Silent Thunder

by Iris Johansen

  "Put her down, boys." The station manager, Simpson, was standing in the doorway of his office. He leveled the shotgun at the men. "Real easy now."

  The man holding her feet loosened his grip slightly. "You don't understand, sir. We're U.S. Marshals and we're apprehending a suspect. My name is Jim Dennis and this is Ray Fontaine. Lower your shotgun."

  "I never heard of Marshals trying to chloroform a suspect. I think that's a bunch of bull. Let her go."

  The men slowly placed Hannah's feet on the gravel parking lot. She staggered a few feet away from them, breathing deep to try to clear her head.

  "You're interfering with the law," the man who'd called himself Jim Dennis said. "The woman is under arrest. Put down your weapon."

  The old man lowered his gun only a little. "And you talk kinda funny. You're not from around here. Show me your ID."

  Thank God for that hint of a Russian accent, Hannah thought.

  "Of course," Dennis said. "Right after we secure our suspect."

  "They're lying, Mr. Simpson," Hannah said desperately. "I didn't do anything wrong."

  "Just take it easy, lady," Simpson said. "No one's going to hurt you. Go on over to your van and let me take care of this."

  She started moving across the parking lot. Weapons. There might be a weapon in the van. Jesus, her head was spinning.

  "Stop, you bitch." Dennis muttered a helpless curse beneath his breath before he turned back to the station manager. "You're in big trouble, old man. You're aiding the escape of a dangerous felon."

  "She don't look so dangerous to me," Simpson said. "Prove it. Show me your ID."

  She'd reached the van. The back door was still open and the shelves of equipment were before her. What could she use to-?

  "Okay," Dennis said. "I'm reaching for my badge. Don't do anything stupid."

  "If you're who you say you are, we don't have a problem."

  "Misunderstandings can cost lives." Dennis pulled open his brown leather jacket and slowly reached inside. "I've seen it happen. Just stay calm. If you'd like to come closer, I'll show you all the ID you could want to see."

  Hannah saw the almost imperceptible signs of Dennis's hand tightening beneath his jacket.

  "No!" she screamed. "Watch out. He's going to-"

  Too late.

  The pistol was already in Dennis's hand, out, and firing three bullets in rapid succession.

  The old man screamed in pain as one bullet hit him in the upper chest. The other two were close misses, and pierced the fuel pump next to him.

  The old man crumpled to the ground.

  Dead? Hannah wondered frantically. What could she do to-

  It was already done. Simpson's shotgun discharged as he fell to the gravel.

  And the charge hit Dennis in the face. His head exploded.

  Fontaine stared in disbelief at Dennis, but he recovered immediately. He started toward Hannah, the anesthetic-soaked cloth in his hand.

  Think fast. Weapon. Find a weapon. What weapon?

  The gasoline smell was thick in the air. The gas from the pierced fuel pump was gushing and trickling as it made a trail downhill.

  Right toward the van.

  Right toward Fontaine, who was now running toward her.

  And then she knew what weapon to use.

  She dove toward the equipment rack and her hand grasped the handle. She took aim and squeezed the trigger.

  The signal flare exploded onto the concrete slab and caught the gasoline. The hot, bluish flame raced for the gunman. In an instant the puddle beneath him ignited. It consumed his clothes and then his hair.

  And then his flesh.

  He screamed.

  She closed her eyes, then forced herself to open them. No time for squeamishness. She had to get out of here. This place was going to be a tinderbox in minutes, maybe seconds.

  Hannah ran to the station manager. He was conscious, thank God. He was staring in horror at the burning man.

  "Can you walk?"

  He couldn't seem to take his eyes off the man who was now writhing on the pavement. "Fire… need extinguisher."

  "No time." She pulled him to his feet and slung his arm over her shoulder. "We need to hurry. Walk with me, okay?"

  He shook his head as he looked back at the pumps. "My station…"

  Hannah half pulled, half dragged the man across the two-lane road.

  She heard a deep, low rumbling.

  The tanks!

  She pushed the old man down and hit the ground on her stomach. The gas station exploded, sending shock waves off the hillside next to her. Fiery debris rained down on them as the blast filled their ears and echoed in the distance.

  She opened her eyes. Objects were burning all around them. The station, SUV, and Conner's van were nothing more than black, burning hulks. She leaned toward Simpson and brushed an ember off his back. "Are you okay?"

  "I guess so." He stared at a charred object only inches from his face. "What's… that?"

  She quickly looked away. She felt sick. "I don't know." And, Christ, she didn't want to know. She started unbuttoning his shirt. "It looks like you have an upper-chest wound, but you may have gotten lucky." She hoped to heaven that was true. "You're not bleeding very much. I'll see if I can do some first aid before I try to get you help."

  SIX

  It was over two hours later, when Hannah saw a familiar silhouette outlined against the flashing lights of the fire engines and paramedic units parked on what was left of the gas station parking lot.

  Bradworth.

  "Did you hop on a jet to come to my rescue?" she asked bitterly.

  "I'd never do that, Hannah. I'm a public official." He shrugged. "I hopped on a helicopter."

  "Good one. Who says bureaucrats don't have a sense of humor."

  "I have two ex-wives who might say that."

  "Would they also say your timing sucks? Some rescue."

  "I told you that I didn't want you driving by yourself."

  "Because you knew this horror wasn't over. You knew they didn't get everything they wanted."

  "There was a chance."

  "A damn good chance. They didn't want to kill me. They tried to kidnap me. That means they thought I could give them something they wanted."

  "That's reasonable," he said.

  "Ever cautious. God, I'm sick of you," she said wearily. "That old man who owns this station was shot and his station destroyed just because I drove in here. He didn't have anything to do with this."

  "How is he?"

  "They took him to the hospital about an hour ago. The paramedics said he'd be okay." She gazed at the ruin of the station. "I'm not so sure. He told me he opened this station when he came home from fighting World War II. It's been his whole life for over fifty years. Then in the flicker of an eyelash, it's gone."

  "Insurance?"

  "Yes, but that won't replace the emotional attachment."

  "He'll survive. It's probably better he retire anyway." Bradworth changed the subject. "I've been in touch with the local police department, so I'm pretty much up to speed on things. Did the officers here tell you that the SUV's license plates were stolen?"

  "No."

  "They are. And it appears that the registration numbers have been removed. I'm having it towed to the FBI garage in Boston so they can give it the once-over. You didn't recognize either man?"

  "No."

  "Then we have to assume that your memory may be your biggest liability right now. Maybe they think you've seen other plates like those on the sub that they might not have been able to carry away. Or maybe they want to be the only ones who have that information on the plates. Are you sure there isn't anything more you can tell us about what you saw on the sub?"

  Her fingernails dug into her palms as her fists clenched. "Dammit, there's nothing more to tell. There's no way I can remember anything about those plates. It's just a blank. All I can see is Conner lying there, dead."

  He shrugged. "Just checking. It might be a good id
ea if I had a couple agents assigned to you for the next few weeks. For your protection."

  "I guess you thought this would be a good idea, too." She pulled out the device she'd found in Conner's car vent.

  "What's that?"

  "Don't play stupid with me, Bradworth. This thing's government issue all the way. I saw one in Turkey a couple years ago. The U.S. Navy brought me in to recommend modifications to the Turkish submarine fleet, and our hosts were most upset to find one of these in their transports. They determined U.S. Military Intelligence had planted it."

  "It doesn't mean I had anything to do with planting this bug."

  "You were the only one who knew I was driving Conner's van back." Her eyes narrowed on his face. "But were those men using it to track me? Were you working with them?"

  "Christ, no, Hannah. Okay, I did put it in the van. For your protection."

  "Yeah, sure."

  "It was sending pulses to a GPS satellite. I was worried and wanted to keep tabs on you."

  "So you could set me up again."

  "Let me take you back to town. We can talk and-"

  "I already have a ride. One of the officers will take me back to his precinct. I have a rental car waiting for me there." She got to her feet. "I only want two things from you, Bradworth. One, I don't want Cathy to hear about this. She has enough to worry about. Two, you smooth the way with those insurance people who are going to be cross-examining Larry Simpson. I don't want him suffering any more than he has to because he was unlucky enough to have me stop at his station."

  "I'll do my best."

  "Do more than your best," she said fiercely. "I'm sick of innocent people getting the shaft because they got in the way of you and your friends' little games."

  "I don't regard it as a game. I'm doing my job and-"

  "I'm through talking to you. You're either pitifully inefficient or you're crooked as hell." She strode toward the police car. "I'm leaning toward the latter. Just stay away from me, Bradworth."

  Hannah Bryson is damn lucky," Kirov said curtly. "Yeah, you were handling it. Why weren't you there when she needed you?"

  "I don't have to answer to you."

  "The hell you don't."

  "And we don't even know that it was Pavski. It could be a new player in the game."

  "No, it's Pavski."

  "How are you so sure?"

  "The attention to detail. The stolen plates, the erased registration numbers. He's always been good at covering his tracks. Do you know what they tried to knock her out with?"

  "Not yet. I assumed it was chloroform."

  "It wasn't. Pavski has always been partial to midazolam. It works faster and leaves the victim with less of a headache later."

  "Considerate guy."

  "If he wants information, he'd need her to have a clear head. Midazolam." He paused. "And if he made a move on her, then he doesn't have everything he needs. I'm betting he's still hovering near Silent Thunder."

  "We need him alive, Kirov."

  "So you've told me."

  "We need information. Once we get that, what you do is your own business. Do we have an understanding?"

  "Oh, I've always understood you and your 'superiors.' You're the ones who've failed to read me."

  "But you'll keep your word?"

  "As long as I don't see signs of a double cross. But make no mistake, Bradworth. If, after you have him in custody, you cut Pavski a deal, all bets are off."

  "And?"

  "I'll still find him and finish him off." He added, "And anyone else who stands in my way. It might be wise to remember that, Bradworth."

  Sorry to keep you waiting out in the hall." Congressman George Preston sat behind his mahogany desk and smiled at Hannah and Cathy. "My assistant needed to take her daughter to the doctor, so it's just me here until after lunch. What can I do for you?"

  "I appreciate your agreeing to see us. I know you're busy when you come home to Boston," Hannah said. "I promise we won't take much of your time."

  "My pleasure." Preston's smile faded. "No, my duty. Cathy has always been my friend as well as my employee, and I have to find a way to help her… and you."

  "Thank you." Hannah felt a surge of warmth. She had liked Preston the few times she'd met him. He'd gotten his start in politics over two decades before, when, as a high-school civics teacher, he ran for a seat in the U.S. House of Representatives merely as a lesson for his students. The local media picked up the story, his support snowballed, and he eventually won the race by a narrow margin. Hannah glanced at the framed newspaper on his wall, with the headline MR. PRESTON GOES TO WASHINGTON. It said something about him that he identified with that Frank Capra classic.

  "Again, I can't tell you how sorry I am about Conner. He was a good man."

  "He was an extraordinary man," Cathy said quietly. "Thank you, George."

  Preston glanced at Hannah. "When Cathy first called asking for information about the Silent Thunder, I didn't know you were involved with the project. I suppose I should have guessed. You and Conner were so close. Anyway, here it is." Preston gestured toward the two large file boxes stacked next to his desk. "Most of this is stuff from the media clipping services. We use them to gauge media reaction to various people or issues, and they compile just about everything said or written about a subject in a designated time span. I doubt there's anything there you don't already know."

  "Are there photographs?" Hannah asked.

  "Photographs, videos, maybe even compact discs of a news radio story or two."

  "This must have been expensive," Cathy said.

  "I'm on a committee that has a contract with this particular clipping service. We're not using them for much else right now, so at least this way they earn the money we're already paying them. After you're finished, I'll give all of this material to the maritime museum. I'm sure they'd like to have it for their archives."

  Cathy stood up and picked up one of the boxes. "Thank you. We'll take good care of these."

  "I know you will." He hesitated. "And you know I'll continue to help you as much as I can." He added gently, "But don't you believe that others are more qualified and working hard to find Conner's murderers?"

  Hannah didn't answer directly as she rose and picked up the other box. "We just want to make sure all the bases are covered."

  "What makes you think they aren't?"

  Cathy said quickly, "This is for me, George. I need to do something. Can you understand?"

  "Of course. I just want you to be careful. Ronnie and Donna need you now."

  "I know." She tried to smile as she turned to leave. "And God knows, I need them."

  Hannah Bryson and her brother's widow just left Congressman Preston's office," Koppel hung up his phone. "Trouble?"

  "I'm sure she's trying to stir up as much trouble as she can," Pavski said. "And probably snooping." He frowned. "Keep the surveillance sharp on her and Cathy Bryson." He sat back in his chair. "This wouldn't have been necessary if your so-called experts hadn't fumbled."

  "They were experts," Koppel protested. "Something must have gone wrong."

  "They fumbled," Pavski repeated coldly. "That's what went wrong. Now we have to find another way. Contact Carwell and have him check his go-to list. I need a wedge to get under Bryson's guard. Have you transmitted my message to Danzyl in Moscow?"

  Koppel nodded. "He's working on it. He'll get it to you soon."

  "Soon isn't good enough. I need it now." Keep calm. This trouble with Hannah Bryson was only a small glitch in the scheme of things. Danzyl would give him what he needed, and he could start doing the research to bring him what he wanted. He had several strings to his bow, and one arrow would strike home.

  An hour after they left the congressman's office, Hannah and Cathy were walking around Hannah's Back Bay condominium, which had recently become a veritable bulletin board. Every inch of wall space was covered by hundreds of photocopied newspaper and magazine stories, photographs and broadcast transcriptions. A stack of DVD
s rested on top of Hannah's television set, which displayed a marathon of television news reports relating to the Silent Thunder's arrival in the U.S.

  "These pinholes are going to wreak havoc with your resale value," Cathy said.

  Hannah shrugged. "The damage has already been done. I've spent too many nights pacing around here with blueprints for my new submarine designs tacked across every wall, window, and appliance. You wouldn't believe the inspiration that can come while scribbling on a shower door."

  "I'll take your word for it." Cathy surveyed the newspaper accounts. "You're featured in at least half these stories. You're more famous than I thought."

  Hannah glanced at a few of the clippings. "Conner should have been in them, too."

  Cathy shook her head. "No."

  Hannah gazed questioningly at her.

  "Conner hated the limelight. I know you don't care for it, either, but he absolutely hated it." Cathy smiled. "He was happy to be quietly brilliant, then to come home to his family in blissful anonymity. He said that one star in the family was enough. He was so proud of you."

  Hannah felt the tears sting her eyes and looked quickly away. "Thanks for telling me. Do you know, Conner and I talked about this in Rock Bay Harbor, and I was worried that he was feeling cheated. He denied it, but it's good to know that-" She had to stop to clear her throat and checked her watch. "Cathy, if you need to go pick up Ronnie and Donna-"

  "It's okay. I still have a few hours. They're with my mother. I think it's a relief for them to spend time with someone who isn't struggling just to hold herself together."

  "I've seen you with them. You're doing great."

  Cathy gazed at the photo-covered walls. "I'd be doing great if we could find something here we could use."

  "There's some good background in this material, but we probably won't find what we need here. We have to find out what was scratched on those bulkhead plates, and to do that, we have to find out more about the Silent Thunder's history."

  "Didn't the Russians give you that when they sold the sub to the museum?"

  "Not really. We don't even know how many miles it logged. The Russians are notoriously secretive about their submarine fleet. They're constantly renaming and renumbering them to make it hard for other governments to know how many they have in service. They're not about to give us details of its missions."