America (51 page)

Jake Grafton's first look at the marine general this morning left him agape. Flap Le Beau had shaved his head and wore a large, bushy mustache and a pair of heavy horn-rimmed glasses. The mustache was glued on, of course, but Flap certainly didn't look the way he did yesterday. Part of the makeover was the civilian clothes, which were at least one size too large. He looked like he had lost weight recently. Jake complimented him on the quick change. “Corina shaved my head last night and we went to the mall for a new outfit. The larger clothes were her idea.”

As they waited to board, Flap said, “I've got this sick feeling that we're going to be too late.”

“The ocean salvage operations I've seen resemble greased-pig contests,” Jake remarked. “Nothing goes as planned. These folks are undertaking a tricky salvage operation with makeshift equipment. I wonder if they've even found the thing.”

“Surely they know where it is!”

“Zelda Hudson strikes me as a pretty slick operator. So slick, apparently, that Schlegel wanted to get his hands on her.”

As they walked out to the plane, Callie said to Flap, “Thanks for including me. This invitation was a godsend. I didn't think I could take another day in that candlelit flat.”

“I wouldn't classify this trip as a vacation.”

“It is for me! Just watch me enjoy it.”

The day was clear as only a September day can be. As the luxury bizjet climbed over the Chesapeake Bay, Jake and Callie leaned against the window trying to spot their Delaware beach. The jet was over New Jersey when it crossed the beach for the first time. It flew over Boston and Nova Scotia before it left North America behind.

Somewhere over the North Atlantic, Callie said to her husband, “I still don't understand why these people are being so sneaky about recovering the satellite. I thought that under international law abandoned ships and things like that belonged to whoever salvaged them.”

“You know, I haven't asked the lawyers about that,” Jake said. “I'll bet no one else has, either. The satellite was not abandoned—it was lost. Or stolen. And the French government owns some huge minority interest in EuroSpace; they may control it, for all I know. I doubt if the French government wants to go to the edge of the abyss with the Americans over a killer satellite.”

The edge of the abyss. Jake thought about that phrase as the jet flew the great circle route to Lisbon. This wasn't, he concluded, a typical hardball business deal for Willi Schlegel. He had been physically present in Newark when Zelda Hudson was snatched—the customs and immigration officers both stated that for a fact. They had seen him and his passport. So Schlegel was betting everything he could steal that satellite and get away with it. Standing trial for kidnapping wasn't on his agenda, either.

*   *   *

Across the aisle, Toad Tarkington was getting reacquainted with his wife, Rita Moravia, who was also in the navy and on leave between assignments. She had arrived home the day before yesterday, hugged the kid and husband, and settled in for a month of domestic bliss. Then Toad informed her he was going on a cruise. “Gotta. It's a nasty job and somebody has to do it.”

Rita and Toad were going to spend a week by themselves later that month, so they decided that this would be that week. The babysitter had instructions, her mother would arrive by car that evening, so here they were, on their way to Lisbon.

“Glad you could go with me, hot woman,” Toad said. “I've really missed you. I told Admiral Grafton that we planned on spending the whole cruise in bed.”

“And what did he say?”

“Just laughed.”

“I missed you, Toadman,” Rita said. “Hold my hand.” And she slipped her hand in his.

*   *   *

In the row behind Toad and Rita, Tommy Carmellini was getting acquainted with Lizzy. “What do you like about pro wrestling?” he asked.

“It's my favorite thing,” Lizzy replied. “Aren't you a fan?”

“Alas, no. My schedule…”

“It's life in microcosm. The story lines make me want to cry and laugh at the same time, you know? They're just so … so…”

“Story lines?”

“You're not a marine. What do you do for a living, anyway?”

“Civil service. Paperwork and stuff. Pretty boring. Tell me about the story lines.”

Lizzy took a deep breath and began.

*   *   *

Flap Le Beau married later than most of his colleagues. When he finally tied the knot he was past forty and had his first star. The woman he married, Corina, was a college professor who ran a home for troubled youth when she wasn't working her day job. Flap had grown up on the streets—he knew the problems she willingly faced dealing with troubled kids. He became her biggest fan, helped her all he could, then decided they should tie the knot and go through life together. She had been married once before and wasn't anxious for another round of matrimony, but Flap persisted. He knew what he wanted, and she was it. Through sheer perseverance he finally overcame her defenses.

On the way to Portugal he sat in the front of the passenger cabin with Corina and told her about the mission. “Just be yourself,” he advised. “You're a college professor who runs a home for kids. That will minimize the acting requirements.”

“And who will you be?” Corina asked.

“A retired marine, I think. Collecting those retirement checks every month, fishing, and keeping busy helping you with the kids. We needed a little break, so here we are. That story works, doesn't it?”

“When you retire,
are
you going to help me?”

“Woman, did you ever have any doubts?”

“No,” she admitted, “I never did.”

She laughed then, and Flap Le Beau leaned back in his seat and grinned.

*   *   *

Jake Grafton was looking out the window when his wife whispered to him, “Thanks for bringing me along. I appreciate you sharing your burdens.”

He squeezed her hand and grinned.

He had explained last night when he invited her to come. “There is some danger involved. I need your help, but this is no vacation. If you don't want to come, I'll understand. We're going to sink a ship. People are probably going to die.”

“What do you and Flap think will happen?”

“
America
will eventually recover the satellite and rendezvous with the cruise ship or a cable layer that's anchored in Cadiz harbor. We have U-2s, Sentry AWACS planes, and recon satellites watching this area continuously. Our job is to call the P-3s on satellite telephones if
America
slips in under this cruise ship. There're more than a dozen P-3s at Rota, Spain. They'll hunt
America
using active sonar, then destroy her with torpedoes. Obviously, we'd like to wait until she has recovered the satellite.”

“And the satellite?”

“We'll send it to the bottom with
America,
or thank Willi Schlegel and take it home.”

“Why do you think
America
might rendezvous with the cruise ship?”

He explained that Schlegel had kidnapped Zelda Hudson, and they thought he was aboard this ship. “He's at the vortex of this mess.”

Callie was silent for a moment, then asked, “And if something goes wrong?”

“There's a carrier battle group in the Med headed west for Gibraltar and one out of Jacksonville transiting east. The president was firm—do whatever it takes to get the satellite and the sub.”

Knowing all that, she had chosen to come. “I want to help any way I can.”

Today over the North Atlantic, with the sun shining in through the windows of the airplane, he squeezed her hand again.

*   *   *

When Zelda Hudson awoke, she was lying in a hospital bed wearing handcuffs. A uniformed nurse was in attendance. When she saw that her patient was awake, the nurse went to a telephone and made a call.

Her head thumped and she felt groggy. And slightly nauseated. Gathering her strength, Zelda tried to move and discovered that she was restrained on the bed with straps. And that she was wearing a catheter.

As she stared at the strange room and the woman in white whom she didn't recognize, the memories came flooding back. The explosion at the roof door, the stair swinging down, the men rushing in as chopper noise filled the room …

She remembered one of the men hitting Zip. Then … nothing.

So where was she?

She started to ask the nurse, then changed her mind. Don't say a word to these people.

A strange hospital, with little doors and metal walls and.… Oh, my God! She was on a ship!

A man came in, sixty-something, tan. She recognized him from his photos. Willi Schlegel. Two other men followed him in. The one in the white coat had a stethoscope draped around his neck.

“Ah, Ms. Hudson. I am Willi Schlegel. Welcome to my world.”

She said nothing.

“You must be wondering where you are. You are aboard
Sea Wind,
which is a luxury liner, or cruise ship, as you Americans call it. We are currently anchored in Lisbon harbor. We will sail tomorrow and eventually rendezvous with USS
America,
which will transfer the satellite to us. The men aboard
America
are recovering it now.”

Zelda Hudson looked at the doctor, the nurse, the third man, looked for a friendly face and didn't find one. They're bought and paid for, she thought.

“I thought you should be with us for the glorious moment,” Schlegel said, “when the satellite comes aboard. I knew you would want to see it, to savor the moment of our triumph. It was a magnificent operation, and you did it. Of course, you also did many things you weren't supposed to—all those missiles to earn money from Antoine Jouany…” He clucked his tongue.

“You are greedy, Ms. Hudson. A greedy, unpredictable, unreliable genius. For all those reasons I thought you should be here with us, rather than sitting in front of your bank of computers in Newark making mischief.”

She wondered if Zip was dead. She started to ask, then changed her mind. This asshole would tell her anything. He probably didn't know the truth. Or care.

Schlegel waited for a moment, waited for her to speak, and when she didn't, he turned away. She waited until he was out of the room before she said to the doctor, “I want off this damn bed and I want to go to the bathroom.”

The doctor nodded to the nurse, who began removing the restraints. The man who had entered the room with the doctor stood against the wall and watched.

*   *   *

A Gulfstream is the Cadillac of business jets; people who arrive in one get the same courtesy and respect in Portugal as they do in New Jersey. Portuguese immigration and customs waved a friendly hand and the five couples walked to two stretch limos that the embassy had waiting while the limo drivers—CIA agents—unloaded the baggage and stowed it in the trunks. Since a problem at the airport with customs would have ruined everything, the contents of the luggage were completely benign. The weapons, ammunition, and satellite telephones had arrived under diplomatic cover earlier in the day and were already in the limos.

The scene on the dock was the usual hustle and bustle. Buses, taxis, and limos arrived in a steady stream, officers greeted people and handed out cabin and dining assignments, ship's crewmen checked lists and loaded luggage with a crane into a cargo sponson, veteran cruisers greeted each other. While Callie ensured their bags were properly tagged, Jake examined the sponson, memorizing its exact location and the location of the hatches leading from it.

The bags containing the weapons and ammo were not checked. Each of the Americans carried one aboard.

A steward led the Graftons to their assigned cabin, which opened onto the promenade deck. The room had a large double bed and a television. Obviously, rank had its privileges: Flap had gotten the Graftons one of the nicest staterooms. Still, the décor reminded Jake of a Holiday Inn. The steward showed them how the fixtures worked, accepted a tip with a smile, and left them alone.

Callie started to speak, but Jake held a finger to his lips. He mouthed the words, “The place may be bugged.”

She nodded and sat on the bed while Jake took off his sports coat and donned a shoulder holster. With the water in the bathroom running and talking loudly to his wife, he inserted the loaded magazine in the nine-millimeter automatic, eased the slide back and chambered a round, then holstered the weapon and put the coat back on.

“What do you think?” he asked when he came out.

“It's been a long day and I'm hungry,” she said. “Give me a minute and then let's go find something to eat.”

*   *   *

After twelve hours in the control room, Kolnikov called it quits for the day. He made a transmission to the fishing boat on the underwater telephone, then steered
America
off the seamount and submerged to four hundred feet. He took food from the wardroom back to Turchak, who was still at the helm monitoring the autopilot. The rest of the control room crew was eating or in bed—another calculated risk, but they had to have food and rest.

“It may not be on that thing,” Turchak said softly, just loud enough for Kolnikov to hear. He nodded in the general direction of the seamount. “Have you considered that?”

“Yes.”

“I know the philosophical implications of finding something in the last place you look, but we've covered about sixty percent of the seamount. The third stage isn't small.”

“I know,” Kolnikov said.

“Heydrich is like a caged lion. After observing him for a week, I think he is slightly insane.”

Kolnikov said dryly, “Aren't we all?”

Turchak wasn't amused. “You know what I mean. He's a time bomb with a lit fuse.”

*   *   *

The dining area was packed with people eating a late supper. Everyone had been traveling all day, yet the excitement was contagious. Callie looked around nervously—did she know any of these people? Finally she decided she didn't. While she looked for acquaintances, Jake looked for Willi Schlegel and didn't see him, of course. They needed to find the man. That would be a job for Carmellini.