Silent Thunder
Page 9
"So what are you going to do?"
"One of the ships on my first Titanic expedition was a Russian scientific vessel. There were some former Soviet Navy officers on the crew, so I've made some calls to see if they can help us out."
Cathy reached into one of the file boxes and pulled out another stack of articles and photographs. "In the meantime, I'll find some place to plaster these up." She turned away. "You say you're partial to the shower door?"
Two and a half hours later, Hannah walked around the condo with a small stack of photographs in her hand. She studied another picture on the wall, then plucked it off and added it to the pile. She repeated the routine several more times as she worked her way from the living room to the kitchen.
"What did you find?" Cathy asked.
Hannah threw down the stack on the dining table and spread out the photos. "Look at these. The four stops that the Silent Thunder made before arriving at Rock Bay: Baltimore, New York, Boston, and Norfolk. Notice something in common about all these shots?"
Cathy studied the photos. "Other than the tons of ribbons and streamers littering the water in each of these ports?"
"It's all biodegradable and dissolves in just a few hours. Keep looking."
She gazed a few moments longer, then finally pointed to a craft resting a few hundred yards off shore. "This boat."
"Yes." Hannah shuffled through the photos. "It was at each of the ports. This boat was following the Silent Thunder."
Cathy looked at the photo that featured the boat most prominently. It was a small fishing trawler, approximately thirty feet in length, with a single mast and elevated steering platform. The silhouette of a tall, broad-shouldered man could be seen on the platform.
"He could be a submarine buff," Cathy said.
"Possibly. Or a journalist covering the Silent Thunder's final voyage. It's strange how he seems to be keeping his distance, though. The other boats are in position to observe the submarine. He seems to be positioned to watch the other boats. See?"
Cathy nodded. "So what do we do?"
Hannah found a picture that offered a view of the vessel's registration ID and examined it under a magnifying glass. She picked up her phone, punched a number.
"Who are you calling?" Cathy asked.
"Jack Fowler, he's with the Coast Guard."
Fowler picked up on the fifth ring.
"Hi, Jack. Hannah Bryson here."
He was clearly surprised to hear from her. "Hannah… Listen, I've been meaning to call you ever since I heard about Conner. I can't tell you how sorry I am."
"Thank you, Jack. It's been a tough time."
"If there's anything I can do, you know-"
"Actually, there is. I need you to run a vessel ID for me."
"Jeez, Hannah. I can direct you to the license office, but-"
"It'll take forever that way. Just a few clicks on that keyboard in front of you will give me everything I need."
"Dammit, I'm the U.S. Coast Guard's legal counsel. It's part of my job to keep our people from doing what you've just asked me to do."
"Tell them to do as you say, not as you do."
"And what do I say when I'm called down on the carpet for giving out sensitive information?"
She hesitated. It had to be done. "Remind them who helped you get the job there. If I hadn't put in a word for you, your expertise in maritime law would probably still be helping the oil companies pollute the oceans."
He paused. "That's below the belt, Hannah."
"I agree, and I'd never do it if I wasn't desperate. Help me, Jack."
"You're a wicked woman, Hannah."
"Please, Jack. BDR 54992 B8 67."
Silence. Then she heard the clicking of a keyboard.
Success.
"Okay, I guess I'm not really giving you anything you couldn't have found out with some paperwork and a bit of time. The vessel belongs to a Captain Henry Danforth."
"Class?"
"Hmm. It's a fishing trawler, but it's licensed for personal/recreational use."
"That's unusual, isn't it?"
"Well, deep-sea fishermen retire, and sometimes they just want a boat they're comfortable with. The boat's hailing port isn't far from you: Gloucester, Massachusetts, probably inner harbor. Are you happy now?"
"Very. Thanks, Jack. I'll remember this."
"I'd just as soon you forget it. It will be safer for me."
"Whatever you say." She hung up and turned to Cathy. "We've got him. Gloucester."
Ninety minutes later, Hannah turned left off Route 128 to East Main Street, which would take her past the State Fish Pier and along the inner harbor. Cathy had wanted to come with her, but she'd had to pick up her kids. Hannah was just as happy to go alone. She didn't know what she'd find in Gloucester.
Her cell phone rang, and she glanced at the caller ID screen. Bradworth. She let it go to voice mail. It was the third call from him in the past two hours. He'd probably learned about the clip files she'd obtained from Congressman Preston. No doubt the bastard wanted to warn her off from what she was doing.
No way.
In less than a mile, she turned off East Main and drove toward the water. Gloucester was a charming fishing village that almost seemed at odds with its recent popularity as a tourist destination. The old-timers were resentful of the transition, but the tourist industry had helped take up the slack as the region's commercial fishing industry plummeted.
She drove to the pier, which was lined with scores of fishing boats and pleasure craft. Was the trawler even here now? She knew it could be anywhere on the Eastern Seaboard, and boat owners were notoriously uncooperative when it came to keeping current info on file with the licensing authorities. She parked her car on the street and walked toward the pier.
It was a cool, overcast afternoon, just the sort of day that kept tourists away in droves. She walked along the wharf area, occasionally raising her binoculars to examine the boats.
She stiffened. There it was!
She focused her binoculars on the ID number. Definitely the right one. The trawler was moored between two other fishing boats. Its maroon, barnacle-covered hull was in need of a resurfacing, and the windows were fogged by sea salt. She looked for a name on the stern, but there was none.
She watched the boat for a few minutes longer, looking for any signs of life inside. None visible.
She walked down to the pier and made her way to the trawler, slowing her pace as she drew closer. The wind kicked up, and cold sprinkles of rain pelted her face.
Lights off, hatches closed. It didn't look as if anyone was home.
"Hi." In the boat next to the trawler, a bearded man in his early twenties rolled up a ragged net and glanced up at Hannah. He gave a low appreciative whistle. "You're lost, right?"
She smiled. "Not exactly. I want to talk to the captain of this boat. Know when he'll be back?"
He shook his head. "Nope. If it's a charter you're looking for, I don't think he does that kind of thing."
"Not even for the right price?"
"I don't think so. I've never seen anybody on the boat but him." His gaze slowly studied her up and down. "You look like you're used to a nicer boat anyhow, like maybe a yacht."
"I'll take that as a compliment."
He smiled. "It was. I'm Josh Sarks."
"Hannah. Good to meet you." She stepped closer. "Maybe I'm confusing this man with someone else. What does he look like?"
"Tall, dark hair, late forties or maybe fifty. He talks with an accent."
"What kind of accent?"
"Irish or Scottish, I can never tell the difference."
"See him around here much?"
"Sometimes." Sarks jerked his thumb toward a bar next to the pier entrance. "And I've run into him at the Seagull Saloon. I was there with a girlfriend, and she went dippy over him. I don't know if it's the accent or what." He grimaced. "You wouldn't think a young chick like her would go for an old guy like that."
Forties was old? Ch
rist, this kid was young. "He goes there to pick up women?"
"Nah. As far as I know, he always comes back here alone." He frowned. "You're asking a lot of questions. Are you his wife or something? Have I put my foot in it?"
She smiled. "Hardly. I promise you I've never met the man. I'm here on business, and I appreciate your help. So he lives here on the boat?"
"Yep."
"What does he do for a living?"
He shrugged. "Maybe nothing. He's sure not a fisherman. My dad and I have been moored here for the last three years, and I've never seen him bring in a catch. The boat comes and goes. It'll be here for a few weeks, then goes away."
"Goes where?"
"No idea. I don't think anyone around here knows him very well."
And neither did Josh Sarks. She'd probably found out all she was going to get from him. "Well, he doesn't sound like the man I was looking for. Thanks for your help."
"Maybe we could go up to the Seagull, and I could buy you a drink?" he called after her. "Someone there might be able to tell you something."
"I wish I could. I don't have the time right now." She smiled at him as she started up the pier. "Give me a rain check?"
Ten minutes later, Hannah sat at a window table of the Coffee Dunk 'n' Dine across the street from the Seagull Saloon. She flipped up the lid of her laptop and glanced outside. She could see the trawler, so if the vessel's owner returned, he'd be easy to spot.
She sipped her coffee. What would she do when she saw him? From what she'd learned from Sarks, it was doubtful if he was connected with the men who'd attacked the sub. He'd been living here on a beat-up trawler for three years. He hadn't just shown up on the radar when the sub appeared. Maybe he was a submarine groupie after all.
Or maybe he wasn't.
She'd make a decision and cross that bridge when she came to it. In the meantime, she could think of worse places to catch up on her work.
Her cell phone rang; she checked the caller ID screen. Bradworth again. She thought about answering, but decided against it. To hell with him.
She turned off the ringer.
Shit!" Bradworth slammed down the receiver and walked across his office. Next time he'd block his name and number, in case Hannah was intentionally deep-sixing him to the voice-mail graveyard.
The red flag had gone up when Congressman Preston's office requested the Silent Thunder media clippings, and a few discreet inquiries confirmed that Hannah and her sister-in-law were behind it.
Bradworth rubbed his temple. Things needed to be handled delicately, with finesse. He couldn't allow a couple of grief-stricken family members to unravel years of effort.
Even more troublesome was the preliminary lab report on Hannah's would-be abductors. The Agency medical examiners had worked through the night over the charred remains, and their findings scared the shit out of him.
Hannah, answer your goddamned phone.
SEVEN
That had to be him.
Hannah stiffened in her chair at the coffeehouse window as she saw the tall, dark-haired man making his way down the pier.
There was something very familiar about that silhouette she'd stared at in those many photographs. He wore black jeans and a corded cream-colored sweater. Standard-issue Rugged Man of the Sea, she thought.
He boarded the trawler and disappeared inside.
After ten minutes, he reemerged and walked back up the pier. He moved with confidence and masculine grace. She tried to get a good look at his face, but it was getting dark. Damn.
He went inside the saloon.
What now? She could follow and get a good look at him in the bar.
She cast a glance back at his boat.
Or there might be one way to put an end to this. If he was a journalist or submarine buff, she'd probably know after a quick glance inside the trawler.
She packed up her laptop and walked out of the coffee shop. The night had brought even more mist, and the pier's wood planks shimmered from the peach-colored overhead lights. A lone buoy rang in the distance.
She was shivering. Nerves? It wasn't every night that she indulged in criminal trespassing. Or it could be the cold; the temperature had dropped a good ten degrees since she'd been inside. She stopped in front of the trawler and stared at it for a long moment.
Don't think. Just do it.
She climbed over the transom and pulled open the hatch.
Inside.
Dark, smelling of lemon wax and coffee.
She raised her key ring xenon flashlight and shined it around the cramped living quarters. The area was used efficiently, with almost every inch of wall space covered with shelving and corkboards.
Cotton sheets were stretched tightly over a narrow mattress. A military bedroll, she noted. She could have bounced quarters off it.
She turned toward a series of navigational charts plastered across the front bulkhead. Typical Eastern Seaboard charts, available for sale at any bait and tackle shop in town. She moved closer to look for any indication of the boat's recent travels.
She went rigid. "My God."
The charts were far from typical. They were filled with the same odd symbols she'd seen on the bulkhead of the Silent Thunder that night Conner had been killed. Only these navigational symbols were written with a variety of colored grease pencils. They could be other symbols or copies of the ones taken from the submarine. Which meant-
Holy shit.
It meant she was in bad trouble. She had to get the hell out of here.
The hatch flew open!
She caught only a glimpse of cream-colored sweater stretched over broad shoulders before she instinctively barreled forward and tried to get past the man standing in the doorway.
"What the hell are-" He didn't finish the question as his arm flew out to stop her. "Stop struggling. You don't-"
He grunted as her fist connected with his stomach. "Damn you." He knocked her down, dove on top, and straddled her. His hands grasped her wrists and pinned them to the floor. "I've no compunction about beating up on women when they exhibit lethal tendencies. Just give me an excuse."
God, he was strong. She could feel the muscles of his thighs rock hard against her hips. She was a strong woman herself, and he was holding her still with no real effort. "Let me go." Jesus, that sounded as futile as that panicky rush she'd made at him. Stupid. Use your brains, dammit. "You won't hurt me. It would be dumb. Do you think I'd come here without letting someone know I was going to do it?"
"Indeed? And did they know you were going to try to burgle my poor vessel? Very poor judgment. I'd be within my rights to shoot an intruder."
He did have a slight accent, but it wasn't Irish or Scottish. The accent was the same as the Russian naval officers she'd worked with. "I wasn't going to rob you. I just wanted to have a look around." Christ, she felt helpless. She couldn't stand being held down like this. Go on the attack. "And I think you know that, Captain Danforth. I think you know who I am and why I'm here. Either call the police and have me arrested for trespassing, or get the hell off me so we can talk."
He was silent and then chuckled. "May I point out you probably wouldn't be in this position if you'd indicated you wanted conversation earlier, Ms. Bryson? I'm the one who was assaulted. I was only defending myself."
He did know who she was and was making no attempt to hide it. "And how was I to know what you'd do? I've been attacked every time I've turned around lately. Maybe you had something to do with that too."
"And maybe I didn't."
"Then tell me why the hell you have those damn scribblings on that navigational map."
She could feel him tense against her. "You're in a very vulnerable position to discuss the matter."
"That's right, I've nothing to lose. You'd know I saw them anyway. If you're going to kill me, you'll kill me. If you're not one of those bastards who killed Conner, I'm going to keep after you until I get answers."
He hesitated and then swung off her and stood up. "Then by all mea
ns, I must let you get your breath before you start interrogating me."
She felt a rush of relief. God, she'd been scared. "I don't know if I can get my breath." She flinched as she sat up. "I think you cracked a rib."
He shook his head. "No, I only bruised you."
"You seem very sure of that." She ignored the hand he offered and got to her feet. "You must indulge in this kind of violence frequently."
"Enough to be able to gauge the damage." He turned and moved across the cabin. "While you, on the other hand, were miserably inept."
"You took me by surprise. I acted on impulse and didn't mean to-" She was defending herself, she realized in disgust. "I hate violence, and I don't need to make excuses for not being good at it. There's too much-" She stopped. He had turned on the light and she got her first good look at him. A shock of dark hair generously flicked with gray, blue eyes lined at the corners from squinting into the sun, high broad cheekbones. Not a classically handsome man, by any means. Yet it was difficult to look away from that face.
"Acting on impulse is foolish. One must always make excuses for being foolish." He opened the cabinet and took down a bottle. "Would you like a drink? You look like you could use one."
"No, I don't want a drink." She stared at him in frustration. He was perfectly calm, almost offhand, and it bugged the hell out of her. "I want to know about those symbols."
"They're navigational symbols as you guessed. Samsovian school." He poured himself a whiskey. "A bit esoteric but hardly criminal."
"But it's criminal if you kill to get your hands on them."
"True." He gestured to the map. "But if you study them I'm sure you'll realize they're not the same ones on the bulkhead of the Silent Thunder. Go ahead, take a look." He sat down in a chair at the desk. "And you'll see I'm just a poor fisherman charting my path."
She made a rude noise and heard him laugh as she crossed to stare at the map.
She was too upset to concentrate enough to bring up the full memory of those markings on the bulkhead, but now that she studied the map, she could see that they weren't the same. He was right, dammit. Similar but not the same. She turned to face him. "It's different. But that doesn't mean-" She wearily shook her head. "I don't know what the hell it means. I just know that you're probably as crooked as everyone else, and I want to know why you were following the Silent Thunder from port to port."