Iris Johansen - Silent Thunder

"Of course you do."

"Anything else?"

Hannah turned the bag upside down and shook it. "Nothing."

Kirov leaned back in the car seat and surveyed the objects on their laps. "Well, these should keep me busy this afternoon while I see what I can find out about this McClary fellow. We'll check into a motel and see what we can come up with."

Hannah nodded. "And I need to call Cathy back. She's left four messages on my voice mail."

What the hell are you doing?" Cathy asked curtly when she picked up the phone.

"I'm doing what we said we were going to do. I'm trying to find out what happened to Conner."

"I thought we were going to do it together."

"We are. It's just that it's gotten… complicated."

She was silent a moment. "Does complicated really mean dangerous?"

"Ronnie and Donna need you. You can't-"

"Don't tell me what I can or can't do, Hannah. Conner was my husband."

"I'm sorry."

"And who the devil is Kirov?"

Hannah went still. "How do you know about Kirov?"

"A United States congressman sat in my kitchen and told me, that's how. Your buddy Bradworth turned the screws on George to get him to talk to me. They said this man is using you to get what he wants, and he doesn't care if you get hurt or not."

Tell me something I don't know, Hannah thought. "Cathy, you have to trust me. I know what I'm doing."

"Who is this man?"

"He knows the people who killed Conner. He's been after them for a long time."

"Then why does he need you?"

"The Silent Thunder is at the center of it. I just don't know how yet."

"Hannah, he isn't who he says he is."

"What?"

"That's what George wanted me to tell you. George could see I wasn't hopping to do what he wanted, so he called me back this morning after talking to Bradworth and getting new ammunition. Bradworth said you think Kirov's real name is Ivanov?"

"Yes. That's not news, but I'm surprised-"

"Bradworth told George that his director received a phone call from an anonymous informant who said Ivanov was killed by Russian intelligence agents seven years ago."

Hannah took a long moment to absorb that before speaking. "Bradworth would have told me."

"He said the call came in this morning."

"Convenient. Too convenient. It's his way to smoke me out. He doesn't want me involved with Kirov."

" I don't want you involved in this, Hannah."

"I'm already involved. There's more going on here than Bradworth would ever tell us. I'm not going to come back until I find out everything."

"You really think he's lying?"

"I don't know. It would be an awfully big coincidence that they managed to uncover this about Kirov-make that Ivanov -at this particular time after working with him for years."

"But he said that-"

"Bradworth is CIA," Hannah cut in. "He could make black look white."

"We're about to find out. George says the CIA has sent a team to try to recover Ivanov's remains, but Bradworth's almost positive the man you're with is not who he says he is. Talk to him."

"I'm sure he can hear us now. Or he will, when this recording is played back for him."

Cathy was silent. "You think he bugged my line?"

"Yes. Good-bye, Cathy."

Hannah cut the connection. Shit.

She wanted to call Bradworth and grill the hell out of him, but she knew that was exactly what he wanted her to do. He clearly didn't want her working with Kirov, and he'd do or say anything to get his way.

But what if it was true that Ivanov was dead?

Bradworth wasn't above a convenient lie to get what he wanted, but neither was Kirov. Who the hell should she believe?

She slowly rose to her feet.

Well, there was one way to find out. Maybe it was time to put her freakish brain to work.

Her photographic memory had earned her a good deal of attention, dating back to her elementary-school days, when a terrified second-grade teacher was convinced she was channeling the spirits of U.S. soldiers killed in combat. Actually, she was merely showing off, scribbling entire pages from the Letters from Vietnam book she'd seen her father reading the previous evening.

While she always insisted that her talent was insignificant compared to the powers of creativity and reason, it had served her well over the years. If she got a good look at something, she could usually bring it back.

But no one realized it wasn't as easy as just snapping her fingers, she thought ruefully.

She walked over to the desk and sat in the narrow, straight-backed chair. She'd have to concentrate and let herself drift back to the night she arrived in Maine, allowing the sights, sounds, and smells wash over her.

No, that wasn't right. She'd examined the dossiers of the captain and first officer that first night sitting on the pier, but she hadn't glanced through the others until the next evening. She'd looked over the rest of the files while eating dinner alone at a diner down the street from the maritime museum. Conner had wanted to talk to Cathy and the kids while he was eating his sandwich, so he'd stayed at the sub.

She closed her eyes.

Picture the diner .

It was small, a dozen tables at the most. Blue-and-white-checkered curtains, hardwood floors, and suspended lighting fixtures with glass tulip bulbs at the ends. A small counter stood across from the door.

She'd sat at a table near the far side of the counter. The files were stacked in front of her, on the other side of her plates and plastic drinking glass. She'd lifted the files one at a time, glanced at the cover page, then put them down in a second pile.

See the names .

She couldn't. They weren't clear enough yet.

She'd heard burgers sizzling on the grill. The young cook cursed as hot grease spattered onto his arms.

She took a whiff of the fries cooking in the fryer. Damn, they smelled good.

See the names .

Andre Kolonchovsky. Tevye Soldonoff. Lucius Dannisaya…

It was working. Each file was more visible and detailed than the last.

Danique Relyea, Garen Totenkolpa, Poul Farenevla…

The diner's door opened and shut, ringing a tiny copper bell attached to the frame.

It had to be here somewhere .

Vladmir Yaltsin, Dimitri Ivanov…

Ivanov!

She stopped and pictured the file folder in her hands. Wrinkled manila, soft from wear.

Focus on the file page.

Perfect. Clear as day…

Dammit.

Cathy hung up the phone after twice trying to dial Hannah back and having it go to voice mail. Hannah must have turned off her phone. She'd probably realized that Cathy wouldn't give up on the argument.

"Mama, will you read me a story?"

"Not now, Donna, I have to-" She broke off as she raised her head and saw Donna standing in the doorway. She was carrying her favorite book of fairy tales, and she was actually looking tentative. Her Donna who was always a whirlwind of activity and confidence. She smiled. "Sure, that would be fun. Which one?"

" 'Beauty and the Beast.' " She came over to the couch and plopped down beside Cathy. "I like the beast better than the other princes. He's not boring."

"No, he's not." She pulled her into the curve of her arm and brushed the straight, fair hair back from her daughter's forehead. "Suppose we do it together? It's always better that way. You need to practice reading the story yourself."

"That's what I told her." Ronnie stood in the doorway, frowning. "She wasn't supposed to bother you. I told her I'd read it to her."

"I'm not bothering her," Donna said defensively. "She likes fairy tales. That's why I picked this book." She looked up at Cathy. "You do like it, don't you?"

"I like reading with you. It's one of my favorite things." Cathy held out her hand to Ronnie. "Come on and sit with us. I haven't had a chance to be with you today."