Sins of the Titanic (A James Acton Thriller, #13) (12 page)

North Atlantic Ocean
United States Naval Vessel—Identity Classified
April 15, 1912

Captain Johnathan Wainwright sat in his cabin, debating what to write
in his log, and at the moment could think of nothing. The wireless operator had
been busy monitoring the signals being bounced around and the news was
horrific.

Over one
thousand dead at last estimate.

And
we could have saved them all.

The Carpathia
had arrived as quickly as it could, yet hours after the ship sank below the
surface. Hundreds had frozen in the water, the lifeboats too few.

His fist
clenched into a ball and he slammed the top of his small desk.

I
have to know why.

He leapt
to his feet, exiting his cabin, the guard snapping to attention. Storming
through the cramped corridors, he quickly made his way to the area repurposed
to hold the team he had been ordered to transport.

He was
about to knock when he cursed and threw the door open.

He
surveyed the shocked faces, Commander Whitman not among them.

“Where’s
your commander?”

“Up top,
Captain,” replied one of the men as they all struggled to their feet. It made
him think they were all military men, which made what had happened even more
appalling in his mind. That military men could follow orders that would leave
so many dead was unthinkable.

What
did you do?

His
chest tightened as he realized he had become one of them. Complicit in the
deaths of over one thousand innocent souls, all for the sake of following
orders.

He
spotted something rolled up in haste under a blanket. He reached over and
grabbed it, one of the men reaching to stop him. Wainwright glared and the man
backed off. Unrolling it, he immediately went red at the sight of what was most
likely a priceless painting, hastily cut from its frame, the edges jagged and
torn.

“What
the hell is this?”

Nobody
said anything.

His eyes
bore into the man who had tried to stop him.

“Answer
me, that’s an order.”

The man
looked at him for a moment as if he were debating whether or not this was an
order he cared to follow. Finally, he shrugged. “A souvenir.”

Wainwright
rolled up the painting, sucking in rapid, angry breaths through his nose before
launching into a tirade. “I may have to put up with a lot of things, but theft
isn’t one of them.
You
may not care that we could have saved those
civilians, but I can assure you the men on this ship do!” His lip curled into a
sneer then he jabbed the thief with the painting. “Tell your commander I want
to see him immediately.”

The man
nodded but didn’t move.

Wainwright
stepped out of the room and stormed back to his cabin, tossing the painting on
the desk before dropping into his chair.

He
yanked at his hair as he tried to calm himself, his rage threatening to consume
him as he stared at the painting.

Was
that all this was? An opportunity to steal?

He
couldn’t believe that. He
refused
to believe that. There was no way the
United States Navy could be involved in a robbery. At least not a robbery like
this. He could see them stealing something from a foreign government,
absolutely, but a painting?

Never.

Not
his
navy.

But it
was
his
navy that had ordered him to cede command to Commander Whitman,
and it was he that had ordered them to stand by and watch as over one thousand
died.

There
was a knock on his door.

“Enter.”

Commander
Whitman stepped inside. “I understand you were looking for me, Captain.”

Wainwright
nodded. “Close the hatch.”

Whitman complied
then noticed the painting on the desk. “That shouldn’t have happened.”

Wainwright
glanced at the painting, his blood still boiling. “Explain.”

“One of
my men took it upon himself to take a souvenir. I had ordered it destroyed.”

Wainwright’s
hand instinctively moved toward the painting as if to protect it. “This is a
piece of history, Commander. Civilized men do
not
destroy art.” His eyes
narrowed. “
Mr.
Whitman. Are you even navy?”

Whitman smiled
slightly. “I’m sorry, Captain, but that’s classified.”

Wainwright
felt a hint of relief. “I didn’t think so. No navy man would allow people to
die at sea. It’s just not done. The next time it could be you floating in the
water, hoping someone comes along to save you. If it were an option, no one
would do it. There’s a code, Commander, and you have no concept of that.”
Wainwright rose. “I expect you and your men off my ship as soon as we are
docked.”

“Yes,
Captain.”

Whitman opened
the hatch then turned back toward Wainwright, nodding at the painting. “I
suggest you destroy that immediately, Captain.”

“As I
said, it’s a piece of history.”

“It’s
supposed to be on the bottom of the ocean.”

“Fortunately
it was saved.”

Whitman shook
his head, jabbing a finger at the painting. “That, Captain, is evidence we were
there. It must be destroyed.”

Wainwright
sucked in a deep breath, his chest expanding as he glared at the man. “I will
not
destroy it.”

“Then,
Captain, you’ll have to take it to your grave, as no one can ever be allowed to
see it.”

Congressman Bill Mahoney’s Office
Monroe Street, Rockville
Present Day

Congressman Bill Mahoney rested the back of his head against the
elevator wall and closed his eyes, the vibrations of the car almost soothing.
It had been a long, tough day and it would take a lot more than the thirty-second
ride to help him unwind.

Three
fingers tonight.

The
elevator chimed and the doors opened a moment later, the smell of the
underground parking lot filling his nostrils. He sighed, pushing himself off
the back of the elevator and stepping onto the concrete, his footsteps echoing
as he made his way to his car.

A door
opened to his right, then another.

He was
too tired to care.

An
engine roared to life as he reached for his fob, pressing the button.

His Ford
Taurus’ lights winked at him from down the nearly empty row of parking spaces.

“Congressman
Mahoney?”

He
turned toward the woman’s voice behind him, his eyes barely open. “Yes?”

A gun
was drawn, pointed directly at his chest. “Come with us, please.”

A surge
of adrenaline pulsed through his veins as he was jolted awake. “Wh-what’s all
this?”

Two men
flanked him, grabbing him by the arms as the vehicle that had just started
pulled out of its parking spot, a black SUV with heavily tinted windows and
government plates coming up beside them.

“Who are
you people?” he demanded, beginning to struggle against the silent men as he
was half pushed half carried toward the rear door. Someone inside pushed it
open and reached out, yanking him inside, one of the men following him in, the
door slamming shut as the woman climbed into the passenger seat. The driver
suddenly accelerated, the tires chirping on the concrete, the surge pressing
him into his seat.

“What
the hell is going on?”

He tried
to make his voice as confident as possible, yet even he could hear the tremor
in his voice.

“No
talking,” said the woman as she turned toward him holding a hood. “Put this
on.” Mahoney hesitated. “Now.”

He took
the hood and pulled it over his head, the feeling instantly claustrophobic. He
could feel the moisture from his rapid breaths blow back against his face, a
line of sweat immediately forming on his upper lip, the temperature increasing
noticeably as the vehicle came to a stop, the front window lowering, the familiar
beep from the security pad indicating they had a pass for the garage.

Government
plates?

The SUV
tilted up as they exited and they were soon on the city streets. He tried to
keep track of where they were, the perceived speed, the stops and turns giving
him a pretty good idea where they were for the first few minutes, but soon they
had made a turn into an area of town he had no familiarity with, leaving him
hopelessly lost.

They
eventually slowed, the vehicle tipping forward as they entered what he assumed
was another parking garage. The vehicle made at least half a dozen hard left
turns as they descended several levels before finally coming to a stop, all
four doors in the vehicle opening almost at once.

Someone
grabbed his arm, pulling him semi-gently toward the door. He slid across the
seat and stepped down to the ground before being led a short distance then
placed in a chair, his hands yanked behind his back and cuffed.

“Why
were you asking questions about Captain Wainwright?”

He
almost jumped at the sound of the woman’s voice, her accent distinctive,
European.
German?
He had the sense by the way she deliberately
pronounced each word that she had struggled for years to rid herself of what
she felt was a childhood curse.

He
personally loved the sound of European women.

But not
today.

“I’m
sorry, but I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

That
was stupid. They obviously know!

“Congressman,
you’ll save us all a lot of time if you simply cooperate. I will ask you one
final time. Why were you asking questions about Captain Wainwright?”

He
wasn’t sure where the bravado was coming from, but he couldn’t believe the
words coming out of his mouth. “Why do you want to know? He’s been dead for
over fifty years.”

“What is
of our concern is none of yours.”

“Our? Who
are you people?”

“Again,
none of your concern. I will ask you one last time, politely. Then my
associates will assist me. Why were you—”

“None of
your goddamned business. I’m a United States Congressman, and I demand to be
released. If you think—”

Something
hit him with incredible force in the face, his nose immediately breaking, the
taste of blood filling his mouth as he gasped, the surprise making the pain all
the more worse. His eyes watered and his ears rang, the pain overwhelming his
senses.

He heard
the thud before he felt it, something hitting him across his entire stomach,
the hood over his head preventing any warning. The blow forced all the air out
of him and he sucked in a painful breath almost immediately as he doubled over,
his cuffed hands tugging against the chair back.

Someone
grabbed the back of his suit jacket and yanked him upright just before another
blow slammed into his stomach, the pain intense, crippling, the blow slightly
off target, contact with a rib definitely made.

He was
sure he heard it crack.

“P-please,
no more!” The words were gasped out, his breaths rapid and shallow, the pain
too great to do any more. He had read about torture in the past and had
dismissed those who had broken as weak-willed cowards.

But he
had never experienced pain before, not like this. Yet it wasn’t just the pain,
it was the fear of not knowing when the next blow would come, what part of his
body would be hit next.

The grip
on his jacket broke and he sagged over as far as his cuffed hands would allow him,
sobs racking his body, the shame of breaking so fast feeding on itself, the
realization he wasn’t the man he thought he was almost overwhelmingly
emasculating.

He felt
pathetic.

“I will
ask you
one
last time, Congressman. Why were you asking questions about
Captain Wainwright?”

He
squeezed his eyes shut as blood poured from his nose, collecting at the tip
then dripping onto the inside of the hood. His heart slammed in his chest as a
pit formed in his stomach as he realized he was about to do the unthinkable. He
was about to open his mouth when an image of his wife and children flashed
before his eyes. What would they think of him if he threw Steve Wainwright
under the bus? What kind of example would he be setting for his son?