To Hunt a Sub

by Jacqui Murray

  He took a two-minute shower, dressed in the same clothes as yesterday, and ate two stale English muffins with a thick spread of peanut butter. Ten minutes later, windows down, Trace Atkins blaring from the speakers, he cleared the George Washington Bridge and entered the Columbia campus. Birds serenaded the morning and a squirrel chattered shrilly to its mate.

  At Kali’s lab, he found Stockbury, arms crossed over her chest, head back. She grunted without moving. Her long sleeves, a high-collared shirt, and too much make-up shouted out what she wanted to hide. He cast a skeptical eye, but Stockbury ignored him.

  Rowe looked across the room as though expecting Kali to poke her head from behind her monitor, and then settled wordlessly into her chair.

  He leaned back, eyes closed, and balanced his feet on her trash can. The scent of her perfume wafting gently from her desk nearly broke him. The way she thought through choices, would never quit, how her internal beauty matched her physical—he couldn’t go back to life before her, but had no idea how to go forward.

  Something to think about when this was over.

  “You’re depressing,” and Stockbury went back to sleep.

  Rowe took a breath, then another. “How’s your boyfriend—Gunner?”

  “He’s not abusing me. I fell.”

  Rowe pretended to accept that. As though remembering why he was here, he asked, “Kali says Gunner is interested in her research. Yours, too?”

  He tried to sound innocent, but Stockbury saw right through him. “He’s more into Otto than computer viruses.”

  After five more minutes of silence, he patted Stockbury’s arm and left to meet James. She never moved.

  Chapter 40

  Rowe drove his Benz and James his government-issue Buick. In tandem, they slipped north, through the New York metropolis, past the rotten egg stench of the North River Sewage Treatment Plant, barely noticing as the Spuyten Duyvil Creek connected Harlem River to the mighty Hudson.

  The Hudson River, Muhheakantuck or “great waters in constant motion” to the Iroquois, coursed through the heart of Eastern New York from its beginning in the Adirondack Mountains, past its juncture with the Erie Canal to its termination in New York Harbor and the Atlantic Ocean. Rowe loved its heady scent of fuel oil and fish. As a teen, Rowe spent much time outdoors fishing, hiking, camping, and thinking. It was there he found peace, regardless the turmoil that rolled through his life, and learned respect for life.

  One January, he hunkered into the boughs of an old aspen by a beaver dam. They had to come out sometime, didn’t they? He fell asleep and awoke the next morning to the swish, plunk, slap as an otter family slid down the dam into the water, over and over. When they tired of that game, they plunked a pebble into the pool, diving and catching it on their foreheads in playful abandon.

  Soon, the road veered inland, across the Newburgh-Beacon Bridge and chugged through farmland and small towns, past West Point where thousands of cadets received a world-class education in return for five patriotic years defending the nation, to the hilly region where the air cleared and traffic thinned. And the tension melted from Rowe’s body.

  Two hours later, they reached Hudson New York, America’s first chartered city and named for the explorer who spent the last years of his life searching for the Northwest Passage. It was once a bustling river port, but now best known for its antique shops. The two-car convoy wove through saltbox homes and ramblers until Rowe pulled up in front of the Vitolska’s white clapboard house. It was indistinguishable from its neighbors—window boxes overflowing with seasonal flowers, freshly painted siding, well-tended lawn, and a brick sidewalk leading to a comfortable wood porch, which reminded Rowe he had to finish his.

  “There’s a van in the garage.”

  James texted the license to his assistant Tess and peeked in the mailbox. Classical music floated out the open front door.

  “Anyone home?” Rowe shouted as he knocked.

  A blonde mirage dressed in a pink halter and short white skirt glided toward them. China blue eyes flirted beneath black lashes and narrow sculpted brows. Her full lips tipped up with interest and parted to reveal perfect white-white teeth.

  “Shto vwi Hkotetye. Can I assist you?”

  The voice was more sultry in person than on the phone, but with the same deep accent and practiced innocence. Mrs. Vitolska was six feet, 140 pounds of well-toned vibrant femme-fatale, with nary an ounce of fat on the numerous exposed body parts. She moved with the feline grace of a panther stalking its next victim.

  “You are Ms. Vitolska?”

  “Da, this is me.” She shifted her weight from one leg to the other and ping-ponged between them. “Which of you is Boss man?”

  She moved a slender finger to her lips, the tip of her rosy tongue poking through, and fixed James with a wide-eyed bottomless gaze. “You, such stylish clothes, such elegant shoes, so beautiful. Like James Bond. You have girlfriend, yes? Or you,” and the digit landed on Rowe, “What a bad boy with your seductive eyes, air of danger. You are heart-breaker.”

  Rowe pulled his tongue back into his mouth and was happy James responded.

  “Mr. Brown and Mr. Black, from the FBI. May we take a minute of your time?”

  She locked onto James as he showed his credentials. Her glistening red lips parted and her cheeks flushed. Rowe worried about Sean. No way a teenager could handle this predator.

  “Zdrazvwitye, Mr. Brown and Mr. Black. I supervise students from Juilliard, one of America’s great Universities for to train musicians. I learn at Moscow Conservatory. Also good school, but not so much since government changed, and not so good pay either.”

  She checked her watch, a diamond-studded Cartier. “I must to pick children up at twelve, but I am sure I can make a few minutes to talk. Pozhalsta, please, come in.”

  She broadened her smile and swept a loose hair from her forehead with a shake of her head.

  “Please to be seated.” She led them to a comfortable-looking sofa arrangement.

  The room’s decorations came right out of Better Homes and Gardens. Chintz curtains hung over the windows and photos of smiling faces from three to ninety-three covered one wall. The furniture shone with polish and the white carpet was streaked from recent vacuuming.

  “Could I have a glass of water, Ms. Vitolska?” James stood as she uncrossed her sleek legs. “Stay seated, please. My wife taught me how to get around a kitchen.”

  “Your house is comfortable, Ms. Vitolska—”

  “Call me Sam, Mr. Black.” Her eyes were clear and steady.

  “If you’ll call me Zeke.”

  “Zeke. Is this nickname for Ezekiel?”

  Rowe smiled with hooded eyes. “Sam must be short for Samantha?”

  “You Americans with such brilliant nicknames—is this what you call it? Always shorter than original. In Russia, this is not the case.”

  Rowe asked about her time in the United States and the students she shepherded for Juilliard, snapping pictures as he fiddled with his glasses.

  “Your lenses, they do not fit? Or do I make you nervous?” She recrossed her tanned legs and leaned forward to hear his answer.

  James saved him just in time with water for everyone.

  “We received a missing student report earlier this week, Ms. Vitolska.”

  “Please. Sam—like Zeke. We are all friends here.”

  “Sam. His name’s Sean Delamagente.”

  “Of course. His mother call me very worried. I try to reassure her. He came back in evening, as planned.”

  “Where is he now?” James sipped his water.

  “This is very talented young man. Important people select him for Honor Orchestra. You are familiar with this group? They are best in country. I am lucky to enjoy his music.”

  “So he is where?” Rowe repeated.

  “Washington DC. There is a concert at Constitution Hall. I study Constitution Hall for my citizen test. What a tribute to your wonderful country! Would you like address?”

&n
bsp; “No, we can find it. Have you seen any strange activities, anyone out of place, or cars that don’t belong in the neighborhood?” He took another sip of water.

  She dropped her head. Full lashes brushed glowing healthy cheeks. Rowe felt the need to protect her.

  “I have no knowledge of this. I do not want to forget something which could help. I ask my husband, Edik, when he returns.” She tucked her hair behind an ear and her eyes fluttered toward Rowe. “Perhaps the Monroe’s next door. They are more observant I think than I.”

  “Are you friends with them?”

  “I would not call it friends. What I mean is they live here longer. They are familiar with what is normal.”

  James asked a few more questions and rose to leave. “We appreciate your assistance, Ms. Vitolska. Every time pranksters make crazy calls, they run us through all sorts of paperwork. Me, I just want to be home in time for the baseball game.” James caught her eye. “You like baseball, Ms. Vitolska?”

  “Konyeshna. We like it for the children. America loves the team sports!”

  “Thanks again.”

  Once out of earshot, Rowe whispered, “No way that antenna’s for the kids.”

  James said. “The kitchen was unused—perfectly-ordered cupboards, empty dishwasher, and a spotless oven. Nothing like mine.”

  As they walked down the Monroe’s driveway, a BMW pulled in. Rowe did a double-take. “Why it’s Fred.” Same disheveled hair and blank stare Rowe remembered from the photo. The hair rose on Rowe’s neck and his senses went on alert.

  When Fred got out of the car, James greeted him with his FBI badge, one hand hovering by his weapon, eyes dark pools. “Matt Monroe? My name is Special Agent Bobby James with the FBI and this is my associate. Do you have a minute?”

  Fred’s nose twitched as he tugged a nylon windbreaker over a pink collared shirt and yellow plaid trousers. Spikes clacked as he hurried up the sidewalk.

  “I’m in a hurry.”

  “Or should we call you Fred?”

  He flipped around and marched back toward James with a shake of his head. A sheen of sweat sprouted on his forehead. There was a faint whiff of alcohol on his breath.

  “We have you on tape.”

  Now Monroe bolted forward with a quick backward glance. “My wife. She doesn’t know. You got it on tape?”

  James flipped through a small spiral notebook and read the guard’s notes, “I did my part. Leave the money where you always do. Pretty incriminating, Matt. If you provide a full accounting of your dealings with Gegham Keregosian, it may be unnecessary to confirm your whereabouts with Mrs. Monroe.”

  Monroe’s eyes clouded. “Who is Gegham Keregosian?”

  “You may know him as Salah Al-Zahrawi.”

  Monroe shook his head. “He never gave me a name,” and he told them everything. He got an email when his services were required. In this case, he was to chat with a Kalian Delamagente about anything he wanted, but look around her office while they talked. A camcorder in his glasses recorded everything and uploaded the files to a DropBox account that changed with every job.

  His eyes narrowed. “Nothing illegal about talking.”

  “You broke into a secure building—”

  “My contact gave me a key.” He fumbled in his pocket. “Take it. I don’t need it.”

  Rowe took it by the edges and dropped it into a baggy. “Can you describe this person?”

  “I never see him. We communicate via email.”

  “What number did you call when you left Kali’s lab?”

  “I don’t remember. He uses throw-away phones, different number each time.”

  “It’s a ‘he’?”

  Monroe shrugged. “His emails sound male.”

  “What if you need to talk to him in between?”

  “I don’t. He always finds me.”

  “How many jobs have you done for him?”

  “Two? Or three?”

  Or twice as many. James reached into his pocket as he said, “Under Article 54 Section 582 Subsection 6 of the New York State Penal Law, I’m placing you under arrest for Conspiracy by association to cheat or defraud. Turn around, please.”

  “Wait!” His eyes went round with panic and he backed up a step, colliding with Rowe’s stocky, unresisting body. “This can’t happen!” Fear tugged at the fine lines of his face as Rowe slammed him against the hood of his BMW. Someone peeked out the front window.

  James noisily pulled handcuffs from his pocket. “We want your contact, but will settle for you. If your story checks out and you help arrest him, I’ll put in a good word with the judge.”

  “Yes! Of course I’ll cooperate. I didn’t know he was breaking the law!”

  James crowded Monroe until he hovered an inch from the man’s damp face. “Prove it. We’ll skip this whole arrest thing if you call me next time you hear from him.” He spoke softly, but there was no question of his intensity. “He wants to kill thousands of your fellow Americans. Help us put him behind bars.”

  Monroe’s head bounced like a bobble-head doll, mouth open in an O, eyes so wide they were ringed by white. When James backed away and waved a dismissive hand, he sprinted into his house and slammed the door.

  James waited, but the only sound was the lock snapping into place. “Think we’ll ever hear from him?”

  “Let’s talk to the neighbors.”

  The woman across the street wanted to file a noise complaint about the constant music. James referred her to the local police. No one answered to the Vitolska’s right, so James left his card. Several people mentioned visitors at the house. Descriptions ranged from Middle Eastern to Slavic to an American muscle man. After two hours, the duo stopped for coffee at a local McDonald’s. Rowe downed his in three gulps and went for a refill while James skimmed his email.

  “DropBox account and phone are inactive.” He double-clicked a file. “Tess attached the lugs from Hemren’s cell. A few local calls, pizza delivery, a Mosque.” He stopped. “He dials Esfahan every week.”

  “That’s where he told Kali he grew up.”

  James sat back, eyes looking inward. “Al-Zahrawi hijacks the subs with the virus, sells the locations to the highest bidder, and uses Otto to find them. The only tie in to the Vitolska’s is Sean. But it’s odd them living next door to Fred aka Matt Monroe. And how does any of this tie in to the threats?”

  Rowe pulled his pencil out and started flipping it. “Friday is the deadline to withdraw the Tridents, according to Devore’s murderers, or they murder someone else. If they expected the Navy to capitulate, they wouldn’t pressure Delamagente. She certainly won’t be done by Friday. She hasn’t even started.”

  “Which Al-Zahrawi knows, like he knows everything else, so why the games?”

  Something tickled Rowe’s memory. “Why did he want Monroe to take a video of Kali? What was he looking for?”

  Rowe turned the thought over in his brain, but got nothing.

  “Have Agit compare the excerpts I sent you from Fairgrove’s manuscripts. If I’m right, Fairgrove stole most of his ground-breaking research from girlfriends. We can use the threat of exposure to force him to talk.”

  James’s jaw froze, staring at something in the distance, and then began chewing again. “Good idea. Something’s going to happen Friday and we won’t like it.”

  Rowe’s phone chimed. Fairgrove was headed home earlier than Rowe expected.

  Chapter 41

  James stopped in at the Hudson police as Rowe hit the southbound Thruway going eighty. Fairgrove had abandoned a meeting with colleagues eager for his insights. There had to be a spectacular reason. As he merged into the fast lane, Rowe’s phone rang.

  “Griff!”

  “Don’t tell me you joined the FBI.” It was good to hear his friend’s voice.

  “A long story. Ended up, I didn’t have a choice.”

  Griff chortled. They caught up for a few minutes and then Rowe asked, “What can you tell me about magnetic anomaly detection and submari
nes?”

  “Can the question be any broader?” He barked. “OK. Let’s start with an overview. Magnetic Anomaly Detection—MAD—works by locating changes in the earth's magnetic field made as the sub moves through the water.” He fell silent. Rowe imagined Griff trying to figure out the best way to explain this to a novice.

  “Think of the Earth as a big magnet, fluxes spanning the planet from North Pole to South. Anything containing iron—like a submarine—interrupts the normalcy of those fluxes and can be tracked by its disruption to the magnetic field. The challenge for America is to dampen the sub’s effect on the magnetosphere enough that it becomes so minute as to be invisible.

  “That’s harder than it sounds because a sub has two types of magnetism. ‘Temporary’ varies in proportion to the field around it and can be minimized by deperming—a process that removes excess magnetism collected by the sub’s movement through the seas. ‘Permanent’ is locked into the hull at construction. Theoretically, MAD devices can be built that recognize both, but in reality, we’re a long way from a device sensitive enough to notice the permanent.

  “Regardless of the magnetism’s source, even the best MAD devices are not the perfect discovery tool we wish they were. Range is limited so you need a tight search area. When you get that close to a sub, it will attack, evade, or hide below the thermocline until the threat disappears. Right now, we’re better at hunting and evading than our enemies, but once some scientist invents an ultra-sensitive MAD, we’re in trouble.”

  Rowe squirmed. He was pretty sure Griff would put Otto in that ‘ultra-sensitive’ category, but he couldn’t tell him that.

  “I know each submarine uniquely disrupts the magnetosphere, giving it a magnetic signature that identifies only itself, and I know that data is protected on a SIPNet.” Griff started to say something, but Rowe barreled forward. “Can that server be hacked?” Rowe didn’t trust the answer from James’ Task Force. They had been flippant, even defensive in their denial. If there was a weakness, Griff would tell him.