Dancing with the Dragon (2002) (4 page)

Having driven the Rolls to the limits of its performance capabilities, Owens arrived at the Princess Marguerite III less than a minute before the last vehicle was allowed to board the two-hundred-car ferry.

As he parked the luxury automobile on the ship, he caught the glance of a middle-aged man in a crisp nautical uniform with epaulets on his shoulders. Their eyes met briefly, and the man with the pencil-thin mustache gave Owens an impish grin before he turned and made his way to the spacious upper decks.

Relieved to have made it to the ferry on time, Owens removed his keys, heaved himself out of the car, locked the doors, and went topside to tour the well-appointed ship. While the pristine 1,070-passenger Princess Marguerite III got under way, Dr. Owens followed a cheerful crowd of commuters and vacationers to the bountiful buffet. Relaxing and reading the Seattle Times, he drank orange juice, steaming coffee, and devoured a hearty breakfast large enough to feed three average-sized men.

Afterward he wandered into the large, glassed lounge area to take in the beautiful scenery of Admiralty Inlet and Mystery Bay. He found a comfortable chair and sat down with a broad smile on his face. Most of his share of the $42 million payoff was safely stashed in a bank on Grand Cayman Island.

A few minutes later, Owens noticed the first remnants of fog beginning to appear on Puget Sound. The cloudlike mass of water droplets soon became as thick as pea soup. At regular intervals, the ship's foghorn sounded its mournful warning. Owens hoped the thick fog would burn off by noon, their expected time of arrival at Pier 48, Port of Seattle.

He was about to doze offwhen the same middle-aged gentleman with the impish grin and pencil-thin mustache approached him. The man's nautical uniform and epaulets were immaculate. Owens looked him up and down. What does this stooge want?

"Excuse me, sir," the man said with a clipped British accent. "I'm First Mate Peterson, and I couldn't 'elp notice the splendid vehicle you brought aboard this morning."

Owens wasn't quite sure how to respond. "Is there something wrong with the car?"

"Not with your vehicle, sir."

Owens's eyes narrowed.

"On the other 'and, it seems as if we 'ave a bit of a sticky problem."

A scowl formed on Owens's face. "What kind of a problem?" "Our chief engineer needs to gain access to a machinery space, and your elegant vehicle is obstructing the opening."

"Well, I can damn sure fix that for you." Owens reached into his jacket pocket for the car keys and offered them to the officer. "Do whatever you need to do; I'll be right here."

"Thank you, sir. 'Owever, our insurance company does not permit crew members to drive vehicles that belong to passengers--particularly the likes of a Rolls-Royce." He smiled his impish smile. "Liability concerns, you understand."

"What next?" Owens rose from his chair and dropped his keys in his jacket pocket. "Lead the way."

"We appreciate your kind consideration, sir."

"Okay, let's just get it done," Owens said with a disinterested sniff.

"Yes, sir."

The two men went belowdecks and made their way aft to the area where the Silver Seraph was parked. Owens was surprised to find not a single person in the cavernous parking area.

Then again, he asked himself, why would anyone be down here with so many things to see and do topside? After all, no one is going to steal a car and drive off.

They walked to the last three cars on the starboard side of the ship. Nearing the rear of the Rolls, Owens retrieved the keys and turned to ask which way he should move the car. "Do you want me to back up a few feet?"

Owens saw the blur of the tire iron too late. The staggering blow to the side of his head was the last feeling Dr. Dixon Owens would ever have. He slumped forward, striking his head on the car as he collapsed in a heap. His body twitched with a slight but rapid motion for a few seconds before the final death rattle sounded in his lungs and air passages.

With his skull crushed and his head bleeding profusely, the physicist was unceremoniously stuffed inside the trunk of the Rolls. The man in the sharply creased uniform carefully cleaned Owens's blood off the ship's deck and the exterior of the car, then tossed the soaked rag into the trunk with the body.

When the Princess Marguerite III reached port in Seattle, a middle-aged man dressed in khaki slacks and a green-and-white sweater carefully drove Owens's Silver Seraph off the ferry and away from Pier 48. The dangerous part of the mission was over. Now, following explicit orders from his employer, he had to make Owens's death look like an accident.

Chapter
3.

San Diego, California

The mild and refreshing weather was perfect for the outdoor memorial service. The officers and sailors, each with a fresh haircut, were resplendent in their eye-catching dress whites with their colorful military ribbons. Conspicuously absent from the commemorative service were Lieutenants "Ham" Hamilton and Lou Emerson.

At Tracy Bonello's request Jackie and Scott sat beside her. Sammy's father and mother sat on the other side of their tearful grandchildren. Sammy's brother, Tony, tried to comfort his inconsolable mother, but his efforts were in vain. The other members of the family grieved in stony silence while a lone sailor played taps as four F/A-18s flew low over the chapel grounds and executed the traditional missing-man formation.

Tracy's eyes brimmed with tears. Trembling with emotion, she began to softly cry. Scott comforted her and tried with all the self-control he could muster to maintain his own composure. He had attended many other services for fellow aviators over the years, and there was never a dry eye when taps sounded.

After the service everyone went to Tracy's home for a lunch provided by Sammy's squadron mates. By early afternoon the mourners began to thin. The pilots and naval flight officers quietly paid their respects to Tracy and her family, then left to attend the memorial service for Chick Fossett. Later, after spending time with Fossett's grieving wife, and a baby boy who would never know his father, the fliers would rendezvous at the officers' club to get properly inebriated and salute their fallen comrades.

Scott and Jackie waited until Tracy was finally alone with her immediate family before they left for their meeting with Cliff Early-wine at the U. S. Grant Hotel, their residence while in San Diego. Arriving promptly, Jackie and Scott were surprised to see Earlywine waiting for them. Looking more like a muscular college linebacker than a newspaper reporter, Earlywine rose to greet them.

Introductions were quickly made while Scott and Jackie seated themselves. There was an air of expectancy that increased the tension hanging over their table.

While they waited for their drinks to be served, Jackie and Scott set the ground rules about confidentiality. The entire conversation would be off the record, no recorders.

"Cliff," Scott said after their drinks arrived, "tell us exactly what happened after the accident, after you heard the shouts over the radio."

"Well, I could see that everyone was basically in shock for a few seconds, then they all looked at me."

"What did they say?" Jackie asked.

"Nothing at first. Someone, I can't remember who, ordered the lieutenant who was my handler to escort me to that big structure on the right side of the flight deck."

"The island," Scott said.

"Yeah, that's where they took me when I flew out on the COD, so I figured my visit was over."

"Did the lieutenant say anything to you?" Jackie asked.

"Not really. He was a PR type and polite, but he was all business after the accident happened."

Scott lowered his voice. "Did you still have your recorder on?" "Yes. It's real small--fits in a cigarette pack in my shirt pocket." "Will you give us a copy of the tape?"

"Yeah, I already made you a copy." He reached into his pocket and handed a miniature Sony tape to Scott. "I have another copy in a safety deposit box."

"What happened next?"

"The other airplane, the wingman, landed and people surrounded the airplane. A few minutes later, here comes the pilot and the guy in back. When they came through the door, I stepped forward to ask them some questions and all hell broke loose." "Go ahead," Scott said.

"There was a lot of commotion, and the next thing I knew two guys had me by the arms and took me straight to the COD. I was confined there for about twenty-five minutes before they flew me back here."

"Have you tried to contact the flight crew?" Jackie asked.

"At least a half-dozen times. The backseat guy has apparently been transferred to the Pentagon and the pilot, who is now stationed in Pensacola, won't return my phone calls."

Earlywine looked at Dalton. "After I talked with Mrs. Bonello, I figured that you, with your background and all, might be able to get the pilot to talk to you."

"Do you have a name and phone number?"

"Right here," Earlywine said proudly. He handed Scott a slip of paper with Lieutenant Hamilton's phone number. "I have a friend, a lieutenant commander, who owed me a favor."

Scott glanced at the Florida area code before handing the piece of paper to Jackie. "This should be interesting."

"No doubt."

Dalton looked at Earlywine. "If I can get any information, it has to be from an anonymous source. I don't want any names used--not ours or anyone we talk to."

"I give you my word." He presented each of them a business card. "I don't reveal my sources unless I have permission. I just want to know what really happened before I take this to my editor."

Scott nodded. "So do we."

"All I know is something mighty strange happened that night, and I think--no, I'm positive--that whatever happened is being covered up."

"We'll see what we can find out," Scott said, pocketing the tape. "I appreciate it."

When they finished their drinks, Earlywine paid the tab and excused himself. Afterward Jackie and Scott walked into the Grant Grill and were seated at a cozy booth.

Scott waited until they were alone, then leaned closer to Jackie. "Can't wait to play this tape."

"Same here. Maybe we should contact Hartwell and see what he can tell us about the accident."

Scott looked at his wristwatch. "Good idea. We should give him a heads up about Earlywine's story and the tape."

"Yeah. Besides, we'll be better off if we have as much information as possible before we contact the pilot."

"True, but I don't want to have that conversation over the phone. I want to go there, in person, unannounced."

He smiled. "How do you feel about spending a few days in Florida?"

"You call Hartwell," she said without hesitation. "I'll book us on a morning flight to Pensacola."

"Let's do it."

The Winslow Estate, Maryland

Hartwell Prost sat down in his study to read the first draft of a speech he intended to give at his alma mater. The only child of a wealthy father who oversaw their family-owned investment empire, Prost had surprised his parents by joining the Central Intelligence Agency after graduating with honors from Harvard Law. He became a rising star at the CIA and, in his ensuing years there, an astute power broker and political wizard.

Now retired from his position as director of operations, Prost was the president's closest aide and confidant. On the surface, his soft voice and ever-present tweed tam-o'-shanter cap could lull people into underestimating him, a costly mistake many opponents had made.

On the inside, however, Prost was clinically analytical. Known by many as a Renaissance man, he had little tolerance for the whiz kids who made up the Beltway crowd. He considered most of them to be educated beyond their intelligence.

Although he was the consummate gentleman, Hartwell Prost would not hesitate to cashier someone he judged unsuitable for the task at hand. Scott Dalton had never been in that category, not even close. Scott was the kind of person Hartwell Prost showcased, even to the commander in chief, President Cord Macklin.

When the phone rang, he removed his glasses and reached for the receiver. "Prost."

After a short conversation with Scott, Prost had a firm set to his jaw. "Let me check into this first thing in the morning."

"Yes, sir."

"I sense a smoke screen coming from the Pentagon. In the meantime, go ahead and see what you can find out from the other pilot--the one in Pensacola."

"Okay."

"Oh, one other thing. Keep that tape in your possession until you can give it to me in person."

"Will do, sir."

When Scott returned to their booth, Jackie had their travel itinerary neatly detailed on a small notepad.

"What did he say?"

"He knew about the accident but was unaware of the circumstances. He didn't know that a civilian reporter had been on board the ship and taped the radio transmissions."

"Well, no one else knew either."

Scott paused while a well-dressed gentleman was seated near their table. "It's probably going to land on the president's desk." "That's going to get his attention."

"You bet it is. Hartwell thinks someone is trying to throw a blanket over the details of what happened."