The Einstein Papers (16 page)

They were rogues that worked for payment, not ideology.

It took detectives from the agency less than a day to determine when the Windforce had left New Jersey for Providence. With a check of the weather records, the detectives understood the conditions Halversen had been forced to sail in.

The fate of the search was sealed when a pair of agents located the life ring from the Windforce on the fence outside a maritime museum on Long Island. They photographed the life ring. The name was badly faded but still slightly visible. A day-long search of the museum records resulted in finding a copy of the receipt that had been issued to the person who donated the items. The donor’s name was Mack Trimble and his address was listed as a post-office box on Block Island.

Steven Klamn worked for the Los Angeles Police Department until accepting an early retirement. The offer to retire had come after Klamn had pepper-sprayed, then beaten, three Mexican citizens who had slipped across the border and made their way to Los Angeles in search of work.

Klamn had been in a bad mood that morning. The water ski boat he had bought less than six months before had been repossessed from the driveway of his home. He was two months late on the payments. And when he had stopped at the bank to plead for the boat to be returned, the vice-president he spoke to, a turban-wearing Indian, had also asked for his credit card.

It wasn’t as if Klamn was totally prejudiced. He liked white people just fine.

After leaving the bank in his cruiser-short a boat and his credit card-Klamn had been livid. When the trio of illegals darted in front of his black-and-white it was a classic case of wrong place, wrong time. He had slammed the car into park while it was still moving forward, then set off after the fleeing aliens on foot. After cornering them in a deadend alley, he hosed them down with pepper spray. As the illegals writhed on the ground, rubbing their eyes and gasping for breath, he took out his nightstick and set to work.

When one of the men nearly died from brain swelling brought about by the beating it was too much even for the LAPD. Klamn was given a choice-retire or face prosecution.

He moved east and joined the Axial Group.

Klamn stepped off the Block Island Feny and lit an unfiltered cigarette. He walked up the slight rise toward town. After stopping to get directions from an elderly man sitting on a bench on the street, he made his way to the post office. When he located the specific post-office box he was interested in, he peered through the tiny window of the box and read the address on the mail inside. The mail was not addressed to Mack Trimble.

Making his way to the counter of the post office and finding no one in line, he rang the bell on the desk and waited. From the back, a man in his early forties wearing long hair and a beard approached. He had the appearance of an aging hippie.

“Can I help you?” the man asked politely.

“Maybe,” Klamn said.

“You’re going to need to put out that cigarette,” the man said. “No smoking in government buildings.”

Klamn grimaced, then tossed the butt on the floor and ground it out with his heel.

“That better?”

“Not for my floor.”

“I’m looking for a customer who has a box here-someone named Mack Trimble.”

“We don’t have a customer by that name,” the man said easily.

“How can you be so sure? You didn’t even look it up,” Klamn asked.

“Well, to begin with, we couldn’t tell you if he did have a box, but I happen to know for a fact that he doesn’t”

“Why’s that?” Klamn asked logically.

“‘Cause Mack was my father, and he’s dead,” the man answered.

Klamn stared across the desk. “I’m doing historical research and found a receipt for some items that your father donated to the maritime museum on Long Island. In particular, there was a life ring with the name Windforce on the side.”

“I remember,” John Trimble said. “Dad said he picked it off the beach on the east end of the island. It sat in our garage for a few weeks before he got rid of it.”

“You remember anything else?”

“Some planks washed up on shore a few days after he found the ring.”

“Anything else?”

“Not really.”

Thanks. That’s all I need,” Klamn said, turning to leave.

John Trimble watched as the man walked out the door. He felt uneasy about the encounter but he wasn’t sure why. He tried to remember if the man had mentioned his name or why he was doing the research but came up blank.

Shrugging his shoulders, Trimble returned to sorting the mail.

With the information that the Axial Group had been able to gather, the Chinese hired a marine salvage firm based in North Carolina named SeaSearch and began their hunt for the Windforce.

Luck was on their side.

On the third day of the search the sea off Block Island was smooth. The earlier rain had flattened the ocean waves. The seas were running less than one foot. The sky had cleared after the brief outburst and now it was a deep bright blue.

“One more lane to the north, turn at the mark,” one of the salvage technicians said quietly in his North Carolinian drawl.

Captain Gerald Holtz turned his head from the wheel and acknowledged the instructions. “Lane twelve north, fifty-meter swath. Turn at the mark.”

Stroking his chin, he glanced at his GPS and carefully timed the approaching turn. The two hired technicians sitting in bucket-seat chairs in the pilothouse of the salvage vessel Deep Search watched their screens intently. On the port side of the ship’s pilothouse a television screen displayed a picture of the ocean bottom that was beamed from a video camera mounted on a towed, remote-operated vehicle, or ROV. The image was somewhat blurred as the bottom was being stirred by an incoming tide. On the starboard side of the pilothouse a separate television screen displayed images from a Klein color hydroscan sonar. Sound waves bouncing off the ocean floor reflected back to the sensor and then were displayed in graphical form on the monitor. Together the two instruments painted a surprisingly detailed picture of the ocean bottom. The crew were professionals and they had already covered much of the target area.

The swells were diminishing as the Deep Search drove back and forth across the ocean surface. The routine was as monotonous and repetitive as mowing a giant field of grass. Holtz sipped from a can of soda.

So far, the crew of the Deep Search had found little of importance-various pieces of trash, part of what appeared to be a roof from a boat house, and an oblong sheet-metal box, perhaps blown from a passing ship. But nothing that would indicate a sailboat. The GPS placed them just two miles east of Block Island when the sonar began to reflect a small anomaly deep below the surface.

“Captain, please slow to one knot. Maintain the same heading,” the technician manning the sonar said, never turning from the screen as he spoke.

“One knot, same heading,” Captain Holtz acknowledged.

Concentrating on his positioning equipment, Holtz moved the wheel slightly to maintain his heading. The course of the Deep Search remained steady. Straining to make out the image that was unfolding as the ship passed above it, the sonar operator held his breath.

Quickly measuring the size, the technician screamed, “Just over thirty feet!”

On the port side, a surprisingly clear video image was coming into focus. “I see what looks like a mast,” the ROV technician barked.

“Size and shape fit. Mark it,” shouted the sonar operator.

Captain Holtz punched the marker button on his navigation computer then turned from the wheel to reply. “Position marked and buoy dropped.”

Throughout the remaining hours of daylight, the Deep Search passed back and forth over the target. Finally, the remote video camera located and filmed the shattered stern section.

As night fell on the ship they finally received the verification they were seeking. Visible through the murk, lit by the ROVs spotlight, was the target word they had so intently sought.

Written on the stern piece of the sailboat as if by some ghostly hand, and now bleached by long exposure to the sea, was the single word: Windforce.

John Taft sat in a lawn chair on the wooden deck behind his house, looking out at the Potomac. It was a clear and sunny day. The faint breeze was scented by the fallen leaves Taft had raked into a pile, then covered with black plastic to build a compost heap. Dressed in only a worn pair of cut-off jeans, he rested his large bare feet on a wooden side table.

Taft had a barrel chest, darkly tanned, and his thick blond hair was bleached light by the sun. Glacial blue eyes stared toward the water with a cool intensity. To his right, reclining on a chaise lounge with her face buried in a Clive Cussler novel, lay a stunning and leggy brown-haired beauty.

Taft turned his gaze from the river, reached into his partially empty glass of iced tea, and pulled out a crescent-shaped ice cube. He casually tossed it onto the lady’s stomach. She sat idly staring at the ice resting in her navel without moving a muscle. Then, after several seconds, she rose from the lounge chair and flicked the partially melted ice cube back toward Taft. She struck him dead in the middle of the forehead. Just then Taft’s cell phone rang. “John Taft.”

“Hey, my friend, how’s it going?” Martinez’s voice said cheerfully.

“Larry, I’m glad you called. I was thinking I might actually have a day off,” Taft said wearily.

“No such luck. A few moments ago the NSA at Fort Meade called General Benson. The Chinese Embassy in New York wired a large sum of money to a marine salvage firm based in North Carolina three days ago. A second large payment was made to the Axial Group.”

“I’m listening,” Taft said, smiling at the woman, who was arching her back suggestively. “Anytime I hear those shitbags at the Axial Group are involved, it piques my interest.”

“We still don’t know what it all might mean. Benson thinks it might be tied to Choi’s abduction and Jimn’s theft of the diaries. Just to be safe, however, we’re checking all avenues. The intelligence satellites were positioned to shoot the eastern seaboard and they have observed a salvage vessel named Deep Search working a tight grid for the last several hours. It appears that they’ve found an underwater object and have anchored beside a buoy.”

“Do you think the Deep Search is connected to the Chinese?” Taft asked slowly.

“No idea. We’re attempting to find out who owns the Deep Search and if anyone from the firm in North Carolina is on board. No luck yet. Benson doesn’t want to raise a red flag just yet, so he ordered you and me to quietly check it out. The powers that be think that to use navy or Coast Guard ships would make us too obvious.”

“It sounds like a long shot,” Taft noted.

“True, it’s probably nothing. Benson also ordered a black-bag team to North Carolina to wire up the company’s offices, and I’m running a computer check on the Deep Search’s registry, but nothing has turned up yet. This may just be a garden-variety salvage job not even tied to the Chinese, but there’s a fishy smell to it. I think we better go ahead and investigate.”

“Okay,” Taft said easily. “What’s my cover?”

“You’re being flown from Andrews to Long Island. Pick up a rental car, then drive to the docks-we have a boat waiting there for you to use. You may not know it, but you’re quite the serious deep-sea fisherman.”

“I think this is more bullshit busywork,” Taft said, lowering his voice. “Besides that, I think I was close to getting laid,” he whispered into the phone.

“I don’t get laid as much as you and I’m married,” Martinez said. “Now quit your whining. You’re due at Andrews in forty-five minutes.”

“All right. Call me back when you have some more information,” Taft said in disgust.

“Don’t I always?” Martinez said and hung up.

Taft turned to the lady standing on the deck looking out on the water. “I was called into work.”

“How long will you be gone this time?” she asked.

“I’m not really sure.”

She rose to her feet and planted her hands on her hips. “You play hard-to-get really well, John,” she said.

Taft smiled.

“Do you have any moral arguments against quickies?” the lady asked.

“No,” Taft said easily.

“Got a spare ten minutes?” she said seductively.

Estimating the distance to Andrews and the time it would take if he broke the speed limit, Taft winked at her. “I’ve got fifteen.”

“Saddle up, cowboy,” the lady said as she sprinted for the bedroom.

Twenty minutes later Taft s Ramcharger was doing ninety on the Capitol Beltway.

Four hours later, in a fishing boat nearing Block Island, Taft backed off the throttle and the boat slowly settled in the water as it came off plane. Directly ahead lay the salvage ship Deep Search. Walking back to the stern of the fishing boat Taft raised the engine hatch cover, then peered for several minutes into the crowded space.

The Deep Search bobbed quietly on the surface only seventy-five yards away. Unlocking the boat’s communications box, Taft turned on the VHF radio and keyed the microphone.

“Ship off Block Island, this is the fishing boat off your port bow.”

The answer came immediately. “Go ahead, this is the ship off Block Island,” the radio blared.

Taft noticed the ship did not identify itself by name, strange in itself.

“I’m having fuel problems,” Taft lied. “I need another fuel filter. Can you help me out?”

“Hold one minute,” the voice on the radio said.

As Taft waited, he found an old package of black licorice in a side compartment of the boat and chomped off a piece. The candy was dry and cracked as he chewed.

On board the Deep Search, the captain and first officer held a rushed meeting. They had been ordered to stay on station above the Windforce and talk to no one until the recovery could begin. They also knew that to anyone monitoring the radio, a refusal to help a stranded boat was tantamount to burning a church in Rome. It would definitely be noticed.

Taft waited as the next several minutes passed slowly.

Suddenly the radio crackled. “The chief engineer states he has no filters; he suggests you bypass the filter until you reach port,” the radio voice advised.