America (10 page)

Five minutes later the doorbell rang. Carmellini checked the peephole, then unlocked the door and admitted the two men who were standing there.

“How much did she have?”

“Half a glass.”

The man's name was Joe May. He opened a valise, removed a hypodermic needle, drew twenty cc's from a bottle, then went into the bedroom. In half a minute he was back. He checked his watch. “Five minutes,” he said. “Then she'll be deeply under. She won't remember a thing.”

The other man was named Fernando. No other name that Carmellini had ever heard. Just Fernando. “When we're done, you can have her, big guy,” he said with a sneer. “She'll sleep for hours and won't remember a thing. This is your chance.”

“Did your mother ever tell you that you are a foul little asshole?”

Fernando chuckled and began unpacking the two cases made out of aircraft-grade aluminum that he had carried in.

As Fernando and Joe May set up the equipment in the bedroom, Fernando peeled back the sheet to look over the merchandise.

Carmellini's hand shot out. He wrapped his fist around Fernando's wrist and squeezed.

“Jesus, you son of a bitch, you're going to break my wrist.” Fernando went to his knees as Carmellini forced his elbow down.

“Come on, Tommy,” Joe May said as he worked with the electrical cords. “He's an asshole. Let it go at that.”

Carmellini covered up Houston as Fernando massaged his wrist. “You almost broke my wrist,” he said in amazement.

“Shut up and help,” May told him.

Working carefully and as quickly as he dared, May took impressions of all ten of Sarah Houston's fingers in a soft clay. Two of the fingers he did twice. Only after he examined every impression with a magnifying glass did he let Fernando pack them away.

They rigged a tripod with an arm that extended out at a right angle. On the arm Joe May attached a sophisticated camera and two bright lights.

Carmellini watched as Joe May meticulously measured the distance from the camera's lens to Houston's right eye, which Fernando was holding open. After a series of photographs of both eyes had been taken, the first camera was removed from the arm and another camera, one with a much different lens, was attached. This camera was lowered to within a half inch of Houston's right eye. May took another series of photographs, then rearranged the camera over Houston's left eye and shot another series.

Finally May snapped the lights off and took down the camera and tripod and repacked them in their cases. “We've got it,” he told Carmellini, who had been in the kitchen going through the contents of Houston's purse. “Let her sleep. She'll come out of it in about five hours, won't remember a thing.”

“You're sure?”

“Positive.”

“This is your chance,” Fernando muttered at Tommy, who ignored him.

Five minutes later the two men were gone. Carmellini turned on the lights, checked the apartment to ensure that all traces of the two had been eliminated, then went back to the kitchen table and studied the contents of Houston's purse one more time.

In her wallet she had British and American currency, a couple of hundred-dollar traveler's checks, credit cards, a California driver's license, and eleven business cards from people all over Europe, ten of whom were men. A checkbook: she had a balance of 1,744 pounds … maybe, since it didn't appear that she ever bothered to reconcile the account. Let's see, nope, no checks for outrageous amounts. The usual feminine hygiene and cosmetic items. Seven photos, mostly of women, two of Houston with men. Carmellini didn't recognize either of them. Two ATM cards, both in paper envelopes with her secret PIN numbers written on the envelopes in ink. Bits of paper torn from an appointment book bearing telephone numbers and addresses. A small address book filled with women's names—first names only, most of them—addresses, telephone numbers, some E-mail addresses. A few stray keys, a button, an unwrapped piece of hard candy that was partially stuck to the bottom of the purse, and two paper clips. He sighed and carefully repacked all this stuff in her purse.

Finally he turned off the lights in the apartment and crawled into bed beside Houston. She was breathing deeply, totally relaxed.

“Sorry, kid,” he told her. “With you it would have been good.”

He fluffed her pillow and made her as comfortable as he could. He kissed her once, then stretched out and tried to go to sleep himself.

*   *   *

It was after midnight on Sunday morning when the Pentagon helicopter dropped Jake at the hospital helo pad in Delaware where it had picked him up. Callie was waiting in the car.

Jake kissed her, thanked her for coming.

“We spent the day watching television,” Callie said. “If Ilin knew about the hijacking before it happened, I didn't get a hint of it. He looked as stunned as Toad. And probably me.”

Jake grunted. He had expected no less.

“Have they found the sub yet?” Callie asked.

“No.”

“Why did they want you in Washington?”

“I'm supposed to help look for the thing.”

“People are frightened, Jake. I've never seen professional newspeople panic like they have today. That congresswoman, Samantha Strader, has been all over the news, demanding that all American submarines be recalled to port and kept there until the American people are satisfied with the navy's security measures. Other people want to permanently retire all the submarines.”

“We deserve it, I guess,” Jake said. He couldn't ever remember being so ashamed of his service.

Reading his mood, Callie said, “You missed a good steak.”

“Yeah.”

A talk show was on the radio. People were venting about the submarine hijacking. Jake turned the radio off. The streetlights illuminated cars, people out for ice cream, dog owners with their pets on leashes. Lovers walked hand in hand in the shadows, unwilling to give up the September evening.

“It all looks so normal,” Callie said.

“Yes,” Jake said, watching the people. “For how long?”

When they got out of the car in front of the house he could hear the surf hitting the beach. He took her hand and led her along the street to the boardwalk across the dune. The wind was off the dark sea. As the surf broke, the foam of the breakers was just visible. A few stars enlivened the dark sky. Holding Callie's hand, Jake breathed deeply of the cool salt wind.

The sub was out there somewhere, in that vast sea.

Well, the men who stole it wouldn't remain hidden long. Stalnaker said the White House thought the sub would go to some third-world country, perhaps be used to threaten a neighbor. All of which was ridiculous, of course. The politicians didn't want to face up to the reality of the disaster. They should have ordered the
Jones
to sink the sub when the destroyer had the sub under its guns.

Jake half turned, glanced toward the beach house. The Russian, Ilin, was there. Were the Russians behind the theft? Ilin was a spook—did he know about this?

Callie held him tightly as the wind played with her hair.

He wrapped his arms around her.

CHAPTER FOUR

Kolnikov and Turchak were poring over the cruise-missile universal target databases in the computer when Rothberg finally yawned and asked permission to find a bunk to sleep in. Kolnikov nodded his assent. Boldt went with him. For the first time since they seized
America,
the two Russians were alone.

“While they sleep, we must collect all the weapons,” Kolnikov whispered.

“But the boat! Who will watch it?”

“We will leave it on autopilot.”

Turchak's eyes widened. With no one to monitor the performance of the computers that formed the autopilot, there was no safety margin whatsoever. “Oh, man. Why don't we just shoot ourselves now and get it over with? This really is Russian roulette.”

“We must get the guns.”

“We may have to kill Heydrich.”

Kolnikov grunted.

“You and I could run the boat,” Turchak admitted. “The automation is quite extraordinary. We could not respond quickly to anything, and there would be no safety margin—none—which makes my flesh crawl. The first casualty, the first equipment failure, and we will be dead men. With people on watch in the reactor and engine room, we have a little breathing room. Someone on the sonar will help enormously. We will need all the people we have if we need to reload a torpedo tube. Still, we know so little. A tiny fire, an electrical problem … we'll be dead.”

“That is the risk we agreed to take,” Kolnikov insisted.

“Talking about risks on dry land is not the same as living them.”

They stood looking at the displays. Finally Kolnikov shook his head. “There is no way to undo what we have done. We must go forward.”

“I know. I know! All of this frightens me—that is the honest truth. I wish—”

Turchak left the thought hanging. After a bit he asked, “What are we going to do with the guns?”

“Jettisoning them through an empty torpedo tube would be best. I don't want them aboard.”

Kolnikov checked the navigation display. The boat was five hundred feet deep, running southeast at four knots. Except for the grunting of some distant whales, the sea was silent, empty in all directions, surface and subsurface. A few minutes ago there had been the telltale signature of noise from an airplane passing overhead, a jet running high. It was gone now.

Kolnikov pulled the pistol from his belt, checked that the safety was on, and went forward.

Pistols and rifles were strewn carelessly near the sleeping men. The two Russian officers picked up every firearm they saw. One man was sleeping with his pistol belt and holster still wrapped around his waist, so Kolnikov put his pistol against the man's forehead and waited for him to awaken. In seconds his eyes came open. Kolnikov undid the buckle and pulled the belt from under the man.

They had an armful of guns by the time they reached the torpedo room. All four of the tubes were empty. They put the guns in number one, then proceeded to the engine room in the aft end of the boat. Three men were awake there, checking lubrication levels and monitoring the turbines. Kolnikov held a pistol on them while Turchak took their weapons and carried them forward. Kolnikov followed.

When they had the tube closed for the second time, Turchak asked, “Where's Heydrich?”

“I don't know. He must have been in one of the heads when we went by.” Or in the aux machinery room, cold storage …

“And Steinhoff?”

“I don't know.”

“Someone may have told them we are confiscating the weapons.”

Kolnikov and Turchak gripped their pistols tightly as they approached the door of the control room.

The two Germans were there, examining the control panels.

Steinhoff turned, saw that the Russians had pistols out, and immediately decided to jerk his automatic from its holster.

Kolnikov shot him once. Steinhoff sagged to the deck and lay there moaning.

Heydrich stood frozen with his back to Kolnikov, his hands half raised.

“May I turn around?”

“Not yet.”

Turchak inched forward, pulled the pistol from Heydrich's holster, and patted him down for more weapons. He also had a pistol in his pocket, which Turchak transferred to his own pocket.

Turchak put the guns in the torpedo tube while Kolnikov sat in the control room with his pistol pointed at Heydrich and Steinhoff moaned softly and writhed on the deck. Heydrich made no move to examine the man, see how badly he was hurt.

When the guns had been flushed from the tube into the sea, Kolnikov remarked, “Take your friend to berthing and put a bandage on him.” He pocketed the pistol.

Heydrich jerked Steinhoff off the deck and slung him over his shoulder, oblivious of his wound.

“The game isn't over, Kolnikov.”

“Get your head out of your ass,” the Russian shot back. “This is no game. You can't run this boat without me, but I can certainly run it without you. As far as I'm concerned, you're expendable ballast. At the first sign of disobedience I'll shoot you as quick as I shot Steinhoff.”

“You know, I believe you would.”

When they were alone, Turchak said, “You should have killed him, gotten it over with.”

Vladimir Kolnikov rubbed his face. “We must take split watches, you and I. One man will run the boat while the other sleeps.”

*   *   *

When Jake Grafton descended the stairs in the beach house Sunday morning, Toad Tarkington and Janos Ilin were drinking coffee at the window nook while Callie cooked eggs. She had the television in the corner tuned to CNN. Jake kissed her, dropped into a chair at the table.

“You two look chipper this morning,” Jake remarked to the men, both of whom looked slightly rumpled. “Sun and sand seem to agree with you.”

Toad eyed the admiral suspiciously as he sipped his coffee.

“We spent yesterday in front of the television,” Janos Ilin said, “until we couldn't stand it anymore.” He felt his pockets, probably feeling for his cigarettes. He had picked up the fact that Americans didn't smoke indoors.

The Sunday paper lay on the table. The headline screamed, “Sub Stolen.” Under it was a photo of the hijackers entering the submarine taken from the television video. To the right was a smaller shot of Kolnikov shooting at the helicopter.

The admiral helped himself to the coffee and cream. He was sipping it when the telephone rang. He picked it up.

“I'm a reporter with—” the voice began. Jake put the telephone back on the cradle.

“So who did it?” Toad demanded.

“Some Russian and German ex-submariners.” Jake didn't mention the CIA.

“Wow!”

“Quite amazing,” Ilin said. “How in the world could they have learned enough about the submarine—
America?
—to take it to sea? Aren't submarines extremely complicated?”