Sea of Fire (17 page)

Patience.

Loh had learned that quality by watching her father work on his cases. In the end, the perpetrator would be caught. It only remained to be seen how, when, and where.

After a few minutes, the young male specialist in charge of naval underwater systems jogged over to FNO Loh. He saluted.

“Ambient radiation levels are below normal at the site of the last deposit,” he said. “Unless the coordinates are incorrect.”

“There is no reason to believe they are,” she said. “Go down and see what you can find.”

“Ma’am,” he said, saluting and turning.

It took just five minutes for the underwater unit to get into the sea. They carried a fluoroscopic scanner. If there were anything hot inside the stencil-dated concrete block, it would show up as a red pattern on the viewfinder.

Ten minutes later the three-person team reached the site. The block that had been deposited registered as cold. It contained no radioactive materials. FNO Loh unhooked the point-to-point radio from her belt. She contacted Warrant Officer Jelbart on the other vessel.

“Then the materials were off-loaded somewhere between the source and the drop-off point,” Jelbart said.

“That is apparently the case,” Loh agreed.

“And it’s possible they were given to the vessel that was attacked by the sampan,” Jelbart said.

“That is also likely,” she said.

“We’ll get the name and registry of the ship that made this drop,” Jelbart told her. “Then we’ll have a talk with the captain.”

“That is worth doing,” Loh said. “But I am betting you will not find the ship or the crew.”

“What do you mean?” Jelbart asked. “The ship has to be registered.”

“That is true,” she said. “But that vessel probably has multiple registries. I am guessing they were notified when the sampan attacked their fellow ship. While they were still at sea, the vessel would have been rechristened and the hull repainted. I doubt very much that we will find it.”

“Then we’ve learned nothing,” Jelbart said. “Except for the fact that there is a great deal of nuclear waste somewhere in our corner of the world.”

“That is not nothing,” Loh said. “We will find it.”

“I like your attitude. Any suggestions?” Jelbart asked.

“Just one,” she said. “Have patience.”

Peter Kannaday returned to the yacht a shaken man.

During the meeting with Jervis Darling, the captain had experienced something extremely disturbing. For the first time in his forty-seven years, Kannaday’s natural, healthy suspicion had blossomed like a nightshade into poisonous paranoia. And it had happened for a shockingly simple reason. Being buffeted by two forces, Jervis Darling and John Hawke, was troublesome enough. What bothered Kannaday more was the thought that those forces might not be working independently. Hawke had been hired by Darling. They could be working together through Marcus Darling. Perhaps the elder Darling wanted Kannaday to turn on Hawke so that Hawke could eliminate him. Then he could seize the yacht. Kannaday’s crew would not turn against a security chief who had defended himself. From Jervis Darling’s point of view, this was easier and more secure than purchasing a yacht and leaving a paper trail. Or there could be other reasons. Perhaps Darling was doing this out of nothing more than utter contempt for an easygoing man. Or maybe breaking people was how Darling got his jollies.

These suspicions turned the captain’s natural force, his momentum, inside out. It had turned healthy caution into deadly fear. Kannaday had to find a way to get rid of that.

Kannaday also had to get rid of John Hawke. Even if Hawke and Darling were not working together, the captain had not been given any wiggle room on that account.

Kannaday hoped that getting the mission back under way would help restore some of his balance.

The
Hosannah
left Darling Cove at 9:05 P.M. Repairs to the laboratory had been completed by 10 o’clock. The new equipment had been secured and tested. The yacht was ready to make their delayed rendezvous with a fishing vessel from Malaysia. But no sooner had they set out than Kannaday’s radio beeped. It was Marcus Darling reporting some very odd radio traffic in the Celebes Sea. Captain Kannaday went below to see him.

John Hawke was already in the radio shack. It was the first time Kannaday had seen him since returning from the Darling estate. The security chief had been working in his cabin when Kannaday returned.

Their eyes barely met. Hawke said nothing to Kannaday, and the captain did not acknowledge the security chief. Kannaday stood behind the radio operator. Hawke was to the left, where the porthole used to be. Marcus had an AltaVista translation file open on his laptop. The program automatically translated incoming messages into English typescript.

“I picked up a communication from a Japanese trawler,” Marcus said. “He was asking if it was safe to pass.”

“Asking who?” Kannaday asked.

“A Singaporean patrol vessel, judging by the names and ranks,” Marcus replied.

“Why would he ask that?” Kannaday asked.

“The trawler is at one hundred and thirty degrees longitude, five degrees latitude,” the younger Darling told him. “Obviously, the patrol ship is there as well. And the worst news is, it may not be alone.”

Kannaday felt a chill. “Go on.”

“The ship from Singapore is apparently talking to another ship,” Marcus continued. “I can’t hear what the other ship is saying because the message is blacked out.”

“Then how do you know the Singaporeans are talking to another ship?” Kannaday asked.

“Because there are short blackouts after every conversation with the trawler,” Marcus told him. “They are of roughly the same duration as the initial conversation. It’s as if the boat receiving the message is translating and relaying the conversation word for word.”

“Why wouldn’t another ship just listen in?” Hawke asked.

“Because as soon as the other ship turned on their radio, someone like me would know they were there. And, more importantly, I’d know exactly who they were,” Marcus said.

“I see,” Kannaday said. “Is that a military tactic?”

“Military or police, yes,” Marcus replied.

Military and police vessels did not go to that site on routine visits. The area was monitored by civilian vessels of the International Nuclear Regulatory Commission.

“We need to find out who is there,” Hawke said.

“Why?” Kannaday asked. “The dumping grounds are not on any of our routes.”

“They are on Jaafar’s route,” Hawke pointed out.

“Why should that worry us?” Kannaday asked.

“He is an ally.”

“By now Jaafar has got the name of his ship repainted and is flying a different flag,” Kannaday said. “Those changes would have been made at night or under a tarpaulin. It is very unlikely that anyone would have seen him.”

“Then what are one and possibly two military vessels doing at the waste site?” Hawke asked.

“I have no idea, and I’m not sure it concerns us,” Kannaday said.

“If they discover that Jaafar deposited empty drums of nuclear waste, it could come back to us,” Hawke said.

“They would have to find him first, which is unlikely,” Kannaday said. “If Jaafar thinks someone is on to him, he will go into hiding. We can warn him on our secure channel.”

“I want to know who’s out there,” Hawke repeated.

“And do what, exactly?” Kannaday asked.

“Go after those vessels, if necessary,” Hawke said. “Do to them what the pirates wanted to do to us.”

A preemptive strike,
Kannaday thought. Just what Darling might have suggested. Maybe Hawke was sincerely concerned about the patrol ship. Or maybe he was simply trying to provoke a confrontation with Kannaday. In either case, the captain decided to let him have his head on this one.

“How do you recommend we conduct reconnaissance?” Kannaday asked.

“We need a satellite overview,” Hawke replied. “We need to see who is there and what they’re doing.”

“Marcus, can you do that?” Kannaday asked.

“We can do that through Colonel Hwan,” Marcus said.

“Who is that?” Kannaday asked.

“Colonel Kim Hwan is my uncle’s man at the North Korean Reconnaissance Bureau,” Marcus replied. “The NKRB collects strategic and tactical intelligence for the Ministry of the People’s Armed Forces. They also eavesdrop on business rivals when my uncle needs them to.”

“How long will it take to get information from Colonel Hwan?” Kannaday asked.

“We won’t know until we contact him,” Marcus said. “He may be able to get the information through normal channels. If not, he might have to go to the Chinese for access to one of their satellites.”

“Do it,” Hawke said.

Hawke did not bother to ask Kannaday. The captain let that go, too. Kannaday wondered if he was afraid to stop him or letting him run until he hit a reef. He realized now how complacent he had grown as a commander. Maybe he should question this more. Just to flex his muscles.

“You’re certain there’s no way anyone can eavesdrop on our message or trace the signal?” Kannaday asked.

“It’s extremely unlikely,” Marcus replied. “My uncle has a direct line to Colonel Hwan’s cell comm. We’ll patch into that and send E-mails directly to him. Hwan can respond to them immediately. No one would have any reason to monitor those communications.”

“And if someone does?” Kannaday asked stubbornly.

“Every message we send is coded and untraceable,” Marcus told him. “We’ll be safe.”

“All right,” Kannaday said. “Go ahead.”

Marcus accessed the main transmitter in Darwin. He turned to his laptop and accessed the codebook on the hard drive. He looked up Hwan’s code name. Once he had that, he took the appropriate diskette from a small safe under the radio stand. He plugged that into the drive.

“Ready,” Marcus said.

Hawke dictated as Marcus typed. The security director had not reacted to Kannaday giving the final okay to contact Hwan. Hawke asked the North Korean colonel to find out who was at the waste site and, if possible, why. While they waited for an acknowledgment, Kannaday watched for any sign of bonding between the two men. A glance. Hawke moving closer to Marcus. Something that might indicate collusion. Both men would benefit by Kannaday making a misstep. Hawke could seize the
Hosannah
. Marcus could run certain aspects of the mission, show his uncle leadership chops. They did not seem to be connecting in any meaningful way. The captain felt some wind in his sails.

Many paranoids do have enemies,
Kannaday reflected. But he wondered whether, more often than not, it was themselves.

“What do we do in the meantime?” Marcus asked.

“We continue to the rendezvous point,” Kannaday said. “Is everything set with the Malaysian crew?”

“I received a radio message while you were with the boss,” Marcus said. He accessed the notes on his computer. “They’ve been crisscrossing the area since we missed our appointment. I told them we had an equipment problem. They are awaiting a new ETA.”

“Tell Captain bin Omar we’ll be there at one A.M.,” Kannaday said. “And thanks for being vague about what happened.”

“I didn’t have much choice,” Marcus said. “It would not have instilled confidence to tell them the truth.”

That was true.

Kannaday asked Marcus to let him know when he had any information. Then he went to the deck to chat with the crewmen who were posing as passengers. There was a great deal of sea traffic offshore. Kannaday knew many of the local skippers who ran pleasure boats. Ironically, if they saw Kannaday, if they waved to him, it helped him stay anonymous. No one thought,
Where is Captain Kannaday and what is he up to?

Kannaday walked the deck. The sea air was unusually misty. The droplets felt good on the captain’s face. He felt slightly better than he did before. Hawke had a different project to focus on. That kept the pressure off Kannaday. It also did something else.

It gave him time to figure out what to do about the security chief.

As mayor of Los Angeles and as head of Op-Center, Paul Hood had taken calls from heads of state. During times of crisis he had spoken calmly over the phone with his counterparts in other nations. Even when lives were at risk or lost, Hood had been able to speak without agitation to operatives in the field. He had talked with the wives and mothers of police officers and firefighters who had lost husbands and sons. He had called and visited the families of the Strikers who had perished in the Kashmir conflict.

But Hood was somewhat unnerved when he got around to accessing his personal cell phone messages. Daphne Connors had called at six-fifteen that morning. From the sound of her voice she had just woken up. Or perhaps she was just going to sleep. She often went to client parties that continued late into the night. She reported in a low, smoky voice that she had a dream about him. It had something to do with a stagecoach driver and a tavern owner in the old West. Only Hood was running the saloon and Daphne was running the stage.

Maybe that was true. Or maybe it was a pretext to phone. In either case, the call troubled him. Or rather, it was the tone of Daphne’s voice. He had not heard a bedroom voice in years. His former wife, Sharon, had never had one, really. And the one night he spent with Op-Center’s former press liaison, Ann Farris, was followed by awkward silence and forced felicity.

Daphne’s voice was very feminine, very seductive. It got into Hood’s ear, into his mind, into all his nerve endings in a way that made him very uncomfortable. It also made him wonder with dismay whether his discomfort was actually with Daphne. It might be with the idea of anyone getting close. Maybe his marriage had gone just the way he wanted it to. Built around a core of emotional and physical detachment for the sake of stability. It was as if he were running a city government or federal agency.