C. Graham - The Solomon Effect

Jax wondered how the captain of a salvage ship all the way up in Kaliningrad got to be on such good terms with the owner of a Turkish shipbreakers yard, but all he said was, “Did you know he’s dead?”

The animation in the man’s swarthy, fleshy face slowly collapsed. “Dead? But…when did this happen?”

October said, “Saturday. Someone murdered the Yalena’s entire crew.”

Erkan stood very still. A gaunt, smoke-blackened man walked past, carrying a load of pipes on his shoulder. Erkan didn’t even turn his head.

Jax said, “When was the last time you talked to him?”

Erkan seemed to gather himself together. “Jasha?” He shrugged. “Last week. Maybe the week before. I don’t know. Why?”

“What can you tell us about the World War II U-boat he was salvaging?”

Erkan cast a glance at the U.S. Air Force officer waiting in the distance beside his car. “A German submarine? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Jax narrowed his eyes against the sun and gazed out over the milky, oil-fouled water. “That’s the problem with modern technology, you know. It makes it so hard to keep things private. In the last two days, you’ve left three messages on Baklanov’s voice mail. And you sent him a fax.”

The Turk’s head jerked up and back as he let out a hissing noise that sounded like sssk. “You’ll have to excuse me,” he said, turning back toward the ship. “I have work to do.”

Jax fell into step beside him. “What was on that U-boat that was so valuable? It wasn’t just the steel Baklanov wanted, was it?”

The Turk swung to face him again. “Since I don’t know anything about this submarine, how could I know about its cargo?” He gestured toward the idle crane, the Rolex watch on his wrist shining in the hot sun. “I have a serious situation here that I must deal with. You’ll have to excuse me.” He nodded to Tobie. “Miss Guinness.”

Jax stopped at the water’s edge. He was wearing a four-hundred-dollar pair of Forzieri handmade Italian leather loafers. No way was he getting those suckers wet. “If you change your mind, I’ll be at Pasaport Quay,” he called after the Turk. “Just don’t wait too long.”

Erkan waded deeper.

Jax raised his voice over the reverberations of hammers striking steel and the throb of the diesel engine. “Think about this: whatever was on that U-boat cost your friend and his crew their lives. Baklanov was involved with some seriously scary people. And when you’re dealing with people like that, even a little bit of knowledge can be a dangerous thing.”

“Erkan obviously doesn’t know anything,” said Lowenstein, thrusting a piece of pita bread in his mouth and chewing heartily.

They were eating meze at an outdoor café near Pasaport Quay, looking out over the wide sweep of the Gulf of Izmir. The sun sparkled on an achingly blue sea, the salty breeze blowing off the water was fresh, and Captain Lowenstein was still trying to hit on October.

Jax raised his Perrier to his lips and drank deeply. “He knows.”

Lowenstein’s sandy eyebrows went up in two contemptuous arcs. “So why aren’t you doing something?”

“I am.”

“Really? What?”

“I’m waiting for Erkan to change his mind.”

“I can’t believe you.”

“Got a better idea?”

Lowenstein leaned back and grunted in disgust, just as a passing waiter in a white dinner jacket discreetly slipped Jax a note.

Turning his back on Jax, Lowenstein said to October, “So where exactly are you stationed?”

“The Algiers Support Facility, in New Orleans.”

“Really? That’s fascinating.”

Quietly amused, Jax glanced down at scribbled writing. MEET ME AT 3:00 AT THE AGORA. COME ALONE.

Lowenstein said, “What do you do there?”

Before October could come up with an answer, Jax said, “How about you, Captain? Surely you have more important things to do than babysit a couple of people from Washington. Maybe go help the Turks bomb the Kurds or something?”

Lowenstein shifted his frosty blue stare back to Jax. “Right now my job is making sure you don’t kill anyone on my turf.”

Jax glanced at his watch. It was already a quarter past two.

He was aware of October staring at him in that still way she had. He met her gaze. He’d have sworn no one saw that adroit delivery of Kamil Erkan’s message. But she must have, because she suddenly gave Lowenstein a wide smile and said, “Walk out on the quay with me, will you?”

The Captain’s face broke into a grin that fell as he threw an uncertain glance at Jax.

Jax leaned back in his seat and yawned. “Don’t look at me. I’ve got a great view of the bay from right here.”

Lowenstein hesitated, torn.

“We won’t be long,” she said, cupping her hand beneath the Captain’s elbow and drawing him up with her.

Jax would have sworn she was a woman without an ounce of subterfuge or feminine guile. But as he watched her walk away with the Captain, he realized that in that, he had erred.

Washington, D.C.: Tuesday 27 October

7:30 A.M. local time

The two men walked along the Reflecting Pool in the Mall. A cold wind ruffled the waters beside them, splintering the image of the Washington Monument mirrored by the pool’s surface. Gerald T. Boyd clasped his hands behind his back and fixed his gaze on the towering obelisk before them. “So what have you managed to learn, Colonel?”

Colonel Lee cleared his throat. “I’m getting a little uncomfortable with this, sir.”

“Oh? How’s that?”

“I saw the station’s report on what happened in Berlin.” Lee hesitated, then pushed it out. “I didn’t realize I was setting Alexander up as a target.”

“Alexander made himself a target.”

“But…he’s CIA, sir. He’s one of ours.”

“You need to remember, Colonel: this operation is more important than one man. The very future of America is at stake here. We’re talking about the survival of our entire way of life. Freedom, democracy-everything we hold most dear. You do understand that, don’t you?”

“Yes, sir.”

A gust of wind buffeted the grass as a cloud half obscured the rising sun. Lee turned to stare down at the choppy waters beside them. Most people thought of the CIA and the Pentagon as two distinct organizations, and in many ways they were. But there were always a significant number of military personnel assigned to the CIA. In fact, by tradition either the Director of the Agency or his Deputy was always a general. Sam Lee might work for the CIA, but he was still an Army colonel. Which meant he not only owed his plum job at the Agency to Boyd; Boyd could destroy Lee’s entire future in a heartbeat, if he wanted to. And they both knew it.

Boyd said, “Where is Alexander now?”

A muscle began to tic beside the other man’s left eye. “Turkey, sir. Izmir. But I don’t think he’s planning to be there long.”

“Where’s he going next?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, keep on him. Is the Guinness woman still with him?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What have you found on her?”

“I’m working on it, General.”

Boyd grunted and turned toward the Capitol Building. “Work faster, Colonel.”

“Yes, sir.”

Izmir, Turkey: Tuesday 27 October 3:00 P.M. local time

The ruins of the ancient Greek agora lay on the slopes of a fortified mount known as Kadifekale, overlooking the city and the bay beyond. Once, this had been the commercial, judicial, and political heart of the ancient Greek city of Smyrna. Re-founded in fine style by Alexander the Great, the grand municipal buildings had been toppled by an earthquake, only to be rebuilt again by Marcus Aurelius. But that was nearly two millennia ago. Now it was just a collection of broken columns and underground vaults baking in the hot Mediterranean sun.