Iris Johansen - Silent Thunder

She turned and headed for the hatch.

She was sitting on the deck, her arms linked around her knees, when he came out of the cabin ten minutes later. "You took a long time."

"I thought you needed it." He handed her the mug of coffee. "Black. That's how you take it, right?"

"How do you know that?"

"It's not exactly classified information." He sat down opposite her and leaned against the rail. "I guess I must have picked it up somewhere along the way."

"Along the way to where? From where? And why should you know anything about me?"

"We have a mutual acquaintance." He lifted his glass to his lips. "And I have a boundless curiosity."

"Drop this enigmatic crap. Am I supposed to guess what the hell you're talking about?"

"Enigmatic crap," he repeated. "Interesting phrase. It brings up a rather bizarre vision." He held up his hand as she opened her lips. "But I've no desire to indulge in that kind of pretentious bullshit. Life's too short, and by nature I'm basically a simple man."

She studied him. His words had the ring of truth, but she'd judge him to be nowhere near simple. "Yeah, sure."

He chuckled. "You're right. I own to being convoluted on occasion, but that's by choice, not by instinct. Sometimes it's necessary."

"Like it was necessary to follow Silent Thunder from port to port."

"Exactly." He sipped his whiskey. "And like it was necessary for you to try your hand at burglary."

"I wasn't going to steal anything. I just had to be sure-I had to eliminate possibilities and I thought I might-" She was defending herself again. She wouldn't put it past him to have manipulated her into that posture. All the time she had been talking to him, she'd been aware of the easy confidence, the presence, and the sense of power he emitted. "There was a chance that you might be a reporter or someone else completely innocent."

"I haven't been innocent since I was nine years old. But reporters are seldom completely innocent either. I might be-"

"A reporter who's familiar with those Samsovian coordinates? A reporter who knew coordinates were scribbled on the bulkhead even though it wasn't public knowledge? A reporter who's lived on this boat for at least the last three years? A reporter who knows I drink black coffee?"

He was silent a moment. "You've been asking questions. Young Sarks?"

"He was helpful."

"I imagine he was. He likes the pretty ladies."

"And he says they like you."

"Of course, they do. Most women have tender hearts." He smiled mockingly. "And I'm obviously a pitifully lonely man. All I have to do with my life is follow an old submarine around."

There was nothing pitiful about this man. If women were drawn to him, it was because of the mature strength and confidence he exuded. "You're joking. But I know it was you following the sub. Why?"

He didn't answer.

"Dammit, you said that you'd give me what I want. I do know enough to make it difficult for you. I'll go to every newspaper in town, I'll talk to the police. I'll go to Congressman Preston and let him swing his weight around. I'll follow you and dog your footsteps until you-"

His phone rang.

"Pardon me for interrupting this fascinating oratory. I'll be right with you." He answered the phone and listened. "Yes, you're right, she probably did learn too much for comfort from those media files. I'll take care of it right away. As a matter of fact, she's sitting four feet away from me right now." He listened again. "Stop sputtering. I've no intention of disposing of her. Though your clumsiness almost succeeded in doing that several times. If you'd stopped her before she got to this point, I might have left it in your hands. Now she's mine, Bradworth." He hung up.

She inhaled sharply. "Bradworth?"

"Drink your coffee. It will get cold."

"Screw the coffee. You're working with Bradworth?"

"No, but we're working toward a common goal on parallel paths." He tilted his head consideringly. "Maybe."

"Then you're with the U.S. government?"

"No."

"The Russian government?"

"Absolutely not." He got to his feet. "I believe it may be a good idea for us to up anchor and take a little voyage down the coast if you want to talk. Bradworth may be nervous and send someone to check to make sure I haven't dropped you overboard."

"How can I be sure you won't?"

"Get off and walk away." He started the engine. "It's up to you."

But he knew she wouldn't do it, she realized in frustration. She could see it in his expression, the confidence in the way he moved. He was totally in control of himself and his whole damn world.

"I'm out of here. In another minute you won't have a choice," he said. "Make up your mind."

"Shut up." She got to her feet. "I'm not going anywhere, and you know it. Get going, you arrogant son of a bitch."

Twenty minutes later he anchored at a cove down the coast and turned to face her. "Here we are. Deserted. Dark. Lonely. Just the place for me to ply my fiendish way with you."

"Is that supposed to intimidate me? You sound more like a rapist than a murderer."

He snapped his fingers. "Foiled again. It's the nuances of the English language. There are far too many subtleties."

"And you're neither English nor American, are you?" She stared skeptically at him. "Henry Danforth?"

"That's what my driver's license says."

"Papers can be easily forged. Particularly by someone with connections with government agencies."

"You believe Bradworth furnished me with them?"

"Did he?"

"Yes." He opened the door of the hatch. "As well as quite a few other identities. I'm a man of a thousand passports. Well, maybe not a thousand but certainly several. Danish, French, Italian…"

"But you're Russian."

"Oh, yes. I have a Russian passport too."

"Under what name?"

"Nicolas Kirov."

"And is that your true name?"

"Of course not." He started down the steps. "You might as well come down and let me freshen your coffee. It's chilly out here, and the security blanket factor's gone for you."

She followed him. "You're not going to tell me your real name?"

"I didn't say that." He crossed the cabin and poured coffee into two mugs. "I'll probably have to share a few items of information with you. But I'm a private man, and you mustn't expect a bonanza to pour forth in a glorious waterfall."

"I already know Bradworth is our mutual acquaintance. But I can't see him sharing information about the way I drink my coffee."

"No, it wasn't in your dossier. But I spent a little time observing you and probably stored it away. I don't have a photographic memory like you, but I've trained myself to remember details." He handed her the coffee. "You like everything plain and straightforward. Your job, your relationships… your coffee."

"Observing me? What the hell were you doing watching me?"

"You were working on the Silent Thunder ," he said simply. "I had to keep an eye on you."

"Why?"

"It was possible you'd stumble across something you weren't meant to find. I had to be there."

"To save Conner and me?"

He didn't answer.

"You bastard. You and Bradworth were sitting there waiting for something to happen, waiting for them to come. Isn't that true?"

He was silent a moment. "Bradworth set up the job with the museum. He thought it was worth the risk to get a qualified expert down there to take the sub apart. He thought I was wrong about the sub being followed. He could have been right."

"Followed by whom?"

"Pavski." He sat down and sipped his coffee. "Very ugly, very criminal, and very desirous of finding that map scrawled on the bulkhead."

"Why?"

"It would lead him to a payload that would set him up in a kingly fashion for the rest of his life."

"Buried treasure?"