huh. I thought I knew every place in the city, but sure as shootin’ I don’t know that one. Mind if I call my dispatcher?”

  “Be my guest. I’ve no idea, either.”

  The cabbie dialed a number and read the code off to the person on the other end of the line.

  “Take just a minute, mister. She�
��s lookin’ it up.”

  At the end of the block, the cabbie took a sharp right. The terrorist couldn’t have opened up the Beltway. It must be the Secretary of Defense’s work, getting people to clear the roads.

  “Hey, whaddya know?” the cabbie asked. “Looks like she found it.”

  Sam breathed a sigh of relief.

  “The World War II Memorial, Washington, D.C. It’s gonna cost you, though,” the cabbie warned. “It’s north of the Capitol. Take us a while to get there, that is, as long as this traffic keeps moving.”

  “I don’t mind,” Sam told Tom Bower, not fooled for a moment by his fake accent. “If it gets too bad, I’ll get out and walk.”

  “As long as you pay me first,” Tom muttered. “By the way, mister, did you hear the news?”

  “What news?”

  “About the terrorist.”

  “Depends on how new the broadcast is.”

  Tom rapidly brought Sam up to speed about the continued lockdown, urgent government directives to house commuters and tourists around the city, and to start clearing the streets of their cars so emergency vehicles could keep moving and panicked parents could get their kids home from school.

  He also told Sam about Congresswoman Bledes demise, and how the media reported that the rest of her party had been made secure in a bunker beneath Capitol.

  Sam asked, “What about the death toll from the explosions?”

  “There weren’t any.”

  “Are you kidding me, the entire city shook!”

  “Yeah, three buildings were leveled.”

  “Really, so why weren’t there any lives lost?” Sam asked.

  “All three buildings were set for demolition next week.”

  “Our terrorist simply sped up the process?”

  Tom nodded. “It would appear so.”

  “Well that proves it.”

  “What?”

  “Our terrorist doesn’t want to hurt anyone.”

  “And then, if you can believe it,” Tom said, “he decided to give proof that he had a nuclear bomb in the city.”

  “How?” Sam asked.

  “He dropped off a plutonium rod. In the trunk of a car.”

  Sam’s suspicion about the terrorist’s cryptic message was confirmed.

  “Was anyone hurt?”

  “No. I heard it was sealed up pretty tight.”

  Sam’s phone rang.

  He and Tom looked at each other. Tom had been able to get into the city and find Sam–but the real test of whether they’d fooled the terrorist was now.

  The disguised voice said, “You’ve found a friend, Sam Reilly.”

  Sam made a face, shaking his head at Tom. Tom pressed his lips together and started looking around them, trying to spot anyone watching.

  Sam was tempted to make a smartass remark, but the last time he’d let himself run at the mouth, it hadn’t ended so well.

  “That’s three times you’ve pushed me.”

  Sam bit back another remark.

  “You’re not very good at playing by the rules, are you?”

  If he didn’t say something soon, the terrorist was going to blow up something else just to prove that he could still force Sam to play along. “Depends on what’s at stake.”

  The terrorist chuckled.

  Tom’s phone rang.

  “Tell your friend to answer that.”

  “Go ahead, Tom.”

  Tom’s eyebrows lifted in the rearview mirror. He turned up the volume and answered, holding the phone across the top of the steering wheel. “Hey, Elise. What’s up?”

  “Tom. I’ve gone over the code you sent. The easiest, most obvious interpretation was that address that I gave you. But there’s more.”

  “What is it?”

  Elise paused, as if she had heard something odd in Tom’s voice.

  “The name of a ship that was scuttled off the coast of New York in 1996. The Clarion Call.”

  Sam frowned, but said nothing. Tom opened his mouth, but Sam raised a hand to cut off the logical question, shaking his head. He knew that ship.

  Knew of it, at least.

  He spoke into the burner phone. “We have your next clue.”

  The voice growled mechanically, “You had to cheat to do it.”

  “What else did you expect?”

  “Get rid of your friend, Sam Reilly, or I will. I want him out of my city.”

  The call cut off.

  Sam let out a breath. “The game’s up, Tom. He knows you’re here somehow. And he wants you gone. Drop me off here and I’ll walk to the World War II Memorial. He says he’ll let you leave the city – apparently, he doesn’t want you getting in the way. He says he wants you out of his city. See if you can track down the location of where the Clarion Call was scuttled and start moving the Maria Helena in place. We’re going to need to dive that wreck if we’re ever going to find answers to this game.”

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  The Clarion Call had been one of Global Shipping’s earliest ships. Sam’s grandfather, Michael Reilly, had bought it after Global One but before the firm had officially made its way out of the red and into the black.

  At the time, the purchase had been considered risky. Not just because of the firm’s finances, but because the ship had previously been owned by a Finnish black-market weapons trader, with ties to the U.S.S.R.

  In other words, a smuggler’s ship.

  According to family legend, it was the first Reilly ship to have a secret compartment built into the hold. It wasn’t used for smuggling arms or the secret human cargoes that had been rumored under the Finn, but works of art, antiquities, gold bars, and more.

  Secrets.

  Sam had his suspicions about his family’s relationship to the U.S. government. He, himself, had assisted the Secretary of Defense on a number of projects, and he knew that the CIA was involved somehow.

  The CIA was like a fungus. Once you let it in, it grew everywhere.

  He had thought that it was James Reilly who had first entangled the family in such clandestine matters, but now that Global One and Clarion Call had been brought into this business, he was starting to reconsider.

  What if their connections went back further?

  Global One had been taken to a family property along the coast of Maine, dismantled, and scrapped. The fixtures from the captain’s cabin had been moved into the house and recreated in a guest room. One of the smaller sea boats had been brought onto the grounds and turned into part of a children’s playground. The name had been cut out of the side of the ship and hung in a place of honor over the fireplace.

  But the Clarion Call had been scuttled. Sunk in deep water – 700 or more feet down, to be exact.

  Gone without a trace.

  As if it contained secrets that his grandfather had wanted to bury forever.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  The taxi pulled into the curb and Sam got out.

  As Tom pulled away, Sam noticed the tug of additional weight in his left front pocket. He stopped to check the terrorist’s burner phone. No new messages. He placed the phone back in his left pocket, noting the presence of a second phone.

  Tom had taken a risk.

  Sam approved.

  In all likelihood, Sam’s position and conversations were being picked up through the terrorist’s burner phone. Tracked by GPS, the terrorist could have set it to transmit everything it picked up even when it appeared to be “off.”

  Sam had to get rid of the phone or block it. But how could he do that without the terrorist knowing he’d done so?

  He couldn’t even hand the phone off to a passer-by and offer them a twenty for walking the phone around the block while he made a few calls. The terrorist would hear.

  Sam looked around. He was on a residential block lined with town houses. Single garages at the end of driveways, and old-growth trees. People sat on the front stairs and spoke to each other in low, worried voices.

  A group of kids, enjoying the relative lack
of traffic, played in the street. A trash can overflowed with paper bags and cups. Flowerboxes sat on the tops of wrought-iron fences, blooming with blue and pink hydrangeas, red peonies, and gladiolus. The wind picked up, tossing a few leaves along the sidewalks.

  Sam waited until the pair of kids got into a fight over a dog, then dropped the burner phone face-down in one of the flowerboxes. The black plastic faded almost invisibly into the dark soil.

  He kept walking.

  “Sam!” the Secretary of Defense exclaimed. “Where are you?”

  “It doesn’t matter, ma’am. I’m still in the D.C. area.”

  The secretary wasted half a minute explaining why it did matter, in her opinion. Sam grimaced. If she really wanted to know, she’d have to trace the call – by which time he intended to be elsewhere.

  “I’ve spoken to Tom,” he said.

  “That idiot! He’s putting us all at risk.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Sam neglected to mention that Tom had been caught out by the terrorist. “I’ve sent him back, as a matter of fact. We’ve received the next clue, and it leads to one of my family’s old ships, the Clarion Call.”

  Sam knew that Tom would make a call of his own to the Secretary of Defense. His hope had been that he would be able to make one first.

  It seemed to have paid off.

  The secretary inhaled sharply, but said nothing.

  “I’ve asked him to take the Maria Helena to the coordinates where the ship was scuttled. He needs to dive it. I think there may be further leads on that sunken wreck.”

  “I see,” the secretary said.

  She was far too experienced to blurt out what was on her mind, but she couldn’t conceal the fact that there was something significant about the location.

  “Ma’am,” Sam said. “I’ve found three different ‘clues’ on this treasure hunt so far. Let me tell you about them. I have less than ten minutes before I have to cut off this call and power down the phone.”

  “Tell me then, and quickly.”

  He gave her the rundown of the information he’d learned at the Air and Space Museum, the Library of Congress, and Old Tony’s – the picture of Global One, and the four men in front of it.

  “What conclusions did you draw from these mysterious tip-offs?” the secretary asked, when he was done.