To Hunt a Sub

by Jacqui Murray

  “No.” Nothing else. It was clear Griff was not comfortable talking about this topic.

  Someone yelled in the background, followed by a swell of voices ending in ‘Sir, yes sir!’ What Plebe Summer cadre called a ‘sir sandwich’ and required of all new Mids.

  Rowe prodded. “Could someone recreate them?”

  Griff’s answer was hesitant. “No, Zero, at least, no one ever has. What’s up?”

  Rowe’s jaw ached. He’d been grinding his teeth, again. He breathed out slowly, relieved. Otto couldn’t find the subs. Rowe swerved around a twenty-year-old Ford truck and then had to slam his breaks on to keep from rear-ending a Porsche.

  “Just pulling a thread. If that changes, I’ll call you.”

  He was about to say goodbye when he had another thought. “One more question. How would I get ahold of a MAD device?”

  Griff answered in a tone that told Rowe his friend was running out of patience. “You don’t. They’re the size of a torpedo and loaded on helicopters, fixed wing aircraft, or drones. Zeke, what aren’t you telling me?”

  Griff’s chair squeaked and then the only noise was Griff’s fingers tapping on his desk. When fifteen seconds passed and Rowe still said nothing, Griff continued.

  “Let me be clear on the power of the Trident platform. Those boats can target thousands of locations and millions of people. The part they play in the nuclear triad—submarines, bombers, and land-based missiles—means no enemy will risk a first strike because they believe without a doubt America will fight back. That Mutually-Assured Destruction is the key to world peace.”

  Rowe tapped his brakes as taillights blinked red.

  “These aren’t idle questions about chatter that’s ‘probably nothing’.” His voice was soft, concerned. “I heard about the virus that infected our sub off Florida. You’re worried that next time, they’ll not only infect the sub, but locate it using the magnetic signature. If there’s any truth to that, I need to alert Command.”

  “Already done.” He let that sit for a moment, knowing Griff would understand. “I appreciate the help.”

  Fairgrove couldn’t remember ever being angrier. Al-Zahrawi had ordered him home—ordered! Now here he was, standing in his living room and no Al-Zahrawi. This had to end.

  Up until Al-Zahrawi’s call, it had been a spectacular day. Fairgrove once again was the scientific star, sharing insights that astonished his colleagues. Of course, he didn’t tell them they came from Kalian. In fact, they may have thought she was working under his direction.

  By the time he and Kalian published, he’d be as knowledgeable as she.

  His phone beeped, a reminder to call Kalian, ask how her son was. Women liked a personal touch. As he punched through menus to his address book, he inhaled a whiff of her perfume lingering from last Friday. What an invigorating day that had been. She’d turned to him for advice and guidance, something no one did anymore.

  When he raised his head, Al-Zahrawi stood in the foyer.

  “I come to claim the Blood Debt.”

  “Blood Debt?” His eyes widened and darted away. “I don’t remember anything about such a crass event.”

  But he did remember. During the halcyon days of youth, as he struggled to build a career, he made the deal, doubting it would be claimed. What could a paleoanthropologist offer a man like Al-Zahrawi?

  Al-Zahrawi tossed him a photo album of a child Fairgrove thought was dead. He sucked in a breath, hands clammy as he paged through a chronicle of her growth. She had a dimple in her chin like her mother’s and an innocence that evaporated before she graduated from high school.

  “Now do you?”

  The moment Fairgrove met Kalian Delamagente, he suspected the truth. There was a toughness about her beauty and a perpetual curiosity that filled her eyes—much like a woman in Fairgrove’s past whom Al-Zahrawi had ‘disappeared’.

  He hadn’t killed her though, instead used her as leverage.

  He pretended to study the pictures as he collected himself. “What is a Blood Debt?” he finally asked.

  Al-Zahrawi pulled a stiletto from his pocket and started cleaning his nails.

  “It is similar to what you Americans call ‘scratching back’—is this the phrase?

  “Yes! We help each other achieve our goals.”

  “But Muslims--we are a solemn people. We take our responsibilities with a seriousness no American understands.” He looked up. “Get Delamagente’s Otto or your blood will clear the debt.”

  Bile burned his throat. No doubt ‘blood debt’ was from that shari’a law he and Al-Zahrawi once discussed over aperitifs at the Club, but Salah had focused on a woman’s inferiority and the dominance of church over state. Those topics bored Fairgrove, but now he wished he’d listened more closely. He started to speak, but Al-Zahrawi interrupted.

  “Dr. Zeke Rowe has begun to interfere with my plans.”

  Fairgrove had a fascinating thought. “Let him be my Blood Debt, Salah.”

  “No. His death benefits you.” Al-Zahrawi finished cleaning the dirt from under the nails of his right hand and moved to the left.

  “I counseled him to change professions, but his meager mental capacities prevent him from acting in his best interests. He’s proof God loves stupid people.” When shock crossed Al-Zahrawi’s face, he clarified, “My God. Not yours.”

  “Get rid of him or I will.”

  Fairgrove scratched his head. That would be OK, but Al-Zahrawi might set him up for the murder. No. Better to lodge more anonymous complaints.

  Al-Zahrawi tossed the album onto the bookshelf by the door. “I need to use the khazi.”

  Fairgrove waved down the hall and turned away. When the toilet flushed and the front door slammed, he pulled the shades. The man was crazy. When this project ended, he’d cut his ties with Salah Mahmud Al-Zahrawi for good.

  He checked his watch. It was too late to call Kalian.

  What gave him away first was the new Nikes. Drunks didn’t spend money on shoes. Annie attached a tracker to the one unfamiliar car on the street and then snapped a picture of Nike Man as he aimed a palm-sized device through Delamagente’s back window. Minutes later, he climbed into the gray Volvo, gassed up at a Texaco and drove north with Annie in pursuit.

  Chapter 42

  Wednesday

  Rowe arrived at the airport early. After confirming Kali boarded the plane and Sean was safely at camp, there was nothing to do but think, and he had a lot of that to do.

  By the time Rowe had reached Fairgrove’s house last night, the windows were dark. Rowe verified his car was in the garage, and then walked the perimeter, noting vehicles and unusual individuals. Ajit brought up traffic cams and local CCTV, ran everyone suspicious through facial recognition, but got nothing. That didn’t mean much. Al-Zahrawi demonstrated a remarkable ability to elude surveillance.

  Rowe found a seat with a good view of the arrival gate, and quietly, calmly, took the measure of his surroundings, looking for anyone out of place. He got more information from a person’s actions and appearance than their words.

  But no one seemed suspicious. One man, dressed in an expensive suit and shiny wingtips, paced back-and-forth by the far wall, one hand gripping a cell and the other crossed over his chest. His head hung and he banged into people without apology. By the time he got off the phone, his face was pale, eyes wet and he wandered off as though he had nowhere to go.

  A professionally-dressed woman carried on an animated conversation with a child. They held hands, swinging their arms. She giggled at everything the boy said with a joy that stretched beyond her full lips to the fan of wrinkles around her eyes. The boy gazed up at her as she talked. They made Rowe happy.

  He couldn’t shake the growing dread that Friday would bring another death.

  A swell of movement at the gate told Rowe American 4786 was deplaning. He waited through first class, business, and economy. When the pilot trundled out and still no Kali, Rowe’s hands went cold. Where was she? Just as he took
a step toward one of the agents, he felt a tug.

  “Zeke! I didn’t see you!”

  Her face beamed as though backlit by a heavenly light. Hair spilled over her shoulders in shining waves, covering the narrow straps of a white tank dress. A shell necklace hugged her throat and he caught the hint of musk.

  “I’m just glad you’re back.” He wanted to fold her into his arms, but settled for brushing his fingertips along her cheek. “How was it?”

  “Sean got the Most Valuable Player award.” Excitement danced across her face. “The concert mistress had a violin solo, Carmen Fantasie. Five measures into it, her E string popped.”

  The sum total of Rowe’s knowledge about violins was they probably needed all their strings.

  “Before anyone realized there was a problem, Sean picked up the melody. His strong full bow and dulcet tones, swelling and scooping, each phrase flowing over the audience like a wave—it saved the piece. I’ve never seen him so happy.”

  They walked through short-term parking chatting about Kali’s trip and Rowe’s research. Kali seemed recovered from the threatening phone call to her son. When pressed, she admitted when she brought it up, Sean rolled his eyes and said no one no way would get through the camp’s security.

  When they reached Rowe’s 1974 Benz Diesel, Kali laughed. “Amazing this still runs.”

  “300,000 miles and counting. I change the oil every 3,000 miles and wax it once a month. Insurance is cheap, mileage is good. It goes zero to sixty in ninety seconds. What more do I need?”

  She giggled. “Do you mind taking me to my lab? I need to make sure Otto’s OK.”

  As they drove, Kali kept up a non-stop narrative about the concert, Sean’s instructors, funny events that happened, and the other proud parents. Memories of relaxed weekends with Paulette and then Amanda poked through Rowe’s mental cobwebs. It got harder each day to lie to Kali.

  As he pulled into a handicap spot, the gray Volvo that had been following them for the last five miles sped past. Different license plates, but Rowe had no doubt it was the same vehicle in which Devore was last seen.

  “I saw that car at the airport,” Kali said.

  “I’ll meet you in your lab.” His voice had turned hard, but he didn’t care.

  Rowe toyed with following the Volvo, but ultimately decided he couldn’t leave Kali unprotected. When he hurried into her office, she arched an eyebrow. No better time to level with her.

  “Kali—” Which was when his phone buzzed. “I have to go.”

  “What did you want to say to me?” Her eyelid twitched.

  Rowe took a slow, even breath before answering, “I’m glad you’re back. I missed you,” and he left.

  Kali turned on Yo-Yo Ma, pulled a DNA sample from her drawer and overlaid it with the one Zeke had analyzed for her. Her legs almost buckled, but she refused to cry. She placed the two samples in her drawer, fingered her mother’s diamond earrings, and leaned back, losing herself in Mark O’Connor’s Appalachian Waltz.

  Al-Zahrawi read Delamagente’s latest email with interest. Sun wanted to test Otto’s ability to locate a sub’s magnetic signature, but Kalian felt it would take hundreds of hours to complete the programming, time she did not have thanks to the Dean’s deadline. Al-Zahrawi responded immediately. You must pursue this wonderful opportunity. I posted additional funds to defray the costs of increasing your work pace. I will also reach out to your Dean to request his patience if you believe that is necessary.

  He smiled when Delamagente ended with, I hope to someday express my appreciation in person, Mr. Keregosian. He would make that happen. He forwarded the email to Wynton asking him to make contact with the Dean about this issue, to Aleksei Borodnoi, and to a third recipient who would never know he received it.

  Next, he called Wynton. “Does Ms. Delamagente wish to move?” He didn’t give Wynton time to respond. “The roommate—Annie?—took pictures of Mr. Monroe’s house, even after he assured her he had no interest in selling.”

  “No. She’d tell me. Did she call someone afterwards?”

  “Yes.”

  “There’s your answer. Housing is expensive around here. People always want a cheaper place to live. She uploaded the pictures to a friend.”

  Al-Zahrawi disconnected in disgust.

  “I get why he’s stalking Kali, but what’s Fairgrove’s interest in Trident subs?” Rowe and Sun had spent the last hour reviewing the clues.

  A ping drew Sun’s attention to his desktop. “Keregosian forwarded Kali’s last email to Fairgrove, a Russian mobster, and someone who will surprise you.”

  Chapter 43

  Wednesday/Thursday

  Sandy had been circling her since Kali walked in.

  “Alright, boy. Let’s go for a walk.” She hid Otto, changed to running clothes, and they left. Mr. Winters was on the stoop, watering his container garden.

  “Hi, Mr. Winters. Any visitors?”

  “Not today, kitten.”

  “You’re being extra vigilant, right?”

  “Don’t worry about me, kitten. Anyone who tries to better me is in for a five-star surprise. Five star.” He rubbed his shoulder as he answered.

  “How’s the Arava working?” Mr. Winters had tried at least twenty medications on his psoriatic arthritis. Arava was the latest.

  “Great. I’m glad to be done with those gold shots. I think the nurse was a sadist.”

  They chatted until Sandy dragged her to Riverside Park. She liked it here, with its winding trails and copious shady spots. They wandered the perimeter, past a church group serving food to the homeless, among the besotted undergrads holding hands and the masochists jogging in the muggy heat. Sandy bounced from bush to bush, marking some, sniffing others, engaging in doggy intrigue only he understood.

  Until he growled, hackles up, tail stretched out behind.

  “Find something, Sandy?” Kali tensed. Sandy’s eyes were slits, ears flat. Another rumble vibrated deep in his chest. She gripped his neck as his head jutted toward a dark thicket of trees. Kali thrust her rape whistle into her mouth and searched the surroundings. “OK. We’ll go home, boy. I’m nervous.”

  As soon as she got home, Kali locked her door and secured every window. She climbed into bed and stared at the ceiling, surprised how much safer yesterday felt when the unflappable Annie slept next door.

  Five hours later, still wide awake, she got up.

  With a plan.

  She showered and donned clothing that would not distract her—loose linen slacks and a shapeless blouse. Otto in one hand, an apple in the other, she went to work. Instead of reading Wyn’s History file as she had planned, she would complete her dissertation and include Otto’s ability to track minute changes like magnetic fluxes. Completion would trigger the submittal of her research to professional journals which would legitimize her intellectual rights. At that point, if Wyn was behind the threats—in a clumsy effort to steal her work—they would be neutralized. Every grad student was familiar with the story of Charles Darwin. By publishing On the Origin of Species before Alfred Russell Wallace, he laid unassailable and historic claim to the Theory of Evolution.

  If Kali knew the research community was this back-stabbing, she’d have become a librarian.

  She downed three Tylenol, hoping to stay ahead of her headache, and went to work. Some days, the pain exhausted her so, her concentration—usually her greatest ally—skittered like a child on an icy sidewalk. Today was a good day. She put in four unbroken hours, completing the introduction and methodology, summary of steps, scientific principles, and problems encountered. Kali found the work calming. The editing, organizing, and data verification appealed to the clerk in her. She was vaguely aware of Cat coming and going, phones ringing, the footsteps of students passing by, and Riverside Church tolling the hours.

  She paused only when Zeke called. She answered with, “I’m adopting your charming distrust of surroundings.”

  “Why would you do that?” His voice came from behind her
. Kali swirled, sputtered about how long had he been there, and then launched into an overview of last night.

  She ended triumphantly with, “Once I’m published, there’ll be no reason to harass me.”

  Rowe’s face was unreadable, but his eyes never left her face. “And what if they’re faster than you can publish?”

  Suddenly, she was tired of people assuming she couldn’t manage her own life. “I can take out the trash if I need to, Zeke.”

  He smiled, eyes as hard as marbles, fixed on her but not seeing. She could see his brain posing and discarding options, adapting to new data as ideas were processed and questions resolved. With a blink, Zeke Rowe the Scientist returned, eyes like deep wells she could happily lose herself in. He took her hands and she tingled from fingertips to her toes. She didn’t want him to let go.

  “I’ve developed a great … respect… for you over the past weeks. There are things I want to tell you.” He breathed in deeply. “One is my background. My job with the SEALs was to unravel plots. I learned to distinguish them by characteristics and actions, by the people involved and how they made decisions, by their body language when dealing with others.

  “That’s how I know you’re facing one now. Yours, though, is complicated. Instead of one person hell-bent on a goal, there are two, working together, on two goals. One may not even consider the other a terrorist. It could be expediency—the path they travel works for both.”

  His eyes locked onto hers with an intensity that frightened her. “When we find who they are, Fairgrove and Keregosian will be involved.”

  She pulled her hands from Rowe’s grasp and folded them over her chest. “Wyn wouldn’t help terrorists.” Why was she defending him? “And Mr. Keregosian is always honest.” Anger welled up and backstopped the tears that burned her eyes. “And who is the ‘we’ you refer to?”