Reading his mood, Callie said, "You missed a good steak."
"Yeah."
A talk show was on the radio. People were venting about the submarine hijacking. Jake turned the radio off. The streetlights illuminated cars, people out for ice cream, dog owners with their pets on leashes. Lovers walked hand in hand in the shadows, unwilling to give up the September evening.
"It all looks so normal," Callie said.
"Yes," Jake said, watching the people. "For how long?"
When they got out of the car in front of the house he could hear the surf hitting the beach. He took her hand and led her along the street to the boardwalk across the dune. The wind was off the dark sea. As the surf broke, the foam of the breakers was just visible. A few stars enlivened the dark sky. Holding Callie's hand, Jake breathed deeply of the cool salt wind.
The sub was out there somewhere, in that vast sea.
Well, the men who stole it wouldn't remain hidden long. Stal-naker said the White House thought the sub would go to some third-world country, perhaps be used to threaten a neighbor. All of which was ridiculous, of course. The politicians didn't want to face up to the reality of the disaster. They should have ordered the Jones to sink the sub when the destroyer had the sub under its guns.
Jake half turned, glanced toward the beach house. The Russian, Ilin, was there. Were the Russians behind the theft? Ilin was a spook — did he know about this?
Callie held him tightly as the wind played with her hair.
He wrapped his arms around her.
CHAPTER FOUR
Kolnikov and Turchak were poring over the cruise-missile universal target databases in the computer when Rothberg finally yawned and asked permission to find a bunk to sleep in. Kolnikov nodded his assent. Boldt went with him. For the first time since they seized America, the two Russians were alone.
"While they sleep, we must collect all the weapons," Kolnikov whispered.
"But the boat! Who will watch it?"
"We will leave it on autopilot."
Turchak's eyes widened. With no one to monitor the performance of the computers that formed the autopilot, there was no safety margin whatsoever. "Oh, man. Why don't we just shoot ourselves now and get it over with? This really is Russian roulette."
"We must get the guns."
"We may have to kill Heydrich."
Kolnikov grunted.
"You and I could run the boat," Turchak admitted. "The automation is quite extraordinary. We could not respond quickly to anything, and there would be no safety margin — none — which makes my flesh crawl. The first casualty, the first equipment failure, and we will be dead men. With people on watch in the reactor and engine room, we have a little breathing room. Someone on the sonar will help enormously. We will need all the people we have if we need to reload a torpedo tube. Still, we know so little. A tiny fire, an electrical problem. . we'll be dead."
"That is the risk we agreed to take," Kolnikov insisted.
"Talking about risks on dry land is not the same as living them."
They stood looking at the displays. Finally Kolnikov shook his head. "There is no way to undo what we have done. We must go forward."
"I know. I know! All of this frightens me — that is the honest truth. I wish—"
Turchak left the thought hanging. After a bit he asked, "What are we going to do with the guns?"
"Jettisoning them through an empty torpedo tube would be best. I don't want them aboard."
Kolnikov checked the navigation display. The boat was five hundred feet deep, running southeast at four knots. Except for the grunting of some distant whales, the sea was silent, empty in all directions, surface and subsurface. A few minutes ago there had been the telltale signature of noise from an airplane passing overhead, a jet running high. It was gone now.
Kolnikov pulled the pistol from his belt, checked that the safety was on, and went forward.
Pistols and rifles were strewn carelessly near the sleeping men. The two Russian officers picked up every firearm they saw. One man was sleeping with his pistol belt and holster still wrapped around his waist, so Kolnikov put his pistol against the man's forehead and waited for him to awaken. In seconds his eyes came open. Kolnikov undid the buckle and pulled the belt from under the man.
They had an armful of guns by the time they reached the torpedo room. All four of the tubes were empty. They put the guns in number one, then proceeded to the engine room in the aft end of the boat. Three men were awake there, checking lubrication levels and monitoring the turbines. Kolnikov held a pistol on them while Turchak took their weapons and carried them forward. Kolnikov followed.
When they had the tube closed for the second time, Turchak asked, "Where's Heydrich?"
"I don't know. He must have been in one of the heads when we went by." Or in the aux machinery room, cold storage…
"And Steinhoff?"
"I don't know."
"Someone may have told them we are confiscating the weapons."
Kolnikov and Turchak gripped their pistols tightly as they approached the door of the control room.
The two Germans were there, examining the control panels.
Steinhoff turned, saw that the Russians had pistols out, and immediately decided to jerk his automatic from its holster.
Kolnikov shot him once. Steinhoff sagged to the deck and lay there moaning.
Heydrich stood frozen with his back to Kolnikov, his hands half raised.
"May I turn around?"
"Not yet."
Turchak inched forward, pulled the pistol from Heydrich's holster, and patted him down for more weapons. He also had a pistol in his pocket, which Turchak transferred to his own pocket.
Turchak put the guns in the torpedo tube while Kolnikov sat in the control room with his pistol pointed at Heydrich and Steinhoff moaned softly and writhed on the deck. Heydrich made no move to examine the man, see how badly he was hurt.
When the guns had been flushed from the tube into the sea, Kolnikov remarked, "Take your friend to berthing and put a bandage on him." He pocketed the pistol.
Heydrich jerked Steinhoff off the deck and slung him over his shoulder, oblivious of his wound.
"The game isn't over, Kolnikov."
"Get your head out of your ass," the Russian shot back. "This is no game. You can't run this boat without me, but I can certainly run it without you. As far as I'm concerned, you're expendable ballast. At the first sign of disobedience I'll shoot you as quick as I shot Steinhoff."
"You know, I believe you would."
When they were alone, Turchak said, "You should have killed him, gotten it over with."
Vladimir Kolnikov rubbed his face. "We must take split watches, you and I. One man will run the boat while the other sleeps."
When Jake Grafton descended the stairs in the beach house Sunday morning, Toad Tarkington and Janos Ilin were drinking coffee at the window nook while Callie cooked eggs. She had the television in the corner tuned to CNN. Jake kissed her, dropped into a chair at the table.
"You two look chipper this morning," Jake remarked to the men, both,of whom looked slightly rumpled. "Sun and sand seem to agree with you."
Toad eyed the admiral suspiciously as he sipped his coffee.
"We spent yesterday in front of the television," Janos Ilin said, "until we couldn't stand it anymore." He felt his pockets, probably feeling for his cigarettes. He had picked up the fact that Americans didn't smoke indoors.
The Sunday paper lay on the table. The headline screamed, "Sub Stolen." Under it was a photo of the hijackers entering the submarine taken from the television video. To the right was a smaller shot of Kolnikov shooting at the helicopter.
The admiral helped himself to the coffee and cream. He was sipping it when the telephone rang. He picked it up.
"I'm a reporter with—" the voice began. Jake put the telephone back on the cradle.
"So who did it?" Toad demanded.
"Some Russian and German ex-submariners." Jake
didn't mention the CIA.
"Wow!"
"Quite amazing," Ilin said. "How in the world could they have learned enough about the submarine—America? — to take it to sea? Aren't submarines extremely complicated?"
"Like a space shuttle."
"Surprising," Ilin said and helped himself to more coffee.
Callie served him an omelet as the group discussed what the thieves might do with a stolen sub. The telephone rang two more times. Each time Callie answered it, said a few words, and hung up. "Reporters," she said.
"I have been asked to assist in the investigation of this matter," Jake said, addressing Ilin. "Since several of the men involved were Russian nationals, I was wondering if you would assist me? On an informal basis, of course."
"Do you know their names?"
"Not yet."
"I assume," Ilin said slowly as he buttered a piece of toast, "that you have discussed this matter with General Blevins?"
"Yes."
"And other people?"
"Of course."
"May I ask who they are?"
"I think I'll reserve that."
Ilin ate the toast before he spoke again.
"The theft of the submarine is certainly a tragedy, but I fail to see how I can be of assistance in investigating that theft."
"Maybe you will have a glimmer as we go along."
"I tell you frankly that I know nothing of submarines. I have never even been aboard one. In fact, to the best of my memory, I have never actually seen one. They are an uncommon sight in Moscow."
"Perhaps," Jake said, also choosing his words carefully, "the news has been so unexpected that you have failed to grasp the implications. If Russian nationals were involved, persons in some quarters might suspect that they are acting on behalf of — or at least on the orders of — the Russian government. The event might have serious implications for U.S.-Russian relations."
"I appreciate that. Yet I fail to see how I can assist you. I know absolutely nothing about submarines or ships or any of that."
"Are you refusing?"
"No. Merely trying to force your expectations down to rational levels and make you air them. Just now I fail to see how I can be of any assistance whatsoever."
"Ah, we'll have to await the event to see if you can aid me. But perhaps you can aid your government. If these… pirates… use the submarine against Russian shipping or naval vessels, the Russian government might be very interested in your observations."
"Perhaps. And it might not. In any event, I tell you flatly that regardless of what I say, the people in Moscow will draw their own conclusions."
"Would you care to call the embassy? Discuss this with someone there?"
Both men knew the Graftons' telephone was nonsecure, and both knew that the American government would record the conversation since it was made to the Russian embassy.
"Perhaps later," Ilin said, refusing to close the door or pass through it. "How do you propose to begin your investigation?"
"The navy will have a plane pick us up at noon at Dover Air Force Base. Callie can drop us there on her way back to Washington. The plane will fly us to Connecticut. The FBI will have an agent there to brief us. They might have learned something about the thieves. No doubt we can also learn something about the stolen submarine."
Janos Ilin helped himself to more coffee. "Admiral, I am sure my government will not object to my tagging along. You understand, I am under no obligation to withhold anything from my government, nor will I." He grinned disarmingly at Jake. "I will of course also report this conversation."
Jake Grafton grinned right back, his best I'm-holding-four-aces look. "Of course."
He was upstairs packing when Callie came up. "Well?"
"I don't know," she said. "He's a master at handling his face."
Jake made a noise.
"So what are you going to let him see?"
"Everything. The technology is compromised anyway." That was an oversimplification, which might or might not prove true. If the submarine could be found and destroyed and the thieves killed, they wouldn't compromise anything. If they hadn't already passed on the secrets. On the other hand, Jake didn't believe that Ilin was a technical expert… in anything. He was an intelligence professional. Showing him a sonar presentation did not mean he could tell Russian engineers anything they would find of value.
"They put Flap Le Beau in charge of the investigation so it won't look like the navy is investigating itself," Jake explained. "He picked me to assist him, and I discussed bringing Ilin along. Having an SVR man involved is unconventional as hell, but… we've never had anyone steal a submarine before."
"So heads will roll?"
"Oh, you bet. Finger-pointing, JAG Manual investigations, courts of inquiry, careers ruined, sackings, courts-martial, at some point a congressional investigation. We're going to get the whole military entertainment experience."
"Do you think the thieves will torpedo the Goddard platform? Maybe shoot a missile at it?"
"At this point I don't know what to think. They might even fire off a missile at Moscow. If they do, at least the Russians will know that we didn't put these guys up to it."
"If they believe that the submarine was really stolen."
"Yeah. If." He got his shirts the way he wanted them, then went to the window and looked out. Ilin was standing in the street smoking a cigarette, drinking another cup of coffee.
"It was a theft, wasn't it?" his wife asked.
Jake glanced at her, a startled expression on his face. Sometimes her insights stunned him. It was almost as if she could read his thoughts. He wondered if Ilin thought him equally transparent.
"I can't imagine that it wasn't, but I want to see the bodies," he said.
He glanced again out the window at Ilin and froze. "The binoculars. Where are the binoculars?" he hissed at Callie. "Quick, get them for me, will you?"
She turned and flew from the room without a word. He heard her run down the steps, then back up. When she dashed into the room carrying the binoculars he was standing on the bed, well back from the window.
He focused the glasses on Ilin. Yep, his lips were moving. He was talking.
Certainly not to himself.
Either he was wired or someone was pointing a directional mike at him.
Jake did his best to scan across the street from his perch on the bed, where he should be essentially invisible from the street. Houses lined the other side of the street, many of them rentals, and vehicles filled every available parking space, the usual state of affairs this close to the beach. One of the parked vehicles was a van, a custom job without back windows. It was unfamiliar to him, but then most of the vehicles were. Who the heck ever noticed cars? From here he couldn't see the license plate.
He lowered the glasses, sat down on the edge of the bed.
He had underestimated Ilin. Underestimated the Russians.
This whole house could be wired. Probably was. The Russians had listened to every word that was said all weekend.
Callie was looking at him with an amused expression. "I wish I had a picture of your face wearing that look," she said.
He took her into the bathroom, turned on the shower and the exhaust fan. Then he put his mouth near her ear. "Ilin is standing alone in the street smoking, drinking coffee, and chattering away. The whole house is probably wired. Someone is listening."
She accepted his assessment without question. "What do you want me to do?"
"Take us to Dover and put us on the plane. Then drive back to Washington. On the way find a pay phone and make a telephone call. Don't use your cell phone. Call from an inside phone, like at McDonald's, so no one can aim a directional mike at you." He gave her a number, told her whom to talk to, what to ask for.
"Oh, God! I am so sorry," Sarah Houston wailed. "What a lover you must think I am! It must be jet lag. I must have fallen asleep in midkiss."
"You were exhausted," Tommy Carmellini said.
"That's never ha
ppened to me before. Is it old age? Already? Oh, my God! What you must think! Well, I'm wide awake now. I hope. Give me some hugs and kisses, big guy."
Tommy Carmellini knew he wasn't enough of an actor to pull it off. He felt like a real jerk. He had wined and dined her and taken unfair advantage, and alas, sex hadn't been involved. He glanced at the clock on the bedside table. "I've got to be at JFK in two hours," he said. "I'm catching a flight to London. The next time you're in New York, could I have another date?"
"London?" She brightened. "Perhaps we could have dinner this coming week in London. I'm going over on Wednesday."
"Friday?" Tommy asked hopefully, wanting to end it on that note.
"Do you have any aspirin? Or Tylenol?"
There was a small bottle of aspirin in the bathroom cabinet. He remembered seeing it there. He got her two tablets and a glass of water, which she drained.
"Friday, lover," she whispered as she handed him the empty glass.
Sarah was still naked under the sheets — hung over from the drugs — when he threw his toothbrush and shaving gear into his bag and zipped it closed. There was nothing compromising in the apartment, so he didn't need to worry about that.
Tommy kissed her, wished that they. . kissed her again, then rushed for the door. "Friday evening. London. I'll call you. Lock the door on your way out."
She blew him a kiss.
Down on the street he legged it toward Columbus Avenue. He would catch a southbound cab there, although he wasn't going to the airport. He was going to Penn Station to catch a train to Washington, and he had all day to get there. The trains ran practically every hour. On Columbus he slowed to a walk, ambled along thinking about things.
He had plenty of time. What the heck, why not stroll over to Fifth Avenue and look in jewelry store windows?
Two FBI agents met the plane in Connecticut. "Two cars," Jake Grafton told them. He rode with the agent in charge, Tom Kraut-kramer, while Toad Tarkington and Janos Ilin piled in the second car. Krautkramer was a large man of about forty, with a frank, open face and huge, meaty hands.
"Ilin may be wired for sound," Jake said after a look at Kraut-kramer's credentials. He told him about the incident this morning in the street outside Jake's house. "I doubt it, but I want you guys to check him out without letting him know he's being swept. Can you do that?"
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