The Solomon Effect

by C. S. Graham

  “Right.”

  She followed him down the nave and out into the weak autumn sunshine. “There’s no other way to do this?”

  “Nope.”

  She thought about it a minute, then sighed. “Okay. But I drive.”

  “Fine. You drive.”

  “I mean it. I drive.”

  He laughed. “I get it. You drive. As long as you drive better than you shoot,” he added, then ducked when she swung her bag at his head.

  St. Martin, Caribbean: Wednesday 28 October

  9:00 A.M. local time

  One of James Walker’s favorite toys was a gleaming one-hundred-and-ten-foot fiberglass Hargrave with a raised pilothouse. It was Catherine who’d christened the yacht the Harlequin. She’d wanted to keep it in the divorce, too, but all he’d had to do was whisper those magic words, “joint custody,” and she’d backed off in a hurry.

  Carrying an aluminum case containing a carefully padded secret, Walker climbed aboard the Harlequin just after breakfast and nodded to his captain. “Ready to sail?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Walker turned toward his stateroom. “Then let’s do it.”

  Washington, D.C.

  Boyd’s second day of testimony before Congress received a standing ovation. It was all bullshit, of course. But Boyd had learned early in his career that officers who told politicians what they wanted to hear got promoted; the fools who told the truth found other jobs.

  He was smiling and shaking hands with the members of the Senate when Colonel Sam Lee leaned in close and whispered, “We need to talk.”

  Boyd paused to acknowledge the congratulations of some grinning idiot who said, “You’ve convinced me, General. If the President can get this appropriation bill to the floor, it’s got my vote.”

  “Why thank you, Senator. It’s good to know the military can count on your support.” Boyd clapped the Senator on the shoulder, then added quietly to Lee, “The coffee shop around the corner. Wait for me.”

  Half an hour later, he found Lee sipping a cappuccino in a booth near the back of the shop, a half eaten muffin abandoned on the plate before him. Boyd ordered good old-fashioned coffee, black, then slid into the booth. “What have you got?”

  “It’s about Ensign Guinness, sir.”

  Boyd took a sip of his coffee, grimacing as the bitter, hot liquid slid down his throat. “What about her?”

  “She was given her commission at the direction of Vice President Beckham himself.”

  “Beckham? What’s that left-leaning son of a bitch got to do with anything?”

  “She saved his life.”

  Boyd frowned. “Are we talking about that incident last summer?”

  “Yes, sir.” Lee leaned forward. “But this is where it gets interesting: she was recalled to active duty after getting a psycho discharge over some incident in Iraq.”

  “So what’s she doing in the CIA?”

  Lee dropped his voice even lower. “Remote viewing, sir.”

  “What?” Boyd made a rude noise. “I think someone’s jerking your strings, Colonel. The Government got out of the hocus-pocus business more than ten years ago.”

  “Yes, sir. But this isn’t a formal program; it’s a small project Beckham is running through Division Thirteen.” The Colonel paused. “She’s supposed to be very good at it, sir.”

  Boyd threw back his head, his laughter coming loud and long. “You don’t really believe in that bullshit, do you?”

  “I managed to access her viewing report.”

  Boyd wasn’t laughing anymore. “And?”

  Lee drew a folded sheaf of papers from his pocket and slid it across the table. “I printed it out, sir. I think you’d better look at it.”

  Boyd hesitated a moment, then reached to close his fingers around the report. “Where are they now?”

  The tic beside Lee’s eye was back, worse than ever. “Germany, sir.”

  39

  Altenbruch, Germany: Wednesday 28 October

  6:00 P.M. local time

  The U-Boot Archiv lay on a narrow street not far from the deep blue waters of the North Sea. By the time Tobie parked her rented red Jetta outside the small, steeply gabled yellow archives building, the sun had already slipped low enough in the sky to throw long shadows across the pavement.

  The archives had officially closed hours before. But at their approach, a wizened face appeared at one of the windows. A moment later they heard the lock on the front door turn.

  “Velcome,” said the ancient, white-haired wisp of a woman who opened the door for them. Neatly dressed in a white blouse with a round collar, a spruce green cardigan, and a plaid wool skirt, she stood about five feet high and couldn’t have weighed more than ninety pounds. In age, she might have been anywhere between eighty and a hundred. “I am Marie Oldenburg. I’ve been vaiting for you. Please, come in.”

  She led them to a small office crowded with shelves and filing cabinets, all neatly ordered and gleaming with fastidious cleanliness. “Herr Herbolt tells us you are interested in U–114.”

  “You know something about it?” asked Tobie, taking one of the seats the woman indicated.

  “Yes, and no.” She sat behind a lovingly polished old desk, her gnarled hands folded before her. “I have been vorking in the archives for twenty years now, ever since Herr Bredow turned what vas once his private collection into a foundation. My husband, Hans, was a submariner, you see. He vas on U-648 when it disappeared on a mission in 1943. Ve haven’t yet discovered what happened to U–648. But ve have solved many riddles. Many riddles.”

  Jax glanced at Tobie, but said nothing.

  Marie Oldenburg cleared her throat. “You know that the numbers U-112 to U-115 vere to be assigned to four type XI-B vessels whose keels vere originally laid down before the war, but that there are no Kriegsmarine records of the submarines ever being finished or commissioned?”

  “We heard there are no official records,” said Jax.

  She nodded. “Germany had over a thousand U-boats in World War II. Ve have records here on nearly all of them. Some of our collections are so extensive that it is possible to trace the entire history of a submarine, from the laying of its keel to the day of its loss. Up until six months ago, I vould have told you no XI-B class boats ever existed.”

  “So what happened six months ago?”

  “A man named Karl Wertheim came to see us. I spoke to him myself. It seems his grandfather had vorked at the docks at Bremerhaven. After his death, the young Wertheim found a number of papers and other memorabilia in a trunk in his grandfather’s attic that he thought ve might be interested in purchasing. Amongst those papers vas the manifest of a U-114, dated March 1945.” She hesitated. “Or so he claimed.”

  “The archives didn’t buy the papers?”

  She spread her hands wide. “This is a nonprofit venture. Everything you see here and in the museum has been donated. I tried to convince the young man to contribute his grandfather’s papers to the archives, but he refused. He vouldn’t even let me copy them—he said it vould reduce their sale value.”

  “But you saw them?”

  “Some of them. Not, unfortunately, the manifest of U-114. The young man vas very secretive about it. He claimed that amongst its other cargo, U-114 carried a secret veapon—what you Americans like to call a veapon of mass destruction.”

  Tobie felt a tingle of fear run up her spine. “You mean an atom bomb? Is that possible?”

  Marie Oldenburg laced her fingers together on the desktop before her. “There is much debate concerning how far the German atomic program had actually progressed at the time of the surrender.” She paused. “Are you familiar with the vork of Wolfgang Palmer?”

  Tobie glanced at Jax, but he shook his head. “I’m sorry, no.”

  “Herr Palmer is a journalist. He has spent years researching the German atomic program, and he tells me it is indeed possible that the Nazi government tried to send an atomic bomb to Japan—or at least the material to make su
ch a bomb. But at the moment, ve have only young Wertheim’s vord that the XI-B even existed. Whereas for its cargo…” She let her voice trail away.

  Jax said, “Where can we find this Karl Wertheim?”

  Marie Oldenburg sighed. “Unfortunately, he is dead. Two of our members—both former submarine officers themselves—vent to see the young man, hoping to persuade him to donate the items in his grandfather’s name. But he told them he’d already listed them on eBay and had located an interested buyer. Two days later, his house caught fire and Karl Wertheim was found dead.”

  “He died in the fire?”

  “No. Someone had slit his throat.”

  40

  Kaliningrad Oblast: Wednesday 28 October

  8:00 P.M. local time

  The closer Stefan drew to Yasnaya Polyana, the more skittish he became. He had slept most of the afternoon, snuggled up next to the black-and-tan pup for warmth, emerging only at dusk to walk along the edge of the fallow, frost-covered fields.

  They kept well back from the pavement and the occasional darting beams of passing headlights, but he’d given up trying to go overland. Once, he’d blundered into a patch of stinging nettles; another time, the pup strayed into a bog and got stuck. Plus they kept getting lost, going off in the wrong direction or unwittingly circling around on themselves. He’d finally decided to stick close to the main roads and travel only at night. He and the pup were both footsore and hungry and desperate to get home.

  The problem was, it had occurred to him that going home might not be safe.

  With a whine, the dog flopped down on the grassy verge, his tongue hanging out as he panted heavily. Stefan dropped beside him. “What’s the matter, boy? Tired?”

  He lay back, his eyes blinking as he stared up at the dark sky. The night was cold and overcast, allowing only faint glimmers of starlight to peek through. Stefan felt a lump rise in his throat, and resolutely squeezed his eyes shut against an upwelling of tears.

  Sleep came by stealth. He awoke with a start, shivering, unsure at first what had roused him. He heard a snort and a jingle of harness, and raised his head to find a decrepit farm wagon pulled by a pair of graying mules drawn up beside the verge.

  A hunched figure wearing a woolen cap perched on a hard wooden seat high above the wagon’s great iron-banded wheels. “You all right, boy?”

  Stefan scrambled to his feet, ready to run. “How’d you know I was here?”

  The man laughed. “I saw you. What’d you think? I may be old, but there’s never been anything wrong with my eyes. I bet I can see better at night than you.”

  Stefan wiped the back of his fist across his nose. “You must have eyes like an owl.”

  The man laughed again. “How’d you like a ride?”

  Stefan dropped his hand to the pup’s head. “And my dog?”

  “The dog’s welcome, too.”

  He lifted the pup up onto the floor of the wagon, then swung himself up using an old iron step. The farmer made a clucking sound and danced the reins on the backs of the mules. Stefan breathed in the pungent, earthy smell of potatoes, and sneezed.

  The old man laughed. “Where you headed?”

  “Chkalovo,” said Stefan, naming a hamlet just beyond Yasnaya Polyana.

  “You can go back to sleep, if you want. I’ll wake you when we get there.”

  Stefan shook his head.

  “What’s your dog’s name?”

  “He doesn’t have one.”

  “Everyone should have a name. Man or beast.”

  “So what’re your mules’ names?”

  “Karl and Marx.”

  Stefan laughed so hard he had to grab the side of the wagon seat to keep from falling off.

  The old man shrugged. “They’re old mules.”

  They talked for a time about mules and farming and the price of grain. They were easing down a dark wooded slope when they came around a bend and saw the glow of flares. Against the dancing flames of a fire stood two silhouettes in uniform.

  The dog sat up and gave a low growl. Stefan put a warning hand on its head. “Ssshh, boy. What’s that?”

  “Looks like the militia’ve set up a roadblock. I went through another checkpoint just like this one, maybe ten miles back. They were looking for a young man. That wouldn’t be you, would it?”

  Stefan curled his hand over the edge of the seat, ready to jump. The old man said softly, “You jump now, they’ll see you.”

  Stefan drew in a quick breath, trying to ease the sudden pain in his side, but it didn’t help. “What do I do?”

  The old man pursed his lips. “Get in back. You’ll find some empty gunnysacks beneath the seat you can pull up over you.”

  “And if they search the load?”

  The old man was silent for a moment. “Then I’ll take care of your dog.”

  41

  Crouched in a narrow space between the seat and the mounds of potatoes, Stefan pulled the scratchy pile of dusty sacks over his head and shoulders, clutched his lucky piece of amber in one tight fist, and tried not to breathe.

  As the wagon drew up at the checkpoint, he heard the old farmer shout, “Another roadblock? Don’t you young men have wives whose beds need warming?”

  One of the militiamen laughed. “What you doing out so late, old man?”

  “Axle broke. This wagon’s getting too old. Like me.” Stefan heard the clink of glass against wood, then smelled the strong familiar pinch of alcohol. The farmer said, “Like a drink to chase away the chill?”

  “Well…I guess a swallow won’t hurt.”

  Through a crack in the slat back of the wooden seat, he caught a glimpse of firelight on a man’s ruddy face. Then he squeezed his eyes shut, afraid the militiamen might somehow sense that he was watching them.

  “Who’re you looking for?” said the farmer.

  “A boy. Sixteen. Dark. Skinny.”

  “What’s he done?”

  “Murder. Up near the Vistula Lagoon.”

  From his place beside the farmer, the dog began to whine. Stefan thought his heart would stop.

  “I’ll be sure to keep a lookout for him,” said the farmer, reaching out to scratch behind the dog’s ears. “Can’t be too careful these days.”

  The militiamen pulled the barrier out of the road. “Watch yourself, old man.”

  The farmer gave a cluck-cluck, and Stefan felt the wagon jerk as the mules leaned into their collars.

  “I didn’t kill anyone,” said Stefan, emerging from beneath the sacks when the checkpoint had been left far behind.

  “I didn’t think you did.”

  Altenbruch, Germany: Wednesday 28 October

  7:05 P.M. local time

  “I wish I could have been of more help,” said Marie Oldenburg as she followed them out to the sidewalk. The setting sun had slipped beyond the horizon, taking with it the lingering warmth of the evening.

  “You’ve been very helpful,” said Tobie. A strengthening breeze rattled the dying leaves on the trees and made her wish she’d pulled on her jacket before they left the car.

  Jax said, “Any idea where we might find this Wolfgang Palmer?”

  Marie Oldenburg eased the door of the archives shut behind her and turned the key in the lock. “Actually, I gave him a call when Professor Herbolt told me you vere interested in U-114. He says he’s villing to meet vith you this evening, if you like. At a Gasthaus to the northeast of Bremen. A place called Mumbrauer, near Breddorf. At half past seven.”

  “We are very interested. Thank you.”

  “Good. I’ll tell him to expect you.” Slipping the archives key into the pocket of her skirt, the old woman moved to where a sturdy green bicycle leaned against the trunk of a nearby elm. “You should know that Herr Palmer’s vork is very controversial. He has made many enemies, both here in Germany and in America.”

  “Is he reliable?” said Jax.

  Marie Oldenburg mounted her bicycle, her gnarled hands gripping the widespread handlebars. “Oh, yes. No
one questions what he has found. It’s his conclusions that are debatable.”

  “Do you believe him?”

  She thrust out her lower lip and glanced downward in a characteristically German gesture of thoughtfulness. “I believe the true story of those six tragic years of war has never been told, and probably never vill be.” She nodded her head briskly and shoved off. “Auf Wiederschen.”

  Tobie watched the slight figure pedal into the gathering gloom. “Wow. I hope I’m that alert and agile when I’m her age.”

  “How good are your genes?”

  “Not that good.”

  “Mine neither.” Turning toward the car, Jax took out his phone and punched in a number.

  “Who are you calling?” she asked, watching him. “Matt?”

  He shook his head. “Andrei.”

  “You know Andrei’s number? Right off the top of your head?”

  “Yeah. Why?”

  She went to lean against the side of the Jetta. “And you say he’s not your buddy.”

  “He’s not my buddy.”

  She watched him frown. Andrei obviously wasn’t answering. She said, “And why exactly are you trying to call the Russians?”

  He put his phone away. “Because I want to know if they ever checked that damned U-boat for radiation.”

  She felt her heart lurch uncomfortably in her chest. “Oh, Jesus. I never thought of that. And you were crawling around in there forever. Do you think you could have been exposed to radiation?”

  “Don’t you mean, ‘we’? You think you were that much safer standing on the wharf?”

  When she simply stared at him in horror, he said, “Come on. Unlock the car. There’s no point in worrying until we’re sure exactly what kind of material we’re talking about. You never know—it could have been well shielded.”

  She fumbled for the Jetta’s key and hit the remote button twice to unlock all the doors. “I don’t think they knew too much about shielding that stuff sixty years ago, did they?”