C. Graham - The Solomon Effect

Salinger said, “Looks like she’s alone. We can take over the place in a minute. She’ll never know what hit her.”

“No. This kid knows we’re after him. We don’t do anything that might spook him. We leave the place alone and wait. Let him come to us.”

Salinger watched, his eyes narrowing, as an old Lada crept down the nearby narrow road to disappear around a bend. “When’s Borz supposed to get here?”

“Tonight.”

Rodriguez watched the woman below stand up and stretch, the basin of peas balanced on one hip. She was built long and bony, with dark hair just beginning to go gray and a face lined by worry and hard work. She walked into the house, the door banging behind her. He said, “I want a tap put on her phone. Can you do that?”

“Easy.”

The woman reemerged. They watched her walk down the steps, a bucket in one hand.

“Think the kid’ll be stupid enough to call her?”

“He’ll call, or he’ll come. One way or the other, we nail him.”

Freiburg, Germany: Wednesday 28 October

10:35 A.M. local time

They unwrapped Herr Herbolt’s package in a shadowy, out-of-the-way pew of the münster.

“God bless Matt,” said Jax, quickly clipping the holstered Beretta inside the waistband of his chinos.

“Somehow it doesn’t seem right to be fawning over guns in a church,” whispered Tobie, eyeing the compact Beretta 9000 Matt had sent for her.

“I like guns a lot better than funerals-especially my own.” He picked up the small Beretta and held it out to her.

She made no move to take it. “You’ve seen my marksmanship records, right?”

He grinned and dropped the gun into her shoulder bag. “What marksmanship records? The military loves to hand out marksmanship medals. You’re the only person I’ve ever heard of who didn’t manage to score some kind of marksmanship commendation.”

“There are a few of us.” She slipped the strap of her bag over her shoulder and stared up at the brilliant jewel-toned stained-glass window beside them. “So how do we get to Altenwhatever?”

“Altenbruch. We take an InterCity Express train to Bremen, and then rent a car.”

She turned to look at him. “I didn’t think Jason Aldrich could rent a car anyplace that has computers.”

“He can’t. Which is why you’re renting the car.”

“Me?” A nearby group of tourists turned to frown at them. She realized she was shouting, and dropped her voice again. “On my own credit card?”

He pushed to his feet. “I’ll make sure the Company reimburses you.”

“And if we run into a bunch of bad guys and wreck it?”

“We won’t.”

“Right.”

She followed him down the nave and out into the weak autumn sunshine. “There’s no other way to do this?”

“Nope.”

She thought about it a minute, then sighed. “Okay. But I drive.”

“Fine. You drive.”

“I mean it. I drive.”

He laughed. “I get it. You drive. As long as you drive better than you shoot,” he added, then ducked when she swung her bag at his head.

St. Martin, Caribbean: Wednesday 28 October

9:00 A.M. local time

One of James Walker’s favorite toys was a gleaming one-hundred-and-ten-foot fiberglass Hargrave with a raised pilothouse. It was Catherine who’d christened the yacht the Harlequin. She’d wanted to keep it in the divorce, too, but all he’d had to do was whisper those magic words, “joint custody,” and she’d backed off in a hurry.

Carrying an aluminum case containing a carefully padded secret, Walker climbed aboard the Harlequin just after breakfast and nodded to his captain. “Ready to sail?”

“Yes, sir.”

Walker turned toward his stateroom. “Then let’s do it.”

Washington, D.C.

Boyd’s second day of testimony before Congress received a standing ovation. It was all bullshit, of course. But Boyd had learned early in his career that officers who told politicians what they wanted to hear got promoted; the fools who told the truth found other jobs.

He was smiling and shaking hands with the members of the Senate when Colonel Sam Lee leaned in close and whispered, “We need to talk.”

Boyd paused to acknowledge the congratulations of some grinning idiot who said, “You’ve convinced me, General. If the President can get this appropriation bill to the floor, it’s got my vote.”

“Why thank you, Senator. It’s good to know the military can count on your support.” Boyd clapped the Senator on the shoulder, then added quietly to Lee, “The coffee shop around the corner. Wait for me.”

Half an hour later, he found Lee sipping a cappuccino in a booth near the back of the shop, a half eaten muffin abandoned on the plate before him. Boyd ordered good old-fashioned coffee, black, then slid into the booth. “What have you got?”

“It’s about Ensign Guinness, sir.”

Boyd took a sip of his coffee, grimacing as the bitter, hot liquid slid down his throat. “What about her?”

“She was given her commission at the direction of Vice President Beckham himself.”

“Beckham? What’s that left-leaning son of a bitch got to do with anything?”

“She saved his life.”

Boyd frowned. “Are we talking about that incident last summer?”

“Yes, sir.” Lee leaned forward. “But this is where it gets interesting: she was recalled to active duty after getting a psycho discharge over some incident in Iraq.”

“So what’s she doing in the CIA?”

Lee dropped his voice even lower. “Remote viewing, sir.”

“What?” Boyd made a rude noise. “I think someone’s jerking your strings, Colonel. The Government got out of the hocus-pocus business more than ten years ago.”

“Yes, sir. But this isn’t a formal program; it’s a small project Beckham is running through Division Thirteen.” The Colonel paused. “She’s supposed to be very good at it, sir.”

Boyd threw back his head, his laughter coming loud and long. “You don’t really believe in that bullshit, do you?”

“I managed to access her viewing report.”

Boyd wasn’t laughing anymore. “And?”

Lee drew a folded sheaf of papers from his pocket and slid it across the table. “I printed it out, sir. I think you’d better look at it.”

Boyd hesitated a moment, then reached to close his fingers around the report. “Where are they now?”

The tic beside Lee’s eye was back, worse than ever. “Germany, sir.”

Altenbruch, Germany: Wednesday 28 October

6:00 P.M. local time

The U-Boot Archiv lay on a narrow street not far from the deep blue waters of the North Sea. By the time Tobie parked her rented red Jetta outside the small, steeply gabled yellow archives building, the sun had already slipped low enough in the sky to throw long shadows across the pavement.

The archives had officially closed hours before. But at their approach, a wizened face appeared at one of the windows. A moment later they heard the lock on the front door turn.

“Velcome,” said the ancient, white-haired wisp of a woman who opened the door for them. Neatly dressed in a white blouse with a round collar, a spruce green cardigan, and a plaid wool skirt, she stood about five feet high and couldn’t have weighed more than ninety pounds. In age, she might have been anywhere between eighty and a hundred. “I am Marie Oldenburg. I’ve been vaiting for you. Please, come in.”

She led them to a small office crowded with shelves and filing cabinets, all neatly ordered and gleaming with fastidious cleanliness. “Herr Herbolt tells us you are interested in U-114.”

“You know something about it?” asked Tobie, taking one of the seats the woman indicated.

“Yes, and no.” She sat behind a lovingly polished old desk, her gnarled hands folded before her. “I have been vorking in the archives for twenty years now, ever since Herr Bredow turned what vas once his private collection into a foundation. My husband, Hans, was a submariner, you see. He vas on U-648 when it disappeared on a mission in 1943. Ve haven’t yet discovered what happened to U-648. But ve have solved many riddles. Many riddles.”