Silent Thunder

SIX

It was over two hours later, when Hannah saw a familiar silhouette outlined against the flashing lights of the fire engines and paramedic units parked on what was left of the gas station parking lot.

Bradworth.

"Did you hop on a jet to come to my rescue?" she asked bitterly.

"I'd never do that, Hannah. I'm a public official." He shrugged. "I hopped on a helicopter."

"Good one. Who says bureaucrats don't have a sense of humor."

"I have two ex-wives who might say that."

"Would they also say your timing sucks? Some rescue."

"I told you that I didn't want you driving by yourself."

"Because you knew this horror wasn't over. You knew they didn't get everything they wanted."

"There was a chance."

"A damn good chance. They didn't want to kill me. They tried to kidnap me. That means they thought I could give them something they wanted."

"That's reasonable," he said.

"Ever cautious. God, I'm sick of you," she said wearily. "That old man who owns this station was shot and his station destroyed just because I drove in here. He didn't have anything to do with this."

"How is he?"

"They took him to the hospital about an hour ago. The paramedics said he'd be okay." She gazed at the ruin of the station. "I'm not so sure. He told me he opened this station when he came home from fighting World War II. It's been his whole life for over fifty years. Then in the flicker of an eyelash, it's gone."

"Insurance?"

"Yes, but that won't replace the emotional attachment."

"He'll survive. It's probably better he retire anyway." Bradworth changed the subject. "I've been in touch with the local police department, so I'm pretty much up to speed on things. Did the officers here tell you that the SUV's license plates were stolen?"

"No."

"They are. And it appears that the registration numbers have been removed. I'm having it towed to the FBI garage in Boston so they can give it the once-over. You didn't recognize either man?"

"No."

"Then we have to assume that your memory may be your biggest liability right now. Maybe they think you've seen other plates like those on the sub that they might not have been able to carry away. Or maybe they want to be the only ones who have that information on the plates. Are you sure there isn't anything more you can tell us about what you saw on the sub?"

Her fingernails dug into her palms as her fists clenched. "Dammit, there's nothing more to tell. There's no way I can remember anything about those plates. It's just a blank. All I can see is Conner lying there, dead."

He shrugged. "Just checking. It might be a good idea if I had a couple agents assigned to you for the next few weeks. For your protection."

"I guess you thought this would be a good idea, too." She pulled out the device she'd found in Conner's car vent.

"What's that?"

"Don't play stupid with me, Bradworth. This thing's government issue all the way. I saw one in Turkey a couple years ago. The U.S. Navy brought me in to recommend modifications to the Turkish submarine fleet, and our hosts were most upset to find one of these in their transports. They determined U.S. Military Intelligence had planted it."

"It doesn't mean I had anything to do with planting this bug."

"You were the only one who knew I was driving Conner's van back." Her eyes narrowed on his face. "But were those men using it to track me? Were you working with them?"

"Christ, no, Hannah. Okay, I did put it in the van. For your protection."

"Yeah, sure."

"It was sending pulses to a GPS satellite. I was worried and wanted to keep tabs on you."

"So you could set me up again."

"Let me take you back to town. We can talk and-"

"I already have a ride. One of the officers will take me back to his precinct. I have a rental car waiting for me there." She got to her feet. "I only want two things from you, Bradworth. One, I don't want Cathy to hear about this. She has enough to worry about. Two, you smooth the way with those insurance people who are going to be cross-examining Larry Simpson. I don't want him suffering any more than he has to because he was unlucky enough to have me stop at his station."

"I'll do my best."

"Do more than your best," she said fiercely. "I'm sick of innocent people getting the shaft because they got in the way of you and your friends' little games."

"I don't regard it as a game. I'm doing my job and-"

"I'm through talking to you. You're either pitifully inefficient or you're crooked as hell." She strode toward the police car. "I'm leaning toward the latter. Just stay away from me, Bradworth."

Hannah Bryson is damn lucky," Kirov said curtly. "Yeah, you were handling it. Why weren't you there when she needed you?"

"I don't have to answer to you."

"The hell you don't."

"And we don't even know that it was Pavski. It could be a new player in the game."

"No, it's Pavski."

"How are you so sure?"

"The attention to detail. The stolen plates, the erased registration numbers. He's always been good at covering his tracks. Do you know what they tried to knock her out with?"

"Not yet. I assumed it was chloroform."

"It wasn't. Pavski has always been partial to midazolam. It works faster and leaves the victim with less of a headache later."

"Considerate guy."

"If he wants information, he'd need her to have a clear head. Midazolam." He paused. "And if he made a move on her, then he doesn't have everything he needs. I'm betting he's still hovering near Silent Thunder."

"We need him alive, Kirov."

"So you've told me."

"We need information. Once we get that, what you do is your own business. Do we have an understanding?"

"Oh, I've always understood you and your 'superiors.' You're the ones who've failed to read me."

"But you'll keep your word?"

"As long as I don't see signs of a double cross. But make no mistake, Bradworth. If, after you have him in custody, you cut Pavski a deal, all bets are off."

"And?"

"I'll still find him and finish him off." He added, "And anyone else who stands in my way. It might be wise to remember that, Bradworth."

Sorry to keep you waiting out in the hall." Congressman George Preston sat behind his mahogany desk and smiled at Hannah and Cathy. "My assistant needed to take her daughter to the doctor, so it's just me here until after lunch. What can I do for you?"

"I appreciate your agreeing to see us. I know you're busy when you come home to Boston," Hannah said. "I promise we won't take much of your time."

"My pleasure." Preston's smile faded. "No, my duty. Cathy has always been my friend as well as my employee, and I have to find a way to help her… and you."

"Thank you." Hannah felt a surge of warmth. She had liked Preston the few times she'd met him. He'd gotten his start in politics over two decades before, when, as a high-school civics teacher, he ran for a seat in the U.S. House of Representatives merely as a lesson for his students. The local media picked up the story, his support snowballed, and he eventually won the race by a narrow margin. Hannah glanced at the framed newspaper on his wall, with the headline MR. PRESTON GOES TO WASHINGTON. It said something about him that he identified with that Frank Capra classic.

"Again, I can't tell you how sorry I am about Conner. He was a good man."

"He was an extraordinary man," Cathy said quietly. "Thank you, George."

Preston glanced at Hannah. "When Cathy first called asking for information about the Silent Thunder, I didn't know you were involved with the project. I suppose I should have guessed. You and Conner were so close. Anyway, here it is." Preston gestured toward the two large file boxes stacked next to his desk. "Most of this is stuff from the media clipping services. We use them to gauge media reaction to various people or issues, and they compile just about everything said or written about a subject in a designated time span. I doubt there's anything there you don't already know."

"Are there photographs?" Hannah asked.

"Photographs, videos, maybe even compact discs of a news radio story or two."

"This must have been expensive," Cathy said.

"I'm on a committee that has a contract with this particular clipping service. We're not using them for much else right now, so at least this way they earn the money we're already paying them. After you're finished, I'll give all of this material to the maritime museum. I'm sure they'd like to have it for their archives."

Cathy stood up and picked up one of the boxes. "Thank you. We'll take good care of these."

"I know you will." He hesitated. "And you know I'll continue to help you as much as I can." He added gently, "But don't you believe that others are more qualified and working hard to find Conner's murderers?"

Hannah didn't answer directly as she rose and picked up the other box. "We just want to make sure all the bases are covered."

"What makes you think they aren't?"

Cathy said quickly, "This is for me, George. I need to do something. Can you understand?"

"Of course. I just want you to be careful. Ronnie and Donna need you now."

"I know." She tried to smile as she turned to leave. "And God knows, I need them."

Hannah Bryson and her brother's widow just left Congressman Preston's office," Koppel hung up his phone. "Trouble?"

"I'm sure she's trying to stir up as much trouble as she can," Pavski said. "And probably snooping." He frowned. "Keep the surveillance sharp on her and Cathy Bryson." He sat back in his chair. "This wouldn't have been necessary if your so-called experts hadn't fumbled."

"They were experts," Koppel protested. "Something must have gone wrong."

"They fumbled," Pavski repeated coldly. "That's what went wrong. Now we have to find another way. Contact Carwell and have him check his go-to list. I need a wedge to get under Bryson's guard. Have you transmitted my message to Danzyl in Moscow?"

Koppel nodded. "He's working on it. He'll get it to you soon."

"Soon isn't good enough. I need it now." Keep calm. This trouble with Hannah Bryson was only a small glitch in the scheme of things. Danzyl would give him what he needed, and he could start doing the research to bring him what he wanted. He had several strings to his bow, and one arrow would strike home.

An hour after they left the congressman's office, Hannah and Cathy were walking around Hannah's Back Bay condominium, which had recently become a veritable bulletin board. Every inch of wall space was covered by hundreds of photocopied newspaper and magazine stories, photographs and broadcast transcriptions. A stack of DVDs rested on top of Hannah's television set, which displayed a marathon of television news reports relating to the Silent Thunder's arrival in the U.S.

"These pinholes are going to wreak havoc with your resale value," Cathy said.

Hannah shrugged. "The damage has already been done. I've spent too many nights pacing around here with blueprints for my new submarine designs tacked across every wall, window, and appliance. You wouldn't believe the inspiration that can come while scribbling on a shower door."

"I'll take your word for it." Cathy surveyed the newspaper accounts. "You're featured in at least half these stories. You're more famous than I thought."

Hannah glanced at a few of the clippings. "Conner should have been in them, too."

Cathy shook her head. "No."

Hannah gazed questioningly at her.

"Conner hated the limelight. I know you don't care for it, either, but he absolutely hated it." Cathy smiled. "He was happy to be quietly brilliant, then to come home to his family in blissful anonymity. He said that one star in the family was enough. He was so proud of you."

Hannah felt the tears sting her eyes and looked quickly away. "Thanks for telling me. Do you know, Conner and I talked about this in Rock Bay Harbor, and I was worried that he was feeling cheated. He denied it, but it's good to know that-" She had to stop to clear her throat and checked her watch. "Cathy, if you need to go pick up Ronnie and Donna-"

"It's okay. I still have a few hours. They're with my mother. I think it's a relief for them to spend time with someone who isn't struggling just to hold herself together."

"I've seen you with them. You're doing great."

Cathy gazed at the photo-covered walls. "I'd be doing great if we could find something here we could use."

"There's some good background in this material, but we probably won't find what we need here. We have to find out what was scratched on those bulkhead plates, and to do that, we have to find out more about the Silent Thunder's history."

"Didn't the Russians give you that when they sold the sub to the museum?"

"Not really. We don't even know how many miles it logged. The Russians are notoriously secretive about their submarine fleet. They're constantly renaming and renumbering them to make it hard for other governments to know how many they have in service. They're not about to give us details of its missions."

"So what are you going to do?"

"One of the ships on my first Titanic expedition was a Russian scientific vessel. There were some former Soviet Navy officers on the crew, so I've made some calls to see if they can help us out."

Cathy reached into one of the file boxes and pulled out another stack of articles and photographs. "In the meantime, I'll find some place to plaster these up." She turned away. "You say you're partial to the shower door?"

Two and a half hours later, Hannah walked around the condo with a small stack of photographs in her hand. She studied another picture on the wall, then plucked it off and added it to the pile. She repeated the routine several more times as she worked her way from the living room to the kitchen.

"What did you find?" Cathy asked.

Hannah threw down the stack on the dining table and spread out the photos. "Look at these. The four stops that the Silent Thunder made before arriving at Rock Bay: Baltimore, New York, Boston, and Norfolk. Notice something in common about all these shots?"

Cathy studied the photos. "Other than the tons of ribbons and streamers littering the water in each of these ports?"

"It's all biodegradable and dissolves in just a few hours. Keep looking."

She gazed a few moments longer, then finally pointed to a craft resting a few hundred yards off shore. "This boat."

"Yes." Hannah shuffled through the photos. "It was at each of the ports. This boat was following the Silent Thunder."

Cathy looked at the photo that featured the boat most prominently. It was a small fishing trawler, approximately thirty feet in length, with a single mast and elevated steering platform. The silhouette of a tall, broad-shouldered man could be seen on the platform.

"He could be a submarine buff," Cathy said.

"Possibly. Or a journalist covering the Silent Thunder's final voyage. It's strange how he seems to be keeping his distance, though. The other boats are in position to observe the submarine. He seems to be positioned to watch the other boats. See?"

Cathy nodded. "So what do we do?"

Hannah found a picture that offered a view of the vessel's registration ID and examined it under a magnifying glass. She picked up her phone, punched a number.

"Who are you calling?" Cathy asked.

"Jack Fowler, he's with the Coast Guard."

Fowler picked up on the fifth ring.

"Hi, Jack. Hannah Bryson here."

He was clearly surprised to hear from her. "Hannah… Listen, I've been meaning to call you ever since I heard about Conner. I can't tell you how sorry I am."

"Thank you, Jack. It's been a tough time."

"If there's anything I can do, you know-"

"Actually, there is. I need you to run a vessel ID for me."

"Jeez, Hannah. I can direct you to the license office, but-"

"It'll take forever that way. Just a few clicks on that keyboard in front of you will give me everything I need."

"Dammit, I'm the U.S. Coast Guard's legal counsel. It's part of my job to keep our people from doing what you've just asked me to do."

"Tell them to do as you say, not as you do."

"And what do I say when I'm called down on the carpet for giving out sensitive information?"

She hesitated. It had to be done. "Remind them who helped you get the job there. If I hadn't put in a word for you, your expertise in maritime law would probably still be helping the oil companies pollute the oceans."

He paused. "That's below the belt, Hannah."

"I agree, and I'd never do it if I wasn't desperate. Help me, Jack."

"You're a wicked woman, Hannah."

"Please, Jack. BDR 54992 B8 67."

Silence. Then she heard the clicking of a keyboard.

Success.

"Okay, I guess I'm not really giving you anything you couldn't have found out with some paperwork and a bit of time. The vessel belongs to a Captain Henry Danforth."

"Class?"

"Hmm. It's a fishing trawler, but it's licensed for personal/recreational use."

"That's unusual, isn't it?"

"Well, deep-sea fishermen retire, and sometimes they just want a boat they're comfortable with. The boat's hailing port isn't far from you: Gloucester, Massachusetts, probably inner harbor. Are you happy now?"

"Very. Thanks, Jack. I'll remember this."

"I'd just as soon you forget it. It will be safer for me."

"Whatever you say." She hung up and turned to Cathy. "We've got him. Gloucester."

Ninety minutes later, Hannah turned left off Route 128 to East Main Street, which would take her past the State Fish Pier and along the inner harbor. Cathy had wanted to come with her, but she'd had to pick up her kids. Hannah was just as happy to go alone. She didn't know what she'd find in Gloucester.

Her cell phone rang, and she glanced at the caller ID screen. Bradworth. She let it go to voice mail. It was the third call from him in the past two hours. He'd probably learned about the clip files she'd obtained from Congressman Preston. No doubt the bastard wanted to warn her off from what she was doing.

No way.

In less than a mile, she turned off East Main and drove toward the water. Gloucester was a charming fishing village that almost seemed at odds with its recent popularity as a tourist destination. The old-timers were resentful of the transition, but the tourist industry had helped take up the slack as the region's commercial fishing industry plummeted.

She drove to the pier, which was lined with scores of fishing boats and pleasure craft. Was the trawler even here now? She knew it could be anywhere on the Eastern Seaboard, and boat owners were notoriously uncooperative when it came to keeping current info on file with the licensing authorities. She parked her car on the street and walked toward the pier.

It was a cool, overcast afternoon, just the sort of day that kept tourists away in droves. She walked along the wharf area, occasionally raising her binoculars to examine the boats.

She stiffened. There it was!

She focused her binoculars on the ID number. Definitely the right one. The trawler was moored between two other fishing boats. Its maroon, barnacle-covered hull was in need of a resurfacing, and the windows were fogged by sea salt. She looked for a name on the stern, but there was none.

She watched the boat for a few minutes longer, looking for any signs of life inside. None visible.

She walked down to the pier and made her way to the trawler, slowing her pace as she drew closer. The wind kicked up, and cold sprinkles of rain pelted her face.

Lights off, hatches closed. It didn't look as if anyone was home.

"Hi." In the boat next to the trawler, a bearded man in his early twenties rolled up a ragged net and glanced up at Hannah. He gave a low appreciative whistle. "You're lost, right?"

She smiled. "Not exactly. I want to talk to the captain of this boat. Know when he'll be back?"

He shook his head. "Nope. If it's a charter you're looking for, I don't think he does that kind of thing."

"Not even for the right price?"

"I don't think so. I've never seen anybody on the boat but him." His gaze slowly studied her up and down. "You look like you're used to a nicer boat anyhow, like maybe a yacht."

"I'll take that as a compliment."

He smiled. "It was. I'm Josh Sarks."

"Hannah. Good to meet you." She stepped closer. "Maybe I'm confusing this man with someone else. What does he look like?"

"Tall, dark hair, late forties or maybe fifty. He talks with an accent."

"What kind of accent?"

"Irish or Scottish, I can never tell the difference."

"See him around here much?"

"Sometimes." Sarks jerked his thumb toward a bar next to the pier entrance. "And I've run into him at the Seagull Saloon. I was there with a girlfriend, and she went dippy over him. I don't know if it's the accent or what." He grimaced. "You wouldn't think a young chick like her would go for an old guy like that."

Forties was old? Christ, this kid was young. "He goes there to pick up women?"

"Nah. As far as I know, he always comes back here alone." He frowned. "You're asking a lot of questions. Are you his wife or something? Have I put my foot in it?"

She smiled. "Hardly. I promise you I've never met the man. I'm here on business, and I appreciate your help. So he lives here on the boat?"

"Yep."

"What does he do for a living?"

He shrugged. "Maybe nothing. He's sure not a fisherman. My dad and I have been moored here for the last three years, and I've never seen him bring in a catch. The boat comes and goes. It'll be here for a few weeks, then goes away."

"Goes where?"

"No idea. I don't think anyone around here knows him very well."

And neither did Josh Sarks. She'd probably found out all she was going to get from him. "Well, he doesn't sound like the man I was looking for. Thanks for your help."

"Maybe we could go up to the Seagull, and I could buy you a drink?" he called after her. "Someone there might be able to tell you something."

"I wish I could. I don't have the time right now." She smiled at him as she started up the pier. "Give me a rain check?"

Ten minutes later, Hannah sat at a window table of the Coffee Dunk 'n' Dine across the street from the Seagull Saloon. She flipped up the lid of her laptop and glanced outside. She could see the trawler, so if the vessel's owner returned, he'd be easy to spot.

She sipped her coffee. What would she do when she saw him? From what she'd learned from Sarks, it was doubtful if he was connected with the men who'd attacked the sub. He'd been living here on a beat-up trawler for three years. He hadn't just shown up on the radar when the sub appeared. Maybe he was a submarine groupie after all.

Or maybe he wasn't.

She'd make a decision and cross that bridge when she came to it. In the meantime, she could think of worse places to catch up on her work.

Her cell phone rang; she checked the caller ID screen. Bradworth again. She thought about answering, but decided against it. To hell with him.

She turned off the ringer.

Shit!" Bradworth slammed down the receiver and walked across his office. Next time he'd block his name and number, in case Hannah was intentionally deep-sixing him to the voice-mail graveyard.

The red flag had gone up when Congressman Preston's office requested the Silent Thunder media clippings, and a few discreet inquiries confirmed that Hannah and her sister-in-law were behind it.

Bradworth rubbed his temple. Things needed to be handled delicately, with finesse. He couldn't allow a couple of grief-stricken family members to unravel years of effort.

Even more troublesome was the preliminary lab report on Hannah's would-be abductors. The Agency medical examiners had worked through the night over the charred remains, and their findings scared the shit out of him.

Hannah, answer your goddamned phone.