He traced Rowe to a Bedouin base. Thirty men, all with weapons—machine guns, at least one RPG-7, one FIM-92, a 9mm that looked exactly like Rowe’s Sig Sauer, and a couple of machetes. Duck made a phone call, counted down ten minutes, and watched the camp explode with activity as soldiers loaded up trucks and raced out. When they were over the horizon, Duck neutralized anyone left and found Rowe.
“Next time, goddammit, wait for back-up.” Duck catalogued the damage to his best friend. His hair was matted with gore, each knee one big festering wound, arms and face streaked with blood. Both trigger fingers dripped crimson, soaking the filthy cloth wrapped loosely around their stubs. His uniform was in grimy tatters.
The dirt floor where Rowe had likely been chained for the last three days was covered in trash, excrement, and three dead bodies—the men Duck assumed who had been Rowe’s guards.
Apparently, the SEAL got tired of cooperating.
“They were going for my eyes…” Rowe pulled in a ragged breath, “Couldn’t let that happen. I would miss … the sight of… your ugly mug …”
Duck wiped sweat from his eyes. “Who’s this?” He nudged a dog who lay at Rowe’s side, tail sweeping contentedly across the ground, gaze trusting.
Rowe’s SEAL brothers tried to convince him it wasn’t his fault, that he did all he could, but Rowe knew it was a lie. He failed his country when he couldn’t find the WMDs and spent every day since then terrified he would again come up short when America most needed him. Now, he had a chance to make it right. He could find these terrorists who used innocents as corkboards, who would kill an entire crew of submariners without a thought, who threatened to destroy the US’s most fundamental layer of defense. Or he could hide under an academic rock for the rest of his life.
What he wouldn’t admit to even himself was this might be about Kali. Failing to safeguard the woman he loved a decade ago was also part of ‘what happened’.
He didn’t say any of that to Sun, just answered, “I met a dog over there. He trusted me,” and he left.
Chapter 27
“An interesting little theory, Kalian.”
After relentless prodding, Kali agreed to join Wyn Thursday for a working dinner at his house. She didn’t know such a wealthy neighborhood existed so close to campus. Nestled behind wrought iron gates, it overlooked a spectacular panorama of the Hudson River’s sleepy progress through the metropolis. They toured all two-thousand square feet, starting in the main room with its solid oak floor and authentic Persian rugs. The walls displayed original oils and watercolors he humbly called ‘my little collection’.
The dining room was topped with a gold leaf ceiling from the church of St. John Lateran in Rome. The library—”my favorite room”—was lined with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and a tile fragment from the Greek ruins of Persepolis. A Waterford chandelier lit circular stairs leading to a master bedroom with a drop-down projection TV, a wet bar and French doors over the garden. When she asked who could live in a place like this, Wyn said she deserved much more.
Now they sat on silk damask chairs beside a stone fireplace, Kali’s half-empty wine glass abandoned on a side table. Over the course of the long evening, Kali concluded Wyn considered her research at best creative cobbling and at worst fodder for Star Trek. When she shared her newest accomplishment—the incorporation of DNA—he was dismissive.
“What made you think of that?”
He used this pedagogic tone constantly. Kali was tired and hungry. The sushi was long gone, leaving only a half-full “exceptional bottle of 1978 Chateau-Lafitte Rothschild Burgundy”. Kali didn’t like wine, but he never asked.
“You must have read it somewhere? Or talked to a colleague at a conference?”
Did Wyn ever come up with an original thought? Did he know the meaning of ‘logical deduction’ or ‘extrapolation of facts’? She wanted to go home and talk to Sandy, but those lifeless eyes awaited her answer, like the high school teachers when she blew off an assignment.
“DNA perseveres over time, even when the organism dies.”
“Of course, dear. Speaking of Otto, we were going to discuss how you get Otto to work remotely. Oh—and how your firewalls operate. I’ve always been curious about security.”
Something about his interest in these subjects stank.
Fairgrove was thrilled she believed him to be—what did she call it?—her Angel. Poverty drove many young women to the arms of wealthy men. He wanted to build on this, but she nattered on so long about herself, there was no time for his insights, and now she seemed tired.
She was brighter and less needy than he expected. She didn’t take his suggestions and never confused his comments about teamwork. Still, he would spend enough time with her that Porter would support the addition of his name when she published. The tricky part would be keeping the AI from Al-Zahrawi until that point. Once the research was complete, he preferred Otto disappear to prevent embarrassing technical questions Fairgrove couldn’t answer.
Only if Delamagente denied him credit would he involve Al-Zahrawi.
It fascinated Fairgrove how many anomalous conditions Otto found in the lives of early man. Most scientists thought they migrated in groups of ten. Otto showed as few as three living and eating together. And where many experts speculated man’s feral ancestors ate where they scavenged, Otto consistently pictured them carrying food back to a home base for mates and offspring and injured group members. Unfortunately, these types of activities weren’t preserved in the rocks that provided a history of that time.
Except for one. If the triptych of species—the Homo habilis Delamagente called Lucy, the Australopithecine Boah, and the canis Ump—traveling together also died together, it told a story never before postulated by any scientist. That was a find worthy of Dr. Wynton Fairgrove.
“Let’s check on Lucy before you must leave.” He hoped his tone conveyed disappointment that their time was drawing to a close.
“This isn’t good.” Delamagente chewed her lip as Otto zoomed in on a huge raptor scouring a vertical rock face. There, rimrocked halfway between precipice and valley floor, clung Lucy and two males. The raptor’s great beak opened and its talons extended in a death dive. One male stumbled as he dodged out of the way, but Lucy seized his forearm and hung on until he found a foothold. They hugged the cliff until the raptor left for easier prey.
Fairgrove grimaced his disappointment. If the male had died, Fairgrove could uncover his bones. Maybe next time.
Chapter 28
When Kali got home and saw Annie sitting on a pillow in her pajamas, she groaned. “I forgot dinner.”
“You did me a favor. Today’s cerebral gymnastics made my head ache so I ordered delivery and curled up to rejuvenate.”
Kali handed her a key. “How’d you get in?
“Zeke called Mr. Winters. Lucky they’ve met. I hope you didn’t mind.”
Kali waved an unconcerned hand and plopped into the room’s only chair. Sandy padded over, but huffed back to Annie when he found no food. This evening definitely destroyed her interest in Wyn. Why did he ask so many questions about her firewall and Otto’s remote operations? She didn’t answer, which didn’t stop him asking over and over.
“Can we reschedule for Saturday?” She kicked her shoes off and wiggled her toes in ecstasy.
“Hmm, my schedule is so busy.” Annie’s eyes canted up. “OK.”
Kali sank deeper into her chair as Bruce Springsteen crooned his blue-collar blues. “How was your day, Annie?”
“Twelve hours in the library without a break except a trip to the vending machines for lunch. When I got back here, Sandy and I walked along Morningside Park—”
“Avoid that area at night,” Kali interrupted. “It can be dangerous.”
“I’m not sure anything is scarier than guerrillas in Africa—the gun-toting kind, not the furry ones—but thanks for the advice. Mr. Winters is amazing, and I met the family at the end of the block. How does anyone raise five kids these days?”
Kali massaged her neck. “I try to be at work when they collect for fundraisers.”
Annie giggled and shifted in her chair. “Sandy was edgy, probably the new human in his domain.”
That could be the reason—no one other than herself, Sean or Mr. Winters walked Sandy—but between Fletcher and Fred Kaczynski, she didn’t feel as safe as she used to.
“I ordered pizza if you’re hungry. It just got here.”
They got plates and sodas and settled into an impromptu picnic on the living room carpet.
"This is a lot more fun than my so-called date.”
“Is there a story here?” Annie tucked into the floor pillow and waited.
“One of Columbia’s new anthro professors has taken an interest in my work.”
Annie made a face. “Nothing to do with your glossy hair or porcelain skin. And those legs!” Annie rolled her eyes. “Yeah, it must be your brains. Girl, the only reason you’re not married is you haven’t asked anyone!”
Kali blushed. She avoided dates, too often finding them boring and a waste of time, so was clueless how she stacked up against the modern single female. The compliments felt good.
Annie folded her pizza and bit into a slice. “Is he divorced with kids and ex-wives who get all his money, or is he worth the blood test?”
“None of either. I admired him at first, credited him with an intellect because of his research, but he’s vapid and boring.”
“Wyn’s his name? His Mom’s a positive thinker. No Matt or Dick for her.”
Kali laughed. “So how’d you meet Zeke?”
“He saved my life.” Her voice softened. “I’ll tell you about it Saturday.” She cocked her head. “He deserves someone wonderful when he vanquishes his demons.”
Kali perked up. Despite her best intentions, Zeke had gotten under her skin. She hoped Annie would say more, but she simply sipped her soda, eyes turned inward.
“Why isn’t that you, Annie? I’ve only known you a day, but am quite sure you’re worthy of anyone you want.”
Annie pursed her lips. “Zeke’s a stand-up guy, but not my type. When I finish my dissertation, I plan to settle into a professorship somewhere with my sweetheart.”
A weight lifted from her shoulders. “Tell me about him.”
“I’ll save that for Saturday, too.” Her brows arched with intrigue.
“You’re fun to have around, Annie Sams.”
Rowe sat on a stone bench reading an ebook while professors chatted with colleagues, business people in their collared shirts and khakis rushed home from MBA classes, and students ignored the world as they texted or laughed on their phones.
He picked out Hector from a distance and liked what he saw. Hair combed, uniform clean and pressed and shoes that shined said a lot about his personal pride. When he got closer, Rowe took in the leathery skin pock-marked from teenage acne and the poorly-set broken nose. He saw many like it in battle, soldiers refusing to leave the field so the medics did what they could.
Rowe stuck his hand out as he introduced himself. Hector had a firm handshake, a practiced friendly nod, and eyes that took in everything from Rowe’s battered fingers to his functional clothes. They chatted a few minutes before Rowe pulled up the picture of Fred Kaczynski.
“Do you recognize this man?”
Hector needed only a glance. “The guerro. He’s solidly built, waist going to fat, boyish cuteness that probably works for him. He carried a bouquet of flowers with those frilly white blooms florists mix in. They’re expensive. I buy them for my wife’s birthday, but he tossed them in the trash as though they were a prop.”
“Where’d you serve, Hector?”
“Desert Storm with the 24th Infantry Division out of Fort Stewart, GA.”
“Is that where you left your leg?”
Hector pointed with his chin to Rowe’s hands. “You too?”
“SEALs. I got myself captured.”
“You learn a lot from war. It taught me to pay attention to instinct. I was making sure he exited the campus when I overheard him on the phone.”
Rowe adopted a mild expression though he thought Hector would tell him anyway. “Remember any of it?”
Hector pulled a dog-eared spiral notebook from his pocket and flipped to a neatly inscribed page. “I took notes: She looked frazzled. The man’s face became agitated and he said, I did my part. Leave the money like you always do.”
Hector’s phone beeped. He glanced down and then stuck his hand out.
“Gotta go teach some college kids how to behave on campus.”
Rowe shook his hand. “You bring honor to the uniform and the flag, Hector.”
Rowe checked in with James to see if Annie found anything. Nothing yet. He had been furious when he heard the identity of Kali’s bodyguard, but when James asked whom he trusted more, Rowe shut up. If anyone could protect Kali, it was Annie. He thought of offering to give her a break on surveillance, but she might take it wrong. Instead, he went home to a rerun of Man vs. Wild and enough beer to forget who Kali was dining with.
Home this week was an FBI safe house in Englewood New Jersey, nestled onto a narrow two-lane road that backed up to Flatrock Brook Nature Center. Outside, it matched all the others—well tended lawns, trim greenery, trash curbside on schedule—but inside, the walls were beige, the furniture Sears, and the curtains lined with copper mesh to prevent eavesdropping.
As he entered, he tripped on a box, a gift from Bobby James. Rowe stripped open the tape to reveal thousands of pages of manuscripts by Fairgrove.
He substituted beer with orange juice, and TV with the first publication, Analysis of the kinetics of DNA hybridization, by Mr. Wynton Fairgrove.
Friday
A jangle yanked Rowe from a deep sleep. His phone. He pushed answer, but fell back onto his pillow without a word.
“Zeke. You awake?” James sounded chipper for the middle of the night.
“Hunh?”
“Good. It’s 6am, time to arise. Update Stockbury on the TRF search.”
“Unh hunh,” and he hung up.
He dragged out of bed and through his morning workout, always more difficult on two hours sleep. The scar tissue from the injuries made exercising painful and difficult, but necessary to keep his knees loose. Rowe didn’t waste time thinking about pain when there was nothing he could do about it.
When he finished, he took a cold shower, ate a spoon of coffee crystals, and headed for Columbia. By 8am, he’d settled into Stockbury’s chair, mulling over last night’s reading while he waited for her to arrive. Something felt wrong about Fairgrove’s work. He mentally rummaged through the four papers he’d read, all published early in the man’s career, but couldn’t put his finger on what bothered him.
When Kali arrived, she gave him a passing glance as though people broke into her lab all the time. Just seeing her boosted Rowe’s spirits, like the universe’s personal rainbow. Today, she wore a sleeveless top over dark bike shorts, hair pulled back in a braid and the omnipresent diamond earrings.
He passed her coffee and a bag of donuts and asked, “Was the DNA analysis helpful?”
She blew on the Styrofoam cup, bit into an old-fashioned, and booted up her computer before answering with a simple, “I haven’t checked.” Rowe was surprised, but didn’t press.
Stockbury arrived, took one of Rowe’s two remaining coffees, peered into the grease-stained pink box and chose a donut hole. “Dr. Zeke is jumpy about your date with Wyn.”
“He offered to help with my research, Cat, nothing else.”
Rowe faced Stockbury. “You don’t like Fairgrove.”
She crossed long tan legs, adjusting her skirt so it stopped just above the knee. “Wyn can’t reach a conclusion much less a decision. Why would I like that?” She flexed her foot in her woven sandals and her lips pulled up the tiniest bit. “I’m happy you went out, Kali. It’s exhausting being the only one who dates.”
Rowe decided to change the subject. “How’s Annie?�
��
“She feels like a sister. When were you going to tell me you saved her life?”
“When you tell me what’s up with Fairgrove.”
“Nothing,” but Kali blushed.
“Same with saving Annie’s life.”
“Would you two please do the sex thing and move on? You’re perfect for each other!”
Kali kicked Stockbury’s chair and Rowe took the opportunity to walk around. He stopped behind Kali. “Your sweatshirt is still gone?”
“The firefighter took it, according to the video.”
Why would he want that? Before Rowe could ask, Kali’s phone rang.
“Hi, Wyn. Yes, last night was fun. … Yes, thanks for the help. … Actually, I’m in a meeting.” Rowe mouthed, I’m a meeting? “Yes, there is a lot to do. Thanks again.”
“Before you include Wyn, check his background,” Stockbury ordered and left for class.
Rowe silently applauded. “Hold up. I’ll walk with you.”
When they got outside, Stockbury started. “I knew you were involved. Bobby James gave me a beeper so he can reach me anytime. The virus must be active before the backdoor opens. That means the moment it pings, I go in and reprogram it. It takes about two minutes. Per sub.”
Rowe hurried to keep up with her. “We didn’t find any problems at the TRF maintenance facility.” He didn’t tell her about the ones that had already deployed.
Stockbury exhaled. “Were you searching for a virus with zeros and ones or organic bases?” Rowe tried to keep his expression neutral, but Stockbury shook her head in disgust. “Don’t worry. I got this,” and she left, head high, eyes straight ahead, oblivious to the rush of bodies around her.
Rowe thanked the Universe that Cat and her devious brain were on the side of the angels, and then called Hector Rosado who had offered to check campus security feeds for Fred Kaczynski. There was nothing other than the one visit. Rowe hung up, with no clear next step. He decided to follow Kali. She still complained about being tailed. Maybe he’d get lucky.
To Hunt a Sub Page 13