The Trojan Sea

by Richard Herman

  “Obviously,” the lead agent said, “we’re here about the bombing Saturday night in Miami.”

  Marsten sat behind his desk and steepled his fingers. “Right. RTX Farm Supplies. One of our subsidiaries.”

  The two agents flipped open their notebooks and held their matching silver ballpoint pens at the ready. “Then, RTX is owned by RayTex Oil,” the junior agent said. It wasn’t a question.

  “Certainly,” Marsten replied. “RTX is a contraction of RayTex. Most bizarre. Why would anyone want to blow up a liquid-fertilizer storage tank?” As he had worked with the FBI before, he didn’t expect an answer. The FBI gave something up only to get more in return.

  “We were hoping you could supply an answer to that question, Mr. Marsten,” the senior agent said, starting to play him.

  Marsten considered his answer. “Perhaps they thought nitrates were present and hoped to spark a sympathetic explosion on the order of the Oklahoma City bombing.” The agents wrote furiously in their notebooks while Marsten plotted the sequence of his next moves. “That suggests, at least to me, that they didn’t understand chemical fertilizers.”

  “So you don’t think it was an inside job,” the senior agent said.

  “It may have been,” Marsten replied. “But if an insider was involved, she didn’t deal with product.”

  The two agents exchanged glances. “You said ‘she,’” the senior agent ventured.

  So a woman was involved, Marsten thought. He loved dealing with the FBI. They were so good up to a point. Then they became quite transparent, if you knew how to play the game. It was time to dangle some bait. “Would it help in your investigation to see the personnel files for RTX?”

  “That might be useful,” the senior agent replied.

  Marsten reached for his computer keyboard. “I’ll see what I can do, but we’ll have to work around the privacy statutes.” He faked a sigh. “So misguided. They only help the criminals.” He typed a command into the commuter. “Ah, yes, here we go.” Then, almost conversationally, he asked, “Can you tell me anything about the body discovered at the scene?”

  The agents leaned forward in anticipation. If it was an inside job, quick and complete access to raw personnel files could be a major breakthrough. “Most unusual,” the junior agent said. “It was a woman. The preliminary examination of the body and personal effects indicated she was probably a Latina. But we can’t be sure.” It was a deliberate ploy to lead Marsten on. The FBI’s initial forensic analysis of the body, clothes, shoes, hairstyle, dental work, and contents of the stomach had confirmed that the deceased was a Latin American female in her late twenties, had had two abortions but never given birth, and was not a manual laborer.

  Marsten looked at them in amazement. “Really? According to the Miami Herald, a Middle Eastern group claimed responsibility. I’ve never heard of them.”

  The junior agent nodded in agreement. “Neither have—”

  A sharp look from the senior agent cut off his partner. Marsten caught it and hit the print button on his computer. The printer in the credenza behind his desk hummed quietly as he waited for the printout. He handed them a thick stack of papers. “Here’s everything we have on the employees at RTX,” Marsten told them. “I do hope you’ll maintain our confidentiality.”

  “We do appreciate your help,” the senior agent said. Marsten escorted them to the door. “We’ll get back to you as soon as we have something definite.” They shook hands, and Marsten watched them walk to the elevators.

  “Of course you will,” Marsten said softly. He returned to his office and sat on the couch, deep in thought. He was a good CEO because he anticipated problems and instinctively understood what L.J. wanted. At the top of her priority list was the safety and well-being of her employees, and she expected him to respond accordingly. He probed his memory, looking for connections. Was the bombing of RTX Farm Supplies related in any way to the series of refinery accidents that had plagued the industry since the late 1990s? While he had no proof, he suspected they were not accidents. Was it the handiwork of the environmental extremists like Earth First? He wasn’t certain, but knowing L.J., he knew she would expect him to act on his suspicions. The adage “Better safe than sorry” had real meaning for her.

  He sipped his tea as he defined the big picture. Slowly he sketched a complicated flowchart on a yellow legal pad, organizing different elements into a new company-wide security plan. But something was missing. What was it?

  He shelved that problem for the moment and turned to the action and project folders that seemed to occupy more and more of his time. He worked quickly through them, making decisions, asking questions, and assigning projects. He stopped on the fifth folder. What to do about the two corporate jet aircraft RayTex owned? Given the economics of flying, he would have preferred to sell at least one. But L.J. loved flying the oldest of the aircraft, an old Sabreliner that had recently been completely renovated with new engines, instruments, leather interior, and paint. Better to keep L.J. happy, he decided.

  The last folder contained a survey from the government requesting information on RayTex’s plans for exploration in the next five years. Marsten’s immediate reaction fell someplace between fat chance and never. Then the name on the cover letter caught his attention. His eyes narrowed for a moment as he tapped his personal memory banks. He had a prodigious memory and knew how to use it. He turned to his computer and typed in a series of commands to call up the log of the seismic vessel Steiner had used for testing his Seismic Double Reflection technique. He reread the section recounting when the ship had taken refuge from Hurricane Andrea in Cuba. Coincidence? he wondered.

  He reached for the phone and called Action Research Associates. Within seconds he was speaking to the lead investigator. “Can you confirm that a Lieutenant Colonel Michael Stuart who works in the Pentagon is the same Michael Stuart who owns a sailboat called Temptress?” As RayTex Oil paid ARA a hefty retainer fee for their services, he didn’t hang up. He had his answer in less than a minute: They were one and the same.

  Marsten leaned back and clapped his hands together lightly. Should he talk to L.J. about this latest development? Was it pure coincidence that this Lieutenant Colonel Stuart’s boat had followed Steiner’s research vessel into that Cuban harbor? How much coincidence did he believe in? Could Stuart compromise what they were doing? So many unknowns. We need more answers. He mentally filed that problem away for later consideration. He buzzed his secretary for tea and relaxed in his chair, letting his subconscious work. Suddenly the basic weakness of his security plan jumped out of his subconscious, where it had been festering. To be proactive about security, he needed better intelligence; otherwise they were sitting targets for whoever was out there ready to visit harm on the company. “Harm the company,” he repeated aloud. He let his mind run with that topic. Finally he reached for the phone to set up a meeting with ARA. What he needed to discuss had to be face-to-face, with no witnesses.

  Annapolis, Maryland

  Stuart stood on the city dock with the marina’s manager waiting for Temptress to arrive. “There she is,” he said. Stuart moved down the slip to help dock his boat while the manager held back. He could tell a great deal by the way any captain docked, and the combination of tide and wind were working against the woman as she guided the forty-two-foot sailboat down the narrow channel. Unless she was very good, he expected a few bangs and bumps as she entered the narrow slip.

  “She single-handed it?” the manager asked.

  “All the way from Miami,” Stuart answered.

  “Motored all the way?”

  Stuart shrugged. “You’ll have to ask her.” He doubted if Jane ran the diesel more than absolutely necessary and suspected she was under sail whenever possible. Like the manager, he watched as she guided the boat in. At exactly five boat lengths short of the dock, she slipped the transmission into neutral and glided into the slip. She hit reverse and blipped the throttle at the last moment to bring the boat to a complete stop wit
hout touching the dock. It was a low-key, masterful demonstration, and the manager was impressed.

  Stuart wanted to hug her for the smooth performance. Then he was honest with himself and admitted he just wanted to hold her. She threw him a stern line and went forward to hand the manager a bowline. “How was the trip?” Stuart called.

  “Uneventful,” she answered. “I took my time.”

  “Come up the Intercoastal Waterway?” the manager asked.

  “Why do that?” she replied.

  Now the manager was really impressed. Only a very seasoned and confident sailor would sail the Atlantic single-handedly instead of coming up the Intercoastal Waterway. “Son,” he muttered to Stuart, “don’t let this one get away.” He studied the boat’s condition and was even more impressed. “You want a job?” he asked Jane. “Fourteen dollars an hour.”

  From her silence Stuart knew she was seriously considering it. “You can live on Temptress, if you want,” he said, offering encouragement.

  She tilted her head to one side, still thinking. She did need a job, and it was time to think about settling down. How much longer could she be a sea gypsy? Besides, she did want to see more of him.

  “Why don’t you think about it?” Stuart said. “Say, are you up for a ride to Newport News tomorrow? I’d like you to meet my family.”

  “I’ll let you know about the job Monday,” she told the manager.

  It was perfect weather for the trip to his parents’ home in Newport News, and Stuart wanted to make it last as long as possible. But he also wanted to be in time for lunch. Unfortunately, Sunday traffic down the Delmarva Peninsula didn’t cooperate, and it was 2:00 P.M. by the time they arrived. As expected, Martha Stuart was in her garden. They chatted for a few moments and, from the very first, Martha liked Jane. “Your father and Eric are at the airport,” she told them, “working on that airplane. Dwight’s with them.”

  “I didn’t know Maggot was here,” Stuart said.

  She shooed them away. “Go on now, I’ve got work to do.” She walked with them to the car and watched as they drove away. “I like her, Michael,” she said aloud to herself. “For once, be smart.”

  “Dwight’s my older brother,” Stuart explained, answering Jane’s unasked question. “He’s a fighter pilot, flies A-10s. Everyone calls him Maggot.”

  Jane heard the hurt in his voice. “Your father was a fighter pilot?”

  “Yeah. And I’m the big disappointment in his life.” They rode in silence to the airport, both lost in their own thoughts.

  Eric saw Stuart’s Ford Explorer the moment they pulled into the parking lot, and he ambled over with the studied indifference of all seventh-graders. Stuart introduced him to Jane, and they walked into the hangar to meet Shanker and Maggot. But Eric’s enthusiasm broke through, and he couldn’t stop chattering about the Lightning. Much to the boy’s surprise, Jane talked to him like an adult and seemed to share in his excitement. Stuart smiled at the rapport between the two. The smile disappeared when he saw his older brother talking to his father. He made the introductions.

  “Call me Maggot,” Dwight Stuart said, shaking Jane’s hand.

  “What an unusual name,” Jane replied, falling back into her four-word-response mode.

  “Uncle Dwight is a fighter pilot,” Eric explained, “and he flies A-10s, that’s the Warthog, and everybody’s got a special name so they can remember who’s who in combat when everything is all confused and Maggot is real famous because he’s done lots of fighting and he’s a good friend of Matt Pontowski.” He ran out of steam and had to take a breath.

  “The grandson of President Pontowski?” Jane asked. “The one who was in the news with President Turner?” Eric bobbed his head yes, and she caught the deep frown that flashed across Shanker’s face. What’s the story behind that? she wondered.

  “I served under Pontowski for a while,” Maggot explained. “I’d follow that man through hell if he asked.”

  “But not to the White House, I hope,” Shanker said pointedly, referring to the rumors of a romance between Pontowski and Maddy Turner, the president of the United States. *

  Stuart laughed, trying to defuse the issue. “Pop hates President Turner and can’t stand to even talk about her. It sends his blood pressure off the scale.”

  “Damn woman hates the military,” Shanker growled.

  “Tell me the threat,” Maggot mumbled.

  “And I’ll tell you my tactics,” Shanker snapped, completing the thought. It was one of the rules Shanker had lived by while flying fighters and had passed down to his sons as one of life’s truisms.

  “Or,” Maggot corrected, “I’ll tell you my strategy.” It was his way of telling Shanker the world had changed and President Turner was forcing the military to change with it. He readily acknowledged that it was a painful task but a necessary one. Facts, however, were the one thing Shanker didn’t want to hear.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Shanker barked.

  Maggot laughed. “Don’t get your shorts twisted around your cojones, Pop. It hurts like hell. Matt’s a good man and won’t do anything stupid.”

  Jane sensed that Shanker was a cantankerous old curmudgeon and liked the easy way Maggot handled him. There was no doubt Maggot was Stuart’s brother—they almost could have been mistaken for twins. But Maggot looked five years older, and there was something about him, a sense of confidence and sureness that escaped most men. There was a look in his eyes and a tone in his voice that eluded her at first. She studied the three as they stood together. Shanker was inordinately proud of Maggot, while he had given up on his younger son. Instinctively she knew the reason. Shanker and Maggot were hunters, sure of their skills, both tested in combat, while Michael was his mother’s son, a gentle, introspective man trying to live up to his father’s expectations.

  “Are you on leave?” Stuart asked.

  Maggot gave them his best lopsided grin. “I thought it’d be best if I told you in person. I’m getting married.”

  “Holy shit!” Shanker roared. “It’s about time!”

  “Does she know about fighter pilots?” Stuart asked.

  Maggot laughed. “Oh, yeah. I wouldn’t spring that on her.” Shanker and Stuart bombarded him with questions, while Jane fell silent, still studying Maggot. It was obvious he was the father’s favorite, and while totally different in appearance from the senior Stuart, Maggot embodied all that Shanker valued. Growing up in Maggot’s shadow had to be a painful experience for Michael.

  Eric shifted his weight from foot to foot, his feelings hurt because he was cut out of the conversation. He wanted back in and, impulsively, blurted, “Are you sleeping with my dad?”

  “Eric!” Michael said.

  “Where the hell did that come from?” This from Shanker.

  Jane hushed them and smiled at Eric. “Let’s go get a Coke and talk.” Shanker pointed to the office at the side of the hangar and mumbled something about a refrigerator. Inside the office she found the refrigerator and handed Eric a Coke. “I’ll make a deal with you,” she said, sipping at a root beer. “I’ll answer your question if you’ll tell me why you asked it.”

  Eric hung his head, not sure what to say. But something inside him said he could trust this woman. “Ah, I’m sorry I said it.” He looked at her hopefully. “Well…” He hesitated. “You go first.”

  She smiled at him. “No. You go first.” They played that game for a few moments. “Okay,” she said, “let’s play ‘Paper-Rock-Scissors’ to decide who goes first.”

  Eric grinned at her, much more confident now. “I’ve got a strategy,” he boasted.

  “Do you, now?” Jane replied. “Let’s test it.” They played a few rounds to warm up, and again his enthusiasm was infectious. “Okay, this one is for real.” Eric nodded, and on the count of three she made a scissors with two fingers. As she expected, Eric made a fist, which stood for a rock.

  “Rock smashes scissors,” he shouted. “I won!”

  Jane faked a b
ig sigh. “No, I’m not sleeping with your dad.” She gave him a serious look. “Okay, your turn.”

  He grinned at her, the mischievous seventh-grader in full flow. “I’m not going to tell you, because I won.” He bolted from the room with Jane in hot pursuit.

  “Wait until I get my hands on you!” she yelled, chasing him out of the hangar. She tackled him on the grass and started tickling him. “Ve haff vays of making you talk,” she said, faking a German accent.

  He screamed with laughter. “Tick!”

  For a moment she didn’t get it. Then she rolled off him, shaking with laughter. “Tick-tock, tick-tock.” When their laughter died, she became very serious. “Okay, ’fess up. Why did you ask?”

  Eric sat up and pulled his knees to his chest. “My mom is always sleeping with someone, and I guess I don’t like it.”

  “I barely know your dad, but I can tell you he’s not like that. And I know something very important: He loves you very much.”

  Suddenly Eric’s day got even better.

  Shanker walked out of the hangar with his two sons. “I guess we’d better go tell Martha,” he said. “I hope she’s Catholic,” he added.

  “She is,” Maggot said. “Mom will love her.”

  “Mom’s very religious,” Stuart whispered to Jane.

  Arlington, Texas

  Lloyd Marsten circled through River Legacy Park, looking for the silver minivan. He found it in the far parking area and drove on past, circling back to the entrance. He stopped his gray Jaguar sedan and opened the rear door for Duke, his elderly springer spaniel. The dog emerged from the car and waited patiently for Marsten to snap a lead onto his collar, not that it was necessary. Duke was always the proper gentleman and, at his age, would never do anything as undignified as chasing another dog. A bitch in heat might be another matter, but he would definitely not rush into anything.

  “Good boy,” Marsten said, giving the dog a loving pat. Duke was his only family, and Marsten feared the day he would die. He headed in the direction of the minivan, another senior citizen out walking his dog on a lovely Sunday afternoon in early October. Joggers moved past him as he walked deeper into the park.