The Einstein Papers (20 page)

Slouching low and assuming the casual gait of a vacationing tourist, he walked east toward Pier 53. His blue eyes scanned the water toward the Deep Search, tied fast to the pier.

No crewmen were visible and the vessel was quiet.

He walked back to the rental car and placed a call to Martinez over the secure phone.

“I’m looking at the Deep Search. Where are you?”

“I’ll be there in ten minutes or so. I pulled a blueprint of the Deep Search from the Lloyds insurance computer. The ship was built in Norway in 1985 and has an internal bay that can be used to launch and retrieve mini-subs for exploration work. With that inside bay the crew could easily recover an entire ship up to sixty feet in length if that was their plan.”

“We’ll talk about that when you get here. Hurry up,” Taft said.

“I’m doing seventy miles an hour through traffic,” Martinez said as the phone went dead.

Fifteen minutes later Martinez parked next to Taft, climbed from his car, and slipped into Taft’s passenger seat. All that remained was to send out for some food and wait until five p.m. when the dock would be clear of any dock workers or tourists who might get in the way of gunfire.

Captain Holtz and First Officer Dietz of the Deep Search waited in suite 312 of the Royal Regent Hotel for a phone call giving them further instructions. If they had been looking to the south of the hotel, they would have seen the sun dancing off the blue water in Boston Harbor. But their eyes were not looking out at the panoramic view. They were instead focused on a European soccer game on the television set. Holtz answered the phone on the side table on the second ring.

“I am in the lobby and will be up directly,” a cold voice said. “What is your room number?”

The courier hung up as soon as Holtz replied.

Holtz looked at Dietz. “The courier is on his way up.”

Several minutes later a soft rap on the door was heard and Holtz rose from the couch to answer. The man at the door stood almost six feet tall; his black hair was cut close to the sides of his head, and his eyes were almond shaped and dark brown. He moved furtively, his motions concealing a certain danger. He did not bother to attempt any small talk.

After an uneasy pause Holtz introduced himself.

“My name’s Chou Tsing,” he said coldly. “Now where are the documents?”

Holtz walked to the wet bar and retrieved a briefcase that was stored underneath. Returning to the sitting room, he opened the case. The bundle recovered from the Windforce was still wrapped in oilskin, covered in black rubber, and sealed in tape.

Dietz handed Tsing another small packet. “These are instant photos we took. They show where we found the papers in the sailboat,” he said as he handed over the packet.

“Good,” Tsing replied. “You and your crew are to meet at Logan Airport this afternoon at five. You are being flown to Nova Scotia.”

Dietz looked surprised. “Who will crew the Deep Search if we leave?”

“We have another crew flying in to take care of the ship,” Tsing said quietly. “You and your crew are needed in Canada. We have another assignment for you.”

“The sailboat is still inside the recovery bay,” Holtz said.

“The other crew will handle the removal of the sailboat,” Tsing said easily.

Holtz looked at Dietz before speaking. “Will the same wages be paid for this assignment?”

“Yes, the same wages and bonus will be in effect,” Tsing said coldly.

Holtz glanced away. For a moment he saw the home on the Outer Banks he had dreamed of so often. This next job would give him the down payment.

“That’s fine,” Holtz said. “If you have another job for us, my crew will be at the airport at five.”

Tsing closed the briefcase, then left the room without a goodbye.

Holtz and Dietz quietly resumed watching the game. They still had a couple of hours to wait before leaving for the airport.

A few hours left to live.

“What do you think we’ll be looking for next?” Dietz asked Holtz.

“I don’t know, but all this secrecy is a bit unnerving,” said Holtz.

Bigger forces were at work, but they had no way of knowing that. They would take their secrets to the grave.

The Deep Search remained deathly quiet all afternoon. Taft and Martinez spent the time studying the blueprints, waiting for the dock to clear. Near five in the afternoon Taft and Martinez watched two seamen from the Deep Search leave the vessel, lock the hatches, and pull in the gangplank. Jumping down to the dock, the two sailors gave the mooring lines one last check and then walked down the pier toward the city.

Taft tossed Martinez a portable radio and set off after the pair. Ambling slowly along, appearing to be without purpose, he followed the sailors toward the main road outside the port. Near the port terminal the pair stopped. Taft moved closer and noticed the men were standing below a pick-up sign for the local bus service.

The strong smell of fish assailed his nostrils as he crept behind a rack holding fishing nets to continue his surveillance. The sun was behind Taft as he shooed several cats out of the way and crouched down to radio Martinez. “Yoo-hoo. It’s me.” “Yeah?”

“They’re waiting for the bus. Can you have them followed?” Taft whispered.

“Affirmative. I’ll get someone on it right away,” Martinez answered.

Taft placed the radio back in his pocket and sat back on a pile of nets. After a short wait he noticed a bus heading down the hill trailing diesel smoke. The seamen lifted their duffel bags in anticipation and shuffled from foot to foot. Taft walked from behind the nets and started down the sidewalk below the bus stop. He continued down the hill with his back to the bus, listening carefully.

Hearing the bus slow then stop, Taft waited until the sound of the engine grew louder. When he sensed the bus was just behind him, he turned to read the bus destination tag on the sign above the driver then turned back quickly. The glance was too short for anyone to identify him but long enough for him to read the sign on the bus. It read: Airport/Center. As soon as the bus was out of sight, he raced back to the pier.

“The front of the bus said Airport/Center,” Taft said to Martinez.

“I have a couple of Boston policemen following in an unmarked car,” Martinez said. He looked at Taft with anticipation.

“Shall we get this show on the road?”

“Sounds about right,” Taft said as he led the way to Martinez’s rental car.

From the trunk of the car, Taft removed a shoulder holster containing a laser-sighted 9 mm Browning and strapped it across his chest. Reaching into a duffel bag, he removed, then zipped up a lightweight bulletproof jacket and grabbed one out of the trunk for Martinez.

“Body armor. How thoughtful of you.”

Martinez zipped up the jacket without a word. A dramatic change had come over both men. The intrigue of the chase now past, it was time for the dirty work. The two stood for a few minutes in silence.

Martinez quietly looked over at Taft; his eyes seemed to be burning with a low-intensity glow. Waves of heat were flowing from his body as if his mental and physical functions were supercharged.

“Show time,” Taft said.

Racing down the dock followed by Martinez, they came to the Deep Search tied fast to the pier.

“Move fast … don’t get hurt … here we go,” Taft said.

In a single leap he jumped the short distance from the dock to the deck of the Deep Search then shot a hole in the lock on the main cabin door with his pistol. Twisting the broken pieces, he tossed them to the side and opened the door.

Followed closely behind by Martinez, Taft ran up a passageway through the ship. The pair entered the wheelhouse first. Finding it empty, Taft silently signaled for Martinez to follow. Moving cautiously, still expecting to be confronted, the men climbed down a ladder and entered the recovery bay.

Suddenly in the hold there was a loud creaking sound that made both men jump. Taft headed for the bulkhead, which the blueprints had shown housed the light switches. He flicked the breakers on. The bay was instantly illuminated by the bright fluorescent lighting.

And then, frozen in place, both men stared at the center of the recovery bay in stunned silence.

Slung from the ceiling was a sailboat minus its stern. It was dripping water into a small puddle on the deck. As the harbor waves rocked the Deep Search in its slip, so it did the sailboat riding in the sling like a joey in a kangaroo’s pouch.

“The Windforce,” Martinez said finally.

“I’d have to agree,” Taft said quietly.

Taft and Martinez began to search the recovery bay. They immediately found the skeletal remains of Ivar Halversen stacked like cordwood in a corner. The pile was three feet long and crowned with his skull. The bizarre sight brought a shiver to both men’s spines.

“The report said Windforce sank on its way to be scrapped. Those bones must belong to the captain hired to deliver her,” Martinez said.

“The rear quarter is caved in,” Taft noted. “I doubt she sank in a storm.”

Taft walked to the winch and began to lower the sailboat. When the Windforce dropped to a level at which he could enter, he slammed the lever to stop the winches. Entering the sailboat by leaping over the side, he immediately noticed the spot where the interior planks had been removed and carelessly tossed into a pile on the berth.

It looked as though the searchers had tried several spots before finding what they were looking for. The entire cabin of Einstein’s former sailboat was a mess. Taft dug through the boards but could not find anything remotely tied to the theory. Climbing over the side of the Windforce, he yelled to Martinez, who was searching through the pile of Halversen’s bones for any clues.

“Can you call us in some help? We’ll need to search this ship from stem to stern.”

Martinez began dialing his cellular phone.

“And find out where in the hell the seamen are who left on the bus earlier,” Taft said as he climbed back inside the Windforce to continue searching.

Holtz looked down the airport terminal from the gate for his two missing crew members; the rest of the team from the Deep Search were already aboard.

“Here they come, here they come,” he yelled to the flight attendant, who was closing the door leading to the boarding ramp.

She stopped as the pair ran toward her carrying duffel bags.

“Just about missed it,” the flight attendant said grumpily. “I need your boarding passes. You should seat yourselves immediately. The planes ready to take off.”

Holtz, followed by the tardy seamen, stepped aboard the plane.

The pair of Boston policemen assigned to follow the sailors were detained at the terminal security checkpoint because of their service handguns. Once cleared, they sprinted toward the gate.

The plane carrying the crew of the Deep Search rolled from the gate, then immediately lined up for takeoff.

The portable radio clipped to one of the policemen’s belts went off just as they arrived at the now empty gate. “At the airport,” one of the cops said into the radio. “They just got on a plane.” He glanced at the sign. “Looks like Nova Scotia. What? You never ordered us to detain them. We were only ordered to follow them,” the officer said, rolling his eyes at his partner. “Okay, we’ll see if they can call the flight back,” the officer replied.

Replacing the radio on his belt he looked at his partner seriously. “I think we’re in trouble,” he said accurately.

As the two Boston police officers ran toward the airline office, the pilot of the Nova Scotia-bound plane, now airborne, adjusted the planes control surfaces for the last turn over Deer Island and out to sea. Completing the turn, the plane began climbing. As it passed over open water outside the bay, a sensitive liquid altitude sensor in the bomb that had been placed in the nose of the plane reached its critical level.

It triggered the fuse.

With a deafening explosion and a huge ball of fire, the front of the plane was blown off. The pilot shot out the opening, still strapped in his seat. Unfortunately, he was speared through his chest like a shish kebab with a piece of wreckage and had died instantly. Debris from the blast in the nose flew back along the length of the plane, ripping off what remained of the left wing. The plane opened up like a peeled banana.

The aircraft, or, more correctly, what was left of the fuselage, went spinning into the sea with a fiery splash of metal and fire. It began to sink almost at once.

No one on board the plane complained about the rough landing. They were all dead.

Like a model airplane blown apart by a firecracker the wreckage plunged through the water and spread out across the ocean floor.

Taft and Martinez stood on the upper deck of the Deep Search. As the explosion ripped apart the commuter plane, they turned toward the noise and witnessed the explosion of flames in the air. At almost exactly the same time at Logan Airport the two Boston police officers burst into the airport office.

“We need some help here,” the policemen shouted at several clerks who were staring out the window.

“It’ll be a while,” one of the clerks shouted back without turning. “Our flight to Nova Scotia just went down.”

“Shit!” the policemen said simultaneously.

When the police at the airport radioed Martinez that the seamen from the Deep Search were aboard the plane that had crashed, he immediately phoned the Coast Guard station at Boston Harbor.

“They see an oil slick on the surface, that’s about all,” he said to Taft after receiving the Coast Guard report. “They have a ship stationed at the crash site and report the depth of the water is under one hundred feet. Why don’t I request the navy send down divers to probe the wreckage.”

“Go ahead. Have them do a complete and thorough search of the wreckage,” Taft said. “I don’t want us to be wondering later.”

Taft and Martinez continued with the search of the Deep Search for the next few hours. The search was methodical and diligent but nothing that could be tied to Albert Einstein was found.

Fatigued and feeling dejected, Taft and Martinez checked into the Four Seasons Hotel around ten that night. Though they were covered in grease and slime from searching the Deep Search, the front desk clerk handled their reservation request professionally.