The Einstein Papers (31 page)

“It will take a couple of hours to move the cutter into position,” Wright explained. “I’ll call you back when she’s in place.”

Benson reached for the phone. “Have three agents drive to Point Lookout and set up surveillance on a ship in the Potomac named the Carondelet,” Benson said to the deputy chief of operations. “I’m going to fax you pictures of the vessel now.”

“You want a secure phone link to the observation team?” the deputy asked.

“Yes, and have them report to me every fifteen minutes,” Benson said.

On the lee side of the Carondelet, a canvas awning was stretched from the superstructure to an outboard-powered tender in the water ten feet away. Now safe from prying eyes, the Chinese mini-sub was lowered into the water by crane. The crew manning the mini-sub squeezed into the small opening at the top of the vessel. Once safely on board, the submarine pilot ran through a quick systems check. Finding all the systems functioning properly, he lowered the hatch, locked it in place, and began the slow journey upriver to extract Tsing.

Slipping through the water at a speed barely above that of a walking man, the submarine fought its way against a stiff current. Peering from a glass bubble in the bow of the submarine, Chief Pilot Ho Pei saw little of interest. The water in the Potomac was murky. Once, shortly after they left the Carondelet, the current had slammed a turtle against the glass dome. And just as quickly, the current swept the reptile away. The small submarine lacked advanced navigation aids, and the route to Tsing had been plotted into a handheld GPS unit. The information as to their location was relayed to Pei by his navigator.

“Way point,” the navigator said in Chinese, stirring Pei from his daydream.

Pei glanced at the sheet taped to the wall of the submarine. Checking his compass with great care, he steered another course heading.

The interior of the submarine was cramped. Pei sat upright in a small bucket seat, watching the water pass outside the glass bubble. Behind him, where the body of the submarine widened, were two seats facing to the rear. One held his navigator. The other one was for Tsing. Like a lumbering tortoise trying to find home, the tiny submarine continued upriver.

The setting sun painted the sky a fiery red as the crew of the Carondelet settled in to wait for the submarine s return. They had no idea they were being watched from shore.

They had no idea a noose was being closed around the neck of the river.

As the Chinese mini-sub was making the journey up the Potomac River, Dick Allbright, Sandra Miles, and Chuck Smoot sat in chairs across from General Benson’s desk. Allbright was briefing Benson.

“I just received this report, General, and thought you should hear it immediately. Yesterday Agent Miles was dispatched to the Rio Grande Valley in Texas. She was investigating the theft of a vat of oil-eating microbes from a laboratory,” Allbright said. ‘Through a roundabout series of circumstances, she believes she has uncovered evidence that indicates the theft of the microbes was a contract job paid for by someone of Chinese nationality. Once she explained her findings, I suspected it might be tied to the Einstein case. I thought it best you hear about it right now.”

“What led you to the conclusion the microbes were stolen by the Chinese, Agent Miles?” Benson asked.

“My evidence is spotty, I admit, sir. It comes from one of the burglars, who is an admitted drug user. He identified the man that hired him as Chinese from the type of cigarettes the man smoked.”

Benson smiled. “I guess it does pay to quit smoking,” he said and leaned forward. “What do you make of all this, Dick?”

“It ties in nicely with the trouble in the Middle East, sir. The Saudis are keeping a close rein on information about their troubles. However, a few hours ago the NSA intercepted radio transmissions from an oil-field worker to his superiors that seems to support the hypothesis that one of their fields was poisoned by a man-made biological.”

“So this entire mess, the Einstein situation as well as the Middle East, could be all tied together,” Benson said.

“You could make that argument, sir,” Allbright said.

“I need some theories as to why the Chinese might want to poison the Saudis oil-who stands to gain, strategic impacts, that kind of stuff.”

“I’ll get some people on it right away,” Allbright said.

Benson looked over at Miles and Smoot. “Agent Miles, I want you and Agent Smoot to investigate the bombings that are occurring in Israel. I’ll call right now and have one of our jets made ready. I want you to leave for the Middle East immediately. If the bombings in Israel are being caused by the Chinese, maybe we can stop this war before it begins.”

The trio rose to leave. “Work fast, you three. I have to brief the president tomorrow morning,” Benson said as they left.

Taft parked the NIA sedan just outside the newly constructed monitoring station near the town of Potomac Beach, Maryland. He looked over at his partner. “What’s the purpose of scheduling the test after sunset?”

“To demonstrate the ‘above-surface night capability’” Martinez said, reading from the report.

“Splendid,” Taft said as he climbed out of the car.

Martinez closed the folder and joined Taft alongside the sedan.

Walking toward the construction trailer, Taft and Martinez noticed new landscaping that had been installed since their last visit. The freshly planted trees and shrubs hid the site from the road. Martinez was about to knock on the door of the trailer when a voice boomed from inside: “Come on in.”

The sensors we placed underneath the road picked up your car and activated a remote camera,” the contractor said proudly. “I watched you drive into the compound.” He reached for a pair of hard hats and handed them to the pair. “You are Agents Taft and Martinez, if I remember correctly.”

“That’s correct. You have a good memory,” Martinez said, smiling.

The contractor motioned to the door of the trailer. “Our technicians are already starting the system for the test. We can go and watch.”

The three men walked across the dirt parking lot and stopped at the monitoring station. The contractor punched in a code on a key pad to release the door, then swung it open.

The inside of the building was dimly lit and the smell of fresh concrete still hung in the air. To the side, mounted on the wall, one of the three floor-to-ceiling, high-resolution screens was already lit. The screen was displaying a green-colored three-dimensional image of the Potomac River. The contractor walked over to a technician who was typing on a computer keyboard.

“How goes it?” he asked the technician.

“Not great,” the man admitted. ‘The software controlling screens two and three has a glitch. We’re running a systems check now.”

“These are the NIA inspectors,” the contractor said, indicating Taft and Martinez. “How long until we’re operational and can demonstrate the system?”

“No idea,” the technician said, returning to his work.

The contractor smiled wanly at the two agents. “Would you care to wait in the trailer? There’s a television you could watch.”

Taft looked at Martinez and nodded. Both men began to walk for the exit.

“I’ll come and get you when we’re operational,” the contractor shouted as they exited the building.

It would be close to 9 p.m. before the system was working properly.

At about the same time, at NIA headquarters, General Benson telephoned his wife to explain that he would be late and that she shouldn’t wait up for him. Then he phoned down for a dinner from the NIA cafeteria. He was reading the latest reports from the Middle East when the orderly from the cafeteria delivered the meal. Benson signed the bill, tucking a five-dollar bill underneath for the orderly, then removed the stainless-steel cover from the largest plate.

A slab of chicken fried steak covered in a white sausage gravy took up over half the plate. The remaining area on the plate was piled with mashed potatoes ladled with more of the gravy. Removing the cover from another plate, Benson found green beans. The last plate held a slice of pecan pie for dessert. A container of iced tea rounded out the order. After liberally covering the meat and potatoes with salt and pepper, Benson began to eat.

His meal was interrupted with several telephone calls.

The NIA agents in position near the Carondelet began to phone in to Benson at fifteen-minute intervals. Their reports said the vessel remained anchored in the Potomac River with no sign of movement on deck. Dick Allbright telephoned from his office and explained to Benson the progress they were making in the Middle East. After completing his report, he asked Benson, “How late will you be working tonight?”

“Late,” Benson replied. “How about you?”

“Late. I’ve got that weird feeling like something is going to break soon,” Allbright noted.

“Me too,” Benson said. “It’s about time for something to happen.”

As he spoke those words Benson had no way of knowing that the Carondelet was the solution to their problems. The ship seemed but one small piece in a larger puzzle.

“If nothing happens by midnight,” Benson said to Allbright, I’m ordering the Coast Guard to board and seize the ship.”

“Do you think the papers are already on board?”

“Maybe, or they soon will be,” Benson said. “And this time I want them recovered.”

The Chinese Kong mini-sub was powered by quiet electric motors that spun a shaft that ran to the stern. The motors made the submarine’s operation almost silent, but they offered little in the way of power to the single propeller. Still fighting the river current, the submarine droned on toward its rendezvous. Inside the mini-sub the humidity was already rising, and droplets of moisture fell from the roof of the vessel like a gentle rain. The air inside the cigar-shaped vessel was turning stale, the smell of fear and uncertainty combined with sweat and body odors.

Behind the glass-enclosed bubble, Pilot Ho Pei struggled to keep the submarine on a compass heading. He rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand. He would be glad when this was over and he was safely back in China.

Tsing nervously scanned the Potomac River, then checked his flashlight to make sure it was still working. His extraction was scheduled for 10 p.m. He was glad tonight was the night-he had the nagging suspicion his good luck was running out. Twice already he had nearly been captured. It was time to leave the United States for good. The constant stress of hiding from his pursuers was taking its toll.

Glancing down at his left hand, he saw it was trembling slightly. Pouring the plastic cup of coffee onto the ground he tossed the thermos and cup into the bushes. Soon, once he was aboard the ship, he could sleep. He glanced at his watch again and stared downriver.

Minutes seemed like hours.

In the construction trailer near Potomac Beach, John Taft was rapidly growing bored.

“This show is just plain stupid,” Taft said. “How do a coffee shop waitress and an unemployed chef manage to cover the rent on a high-rise apartment in New York?”

“Quit being pissy, it’s just a sitcom,” Martinez said.

“We should both be home right now,” Taft said. “You with your wife, me with somebody warm and cuddly.”

“What happened to the last lady you were dating?” Martinez asked.

“The one who looked like Teri Garr?”

“Yeah, that one,” said Martinez.

“She got transferred to Salt Lake City.” Just at that instant the perpetually optimistic contractor yanked open the door of the trailer. “The system’s up and running,” he said enthusiastically.

Taft and Martinez rose from the old couch in the trailer. Walking across the parking lot, the three men entered the building. All three of the screens were now lit. The contractor pointed to the screens and began his spiel.

“This screen on the left displays the river from the Capitol in D.C. one-third of the way downstream. The middle screen continues from there to about where we are. The last screen is the water from here to the border between Maryland and Virginia, out in the Chesapeake Bay.”

“Can you operate both above and below water at the same time?” Martinez asked.

“Yes, we just reduce the image and split the screens in two.” The contractor gestured to one of the technicians sitting at a keyboard, who punched in commands. The screen split.

Taft wanted to get the demonstration over as quickly as possible. He walked over to the middle screen and pointed to a blip. “What’s this object?”

“That’s the great thing about our system,” the contractor noted. “It’s programmed with the dimensions and characteristics of both man-made and natural marine objects. A storage file in the computer lists boats, whales, whatever. In fact, if there is a personal watercraft out there, for example, we could probably tell you the make and engine size by motor noise and dimensions.” The contractor turned to the technician. “Zoom in on the target Agent Taft is pointing to.”

The technician punched in the commands. Off to one side, a window opened and the make and engine characteristics of the object were displayed.

The three men stared at the screen. “That comes up as a Chinese Kong 16 mini-submarine, powered by electric motors,” the contractor said in astonishment.

“Are you sure this thing is working?” Martinez asked.

“System report is normal,” the technician said.

“Son of a bitch,” Taft muttered. “That little bastard didn’t get away after all.”

Taft and Martinez sprinted across the parking lot to their sedan. Taft started the engine, revved it up, and dropped it into gear. The tires broke loose from the asphalt as he raced from the parking lot. With his free hand Taft reached for his cellular phone. He glanced at the clock on the dashboard and decided to try General Benson at home.

“He’s at the office,” Mrs. Benson said to Taft.

Taft speed-dialed the number for Benson’s office.

“Benson.”

“This is John Taft, sir. Martinez and I are at the demonstration in Potomac Beach. Is there anything new to report on the Einstein papers?”