"We need to talk."
"Uh, I’m busy. Can you make an appointment?"
He wore jeans, a collared Polo, tasseled loafers, and no socks. His hair was mussed and his face red with a sheen of sweat.
"It’s too late for appointments. You're in trouble."
Krakhower tried a smile. "I'm always in trouble. Why should today be different?”
Rowe tossed the top box from the pile aside. Something inside shattered. "You want to do this in view of your neighbors, fine with me. Let’s start with your wife. Is she involved?"
Something rustled to his left. Rowe drew on it and Krakhower squealed. “That’s Fluffy!”
It was a cat.
Rowe holstered his weapon in the waistband of his pants and dragged Krakhower inside the house, scattering boxes like breadcrumbs along the path. Rowe instructed the traitor to sit while he cleared the structure. The noxious aroma of bleach and Lysol assaulted him as though the family never took enough time to clean. Krakhower had been burning something plastic in the fireplace which added to the foul bouquet. Atop the mantle where most Dads put photos of their kids were Krakhower’s Karate trophies.
"You a martial artist, Norman? I can call you Norman, can’t I?" Rowe asked as he checked the downstairs.
"Y-yes. I'm a bl-black belt." A hint of pride crept into his voice. “Once I was out to—”
“Whatever you did won’t help, Norman.” Rowe slammed his hand onto the coffee table to get the man’s attention. “I'm a professional thug. Who do you think will win?"
Krakhower nodded so emphatically, Rowe thought he’d get whiplash. "I don't want to fight you—whoever you are." The man sniffled.
"Anyone upstairs?"
"Oh—no! I need to leave before they get here."
Rowe pointed his Colt at Krakhower. “I’m going to check. Move and I shoot you." He got two steps and the cat yowled. He turned to see it sprint under the couch as Krakhower fall face first onto the tile entryway. Rowe yanked him up by the back of his shirt, spun him around by his shoulders, and slapped him open-handed across the face.
"Don't do that!" He leaned in so spittle sprayed the purchasing agent’s face. “I have a hair-trigger temper.” The man started shaking.
“Come with me,” and Rowe shoved him forward as he methodically cleared each upstairs room. He hoped to discover Mohammed or Al-alah holed up in the spare room, but all he found was trash, unmade beds, and wrinkled clothes piled in heaps.
"You-all should pick up in the mornings. This is no way to raise kids." Rowe propelled him downstairs and onto the living room sofa. "Keep your hands up."
"Wha-what d'you w-want?" Sweat prickled on Krakhower’s face. His mouth hung open.
“You’re crummy at this spy stuff, Norman, which makes you perfect. As Jerry Garcia says, you been set up like a bowling pin.” He dropped onto a flowered monstrosity of a couch with overstuffed pillows. “I'll ask simple questions. I want honest answers. Maybe I save your life. Ready?"
"Y-yes.” He started to lower his hands so Rowe slapped him across his cheeks.
“Did I tell you to move?”
Krakhower yelped and thrust his hands back in the air. "Please stop! I'll help! Stop hurting me!" Tears ran down his cheeks.
Rowe hated hitting a crying man, but Virginia’s crew had no time. He peered at the details from James about Krakhower’s family.
"Your wife works as a paralegal for Libbey and Anderson. She's beautiful, by the way." He turned his phone to show Krakhower a snapshot of his wife taken this morning, ignorant that someone was observing her. "They like her, but wouldn’t if they knew her husband's a traitor. He brought up another picture. “Your children go to a prestigious private school. Their teachers say they have leadership potential. They were supposed to spend the weekend with friends, but are first getting ice cream with my associate. What happens next is up to you.” Not true, but Krakhower didn’t look like he took chances. “Here, talk to Bobby. He’s with your children. I’d let you talk with them, but you’ll scare them with your hyperventilating."
Krakhower’s hands were glued to the chair so tightly, his knuckles went white. "Leave them alone. Please?"
Rowe stood over Krakhower. The man craned his neck back to keep his bloodshot eyes on Rowe. "You can put your hands down, Norman."
As Krakhower lowered his arms, Rowe said, "That ASDS you sold instead of scrapping is responsible for the murder of two thousand sailors on a Chinese carrier and may be the catalyst for World War III. That makes you a traitor besides an international criminal. Tell me what happened—and tell the truth. It's easier to remember."
Krakhower couldn’t talk fast enough. "Hold on, cowboy. I have to tape this.” He put his phone on the table between them and started the recording. "I'm with Norman Krakhower of Northrop Grumman. He volunteered to share his knowledge of the missing ASDS."
Krakhower talked for thirty minutes, words tumbling over each other in his rush. “I have money problems. My kids, private school—and my wife’s social group. It’s all about appearances—wearing the right clothes, going to the right restaurants. It costs so much. I’m drowning. Then, like a gift, this man wants to buy the ASDS scrap. I was to notify him when the bid opened. He said he needed it for his father’s birthday—would reimburse me for helping him out. He said all purchasing agents took kickbacks—someone always won the bid, right? See, I’m new to this job. The last guy—he got fired. Anyway, he ended up giving me $5000 in cash simply for listening! I deposited it, took my wife to a fancy restaurant, and bought her a new dress. I decided to take the money but you know, not help him. Well, I got a second visit, this one less friendly. He thanked me for agreeing to help, played a tape of us talking and had screenshots of the money in my account. I decided to do what he wanted and get it over with.”
Rowe showed him three photos. "Which one did you deal with?" Krakhower pointed at Salah Mahmud al-Zahrawi. "What did he say?"
"He’s South Korean and his dad always wanted his own sub." A wistful smile crossed Krakhower’s face.
"This ‘son’ you’re getting misty eyed over is an international terrorist who wants nothing so much as to destroy America. You just gave him the weapon.”
Krakhower started to cry again. "I needed money for my kid's college. Damn government takes so much, how am I supposed to make ends meet?"
Rowe turned away in disgust. "Did he say anything about an American cruiser or the USS Bunker Hill?"
"No! I'm trying to tell you—I know nothing else."
By now, Krakhower was crying so hard, he hiccupped. Rowe was sick of the man. How'd he survive life so afraid of everything?
"I have some friends who want to chat with you."
Rowe checked that no one lay in wait outside, and then handcuffed Krakhower to the back seat of his car. When he got back to Northrup Grumman, he left his prisoner to ponder the error of his ways and met James outside the lobby.
“He peed in my car, Bobby. I have to get it cleaned. Here’s the photo he identified.”
“Impossible.”
“What’s that saying about impossible and improbable,” and told Krakhower’s story while two FBI agents handcuffed the former purchasing agent and marched him across the parking lot in front of his former colleagues. Krakhower completely broke down, sobbing, nose running, and chest heaving as he gasped for breath.
Something glinted behind Krakhower, followed by a whisper of movement.
“Get down!” Rowe screamed, but was drowned out by a crack and Krakhower’s head disintegrated into a spray of blood and tissue. The two agents dove for cover, dragging Krakhower’s headless body with them.
Less than two weeks to go and they had lost their best lead.
Chapter Thirty-four
Friday, August 18th, late afternoon
UCSD Medical Center, Sean Delamagente’s room
Kali and Eitan stepped off the elevator at the sixth floor and followed signs to UC San Diego Medical Center’s intensive care unit. There’
d been delays on every stage of the flight, even switching planes after a six-hour wait. Each hour cost Kali years.
Nurses in white uniforms and leather-soled shoes hurried by. Families huddled in groups, whispering. In one corner, a harried woman sat alone, head in her hands, tears leaking through her fingers. The speaker shouted calls for doctors needed in some corner of the hospital. Kali stifled her fear and forced one foot in front of another.
A six-foot-wide double door blocked her entrance. Kali pulled, but nothing moved.
"How are we supposed to get in if the door is locked?" Her eyes burned. She never cried, but today, couldn't stop.
Eitan touched her arm. "Push the call button," and indicated a palm-sized red disc.
Kali waited an eternity before a voice asked who she wanted to see.
"Sean Delamagente." She tensed, worried they’d forbid her entry which was ridiculous.
The doors popped open. Kali stepped inside the ward and juddered her head side to side, looking for reception.
"Ms. Delamagente?" Kali pivoted. A young woman in a uniform smiled at her. Kali tried to focus, but failed. Eitan brushed past her.
"Hello, LT Chacone. My name is Dr. Eitan Sun. We talked earlier." He extended his hand, a smile filling his face.
"Yes, Dr. Sun. Please call me Paloma. I decided to meet you here so you have a familiar voice." Paloma shook hands with Eitan and turned to Kali. Dimples dotted her sculpted cheeks when she smiled and her eyes sparkled with youth and life. Her hair was pulled back in a chignon, hat in the crook of her elbow, white uniform spotless. Kali smoothed her clothing, rumpled from the long flight. Her headache sent hot spikes into her left eye. It took all her strength to focus on the young officer.
"Ms.—er, LT—Chacone, do you know where Sean is?" Her voice cracked.
"You must be his mother." She spoke in quiet, confident tones. "Please, I'm Paloma. I'm...a friend... of Sean's. Well, a new friend." This seemed to confuse her, but she barreled forward. "They moved him. I'll show you.”
They headed for the elevator, away from intensive care. Eitan took Kali's arm. "That's good. He's getting better." He nodded to himself as they descended a floor, went down another antiseptic hall, past open doors and quiet whispers, until they reached Sean's room. It felt calm and peaceful after the buzz of noise and blur of activity in the rest of the ward.
Paloma smiled. "A call from the Assistant CNO got my Captain’s attention. He told me to take what time I needed to assist you. I didn't know Sean well, but he seems a wonderful, serious person." She turned toward Kali. "I am so sorry about this."
Kali ached. She wanted to talk to this gracious young woman who could be the last person to see Sean healthy. Instead, she mumbled Thank you and slipped past to Sean's bedside.
Her son’s face was pale and drawn. White gauze swathed his head and tubes ran from his mouth and nose. His bones were etched against the thin material of the hospital gown as though he never ate, his chest gently rising and falling, the fingers he always took such care of now bandaged and thick.
Kali collapsed. Hands guided her to a chair. Eitan cheerily thanked Paloma for her assistance, asked how she knew Sean and inquired about her time on Bunker Hill. His face was animated, hands flying, and Paloma seemed entirely engaged. This Eitan Kali had never before seen.
When she convinced herself Sean would live another five minutes, she approached Paloma and took her hand. Kali tried to speak, but her voice stuck in her throat.
Paloma smiled, eyes soft and gentle. "Have you talked to a doctor?"
Kali coughed. "I'll have to find one..." It came out a whisper, but Paloma put her hand up.
"Stay here. I know where to find him, and my uniform tends to inspire action."
Another voice, this one Eitan. "I'll go, too,” As the pair disappeared down the hall, Paloma asked, “Your t-shirt, Dr. Sun, is Maxwell’s Equation, isn’t it?”
Kali smiled, knowing how happy that would make Eitan, and tucked the chair closer to Sean's bedside. "Sean, everything’s going to be OK. I’m here—Eitan, too. We're going to find out what happened and get you better."
He lay there, unmoving. Kali sucked in a breath, squeezed her eyes to keep them from overflowing and waited until she regained a measure of composure. "I'll be here until you wake up. Whenever you're ready.” She rubbed his hand between hers.
There she sat, brain spinning in neutral, too exhausted to think past breathing and pumping blood through her battered body. Last night’s call echoed in her brain, ‘I warned you…’
But they made a mistake attacking her son. Now, she had but one goal. Find the sub and find who hurt Sean. She’d sent a set of blueprints to a Columbia friend and run a simulation in Second Life. It was just a question of time.
"Mrs. Delamagente. I'm Dr. Jorge Medallon."
Kali jerked her head up and found a set of kind eyes behind stylish glasses. The doctor’s shoulders were bent, hair thin, face mapped with the worry incumbent upon a surgeon, but intelligence spilled from him like sunlight on a winter landscape. Her mind flooded with questions, but she started with one, "How is Sean?"
"He's been unconscious since he arrived. He was bleeding internally when they brought him in, but surgery corrected that. He could awaken at any moment—this evening or next week. His body is resting. Nothing worries us particularly except..." and he paused, as though unable to find the right words.
Fear welled up in the back of her throat. Her eyes teared, but she gritted her teeth. "Just tell me, Doctor. I almost lost Sean last year. Whatever you're not saying, I can handle."
Dr. Medallon shot a look at her over his glasses. "Whoever attacked him tried to smother him, but stopped short of killing him." He shrugged a timeless communication that greater forces ruled.
She shuddered. "You're afraid of brain damage."
Dr. Medallon nodded. "Let me know the moment he awakes," and left.
"Are you alright?" Eitan stepped into the room.
"Yes, of course. If I survived Africa—if Sean did, we'll get through this. Go eat something." For a man who nibbled all day, he must be starving. "I'll stay with Sean."
“A vending machine is down the hall, Dr. Sun.” Chacone smiled at him.
“Call me Eitan, please.”
As the two left, Kali turned to her son, wondering what occupied a brain in a coma.
A gentle voice broke her reverie. “Kali.”
"Duck!” She leaped to her feet, hugging the man she loved almost as much as Zeke. He might have stepped right off a battlefield—khaki colored uniform, muscles bulging against tight sleeves, thick black lace-up ankle-high boots. The room filled with his strength and energy.
“Zeke called you?"
"I called him. I know when he's upset." I came out Ah, and him came out heim. Duck’s southern twang increased with stress.
Kali started to cry. "Duck, they hurt my baby..."
Duck held her. "Whoever did this will pay, Kali. No one hurts someone I care for.
Sun and Chacone bought a variety of crackers, cookies, chips and sodas, and hurried back to Sean's room to find Duck regaling Kali with a story that made her howl with laughter.
They dropped the snacks on Sean's bedside table and Duck turned to Chacone with a wink. "They sure don't make 'em this perty where I work.”
Chacone took in Duck’s uniform, his bearing, and the intensity of his gaze. "When I interviewed for my Service Selection, the Captain asked me where my sidearm was—as if to say I wasn’t prepared. I responded, ‘Sir. If I expected trouble, I’d bring my M16.’"
Duck laughed until his eyes watered.
Sun wilted.
Within minutes, Chacone was telling Duck how Anchor got his nickname, how sweet he seemed and interested in her, and how lonely she was. Her face lit up and shoulders relaxed as the tension she carried from guilt and worry evaporated. How did Duck do that? Somehow, despite his massive size, women felt secure with him.
Okay, Sun thought, you’re here for Kali. If Paloma
fell for Duck's chiseled face, sexy grin, mischievous eyes, and muscular…everything…how could a chubby, pear-shaped, albeit kind and sincere scientist compete? But it made him wish he worked out more than his brain the last twenty-five years.
Chacone turned to Sun with wet eyes. "Sean’s here because of me. He warned me about Anchor. If only I'd listened..."
Sun put his hand on her arm and felt a jolt. His vision glazed over for an instant before he recovered. "This isn’t your fault, Paloma. Sean's a scientist. He needed to test his theory."
"It’s not your fault either, Eitan." Duck added.
Sun bowed his head. That, he didn’t believe.
Duck clapped him on the back. "So let's find the bad guys. You two see what you can find at Sean’s apartment while I chat with a few folks."
Sun smiled. "I'll drive."
Duck whispered into his ear. "Don'chu worry ‘bout Paloma, Eitan. I wanted to make sure she’s part of the solution and not the precipitate as you scientists say."
Sun led Paloma to his rental, plugged Sean's address into GPS and lurched into traffic.
"Oh, Eitan, you'll love— love San— Ahh!"
Sun glanced over to see what frightened her. Her face was pallid. One hand grasped the handhold on the door and the other clung to the edge of her seat. Sun swerved, barely missing a parked car as he turned his attention back to the road. "What's wrong, Paloma?"
"Nothing. Uh, would you like me to drive? I know this area—Ahh! That was close."
"Wow. That car came out of nowhere."
"I can drive, Eitan. I know our motorists, and—"
Sun fluttered his hand. "You did enough, meeting us in the hospital like you did—Woah! Crowded around here, isn't it?"
Chacone jerked her head up and down. "I'll drive back."
She sounded frightened, but the odometer distracted him.
"Eitan!" Paloma screamed. He slammed the brakes, barely avoiding rear-ending a truck.
"Wow. Oh wow. The odometer reads 557 miles. Each digit is a prime. The entire number is a prime and if you add the 5, 5, and 7 together, you get another prime!"
Twenty-four Days Page 20