Iris Johansen - Silent Thunder

"I don't think so, but we didn't have the luxury of time. Once we knew they'd found something, we had to move fast."

Pavski nodded. He wanted to blame Koppel, but knew things probably wouldn't have been different if he'd been there himself. They were lucky to have the plates they had. His gaze went back to the plates. These crude scratches could be worth billions, but that wasn't the point. Koppel didn't understand that those scratchings were more precious than mere monetary value. He didn't hear the call. He had no destiny other than to be a drone in the scheme of things. He pointed at a tiny symbol that resembled a cross within a circle on the bottom of the third plate. "And I don't think this is Samsovian."

"You're sure?"

He frowned. "No, not really. It does look familiar…" He forced himself to look away from the symbol. "No matter. We may have to find a way to correct any possible omission."

"How?"

"I'll have to contact Moscow and get Danzyl with the GRU to do a little work for me. And I have to confirm that last symbol isn't Samsovian. I'll get Dananka to check on that. And since Bradworth must be in contact with Kirov, you might try to tap his phone to get any information, including Kirov's number. He probably has relays, but you can never tell." His mind was moving, weighing possibilities. There might be a quicker way to get what he wanted than try to figure out this damn symbol. "You read the report I gave you on Hannah Bryson?"

"Of course."

"Then you realize how valuable she could be to us now."

"The photographic memory? You think she really can do that stuff? It seems… weird."

"I believe the possibility exists. It's documented in all her records."

"But we've already got the plates."

"Which very likely may be incomplete. I have to know if she's seen anything else resembling them on that sub. She may not even realize it herself. Even an extraordinary memory can be tricky…" But if he had the opportunity, he could make her remember. And if she was of no help to him, then he'd make sure she'd be of no help to anyone else. He'd had her interaction with Bradworth watched closely since the death of her brother, and the CIA man would have been sent scurrying if she'd given him any information about the plates. She'd clearly been traumatized, and that might pass. But it hadn't happened yet, and he still had a chance to stop her from giving anyone the information on those plates. "I have to make sure we're dealing properly with Hannah Bryson, Koppel."

"Properly? I was only waiting for instructions." He pulled out his cell phone. "I'll take care of it."

Bradworth was waiting by Conner's van in the museum parking lot when Hannah reached it. "I don't like the idea of you driving that distance alone. It's not smart."

"Your concern is touching." Hannah loaded an equipment case into the back of the van. "But those scumbags got what they wanted when they killed Conner. There's nothing in this van anyone could want."

Bradworth's jaw tightened. "Your crew stayed for the funeral, didn't they? One of them can drive the van back to Boston. There's no need for you to do it."

"Need has nothing to do with this. This was my brother's van, and I want to take it back myself." She glanced at the "Save Mission Bay" bumper sticker that Conner had lovingly maintained with White-out and Magic Markers long after the original finish had worn off. It was still incredibly hard to believe that she would never see him again. "So don't get in my way, Bradworth." She got into the driver's seat. "Or I'll run you down."

Bradworth watched the van drive out of the parking lot before he reached for his phone.

"She wouldn't listen to me, Kirov. She's driving the van herself."

"I didn't think she'd do anything you asked her to do. If she gets chopped, I'm not going to be pleased with you."

"Screw you. I'm handling it." He hung up the phone.

Let it go, Hannah thought as she pulled onto I-95 and headed south toward Boston. This trip wasn't supposed to be about Bradworth, she reminded herself. It was about Conner.

Since his death, she'd been consumed with logistics, helping Cathy plan his funeral and making the sad calls to his enormous circle of friends. Cathy and the kids had needed her, and she was glad to help. But now it was her turn to remember Conner, and she could think of no better way than to make one last journey in the van they had taken on so many assignments.

Everywhere she looked, Conner was there. In the shell necklace hanging from the rearview mirror. In the picture of Cathy, Ronnie, and Donna clipped to the sun visor. In his collection of reggae compact discs, neatly organized by artist.

He'd liked to torture her with that music, knowing she couldn't stand it any more than his wife and kids could. The bastard.

God, she missed him.

She drove for two hours, and it seemed that every rest stop and roadside diner held some memory of Conner. She'd not only lost a brother but a valued colleague. He had always been so quick to play down his abilities but he was a smart and resourceful partner who encouraged her to trust her instincts and push the envelope even when everyone else was telling her to be cautious. "You don't make history by playing it safe," he'd told her.

He always knew just what to-

A high-pitched shriek erupted from the rear of the van .

"What the hell." It startled her, but she recognized the sound immediately; an alarm from Conner's collection of test equipment. She must have accidentally switched it on while loading up the gear.

The alarm grew louder and more persistent… and annoying. She glanced back at the component racks to try to see which device it was coming from.

The minesweeper. Although it wasn't really used to detect mines, it was designed and built by Conner to detect hidden radio beacons on the ocean floor that relayed information about their secret test dives. The beacons were sometimes planted by foreign intelligence agents but just as often were the work of rival contractors who wanted to monitor their progress. It was always on standby, but Conner had made sure the frequency wouldn't let it go off if it detected police radar or a nearby radio station. Why the hell was it going off now?

It didn't matter. She had to get it to stop before it drove her crazy.

She pulled off the road into a gas station whose red-and-white gas pumps and soda-bottle vending machines made it look as if it had been frozen in the fifties.

She jumped out of the van and opened the back door of the van.

"Can I help you?"

She turned to see a thin, white-haired station attendant. He looked to be at least seventy, with faded blue eyes and ruddy complexion.

He smiled. "Heck of a racket you're making. I'm a pretty good mechanic, but I don't promise I can fix these newfangled car alarms. I'll give it a try, if you like."

Nice guy. "Thanks. I don't think I'll need any help, Mr.-" She looked at the name on his uniform shirt. Larry Simpson. "Mr. Simpson. If I can find it, I can fix it." She hit the gas cap switch. "Fill it up, please."

She climbed in the van and picked up the minesweeper. The pitch went up by a half octave. She frowned and waved it around the van. The pitch lowered as she moved it toward the rear, then heightened as she waved it toward the front. She shimmied between the two front seats, holding the minesweeper in front of her. The pitch went up another octave. She waved it over the dashboard, listening as the pitch wavered even more in her electronic game of hot and cold.

The passenger-side air-conditioning vent .

What the devil?

Affixed to the vent's top shutter, was a small black cylindrical object. She carefully pulled it out and saw that it was attached to six inches of thin black wire.