Clive Cussler - Poseidon's Arrow

Gunn smiled. “Maybe he can get me a new job, too.”

The bubbles beneath him grew larger until the two divers appeared. Gunn recognized Dirk and Summer as they swam to a dive ladder and climbed aboard.

“Hi, Rudi,” Dirk said. “Come to dive with us? The water’s warm.”

“No, thanks.” Gunn looked askance at the turbid water. “Any sign of the motor?”

“We found it sitting intact, still strapped to the flatbed truck,” Summer said. “It was somehow tossed clear of the other containers, and the Salzburg as well.”

“The flatbed’s pretty mangled, but I didn’t see any damage to the motor itself,” Dirk said. “The Spruance should easily be able to hoist it up.”

Gunn let out a sigh. “That’s great news. NUMA won’t have to pay for a new dam now,” he said, giving Pitt a sideways look.

“Not our area of expertise,” Pitt replied with a laugh. “The Canal Authority did agree to let us supervise the removal of the Salzburg from the ditch, so it looks like we’ll be enjoying the balmy local weather for some time.”

Gunn wiped his brow with a sleeve. “Count me out. But I would like to drag Dirk and Summer back with me to help report on the events that took place.” Gunn reached for his travel bag. “That reminds me, I have a package for you two that I was asked to deliver.”

He rummaged in his bag and retrieved a thin box, which he handed to Summer. She opened it and removed a lengthy handwritten letter clipped to a leather-bound journal.

As she skimmed the letter, Dirk eyed the box and noted the return address. “It’s from Perlmutter. What does St. Julien have to say?”

“He says we’re not going back to Washington with Rudi,” Summer said, looking at her father with persuasive eyes. “Instead, we’re to take a trip to Tierra del Fuego.”

83

THE MOUNT VERNON TRAIL WAS A PICTURE OF tranquillity south of Alexandria, with only the muted whir of light highway traffic nearby intruding its peacefulness. Just a few early-morning joggers and bikers were scattered along its riverfront route, pushing to complete their daily workouts before the business day began.

Dan Fowler pushed himself to sprint the last few steps of his three-mile run, crossing an imaginary finish line before slowing to a walk. He ambled to a nearby drinking fountain, where he lapped up a stream of cool water.

“Good morning, Dan. How was your run?”

Fowler choked, whirling around as water dribbled down his chin. His shock at hearing the familiar voice was evident as he turned to find Ann Bennett standing before him, dressed in her usual business attire.

“Ann . . . how are you?” he stammered.

“Just fine.”

“Where have you been? We’ve all been worried sick.”

“I had to take a little trip.”

“But you didn’t tell anyone. We’ve had the police searching for you. Is everything all right?”

“Yes. A personal matter came up rather unexpectedly.”

Fowler glanced around nervously, spotting only a few joggers and a man repairing a flat tire on his bicycle. “Are you alone? I feared you were in danger.”

“I’m fine. I just wanted to talk to you in private.”

“Sure.” Fowler eyed a grove of trees near the Potomac River that offered some seclusion. “Why don’t we walk?” He gently guided her off the trail.

“I had a lot of time to think about the case while I was away,” she said.

“You probably aren’t aware of the latest developments,” Fowler said, testing her. “Somebody hijacked one of the Sea Arrow ’s propulsion motors on its way to Groton.”

“Yes, I was aware of that. Are there any suspects?”

“No, the FBI hit a wall on the case.”

“I’m not surprised. Tell me, Dan, what do you know about the ADS system?”

“ADS? Isn’t that some sort of crowd-control device that the Army cooked up? I really don’t know much about it.”

“Cooked up is right.” Ann thought back to her first encounter with the device in New Orleans. “Didn’t you tell me you were with the Army Research Lab?”

“Yes, I did a short stint there. Why do you ask?”

“According to their personnel director, you managed the security for the Active Denial System program. In that capacity, you would have had access to all its plans. Perhaps you’d find it interesting to know that the Army is not alone in possessing the technology. As a matter of fact, Edward Bolcke has a unit on one of his ships.”

“What are you driving at, Ann?”

“Dan, how long have you been on Bolcke’s payroll?”

They were almost to the trees. Fowler smiled at Ann. “That’s preposterous. We both know that Tom Cerny at the White House is your likely turncoat. Ann, you really shouldn’t jump into the water if you don’t know how to swim.”

Ann ignored the insult. “Cerny was a good red herring. I bought into him for a while, until I reviewed his detailed security clearance. Despite your allusions, he has had no involvement with any military technologies that have been compromised. He also hasn’t set foot in Central America in over twenty years. He’s clean.”

Fowler said nothing as they reached the edge of the grove.

“On the other hand,” Ann said, “I just discovered that you were a founding partner of SecureTek, the security subcontractor that was later sold to Edward Bolcke.”

“You’re reaching now.”

“Am I? We’ve tracked financial payments that were wired from Bolcke’s company to a bank account in your name here in Washington.” This time she was bluffing, but she was confident that further investigation would prove as much.

Fowler kept walking, guiding her deeper into the trees. After a long pause, he said, “Suppose you’re right. Now what?”

“You’ll be tried for espionage and spend the rest of your life in jail.”

Safely obscured from view, Fowler lunged at Ann, cuffing her around the neck and slamming her against a large red oak.

“No,” Fowler said. “I think it ends here.”

Ann stood frozen against the tree as Fowler yanked a bandanna from his pocket and rolled it thin. Wrapping it around her throat, he pulled on the ends to strangle her.

She pushed against him, but he was too strong, pinning her against the tree with his legs. Her head spun, and she began to choke—then she heard a gruff voice from behind Fowler.

“Let her go!”

Fowler turned to see two men dressed as joggers aiming Glock pistols at his head.

The man he had seen fixing a bike came running up wielding an H&K submachine gun. “FBI,” he shouted. “You’re under arrest.”

Fowler slowly released his grip on Ann, letting the bandanna fall to the ground. One of the FBI agents yanked him away as another cuffed his hands behind his back.

Before he was dragged to a waiting car, Ann stepped close and looked him in the eye. “Dan, trust me on this one. I do know how to swim.”

84

THE SEAS OFF TIERRA DEL FUEGO WERE LIVING UP to their latitudinal nickname of the Furious Fifties. A strong westerly blew thick, heaving waves that broke with a boisterous flourish. Rifling currents added to the fury, shoving about the occasional stray iceberg that had drifted in from Antarctica. Over the centuries, these combined forces had carried many a ship to her grave in the frigid waters surrounding Cape Horn. All that was missing was a good williwaw—the sudden violent gusts that pounded the cape without warning.