Running Dark (18 page)

SUMNER WOKE WHEN THE SUN WAS PEEKING THROUGH THE STATEROOM
windows. His alarm remained silent, which puzzled him. He turned to look at the glowing numbers, only to realize that he’d slept right through it. He sat up in a flash. He’d slept far longer than he’d intended. He splashed some cold water on his face and headed to the upper deck, where he found Clutch sitting on the port side, cradling a stun gun in his lap while he drank from a steaming mug of coffee. The ship seemed becalmed.

“What’s going on?” Sumner said.

Clutch gave a desultory shrug. “Not much. Turbines are off. Wainwright’s hoping to keep some juice in case the pirates come back. But, like
I
said, they’re gone. They must know by now that we can’t be taken. This whole sitting-watch thing is a joke.”

It was all Sumner could do to continue conversing with the guy. Instead of responding, he turned to look out to sea. It was full day, and the heat was rising right along with the sun. Here and there, crew members went about their usual duties, which added to the surreal nature of the tableau. It was as if nothing untoward were happening, or had happened.

“And Block?” Sumner said.

“Went to sleep five, maybe six hours ago. Janklow and Wainwright, too. Soon as they come back I’m letting one of them sit watch. This is stupid.”

“Who has the sniper rifle?”

“It should be obvious that I don’t.”

Sumner reined in his anger. “I was asking you if you knew who did.”

“Probably Block. He was treating the thing like it was his baby. Didn’t allow anyone else to use it, which was stupid, because we might have needed it these past hours while he slept.”

Sumner noted that this was the first intelligent thing Clutch had said so far, though he couldn’t help being pleased that Block didn’t just give the gun to Clutch. Sumner didn’t think the man had the temperament required to handle the weapon.

“I’ll go find it,” Sumner said.

Clutch shrugged. “Whatever.”

Sumner took another deep breath. The man sounded like a disaffected teenager. Sumner revised that thought almost immediately. A teenager would have realized the danger they were in and would have had the quick reflexes and inclination to be of some help. Clutch had neither.

Sumner headed to the hallway between decks. Before he could make it there, he heard the roar of a cigarette boat’s engine. He spun around to see Clutch lurch upward. The coffee in his cup sloshed all over the deck. He gave Sumner a frantic look.

“Go get that gun!” he shrieked.

Sumner fled back down the stairs, taking two at a time. A loud alarm erupted, and on the PA system he heard Janklow’s voice over the blaring noise saying, “We are under attack. Please clear all decks and return to your staterooms immediately. Repeat—” The burst of a rocket-propelled grenade drowned out the rest of the warning.

Few people were in the halls. One woman sobbed as she ran. A couple worked their way past him. The man had his arm around his wife, who looked so pale that Sumner thought she might faint. For the first time since the ordeal began, the casino appeared to be empty. He caught a glimpse of a lone bartender restocking glasses. The man shoved the dishwasher crates to the side. Seconds later Sumner heard
a noise behind him. He took a quick glance to see the bartender hot on his heels.

Sumner took a right turn into the hallway that held Block’s stateroom, just as Block stepped out of the door. He held the Dragunov in his right hand and looked ready to kill. A relieved expression passed over his face when he saw Sumner.

“Here’s your gun,” Block said. He lobbed the weapon at Sumner. “Go get those bastards. I’ll be right behind you.”

Sumner caught the rifle and spun back to retrace his steps. He heard the blare of the LRAD. He didn’t think the weapon would work this time. The pirates now knew it existed and would have taken measures to protect their eardrums.

Soon he was back up on the swimming-pool deck right below the bridge landing. Once there, he shielded his eyes from the sun to take stock of the attackers. Four boats streamed toward them. Two were high-powered speedboats, the other two were a more basic design. The first three stayed abreast of each other, separated by about forty meters. The fourth and final boat brought up the rear. It was at least half a mile away from the first three, but moving straight toward them.

Sumner halted, took aim, and fired at the closest ship in the formation. They were out of range, but he was counting on their hearing the report and responding. They must have, because the two end boats in the formation split off in different directions, while the lead boat visibly slowed.

He clambered up to the bridge deck.

Janklow was watching the pirates through a set of binoculars.

“They’re splitting up to take us from all sides,” Sumner said. “What’s the ETA for some assistance?”

“Not happening,” Janklow replied. “Three other ships were captured in the last twelve hours. Seems these guys are busy. The CTG 600 is still trying to contain the damage, because one of them is transporting nuclear waste. We’re on our own. But take a look at
that last boat, the one bringing up the rear, and tell me if you see what I think I see.” He unwound the glasses from around his neck and tossed them to Sumner.

Sumner put the binoculars to his eyes. His heart sank at the sight.

Janklow moved up until he stood shoulder to shoulder with Sumner. “Either that’s a Western woman holding an assault rifle or I’m going crazy.”

“You’re not crazy,” Sumner said.

“Then
she
is,” Janklow replied.

EMMA STARED AT THE
KAISER FRANZ
AS IT PLOWED THROUGH THE
water. It seemed like a large, slow elephant compared to the quick rabbits that chased it. They’d been following the pirates for two hours on radar, trying to keep their distance in order to be able to surprise them when the time came. During that interval Emma watched the tiny green dots converge on a larger dot that represented the
Kaiser Franz.

Hassim had laid out the plan as they did. “We’ll stay behind until it becomes necessary to reveal ourselves.”

Stark, however, was not playing ball. “Do you mean to say that we’re deliberately following them?”

Hassim turned his dark eyes on Stark. “They intend to hijack the cruise ship that Ms. Caldridge needs to board. We will attack them as they do so.”

Stark sat down abruptly. He turned to Emma. “Did you know that this would happen?”

She nodded. “I did.”

He looked incredulous. “You mean to tell me that you
intend
to insert yourself into this situation?”

Emma nodded again.

“My God, you’re as crazy as the rest of them.”

It was Hassim who cut short Stark’s complaints. “I’m sorry to inform you, but most of the world exists in a realm of constant life-or-death struggle. You Americans enjoy a relatively peaceful existence, compared.”

Stark put up a hand. “An existence that I’m more than willing to go back to, thank you very much.”

Hassim snorted. “Then you should have thought twice before you flew your private jet into Africa to sell your products.”

Stark looked pissed. “What are you saying? That because Price sells vaccines, heart medications, and HIV drugs in the Third World we deserve to be caught up in the maelstrom? Those medications save thousands of lives. I shouldn’t have mine taken because I provide them.”

But Hassim would not back down. “I’m saying that if you want the benefits of selling the drugs here, then you must accept the risks.” He turned the boat toward the pirates. “They’re close now. Let’s reveal ourselves.” He opened the throttle, and the small craft moved forward even faster. “There’s a rocket launcher in the under-seat storage. Pull it out.”

Emma lifted the seat cushion. There, nestled in the cabinet, was an RPG. She maneuvered it out of the space, lowered the seat, and placed it on the cushions. She pulled out the grenades and started to assemble one.

“Could you please show Mr. Stark how to shoot it in case we need to switch weapons?”

Emma checked out Stark’s response. While it was clear that he was dumbfounded by the circumstances in which he found himself, he visibly gathered himself up and nodded to her. She wanted to sigh in relief at that. She needed him present and willing to assist if they were going to survive this thing. She showed him the launcher. As she talked him through the operation, Hassim added some additional instruction.

“Be sure to watch your back blast, both of you. I did not have the time to weld a cover on it.”

“Back blast?” Stark said.

Emma showed him the rear of the tube. “The exhaust shoots out of the back with a powerful force. It can fry anyone too close to it.
You need to look behind you to ensure it’s clear before firing. Also, it leaves a visible vapor trail, which has the unfortunate consequence of revealing one’s position in the dark.”

“Have you fired one of these?” Stark said.

“Yes.”

Stark stilled, watching her. Just as she began to feel uncomfortable, he turned his attention back to the rocket.

Emma heard an alarm in the distance. A barely audible voice chanted a warning. The next warning, though, came through loud and clear. A recorded voice spoke in English and echoed over the water. “Warning! Do not approach. Leave the area immediately.”

Stark turned to Hassim. “Do these guys understand English?”

Hassim pursed his lips. “Probably not. But they should be bright enough to figure out that the cruise liner does not wish to be boarded.”

Out of nowhere came the blast of the most excruciating noise Emma had ever heard in her life. Stark yelled in response, holding his ears and lowering his head. There was another, cracking sound, and the pirates began to split up.

“They’re going to attack from all sides,” Stark said.

Hassim grimaced. “We’re moving as fast as this engine will allow. Get ready, we’ll be in firing range soon.”

Emma held on to a side rail, her assault weapon at the ready, as she watched the
Kaiser Franz
loom larger. She could see movement on the upper outside decks. One man in a white uniform stood on the highest level. He appeared to be staring at them with binoculars. Another man, slender and dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, stood with him. A frisson of recognition ran down her spine as she gazed at the second man. Despite the fact that she was too far away to make out any features, she knew, without a doubt, that it was Sumner.

STROMEYER TOOK A CIRCUITOUS PATH TO THE ROTARY MEETING.
While anyone could have seen from the organization’s Web page that Banner was scheduled to speak that day, the most dangerous time for her would be en route. Once there she’d be surrounded by the other attendees, a much less desirable target. Getting there, though, was going to be time-consuming. She started from her house, leaving out the back door and jumping the neighbor’s fence. The neighbor’s name was Stan, and he took his morning coffee in a sunroom facing the yard. Stromeyer often jumped his gate when working on a particularly sensitive matter, or when she wished to avoid the press. Stan was a sixty-year-old former analyst at a right-wing think tank. Stromeyer considered herself a centrist, leaning toward liberal. Their divergent political views didn’t hinder the relationship in the least. Each of them had worked long enough in Washington to realize that most issues in the world were neither a simple black nor white but a complex shade of gray. They both lamented the violence that pockmarked the globe.

Stan was in his solarium when Stromeyer swung her leg onto his side of the fence and placed her toes on the overturned wheelbarrow placed there. He cranked open a casement window.

“I hope this doesn’t mean that the witch-hunt is getting you down,” he said through the screen.

Stromeyer smiled at him. “Just being cautious. If you see any shady characters floating around, you’ll be sure to call me?”

“I’ll shoot them first, then call you. How’s that?”

“Works for me,” Stromeyer said.

She waved good-bye before running past his garage to the alley behind, where Alicia was waiting for her. They rode Alicia’s cycle to the nearest Metro stop. From there Stromeyer took the train to a location three miles from the Rotary club, doubling back in a cab to the front door of the imposing redbrick building. The cab turned in to the circular drive and stopped.

She was thirty minutes early. The lobby was empty, with the exception of one lone man behind a reception desk. Stromeyer stepped up to him.

“I’m the speaker. I know I’m a little early. Is there somewhere I can get something to drink before we begin? Perhaps some lemonade?”

The man pointed to the lounge entrance on the far left side of the lobby. “Over there is the lounge. The bartender isn’t on duty yet, but you can get a water bottle from a refrigerator behind the bar. Senator Cooley’s there, pouring himself a stiff one.”

Stromeyer doubted that. Cooley was a notorious teetotaler. When campaigning in the South, he would put on cornpone airs and call alcohol “the devil’s brew.” Stromeyer thought it was an act, but no one had ever seen Cooley take a drink, so perhaps she was wrong. She strode over to the doors that separated the lounge area from the lobby. They were heavy leather-covered panels with studs outlining the perimeter. She hauled them open and stepped inside.

The doors closed behind her with a swishing sound. It was dark in the lounge, which was paneled in gleaming mahogany. A thick carpet covered the floor, and leather club chairs were scattered in small seating configurations. On the far wall was an elaborate carved-wood bar. The bottles of liquor gleamed in the faint light. Cooley stood at the cushioned edge, his back to Stromeyer. He didn’t turn when she walked across to him, leading her to believe that he didn’t hear her.

“Go away. Can’t a man even have a drink in peace?” Cooley slurred his words. When Stromeyer came abreast of him, she was
aghast at what she saw. Cooley stood belly to the bar, with an entire bottle of Jack Daniel’s in his hand. It was already half empty. Stromeyer looked for a glass but couldn’t find one anywhere on the gleaming wood top. The lack of drinkware didn’t seem to faze Cooley, who took a huge swallow of the amber liquid straight from the bottle. He lowered the container a fraction while he raised an eyebrow at her. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Stromeyer gathered her thoughts. Something was very wrong here.

“Senator, I’m surprised to see you drinking, especially this early in the day. I understood you to be a teetotaler.”

Cooley put the bottle down with a thud, resting it on the bar but never taking his hand off it. He looked about to weep.

“I am. Been sober twenty-five years.” He gazed at the bottle in his hand. “But guess that’s all over now. Gotta start from square one.” He took another huge gulp. “Right after I finish this bottle.” He took another swig. He was drinking so fast that Stromeyer was becoming frightened. It was as if the man were possessed.

“Maybe you should hand me the bottle. You’ve had a lot in a very short time. It can’t be good for you.”

He shook his head. “Never
was
good for me. Practically ruined my life, way back then. But I can’t give you the bottle. What you don’t know, but I do, is that once I start, I don’t stop.” He shook the bottle at the shelves lining the back of the bar. “I’ll drink everything on those shelves without stopping.” He took another swallow, and this time when he lowered the bottle, Stromeyer could see tears forming in the corners of his eyes. He wiped them away with the back of his free hand. “’Course, in those days I was what my first wife called a mean drunk. Now it looks like I’m a sloppy drunk.” He made a sound that was halfway between a sob and a gulp. “But I gotta finish off this whiskey and get the next. So go away and leave me to it.”

Stromeyer reached out. She wrapped her palm around the neck of the bottle above where his fingers grasped it. A fine line of blood ran down his hand.

“Senator, you’re bleeding.” Stromeyer pointed at a small puncture wound.

He nodded. “It’s nothing. Man bumped into me in the lobby and hit me with his pen.”

“What type of pen?” Stromeyer couldn’t keep the sharp sound out of her voice. The revelation that he’d been stuck with a pen rattled her. Just like Caldridge, she thought. But Cooley was six thousand miles away, so the odds of the two things’ being connected seemed remote.

He shrugged. “White one. Dug into me. Doesn’t matter.” He didn’t release the bottle.

“Let go. I’ll take it. Something’s not right about this.”

For the first time, he seemed to really look at her. Focus on her. “You’re Darkview’s vice president.”

She nodded.

He snorted. “You must be loving this. The great man falls. Bet you always thought I was a liar.”

He was so close to the truth that Stromeyer could feel her face coloring a little. She shook off the embarrassment.

“If you’ve been sober for twenty-five years, what possessed you to drink now?”

Cooley shook his head in what looked like true bewilderment. “I can’t tell you. I was only in the building a few minutes, and then I had the most overwhelming craving for a drink. I was here and with Jack in a heartbeat.”

Stromeyer tried to imagine a substance that would force a man to drink, but nothing came to mind. Cooley unwrapped her fingers from the top of his hand, breaking her train of thought.

Once again he was focused on her.

“You look scary smart just now. I can almost see the gears turning in your head.”

“I’m thinking you were poisoned,” Stromeyer said.

He had the bottle halfway to his lips, then stopped. “Poisoned?”

Stromeyer nodded. “Fast-acting. Somehow triggered a drinking binge.”

He stayed frozen, holding the liquor in the air. “Drugged in order to drink?” He burst out laughing. “Now, that’s a good one!” He brought the bottle closer to his mouth.

“Stop it!” Stromeyer snapped out the order. She used the tone she’d utilized for years in the military, when some grunt was insistent on doing some foolish thing that was going to get him killed, demoted, or both. Like the men before him, Cooley stopped. The whiskey stayed in midair.

“Put that alcohol down! Quit acting like your actions are out of your control. A man who’s been able to avoid drink for twenty-five years certainly has the wherewithal to avoid succumbing to a poison, for God’s sake. If you were drugged, then as soon as it fades, you’ll be back to where you were. Nothing lost, nothing gained. Status quo. Now, do it.”

Cooley put the bottle down with a clink. He shoved it at her. “Here.”

Stromeyer took hold of it. A garbage can lined with plastic sat in the corner of the bar. She tossed the Jack Daniel’s at it. It flew in and crashed to the bottom.

“You’d better get out of here. There’s an entrance to the kitchen in that corner.” Stromeyer pointed to a set of swinging doors. “Leave that way. Hit the Metro and go home.”

He straightened. “Yes, sir!” He snapped out a salute. The action made him stagger sideways, ruining the effect. He waved her aside. “Out of my way.”

“I’m not in your way.”

“Oh.” He paused. “I meant that metaphorically, of course.”

Stromeyer rolled her eyes.

He peered at her. “Do you scare Banner as much as you’re scaring me?”

“Nothing scares Banner.”

Cooley looked as though that answer made sense to him. “I’m learning that.” He staggered to the kitchen door and was gone.

Two hours later Stromeyer stood in Darkview’s reception area watching men in jackets labeled
FBI
carry out box after box of Darkview’s files, two of their computers, and even their telephone console. Alicia sat on the long couch in the waiting area and watched the procession with wide eyes.

Stromeyer’s cell phone rang. She flipped it open. “Stromeyer, that you?” It was Ralston, the attorney.

“They’re almost done here.”

“Get yourself to a safe location where you won’t be overheard.”

Stromeyer went through the swinging door down the hall to the very end. She stood opposite the back stairwell door that was Banner’s favorite way to leave the premises on the sly.

“I’m alone,” she said.

“Their subpoena is good. It was issued by Cooley’s committee as a part of their investigation into the pipeline bombing. Apparently Cooley signed it two days ago. Right now no one is able to find him. Seems he dropped out of sight.”

“Will it help if we find him?”

“Conceivably. He could halt the seizure. Or, if he’s feeling particularly benevolent, he could return the boxes altogether.”

Stromeyer watched as a group of agents headed toward her. All wore the same black pants and black windbreakers. She stepped aside while they swarmed past her down the stairs. Several jostled her.

“Last time I saw him, he wasn’t himself,” Stromeyer said.

“Maybe that’s good. Because in his usual mode he seems to be bent on destroying Darkview.”

Stromeyer hung up the phone, her stomach churning with worry.