Fatal Network

by Trevor Scott

  Toni looked at the full glass of Chianti in front of her that Bruno must have ordered for her. She took a long sip. Longer than normal. "I might be able to help you out."

  Bruno raised his eyebrows. "How?"

  "First of all, I need you to tell me what you've found out so far," she said, almost demanding.

  Bruno rubbed the day old stubble on his face. "That's the strangest part of this whole case. The Americans just picked up anchor and proceeded on their schedule as if nothing happened. I expected them to leave a team of investigators behind to hound me day and night until I found out who killed their four sailors. Instead, they only asked for updates through diplomatic channels. My boss here in Rome has also shown no real concern for the case. He simply tells me from time to time to just put the blame on the Red Brigade and call it quits. But I don't see that as the solution."

  "What do you think?" Toni asked, and then took another sip of wine. She knew now that the pressure Bruno felt was self-imposed.

  "I don't think the Red Brigade had a thing to do with the bombing," Bruno started. "Not that they didn't have a good reason. But they usually go after the higher ranking military leaders."

  Toni nodded her head in agreement. "The Red Brigade was not involved," she said smiling.

  "How do you...never mind. I'm sure you have your sources."

  "A fledgling member, not one of the chartered few, decided to call in responsibility. So, you can direct your efforts elsewhere," she said.

  He picked up his glass, swirled the last of his wine around in circles, and then gulped the rest down. He poured himself another glass, and stared directly at Toni. "It was an American," he whispered.

  Toni's eyes widened. "An American? How do you know?"

  "I have an eye witness who even helped the man with the bombing. A child, actually." He smiled and drank some more wine.

  "Was he another sailor? I mean, what was the possible motive?" she asked, knowing that he couldn't know the answer or he wouldn't be here with her.

  "I was hoping you'd help me with that, Toni."

  She knew that giving Bruno information was impossible. But he could be helpful to her later, so she didn't want to shut him out completely. She pulled out a pencil from her purse, scribbled the name Stanley Kirby on a beer coaster and handed it to Bruno.

  "This guy has been in the country for a little over a month," she said. "I don't trust the guy. He might know something."

  "Another brilliant hunch, Toni?"

  She shrugged her shoulders and finished the last of her wine. "I've got to run, Bruno. Thanks for the wine and conversation." She rose to leave.

  Bruno stood and kissed her on both cheeks again. "It was my pleasure, as always. Ciao."

  "Ciao." She turned and made her way through the crowded room.

  * * *

  CHAPTER 31

  USS THEODORE ROOSEVELT, NAPLES, ITALY

  Jake steadied himself as the officer's liberty launch rocked with a swell from a boat heading to shore. The island of Capri glistened to the south, and Mount Vesuvius loomed to the east. He gazed with amazement as his launch got closer to the huge carrier. Aircraft lined the deck with their tails hanging over the edge nearly seventy feet above the water. The island towered even higher above the flight deck with radar circling, keeping vigilance even in the harbor.

  The young boatswain's mate cranked the wheel, cut the power, and then cranked it into full reverse for a few seconds before switching to idle. The launch swelled high and parallel to the gray wall that was the starboard hull about midship. A metal ladder with a platform at the bottom awaited the passengers once the swells settled. The boatswain had to quickly shift forward and reverse and crank the wheel violently just to keep the launch close to the platform and ladder.

  Jake watched closely as a few officers made graceful jumps from the launch to the platform. He wanted to ask why the launch couldn't be tied to the platform. But after watching the swells for a few minutes, he realized that the small craft would be battered to pieces in a matter of minutes without a skilled boatswain.

  Jake moved to the edge of the launch. He looked down at his cowboy boots and knew that if it weren't for his cover he should have worn tennis shoes. As the launch reached the height of a swell, he leapt to the platform and landed with a slight slip.

  At the top of the ladder, Jake was greeted by a lieutenant commander with a dark black mustache and bushy eyebrows. His khaki uniform was finely tailored and pressed. Probably the public affairs officer, Jake thought.

  "Senator Blake?" the officer asked.

  Jake nodded and noticed a petty officer standing to the edge of the quarter deck. "Thanks for having me aboard," Jake said, reaching out to shake the commander's hand.

  The commander shook Jake's hand and then turned to his left and looked at the young petty officer. "Sir, this is Petty Officer Third Class Leo Birdsong from Denver." The commander turned and winked at Jake, knowing that the Senator had requested Leo by name since he was from Colorado.

  "Glad to meet you, Leo," Jake said reaching his hand out to shake as if campaigning. "I hear you can get lost on one of these big bird farms, so I asked for a guide-sorry if it's an inconvenience to you."

  "No problem, sir," Leo said, attempting to smile.

  "Well, I'll leave you two to wander the ship," the commander said. "You can go just about anywhere. You won't have access to the secure areas, but they're not very interesting anyway. Petty Officer Birdsong knows the flight deck area-that's what most people like to see."

  Jake looked sternly at the commander for his condescending expressions. "I'm sure we'll do just fine."

  Leo started out at a fairly slow pace winding his way through passageways, over knee knockers, and up ladders. Then he picked up the pace to what must have been his normal stride. Jake kept up with difficulty as his hard cowboy boots echoed through the empty corridors.

  "Leo," Jake finally said.

  Leo stopped and turned to look at Jake. "Yes, sir?"

  "I'm not on a short schedule. We can take our time...if that's all right with you?" Jake grinned. Leo didn't seem overly amused. Kurt had told Jake that Leo was one to be trusted, but who would take some time to trust others. Jake had to break through to Leo quickly. Gain his confidence.

  "I'm sorry, sir. But I was supposed to have liberty today. I could give a shit about Naples, but I really need a beer," Leo said, with apparent relief.

  Jake moved closer to Leo. "Is there a place we can talk freely?"

  "About what?" Leo asked skeptically, obviously searching his mind for a motive.

  "I'll tell you in a minute."

  Leo turned and went through a few more compartments, opened a hatch with a Z on it, and directioned Jake to enter. Once inside, Leo battened the hatch and dogged it tight with a metal tube. It was a small compartment with two work benches, a gray metal desk, a file cabinet, and a book shelf with Navy Regulations in black binders. A few aircraft black boxes sat on the benches among an array of test equipment and tools.

  Jake sat down on an old pilot's ready room chair that had probably been replaced by something much better. The blue vinyl cover had cracked and been repaired with wide green duct tape. Leo remained standing with his arms crossed.

  "Tell me about your friend, Kurt Lamar," Jake said, looking up at the tall, black sailor.

  Leo was caught off guard. That had to be the last name he expected to come out of the Senator's mouth.

  "Sir, what the hell does Kurt have to do with Denver or Colorado? Shit, he's from Wisconsin. In fact, he's probably back there right now freezing his ass off." Leo laughed at the thought.

  Jake laughed too. "No...no he's not in Wisconsin," Jake said shaking his head. "Not that he probably doesn't wish he were there from time to time."

  Leo looked more seriously at Jake now. "Do you know Kurt?"

  "Yeah, and I know you. At least I've had a thorough background check done on you."

  Leo looked more concerned. "What the hell do you want
from me?"

  "Information. Just information. Without it, your friend Kurt could be in a lot of trouble. In fact, he could be charged with four counts of murder."

  "Murder? What in the hell are you talking about? Kurt got hit by a fuckin' car in Naples while we were in port in Genoa."

  "Why did he go all the way to Naples if he wasn't trying to set up an alibi? A bit convenient wouldn't you say?" Jake asked, stretching his legs out and crossing his boots.

  "Convenient? Even Kurt isn't crazy enough to let himself get hit by a car. I mean, we might not like living aboard this floating city working twelve-hour shifts 'till we drop, but I sure as hell ain't going to let some car fuck up my body just to get out of it. And I know Kurt wouldn't either. Who the fuck are you anyway? You ain't no Goddamn senator."

  Jake didn't want to push any farther, but knew he had to. He had to be sure that Leo was a safe risk. "Your buddy didn't get hit by a car. I saw him in Rome this morning."

  "You're fulla shit," Leo shouted. "I saw the message saying he went home on convalescent leave." He was becoming visibly angry now.

  "He must have had it sent," Jake said, fighting to keep a straight face. "The Italians have questioned him more than once about the Genoa bombing. They think he did it, and won't allow him to leave Italy until someone proves otherwise." Jake paused for a minute to think of which direction to move next. The entire conversation was extemporaneous. He had planned the concept, but not the details. "What can you tell me to prove that your buddy is innocent?"

  "Out at sea, it doesn't take long to get to know people. You have to trust your shipmates. You choose those who you feel you can count on. Kurt is that kind of guy."

  Kurt was right. Leo could be trusted. Judging character was the most important aspect of human intelligence. Schools can only partially prepare someone for this work, Jake thought. But experience is what really counted. Time to come clean.

  "Sit down, Leo," Jake said. Leo sat in a chair across the small compartment. "My name is Jake Adams. I'm not a senator from Denver. I'm a corporate investigator from Oregon. I'm working with Ensign Kurt Lamar of the Naval Investigative Service." Jake paused for a response.

  "Kurt's NIS? Ensign?"

  Jake nodded. "Yes. He was working undercover in your squadron to find out who was taking computer technology from the new avionics retrofit."

  "Son of a bitch. That's why he kept looking over the supply records."

  "That's right," Jake said. "He had the leak figured out to a certain level before his services became more important in Italy. Petty Officer Shelby Taylor, Lt. Stephen Budd, and those two others who died in the bombing in Genoa were all involved with the transfer of technology to an unknown source."

  "Shelby was a spy? Shit, he couldn't even keep his own shoes tied," Leo said with a slight laugh.

  "Maybe so, but he was the one putting the stuff aboard the A-7s for Lt. Budd to bring ashore."

  "What kind of stuff are you talking about?" Leo asked.

  Jake thought for a moment about the elaborate diversion by Lt. Budd. "Leo, I came aboard without being searched. Is that normal practice?" Jake asked, and then pressed his left arm against his CZ-75.

  "No! They assumed you were a senator, so wouldn't dare search you. I've been strip searched, spread the cheeks and all, coming aboard and going ashore. The Marines do the searching, and seem to enjoy pissing you off with the inconvenience. They don't search everyone. It's mostly random. So you never know when it might happen."

  "That makes sense with six thousand people coming and going," Jake said. "But what about civilians? Do they get searched?"

  "Yes! At least I think so. I haven't actually seen one picked to be searched, but I'm guessing they could be."

  "I've got a problem, Leo. I need to talk with the Teredata tech rep, Burt Simpson. Do you know him?" Jake asked.

  "Yeah, I know him," Leo said derisively. "He doesn't know shit about electronics."

  "Why's that?"

  "Every time I ask him a technical question, he doesn't have the answer. He just says he doesn't have time, and he'll get back with me. What that means to me is he doesn't know shit. If he ever gets back to me at all, he gives me some bullshit answer that I could have gotten out of the tech manual."

  Jake smiled. He could see why Kurt liked Leo. "I need to talk with him. Could you bring me to his shop?"

  "No problem."

  Leo unlatched the hatch and led Jake through the winding passageways, up and down ladders, and finally to a hatch with a sign that read: "Teredata International Semiconductors."

  "He's probably inside," Leo said. "Otherwise the hatch would be locked."

  Jake looked closely at Leo. He didn't want to get him involved. "Stay out here, Leo. I need to talk with him alone."

  Jake entered through the hatch and closed it snugly behind him. A man sitting in a gray metal chair looked up at Jake, obviously startled by his presence. Neither said a word. The man glanced toward a small wooden box on the desk next to him.

  "May I help you?" the man finally asked.

  Jake noticed he was wearing an expensive leather coat and black pants with a recent crease. He was younger than Jake expected. Probably early thirties. His long, thin face and skinny nose made him look like a rat. "Are you Burt Simpson?"

  "Yes! Who are you?" he asked bluntly, his eyes shifting from Jake to the box on the bench.

  "I'm with NIS investigating the deaths of the four sailors blown up in Genoa," Jake lied.

  "I've already answered all the questions from your buddies," Simpson said, rising from his chair, and squaring himself to Jake.

  "That's nice...but I want the truth."

  "Fuck you. You squids don't have any jurisdiction over me."

  "That's true. But people do have a tendency of slipping on the wet deck on dark, cold evenings. The Mediterranean may seem warm compared to the air at first, but after bobbing around for a half hour or so, it becomes quite cold."

  Simpson looked directly at Jake.

  "What's the matter, smart ass, you can't come up with a quick answer now?" Jake said.

  "I don't know shit about the bombing," Simpson said, and then turned toward the work bench, picked up the small box and placed it gently in a small black satchel.

  Jake quietly stepped a few feet to his right. He was across the shop, but still only about ten feet from Simpson.

  Without warning, Simpson turned and shot toward Jake. The sound of the gun echoed loudly throughout the small compartment.

  Jake hit the ground. The world around him blackened for a moment as he lay on the cold, gray metal. His face, smashed against the deck, felt the percussion of steps as Simpson ran to the hatch. And then the hatch slammed with a hard clang and reverberated back and forth against the steel walls as if some giant had blown through a metal pipe. Jake tried to lift his head, but couldn't.

  Finally, he opened his eyes and stared directly at a pair of black leather boots.

  "Son of a bitch," Leo said, standing over Jake. "He shot your ass."

  Jake wanted to talk, to say anything, to know he was still among the living and not just dreaming Leo standing in front of him. But his lips wouldn't move yet either. Then he felt strong hands grab him under his arms and pull him to his feet and hold him in place until he could stand on his own.

  Jake felt the side of his head. There was barely enough blood to feel moist. But his head ached and he could still see stars. His knees buckled slightly. It seemed as though the ship was swaying back and forth in heavy seas, but he knew that his equilibrium must have been disjointed. He remembered the last time he felt this way. He was a running back in high school. He hit a hole at full speed, stuck his head down at the last second, and bashed head on with a linebacker helmet to helmet. The next thing he knew, he was on the sidelines sniffing some nasty chemical. He had hoped that feeling would never return.

  "Are you okay?" Leo asked, still holding onto Jake.

  "I think so. Where is the bastard?"

 
"He came flying out the hatch, nearly knocked me to my ass. I heard what I thought was a shot. So I was getting ready to open the hatch. Come on. He's probably heading off the ship."

  Jake shook his head and started to follow Leo through the passageways. Leo was wasting no time. It was as if he too had been shot at and felt violated.

  "I know a short cut," Leo said.

  They had to be at least two or three minutes behind Simpson. Jake had no idea how long he had been lying on the deck before Leo picked him up, nor did he have time to ask the question.

  When they reached the first downward ladder, Leo swung his arms outward over the railings and quickly slid to the bottom. Jake tried this too, but his leather jacket stuck to the railings slowing him down. Heading aft, Jake followed Leo through a long passageway with open hatches. Jake felt as he had running the low hurdles in his youth. The difference was the unforgiving knee knockers and the low metal overhead. One mistake, one slight lifting of the head at the wrong second, and he knew that the pain from the bullet hitting his left temple would be minor in comparison to his head bashing into the heavy curved door frame.

  Leo stopped quickly. He turned to Jake and put his index finger to his lips.

  Jake heard the pounding of footsteps coming from a cross passageway. He slid his hand inside his jacket and pulled out his 9mm automatic. Leo looked surprised.

  Jake pushed Leo behind a door frame and motioned for him to stay put.

  Jake jumped through the door to the cross passageway with his pistol pointed ahead. "Stop, Simpson!"

  Simpson stopped dead in his tracks looking shocked to see Jake. He slid to the nearest bulkhead behind a narrow door frame. Then Simpson's pistol appeared and shot once.

  The bullet echoed loudly and pinged as it ricocheted down the passageway. Jake smashed himself against the gray bulkhead and took cover. There was a hatch about six feet in front of him. He knew he had to reach that, or he would be an easy target. He slithered along the bulkhead to the wide hatch. The hatch was hooked to the wall with a small metal latch. Jake unhooked it and waited for a second. Peeking around the edge, it appeared to Jake that Simpson was reloading. He could make out just part of his body, not enough to place a bullet, but maybe enough to force return fire.