Acts of Vengeance

CHAPTER SIXTEEN THE MOLE

Lt. Dimitri Popov, the new executive officer, entered the control room and came to where Manilov was jotting on his notepad.

Manilov put down his pen. “Yes, Lieutenant?”

Popov looked nervous. “Captain, the men have requested that I…” His voice faltered.

“What is it, Popov? What do the men want?”Here it comes again, Manilov thought.

The officer swallowed hard and resumed. “They do not wish to seem disloyal. But they would very much like to know what will happen to them when we complete this mission. Where will we go, and what will we do with the Mourmetz?”

Manilov nodded. These were legitimate questions, ones that had nagged at him since they left the yard in Vladivostok. Whenever the problem drifted unbidden into his thoughts, he always came up with the same answer. He had no idea.

But that would not please the crew.

The truth was, Manilov did not want to think about it. He was approaching the single culminating moment of his life. All that had happened to him in the past nineteen years was a prelude to the events of the coming hour. He had no thought of living beyond today. To make plans for tomorrow, next week, to plot an escape to some balmy paradise would only undermine his resolve. He had to remain focused.

To carry out his mission, he needed the crew of the Mourmetz. They must believe that they would live through this day, that their lives would go on.

“You may tell them that we will escape with the Mourmetz and sail to a neutral port,” Manilov said. “I have selected a place where the boat can eventually be reclaimed by its, ah, owners.”

“And the crew, sir? What will become of them?”

“We will be met by representatives of Al-Fasr, who will deliver to us our remuneration for the mission. His agents will organize travel, clothing, new passports, that sort of thing. It has all been arranged.”

Popov was nodding his head, pleased with the information. “This neutral port, Captain. May we know which neutral port? Capetown, perhaps? Mombasa?”

“It is best that we not divulge that information, since we are entering a combat situation.”

Popov seemed satisfied with the answers, unaware that Manilov was inventing them on the spot. “I will tell the men. They will be greatly relieved to hear this.”

“Thank you, Mr. Popov.” He watched the executive officer stride out of the control room.

“Close the door,” said Boyce.

Maxwell shoved the door closed, then sank into a chair at Boyce’s conference table. He had been en route to the flag intel compartment for debriefing when Boyce snatched him and pulled him into the office.

They were alone in the air wing office. Boyce clamped down on his cigar and said, “I’m writing you a letter of reprimand for violating the rules of engagement.”

Maxwell looked at him, too tired to protest.

“You would have gotten a court-martial, but none of the pussies on flag staff seems to comprehend what you actually did. Fletcher won’t make an issue of it because he wants another star. He knows he can kiss it good-bye if some reporter digs up another Mogadishu story about him being responsible for GIs trapped in Yemen.”

“So why am I getting a letter?”

“For the record. Off the record, I’m throwing it in the shit-can. Also off the record, what you did out there was exactly what I expected you to do. I’m pleased, and I’m sure Colonel Gritti is pleased. How’re you feeling?”

“Terrific. Haven’t felt so good since I had dysentery.”

“Too bad. After they finish debriefing you upstairs, go get yourself checked out by the flight surgeon. Then get some rest and be ready to fly again. We’re not finished with this mess in Yemen, and I’m gonna need you. By the way, how’s your wingman? I mean wingperson, or whatever the hell she is. You know what I mean. I’ll never get used to this gender shit.”

“B.J.’s okay. Except for the gunshot wound.”

“The what wound? From…?”

Maxwell hoisted his Colt .45. “From this.”

Boyce was giving him a strange look. He shoved the cigar into his mouth and tilted back in his office chair. “Either I’m getting senile, or I’ll swear you’re gonna tell me you shot your own wingman.”

Maxwell poured himself a coffee. While Boyce gnawed the end off his cigar, Maxwell told him about the SA-16 hit, the ejection, then about the German mercenary pilot. He recalled for Boyce what Rittmann had said about the Reagan and about Al-Fasr having an informer aboard.

When he was finished, Boyce removed the cigar and said, “Un-fucking-believable. Then you had to go and shoot the sonofabitch.”

“It was him or B.J.”

“You got the daily double. Remind me to schedule you for remedial training on the shooting range.”

With the other evacuees, Claire stepped onto the windswept deck, blinking in the bright daylight. It was the same surreal tableau she had left behind two days ago — howling engines, clouds of steam billowing from catapult tracks, men in colored jerseys and cranial protectors scurrying between airplanes, jets hurtling off the bow.

They were herded across the deck, through a door into the island structure. After they had removed their headgear and flotation vests, a chief petty officer led them to a briefing room. Another twenty civilians were there. Claire recognized several of the reporters from Aden, including Lester Crabtree.

They were still asking each other questions when the chief barked out, “Attention on deck!”

Into the compartment strode a tall man in khakis with an eagle on each collar. Claire recognized Sticks Stickney, captain of the Reagan. Stickney saw her and gave her a quick smile.

“Welcome to the USS Reagan,” Stickney said to the group. “Chief Harkins will give you your berthing assignments. We’re short of accommodations, I’m afraid. The women will be doubling up in staterooms, and the men will be billeted in temporary quarters we’ve set up on the O-3 level. For those who haven’t been aboard a Nimitz — class carrier before, notice that there is a diagram with a map on how to get around. In the event I find it necessary to call the ship to general quarters, everyone aboard the ship — including guests — will go immediately to their battle stations. Yours happens to be right here. Please make it your business to know how to find this compartment.”

The civilians all nodded, some grinning uncertainly.

“There is a list of areas that are off-limits. You will see these marked on the diagram in red. No one will be permitted to enter these areas without an escort.”

More nods, a few more uncertain grins.

“For the media personnel, individual clearances have been issued for each of you. Note that there will be a mandatory press briefing at ten-hundred each morning in this compartment so long as you’re aboard. Any of you who misses the briefing or is discovered in a restricted area without specific consent from me will be confined to your quarters, under guard, until you can be offloaded from the ship. Any questions?”

They stared back at the captain. No one was grinning now.

A man raised his hand. “Captain, that seems rather draconian. Does that mean we’re at war?”

Stickney gave him a thin smile. “What it means, sir, is that we are on a heightened readiness status. Which is also why each of your dispatches must be cleared through our public affairs office.”

The man rose to his feet. “That’s censorship. We happen to represent the free press, and this is a breaking story. We have a right to report the news as we see it.”

This time Stickney wasn’t smiling. His eyes drilled into the reporter, trying to read his name tag. “Mr.…?”

“Crabtree. Lester Crabtree, Reuters.”

“Mr. Crabtree, you are a guest aboard this vessel because you’ve been evacuated from a hostile country, courtesy of the U.S. Navy. If you attempt to transmit one byte of information that has not been cleared by me, I will have you locked in the brig. If this conflicts with your sense of a free press, I will make arrangements for your immediate return to Yemen. Is that your wish, sir?”

A look of shock passed over the reporter’s face. “No,” he muttered, and sat down.

Spook Morse, Maxwell couldn’t help noticing, had eyes like a ferret. The intelligence officer’s tiny brown eyes were darting from one person to the other at the conference table.

“I’ll remind you that this is a debriefing, Commander Maxwell,” said Morse. “I get to ask the questions.”

The combination of fatigue and frustration was catching up with Maxwell. All he wanted to do now was reach across the table and seize Morse by the neck.

As if reading his thoughts, Boyce spoke up. “Everyone should bear in mind that Commander Maxwell has been under considerable stress,” he said. “Let’s just get on with the debriefing, Spook.”

Morse flashed the briefest of smiles, then continued. “Beginning with when you ejected from your aircraft. How did you happen to find this mercenary pilot, Rittmann?”

“I didn’t. He found me. I was still putting my gear together, getting ready to move out. He showed up and held me at gunpoint.”

“What happened then?”

Maxwell related the story about Rittmann’s interrogation and the knife, and the timely appearance of B. J. Johnson.

Morse was making notes on a yellow pad. He looked up and said, “After you and Lieutenant Johnson had Rittmann in your custody, what did you do?”

“We asked some questions.”

“I see,” said Morse. “You consider yourself an intelligence specialist, do you?”

Maxwell felt his temper flaring again. He received a nudge in the ribs from Boyce. He took a deep breath and said, “I considered myself a downed pilot in serious trouble. It seemed possible that Rittmann might have information that would keep us alive.”

“And what, exactly, did he tell you?”

At this Maxwell paused. He felt Boyce’s eyes on him. In his mind Maxwell could see Rittmann, bitter and cynical, glowering at him in the darkness.

“Go ahead, Commander Maxwell. What did Rittmann tell you?”

“He described the Al-Fasr order of battle. He thinks six MiGs, maybe four left, ten or fifteen APCs, six Dauphin choppers, and a large supply of SA-16 missiles.”

Morse was scribbling furiously. “Did he say where the MiGs came from?”

“Libya, via Chad.”

“Did he say where the MiGs launched from when they pounced our strikers?”

“He claimed they came from Eritrea. I was working on that when he told me about the Reagan.”

“What about the Reagan?”

“He said that Al-Fasr intended to sink it.”

Morse looked up from his notepad. “He wasn’t serious?”

“Very serious. He said that Al-Fasr hates the U.S. Navy, and his ultimate goal is to sink a carrier.”

This brought a chuckle from the intelligence officer. “How did he say this feat would be accomplished?”

“He said he didn’t know. I pressed him on it, but he clammed up. Soon after that was when he grabbed Lieutenant Johnson, and I had to shoot him.”

Morse’s eyes were locked onto Maxwell. “Did it occur to you that Rittmann was a valuable intelligence source? Why did you kill him?”

That exceeded Maxwell’s limit. He glowered at Morse and said, “Because he pissed me off.”

Boyce intervened again. “That’s enough. We’ve been over that. He already told you he shot the sonofabitch because it was the only way to save Lieutenant Johnson. You have obviously run out of intelligent questions. It’s time that Brick got some sleep.”

Without waiting for Morse to object, Boyce rose from the table and Maxwell followed. They left the intel compartment, closing the door behind them.

In the passageway, Boyce glanced around, making sure they were alone. “Why didn’t you tell him what Al-Fasr said about having intelligence sources aboard the Reagan?”

Maxwell shook his head. “I don’t know. Something, a gut feeling maybe. You said Morse already suspects a spy on the Reagan?”

“Yeah. Are you saying you think it might be him?”

“No. But it’s possible, isn’t it? In any case, we can assume it’s someone who knows what Morse is doing. If he’s running a witch-hunt, the real mole will know it. If he hears what Rittmann said, he’ll go deeper underground.”

Boyce rubbed his chin. “Okay, here’s how it’s going down. Not exactly the approved routing, but I’ll take the heat for it later. I’ll relay the whole package of what we know directly to my old boss, Admiral Riley, at the National Security Agency, and let him deal with it. If he wants to handle it without getting our flag intel in the loop, that’s his call. We’re off the hook.”

Maxwell nodded his head wearily. “Then can I hit Spook Morse?”

“No. You can hit the rack. That’s an order.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

Fletcher gazed through the thick-paned glass of the flag bridge compartment. The darkness over the Arabian Sea was almost total. No stars, no moon, not even lights along the Yemeni coast. To the south lay the horn of Africa, black and inscrutable beneath the invisible horizon.

Fletcher was in a contemplative mood. For once, briefly at least, he was free of the troublesome presence of Whitney Babcock, who had retired to his stateroom to handle some classified message traffic. Traffic with whom? Chief of Naval Operations? The Joint Chiefs? The President, perhaps?

Or the terrorist, Al-Fasr?

It was a joke, he thought. He was the Carrier Battle Group Commander — the ultimate combat post for a naval officer — and here he was, subservient to a civilian with less military experience than most of his teenage sailors. Babcock conducted briefings with CNO, the Joint Chiefs, and the Joint Task Force Commander for Southwest Asia — without Fletcher’s participation.

Most amazing, though, was how Babcock had maintained control of the operation. With the initial go-ahead from Washington to launch a strike against Al-Fasr, Babcock had insisted that it be a Navy show, with minimal participation by Air Force or Army units. Fletcher could imagine the bitching going on at the Air Force tactical fighter bases in Saudi, and inside the Army’s elite Delta force. They had been excluded from the show.

Gazing out at the darkness, a feeling of dread passed over Fletcher. Against his judgment, he had let Babcock establish the rules of engagement. He had been in the Navy long enough to know what would happen next. Inevitably he would be summoned to account for the losses they suffered in Yemen. America hated body bags.

He had presented his concerns to Babcock. As usual, Babcock was dismissive. “The objective is worth the price.”

“I’ve lost over a dozen American lives and six vastly expensive aircraft. May I ask what objective is worth that sacrifice?”

“A strategic objective, not a tactical one. It’s not your job to devise strategy, Admiral, just implement tactics. All you need to know is that the southern Arabian peninsula is a region of far greater importance than you can appreciate. What we’re accomplishing here will affect the future of America.”

Fletcher had not been pleased with the answer. Nevertheless, he kept his silence.

“Excuse me, Admiral.” Fletcher’s thoughts returned to the present. He turned to look at Meyers, a lieutenant commander on his staff. “The new op plot that you ordered is ready.”

Fletcher slid his half-frames down over his nose and gave the plot a quick scan. The plot included a depiction of the Arabian Sea and its surrounding coastlines. Symbols and arrows denoted the location and direction of each element of the battle group as well as their projected positions.

Fletcher traced with his finger the courses of the Reagan and the amphibious assault ship Saipan, the two leviathans of the battle group. At 0300 they would turn in place and cruise westward to a position near the mouth of the Red Sea, above the Greater Horn of Africa. Eight other warships, including the Aegis cruiser Arkansas, would assume new positions in the formation.

He noted the coordinates of the new position, then grunted his approval. It would be sent, as it was every day, by satellite UHF to the commanding officers of each ship in the battle group.

Fletcher scribbled his initials at the bottom of the op plot and handed it back to Meyers. “Transmit it encrypted to all elements. Copy Fifth Fleet and JTF.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

The compartment allotted to the working press contained three steel chairs and a standard Navy gray desk. On the desk was a single military-issue ship’s telephone.

When the other reporters had gone, Claire pulled up one of the chairs and telephoned the air wing office. A yeoman grilled her about who she was and why she wanted to speak with the Air Wing Commander.

She heard Red Boyce’s booming voice. “Claire Phillips? How the hell did you get back aboard the Reagan? You’re amazing.”

“I’m a reporter. I get paid to be amazing.” She told him about Aden and San‘a and the noncombatant evacuation.

“What can I do for you?”

“Tell me what happened to Sam Maxwell. I know he was shot down.”

There was a long silence, and Claire’s anxieties started kicking in again. Please, God, let him be okay.

“Where are you now?”

She told him.

“I’ll be right down.” His voice seemed oddly casual, as if he were enjoying himself. “I have some news that may interest you.”

In accordance with Admiral Fletcher’s orders, the updated op plot was transmitted to all elements of the Reagan battle group.

Thirty minutes later, a figure emerged on the viewing deck, aft of the island superstructure on the Reagan. The carrier was slicing through the Gulf of Aden at a speed of fifteen knots, but the impression from high up on the island, 120 feet above the water, was one of motionlessness. The ship seemed suspended in a black void, swept by an invisible breeze.

For several minutes the man stood with his hand on the rail, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness. He wanted to be sure that he was alone. Sometimes at night he encountered strangers — sailors gazing at the stars or listening to music or, as he’d seen one night, sipping prohibited alcohol.

It was possible, he supposed, that he could be watched by observers using night-vision equipment. But all they would see would be a man using some sort of device — a tape or CD player, a radio, a stargazing scope. If danger was imminent, he could always throw the device over the rail.

Merely possessing the SatPhone, of course, did not implicate him in espionage. Even though the use of such a device was prohibited aboard Navy ships at sea, he could claim ignorance. The phone was a commercial product, manufactured in the United States. Ironically, it utilized the same constellation of satellites the U.S. Navy employed for the transmission of their own secret data. The only additional feature installed in his phone was the scrambling software, which was also a commercial product.

He extended the antenna and punched in a twelve-digit number. After fifteen seconds, he heard a sequence of beeps. He was connected.

From his inner pocket he retrieved the document. Using a red penlight, he read the data from the op plot into the phone. When he was finished, he waited until he received another series of beeps.

Received and acknowledged.

He tore up the document, then made balls of the shredded pieces and let the wind carry them into the blackness of the Gulf.

From the end of the table in the flag conference compartment, Fletcher glowered at Vitale and Morse. “This is unbelievable. Someone passing our op plots as soon as we write them? Explain to me how that can happen.”

Morse said, “The technicians down in surface watch who monitor the emissions from the battle group just alerted us. Their RF scan was picking up stuff in a format that didn’t come from us. The transmissions are scrambled, but there’s no doubt they contain classified data about our movements.”

“What ship is it coming from?”

“Right here. the Reagan.”

“What kind of transmissions?”

“Some kind of commercial phone, they think. Iridium, Global Star, SatPhone, one of those. We don’t know which yet.”

“How long has this been going on?”

“Longer than we’d like to think. It might explain how Al-Fasr has anticipated our operations at every turn.”

Fletcher slammed a fist onto the table. “All this high-tech equipment we invent to protect our secrets, and someone can blab them to the enemy like they had their own goddamn private line.”

For a moment, the room was silent. It was not Fletcher’s style to use obscenities — he liked his image of a southern gentleman — but his anger was spilling over. “How can someone transmit secrets from one of our ships without our knowing it?”

Vitale and Morse looked at each other, neither having an answer. Vitale said, “I’ve instructed the surface watch officer to set up a scan that will alert us as soon as he transmits. In the meantime Spook has narrowed our list down to a handful of possibles — those with access to classified data — and we’re running checks on them.”

“That’s what you said before. You still haven’t caught anybody. What did ONI say when you reported the intelligence leak?” ONI was the Office of Naval Intelligence, located in Suitland, Virginia.

Vitale pulled a printout from the stack in front of him. “They passed it to NSA, and a counterespionage team is on its way to the Reagan. They should be aboard by tomorrow.” The NSA — National Security Agency — was the intelligence unit responsible for cryptology and security of sensitive information.

“What kind of team?” asked Fletcher.

“FBI, CIA, probably. Might include a cryptologist, a computer hacker, guys with special tools.”

Fletcher turned to gaze out the window of the flag bridge. He saw only blackness. No horizon, no distinction between the overcast sky and the dark void of the ocean.

Spies. Moles. Agents. The whole thing was incomprehensible to him. People aboard his ship with telephones communicating via satellite? What the hell had naval warfare come to?

Gritti looked at his defenses and nodded in approval. He didn’t have many advantages over the enemy, but at least the terrain was in his favor. The ground sloped away to the north, where the Sherji had their guns and armor concealed in a grove of trees. They were too far away to be reached with mortars, but he had a solution for that.

He guessed they had waited until nightfall, thinking the perimeter would be easier to breach. It was a blessing. Under cover of darkness he would deploy patrols outside the perimeter, including mortar teams. If the Sherji got to the perimeter, they could find themselves attacked from behind as well as frontally.

He finished his tour of the team’s positions and hunkered down beneath the boulder where he had established a command post. Inside the makeshift shelter were Master Sergeant Plunkett and Captain Baldwin.

“Snipers?” Gritti asked.

“In place, covered the best they can be,” answered Plunkett. “Two with M-forties and two Barrett teams.”

“Keep ’em moving. Two rounds max; then change cover.”

“Yes, sir,” said Plunkett. “They know their job.”

Gritti smiled at the mild rebuke. Plunkett was right. Marine snipers were not only professional marksmen, they were masters of camouflage and concealment. The snipers were essential to any chance they had of surviving another attack. If they could pick off the Sherji’s leaders and point men from a great distance, it might strike a little terror into them. Maybe change their minds about dying for Allah.

The M40A1 sniper rifle was a hellish weapon. The heavy-barreled gun could reach out a thousand yards and nail a ten-inch target. Even more hellish was the Barrett M82A1A fifty-caliber special-purpose rifle. In the hands of a trained marksman, the Barrett could stop targets as large as a truck.

Gritti saw that the wind, though light, was out of the south. Another advantage.

“Be ready with the smoke,” he told Baldwin. “If they start shelling, we lay the smoke and get the fire teams deployed. Maybe we can surprise the sons of bitches with mortars and a couple of ambushes.”

“Yes, sir.”

If the Sherji waited until sunrise and began their attack in broad daylight, Gritti would put down a thick blanket of smoke. Under the smoke, the marine fire teams would move out.

Would it work? Probably not, Gritti thought. But it would be sweet. Since they’d landed in this shitty place, it had been Al-Fasr, time after time, who had delivered the surprises. Now it was their turn.

Waiting for the battle to begin, Gritti sensed the same old doubts nagging at him. He had fifty able marines. Against how many? Several hundred, perhaps more. The Sherji would whittle at them until the core of their fighting strength was nil.

Is it worth it?

It was not too late. He could still show a white flag.

No. The thought of surrender was unacceptable to him. Not while they could fight, not while they could inflict pain and death on the enemy.

Gritti checked his watch. Dawn was coming soon. He wondered what Al-Fasr was thinking. Would the Sherji wait for daylight?

Would he? Hell, no.

As if triggered by the thought, the first rumble from the valley below reached him. It sounded like a thunderclap. A fifty-seven millimeter, he guessed.

Claire took a deep breath, then knocked on the stateroom door.

She had a cute little speech prepared, something to the effect that he ought to let her know before he went off on a hiking excursion in the Middle East. He ought to be more considerate than to leave a girl without telling her when he was coming back. It was supposed to be funny.

Then a panicky thought. I look like utter hell.

She should have taken the time to fix her hair, put on some makeup. She was still wearing the torn pantsuit that made her look like a refugee, which, of course, she was. After learning from Red Boyce that Sam was alive, she had run directly to —

The door opened.

He had been asleep, and judging by the lined face and reddened eyes, he needed it. He was wearing a white T-shirt and warmup shorts. His left arm was bandaged from something.

Maxwell’s face broke into a happy grin. “Claire!”

The cute little speech vaporized. She threw herself into his arms. The words tumbled out. “Sam, Sam… I thought I’d lost you… I missed you so much…”

He held her until she’d run out of words, ignoring the curious officers walking past the doorway. Then he pulled her inside and closed the door. He took her face in his hands and kissed her.

She pressed herself against him. For a precious moment they were finally together. She was safe and Sam was safe and nothing — not Yemen, not the Navy, not Jamal Al-Fasr — mattered.

For a long while he continued holding her. He stroked her as he nuzzled her neck. Her own numbing fatigue melted away. She held him tightly, wanting him.

He tilted her chin back and looked at her. “I believe we’ve reached the point where I’m supposed to tear your clothes off and take you to bed.”

“I believe we’re aboard a U.S. naval vessel, Commander.”

She knew the Navy’s position on the matter. Intimate relations aboard a naval ship were taboo. But they were alone, the door was closed, and she didn’t give a damn about the Navy’s taboos.

Maxwell seemed to be going through his own thought process. He kept his hands on her shoulders, regarding her with those icy blue eyes. “I’m the guy who tells his people not to do this.”

“Is making love to me in your stateroom a bad thing?”

“It is if you’re the squadron skipper.”

Claire sighed. That was what was so contradictory about Sam Maxwell. He had no problem breaking rules, but he refused to be a hypocrite about it.

“Will we still spend a week together when this is over?”

“Anywhere you want.”

“Doesn’t matter as long as I’m with you. And it’s not in Yemen.” She shivered, the memories of her last night in San‘a coming back to her. “Hold me, Sam. I’m afraid. Something bad is happening, and I don’t know what it is.”

He tousled her hair. “You’re safe now.”

“I don’t know what safe means anymore.”

While he held her, she blurted the whole story — San‘a, Vince Maloney, his revelation about Al-Fasr and Whitney Babcock. And the car bomb.

Maxwell didn’t speak. She wondered if he understood what she had told him.

Finally he said, “We have to tell this to someone. The part about Al-Fasr and Babcock.”

“To whom? The intelligence officer? What’s his name — Morse?”

He shook his head. “Not yet. I want you to tell this to Red Boyce, verbatim, exactly like you just told me.”

“Do you think it could be true, the part about Babcock making a deal with Al-Fasr?”

A cloud passed over Maxwell’s face. “It fits.”

“Why is Babcock letting the press cover the story now? After kicking us off before?”

“Publicity. Self-glorification. He thinks the situation is almost wrapped up, and he wants to make sure you portray him as the brilliant leader who took command and made it happen. While you’re aboard this ship, he can control whatever information is dispensed to you.”

She nodded. “Then that’s why we had that little briefing this morning. The message seemed to be that we had better give him plenty of camera time; otherwise we’d find ourselves back in a tent at the Aden airport.”

She shivered again. The accumulated stress of the past two days was bearing down like a weight on her. She put her head on his chest. “Sam, I never thought I’d miss you so much.”

He took her in his arms, stroking her hair…

Thunk. Thunk.

Maxwell glared at the door. “Damn.”

“It’s okay,” Claire said. “It might be important.”

He opened the door. Standing in the passageway, staring as if she were seeing an apparition, was B. J. Johnson. She saw Claire inside the room. For a long frozen moment the two women held eye contact. Volumes of unspoken communication passed between them.

Abruptly, B.J. whirled and bolted down the passageway.

Maxwell called after her: “B.J.! What was it you—”

She was gone. Maxwell stood in the passageway, shaking his head.