Sea of Crises (12 page)

Despite his embarrassment, he smiled. The rain was soaking through his clothes, but he no longer cared. “You don’t know me. We’ve never met. But our fathers knew each other.”

“Really. How?”

He swallowed, then took a deep breath. “They served together. On the Apollo 18 mission.”

She looked startled. Then she studied him more carefully. After a long moment, she asked, “Are you Nate?”

Surprised, he nodded.

She smiled, but it came with a touch of melancholy. “My mother thought the world of your father. Apparently, so did my dad.” She paused, and there was a momentary distance to her eyes. “She told me once, Honey, if you’re ever in a real pickle, track down Bob Cartwright’s boys. Start with Nate.”

That also surprised him. And it pleased him. A lot. He wasn’t sure what to say in response, though, and there was an awkward silence. Finally, he ventured, “So, you never found yourself in a real pickle?”

She laughed at that. “Oh, I’ve had my share.” She shrugged. “I guess maybe I wanted to hang onto that ace.”

That pleased him as well, and he realized that something about this woman made him feel like he’d never felt before. He also realized with a start that he’d forgotten about the beeper in his pocket. Fortunately, it had not gone off.

“You seem a bit distracted.”

He hesitated. “There’s something going on that you should know about.”

She looked at his eyes, alternating from one to the other. Nate had the odd feeling that she was trying to read his mind. After several seconds she said, “Looks like
you
might be the one in a pickle, huh?”

Again, he nodded. “It’s kind of a long story.”

She smiled. “I’ve got time. And you look like you could stand to dry off.”

#

Krantz passed through the metal detector at the main entrance to the Russell Senate Office Building, retrieved his folio from the adjacent conveyor belt, and stepped into the rotunda. It was an impressive space, encircled by Corinthian columns and topped by a coffered dome. A glazed oculus in the center of the dome flooded the area with a natural light. On the far side, a small group of tourists congregated around the statue of Richard B. Russell, Jr., the building’s namesake, while listening to a uniformed tour guide give a brief history. The space teemed with men and women in business attire coming and going.

Old habits dying hard, it required him only a couple of seconds to take it all in and register that there were no apparent threats. He turned and made his way to the elevators. Though he was running a couple of minutes late, he did not rush. He was in no hurry to meet with the man he’d come to see. And the man, he knew, would wait. There were very few people in the world the man
would
wait for. But Krantz was one of them.

His appointment today was with Harrison Burton, the senior senator from North Dakota and one of the most powerful men in the world.

Burton had first been elected to Congress in 1958, at the astonishingly young age of 28. He’d been re-elected five times and had been serving as Minority Whip when he was appointed Secretary of Defense by President Nixon, becoming the youngest man ever to hold such position. Then, when the junior senator from North Dakota died in a plane crash three years later, Burton had been appointed by the governor to complete the senator’s term. He’d distinguished himself immediately, securing a position on the powerful Senate Armed Services Committee and chairmanship of the key Subcommittee on Strategic Forces. He’d eventually become the ranking member of the entire Committee. He had now been in the senate for almost four decades.

At times referred to as the “Rasputin of the Senate,” he was respected - and feared - by almost everyone in Washington. It was said that Burton could make or break the political career of any man or woman. Because no one knew for certain how true that was, people, as a consequence, tended to walk on eggshells around him. Krantz was one of a handful of people who knew, without question, that the concerns were very well-founded.

In his position as chairman of the Subcommittee on Strategic Forces, Burton had stepped into the role of primary political overseer of The Organization. When he’d assumed chairmanship of the entire Armed Services Committee, he’d retained that oversight role. In those subsequent years when the Republicans were not in the majority, he’d shared it with the ranking Democratic Senator. When they were, however, he’d kept it for himself. He was no one to be trifled with, and The Organization was one of the most powerful weapons in his quiver.

At the large suite of rooms occupied by Burton’s staff on the fourth floor, Krantz was escorted to the Senator’s private office, a space dominated by windows that looked out across Constitution Avenue to the grounds separating the Capitol Building and the Supreme Court. It was, particularly by the standards applicable to government offices, an immense space. Krantz recalled being told that the room was several square feet larger than the oval office, a source of considerable pride for Burton.

The place practically oozed red, white and blue. Oversized American and North Dakota flags flanked the Senator’s desk. The walls and most horizontal surfaces were festooned with military memorabilia. They included photographs, paintings and models of warships, aircraft and other combat hardware. Though he’d always kept it to himself, it was a continual source of amusement for Krantz the way Burton carried on about the armed forces. The Senator, Krantz knew, hadn’t spent a single day in uniform, and he doubted whether the man would know the difference between a canteen and a claymore.

Burton gave Krantz a cursory handshake when the latter was shown into the office. There was no bonhomie in the Senator’s makeup. He wore a perpetual scowl, and, even though Krantz had spent a lifetime exploring some of the darker sides of humanity, when he was in Burton’s presence, he felt as if he’d stepped into a chilly version of hell on earth. To his knowledge, the Senator had no friends. He knew that, somewhat inconceivably, the man had been married for several decades. Though Krantz had never met the late Mrs. Burton, he suspected that, when she’d passed away a few years earlier, it had probably been a huge relief for both husband and wife.

Burton waved Krantz to a chair near one of the windows and took a seat nearby. There was no small talk and no preamble.

“I understand one of your former field operatives has taken a shit in the punchbowl.”

Working hard to keep the irritation out of his voice, Krantz said, “Yes. We did such a good job wiping the man’s former life clean we didn’t realize he was one of Bob Cartwright’s sons until we were in the middle of the operation.”

“Somebody dropped the ball letting him in The Organization in the first place,” the Senator observed.

That was true enough. Krantz was thankful he’d been in the field when that little screw-up had happened. Still, as the director, he’d now catch the heat. He nodded, but said nothing.

The Senator’s scowl deepened. “This is the same guy who opened up that can of worms after the Miami hit. I was told that had been taken care of.”

“It was,” Krantz replied, evenly. “We had no reason to believe he’d do anything other than spend a quiet retirement. And, as I said, we hadn’t made the connection with the Apollo thing.”

“Well that was a pretty significant omission, don’t you think?”

That was also true. And, though he wasn’t about to admit it to Burton, Krantz held himself responsible. He’d assigned men to deal with the Cartwrights, but he’d never personally consulted the file on Peter Cartwright. If he had, he’d have immediately noticed the resemblance to Marek. Krantz, after all, was one of the few who had served with the man and knew what he looked like. It wasn’t until they were well into the mission - and had already lost the trail - that he’d stumbled onto it. He was still kicking himself for that. However, since there was nothing to be gained by raising any of it now, Krantz again just nodded and kept quiet.

The Senator looked away for a moment, clearly annoyed. Still studying something on the other side of the room, he asked, “What are we doing about it?”

“We’ve refocused the mission,” Krantz said. “It’s no longer a containment. We’re eliminating the players.”

Burton gave him a hard look. “Are any of them veterans? You know how I feel about our veterans. And you know everything that entails.”

Krantz understood completely. “Well, technically, our guy,” he replied. “But that can’t be helped. He’s the dangerous one.”

“I agree with that,” said Burton. “The rest are civilians. Expendable. Ok.” He stood, signaling that their meeting was at an end.

As Krantz stood, the Senator gave him one more piercing look. “Sooner rather than later,” he said, his eyes narrowing. “Otherwise, you know what has to be done. And I would just personally hate to see that. Do you follow me?”

One last time, Krantz nodded. He did.

7

When Nate came downstairs in the morning, he found Patricia Gale already up, standing at the stove when he entered the kitchen.

“Morning,” he said.

She turned her head slightly and, with more animation than she’d displayed in the short time he’d known her, she replied, “Good morning, Nate.”

Nate wasn’t sure whether it was the sleep he’d gotten, Patricia’s good nature or the delightful smells that engulfed him, but he suddenly felt more alive than he had in days.

“How do you take your coffee?” Patricia had turned and was holding out a mug. He could see steam rising from the top.

Surprised, he replied, “Black.”

She set the mug down on the table in the center of the room. “Why don’t you take a seat? I’m making breakfast.”

Shaking his head, Nate dutifully sat and took a sip of the coffee. It tasted wonderful.

They were in the Dayton home, a large, rambling two-story structure that sat alone at the end of a narrow spit of land jutting out into Frenchman Bay, a few miles outside of town. The previous afternoon, they’d made the drive to the house in the rain, Margaret Dayton leading the way in her pickup truck. Margaret, who, it turned out, went by Maggie, had refused to let Nate even begin to explain why he had suddenly shown up in Maine with his brothers and Mason Gale’s sister in tow until he’d had a chance to get into some dry clothes. When they arrived at the house, she showed him to one of several rooms on the second floor and returned shortly with a change of clothes that fit remarkably well.

As the gray, dreary day settled into night, they’d all gathered in the great room on the first floor in front of a fire that Maggie had lit in the large fireplace. Nate then told how he, Peter and Buster had come to make the three-day journey across country from Los Angeles to Bar Harbor, picking up Matt and Patricia along the way. Maggie and her great uncle Tim, the man Nate had met briefly that afternoon at Dixon’s Wharf, had listened in rapt attention. Maggie was visibly distraught when she heard about the horrific scene in Nate’s condo and the story Patricia told them about her encounter with the dark-eyed man. When she heard about Eunice Gale’s death, Maggie quietly got up from the sofa, crossed the room and embraced Patricia.

After he finished, the six of them sat in silence for a long time, the crackling of the logs in the fireplace the only sound. Finally, Maggie announced, “I think you’ve all been through a lot, and you could stand a good night’s sleep. Tim and I have to be up before dawn tomorrow, so we need to turn in. Please make yourselves at home, and we’ll be back in the afternoon.”

And, with that, they’d all retired to separate rooms, and Nate
had
finally gotten a good night’s sleep.

As Nate was sipping his coffee, Peter walked into the kitchen and paused, apparently as taken with the marvelous smells as Nate had been. Patricia turned with another mug of coffee in her hand, but she stood and appraised him without speaking. Peter looked from Nate to Patricia and back. Finally, he cocked his eyebrows.

“Peter,” said Patricia. “Good morning.”

Nate chuckled. It had been a long time since he’d watched people struggle with the difficult task of telling Peter and Matt apart. Nate had never had any problem with it, but, aside from Gamma and their father, nobody else had ever been able to distinguish one from the other with any consistency.

Patricia handed the coffee to Peter and waved him to a seat at the table across from Nate. As Peter pulled back the chair and sat, he gave Nate an inquiring look. Nate shrugged.

“It’s nice of you to make breakfast,” Nate ventured.

“Oh, it’s nothing,” Patricia said. “I found the ingredients and figured I ought to do something to contribute.” She set the spatula she’d been using aside, lifted a pair of plates and laid them down in front of Nate and Peter. Each contained a stack of pancakes, golden brown and fluffy. From a carafe on the table, Nate poured some maple syrup over them and, when he took a bite, discovered they tasted as good as they looked. He and Peter dug into the meal as if it were their first in days.

As they were finishing, Patricia took a seat at the end of the table and folded her hands in front of her. Quietly, she asked, “So, what are we going to do?”

It was a question Nate had been struggling with himself. And he’d yet to find a satisfactory answer. After a moment he said, “I think we need to talk about that when Matt gets up.”

“I’m up.”

Nate glanced reflexively toward the doorway and was startled to see Matt standing just inside. He’d made no sound entering.

“How do you do that?” Nate asked.

Matt simply shrugged. Then he took a seat at the end of the table opposite Patricia, folded his own hands and gave Nate a level look. “I’m open to suggestions.”

Nate noticed Patricia looking from Matt to Peter with undisguised curiosity. It was certainly understandable. When they weren’t speaking or gesturing, each appeared to be the mirror image of the other. But, Nate saw, there was more than just curiosity in Patricia’s gaze. Something about them clearly troubled her.

He turned his attention to his brothers. Though they were sitting only a few feet apart, neither acted as if the other were present. He asked himself whether that had been the case since they’d gotten together in Idaho a couple days before, and he knew the answer even as he posed the question. Not at every moment, perhaps, but for the most part it had. It was just that they’d all been under so much stress, he hadn’t focused on it.