America

CHAPTER NINE

"Oh, Jake, I've been so worried." Callie hugged him fiercely when he walked through the door into the candlelit apartment. He held on and hugged her back.

Finally she led him onto the balcony. "I made soup on the barbecue grill. Can I warm up some for you?"

"Sounds great."

"Tell me, was it the submarine that did this?" She waved a hand at the dark city.

"Yes."

"But I thought they didn't have nuclear weapons."

"They didn't need them. They have ten Tomahawk cruise missiles carrying electromagnetic warheads, called Flashlights. We think two of them exploded over Washington and knocked out the power. A Tomahawk with an explosive warhead hit the White House."

As she lit the grill, he explained how the warheads worked. "The warhead is basically a flux generator. A coil is wrapped around a metallic tube full of explosives, and an electrical current is run through the coil, creating a magnetic field. The explosion is more of a fast burn than a one-time boom; as the explosive burns, it creates a pressure wave that flares out the tube holding it and pushes the tube into the coil, which creates a short circuit that diverts the current into the undamaged coil that remains. As the explosion progresses,

the magnetic field is violently squeezed into a smaller and smaller volume, which is the coil ahead of the explosion. This creates a huge rise in the current in the remaining coil. Just before the warhead destroys itself, the current flows into an antenna, which radiates the pulse outward. The whole process takes about a tenth of a millisecond and pumps out about a trillion watts of power from a seven-hundred-and-fifty-pound warhead."

"A trillion watts!"

"Yep. Fries switches and blows transformers and generally obliterates computers and telephone systems."

"Why did they shoot these things at Washington?"

"Guesses are two for a quarter. I don't think anyone in government knows for a fact."

As he ate his soup by the light of four candles, she asked, "So what is going to happen next?"

"I don't know."

"Have you any idea where the boat is?"

"Oh, yes." He gestured to the east. "Out there somewhere."

"Isn't this the new superstealth submarine?"

"That's right. America."

"What if the navy can't find it? What then?"

Jake Grafton finished the last spoonful of his soup. "I've been thinking about that. The fact is that we probably won't find the sub. Let's see if we can come up with some ideas." He studied her face in the candlelight. "Those guys can't stay submerged forever. True, they might be suicide commandos, but that's extremely doubtful. Russians and Germans rarely indulge in that kind of thing."

"They have a plan," Callie murmured.

"Yeah," Jake Grafton said. "And they've bet their lives that we can't figure it out."

His CIA superiors had sent Tommy Carmellini to London because a certain key network of the Antoine Jouany firm was completely shielded from the Internet. Without outside or dial-up access even the best code breakers could not read the information contained on the databases of these machines, which were at the very heart of the Jouany operation. Carmellini's task was to find the software that prevented Internet access and disable it, then type in certain keywords that allowed CIA researchers to access the network database. Or to steal the hard drives.

Once he was on-line, the job took about five minutes, and because he was naturally curious, Tommy Carmellini lingered to examine the information that the CIA wanted to see. The menu listed dozens of files, mostly lists of names of investors, their addresses, and the amount of their account. Files setting forth how much money each fund was worth — well, they were mutual funds, weren't they — and files that accounted for the trading activity, profit and loss of every trade, in each fund. No doubt a competent researcher could quickly learn everything there was to know about Antoine Jouany and Company from studying these files.

Carmellini went to the window, looked down onto the trading floor. The dozen people had swelled to twice that number. They were laughing and drinking champagne. The silver lining of America's black cloud was being celebrated.

Carmellini returned to the computer. Numbers, names, addresses, was that everything?

He was flipping through the files, looking at names, when one leaped at him. Avery Edmond DeGarmo. The director of the CIA?

He stopped scrolling rapidly and began reading every name. Floyd Hoover Stalnaker? Wasn't he the chief of naval operations?

Jacob L. Grafton?

Now wait a minute. Tommy Carmellini stopped scrolling and stared at the screen. The problem was that he knew Jake Grafton. If his Jake Grafton was this Jacob L. Grafton. Had helped him rescue his wife in Hong Kong. Had spent almost a month running errands for him when he was named consul general in Hong Kong.

Grafton's account was worth… $3,489,922? As of the close of business yesterday?

What is going on? Rear Admiral Jake Grafton?

Carmellini dashed to the window, looked again at the crowd on the trading floor. Having a party down there.

He went back to the computer screen.

Jesus, this is pure bullshit. They sent me all the way to London to…

He rubbed his head, tried to get his thoughts in order.

Wow, had he been lucky or what? Houston and today's date.

Slowly he worked his way through the layers of dialogue boxes to get out of the program and shut the computer down. When the screen was dark and the machine off, he placed his right forefinger in the reader and booted it up again.

He paused to scratch his head, then eased over to the window for another look.

Shitty security… DeGarmo hated his guts… he hated the CIA… and here he was.

He typed "Houston" and hit the Enter key.

No.

Typed "Houston" and hit the Enter key again.

No.

Did it a third time and pushed Enter.

Voila! There was the menu.

Oooh boy!

He escaped out. Shut down the machine while he tried to think.

Booted it up a third time. This time he typed "xxxxx" and hit Enter. The first and second time the computer refused to take it. The third time he was admitted to the inner sanctum. The menu appeared.

Someone had set him up, made absolutely certain that he could get in. Carmellini the computer whiz. Yeah.

He turned off the machine and checked the trading floor one last time. One of the men had apparently had too much champagne and was asleep under a computer stand.

He eased the door shut behind him, made sure it latched, and went looking for the emergency exit. The stairs. Required by the building code, the stairs were always the weak point in the security system.

The door into the stairwell was unlocked, of course, although there was a switch on the door that was undoubtedly wired up to the security desk in the lobby. And, perhaps, in the security office.

Carmellini went down the stairs two at a time.

The door to the lobby was probably unlocked — as required by the fire code — but Carmellini didn't open it. He continued down one flight to the upper level of the basement. The stairwell continued on down to loading docks and various levels of underground parking.

The door out of the stairwell was locked. Carmellini set to work with his set of picks. Again, an alarm might sound at the lobby security desk, but..

It took about thirty seconds to find the right way to open the lock,

then Carmellini pulled the door toward him and entered the hallway. Sure enough, there was the door marked "Security." Presumably the main security computer was in there.

No fancy high-tech lock on the door, just one for a key. Carmellini was in in two minutes flat.

The computer was on and running, with banks of monitors showing the views from various cameras. All this was apparently being recorded digitally on the computer's hard drive.

Carmellini sat down at the keyboard. He used the icon to find the list of persons who worked for the Jouany firm and scrolled to find Sarah Houston's name. He liked her, thought maybe he might take the time after he left the agency to really get to know her. What he would really like to ask her was why her computer let any Tom, Dick, or Harry in on the third attempt. Let's see. . Houston, Houston, Houston. Her name wasn't there.

Wasn't there?

But he had gotten in using her finger and eyeprints. No, no one by that name on the list.

So who was the woman he had taken to bed?

He glanced at his watch. McSweeney was outside, and he had said not to waste time.

Tommy Carmellini closed his eyes for a second, trying to sort things out.

No time for that now.

From his pocket he produced an E-grenade, one of his own manufacture. His E-grenade was constructed entirely of explosive and superfast primer cord that he had hardened so that it had the consistency of smooth plastic. All of it would be consumed, leaving only a residue for the forensic experts. He looked the computer over, found the place he wanted, pulled the pin on the grenade and twisted the cap. With the thing armed, he laid it gingerly on the table beside the computer and walked from the room. He was outside the room when he felt the jolt of energy produced by the explosion. So much for the security computer's hard drive.

On his way out of the building he flapped his hand at the lobby guard, who was working with the controls of his television monitor, trying to bring the thing back to life. McSweeney was parked seventy-five feet from the entrance, with the car pointed away from the Jouany building. Carmellini got a glimpse of the man's head behind the wheel.

He walked away in the other direction.

That evening in America the footage was played over and over on every news channel as the chattering class offered running commentaries. The public mood, if the media coverage was any indication, was becoming increasingly shrill. The one thing the chatterers could agree upon, however, was that the administration had made a severe mistake concealing the identity of the hijackers from the public. "They tried to suppress it," were the words commonly used to describe the government's misguided attempt to keep the secret. An administration spokesperson explained that since the stolen warship carried no nuclear weapons and nothing was known of the motives of the crew, a disclosure of a canceled CIA operation would not have been in the public or national interest.

In any event, the existence of Operation Blackbeard was a secret no longer. Every sentient person on the planet had an excellent opportunity to learn of it by late that evening. And every person with a telephone had an opportunity to comment on the news on the endless local, regional, and national radio talk shows. Many were doing just that.

With or without nuclear weapons, the power of the submarine pirates to cause havoc was beyond dispute. Power company executives predicted that it would take ten days to two weeks to restore electrical service in the heart of the capital and in Reston. The damage to the telephone network was still being assessed, but the one fact all the engineers agreed on was that massive banks of switching units were damaged beyond repair. Computer equipment that had been subject to the electromagnetic pulses of the E-warheads was also junk and would have to be replaced. The immobilized vehicles that littered Washington and Reston were being towed away for repair, which would take weeks, perhaps months, due to the sheer numbers that had been damaged.

The government declared a state of emergency and announced that it would use the army to feed the populace of the affected area, which had no way to prepare or store food. Mobile generators were flown in from all over America to provide emergency power to hospitals and police radios. People who needed urgent medical treatment were being flown from the affected area by military helicopters.

All of this was expensive inconvenience salted with occasional personal tragedies, such as the folks wearing defibrillators and pacemakers who went into cardiac arrest or died when the warheads detonated. However, the crashes of the two airliners and two business jets on their way into Reagan National gave the incident a horrifying, visceral dimension. In an age when air travel was an unavoidable, unenjoyed part of life, the specter of being a passenger in a doomed airliner plummeting to earth out of control gave most people the cold sweats. The FAA quickly canceled airline service in the danger area, which the bureaucrats decreed was anywhere east of the Mississippi River. Aircraft on emergency missions or not carrying paying passengers for hire and private aircraft could fly — at their own risk, the bureaucrats said — but few did. Cautious CEOs called their attorneys, who told the executives bluntly that they could not afford to pay the judgments that would be rendered against them if they ignored the FAA's warning and lives were subsequently lost.

When Kolnikov brought America up from the depths well after dark and raised the communications mast, he picked up a few of those commercial radio broadcasts and soon had the gist of it. The first Tomahawk, the one with the conventional warhead, had struck the White House. The other two had played havoc with the Washington, D.C., electrical system, inconveniencing millions and killing 439 persons, at last count.

After updating the GPS, Kolnikov lowered the mast. Rothberg was eyeing him. Kolnikov nodded matter-of-factly. "Three hits," he said.

"I told you they were good birds," Leon asserted, jutting out his chin.

"Get busy on the next three."

"When do you propose to launch them?"

"I don't know. I'll have to think about that."

"What should I use as the starting position?"

Kolnikov thought before he answered. He studied the tactical presentation on the horizontally mounted display, looked at the map of the North Atlantic, took the time to rub his eyes. He had slept for three hours this afternoon, but he was still tired.

Finally he made a small mark on the chart and showed it to Rothberg. "Here. That position is as good as any. Just leave the time open."

The sea seemed noisy this evening. Kolnikov had Eck deploy the towed array so he could see and hear better. When it was out he listened to the computer enhancement of the raw audio and watched the presentations on the big wall screens. "Let's go back down to five hundred feet, below the surface layer," he told Turchak, who was back from his bunk and the head.

At one point Kolnikov thought he heard pinging, or echo ranging, but the sound was from a long way away, very attenuated. On the screen the noise was converted to light, of course, but the flashes were so dim he wasn't sure they were really there. The computer, which could discern a pattern that the ear could not hear or the eye detect, verified the sound and gave a bearing.

They are looking, he thought. They are looking hard.

Well, let them look. We are safely hidden below the thermal layer and too quiet for the SOSUS. As long as we don't have a close encounter with an American Seawolf submarine, all will be well.

Jake Grafton had just taken a cold-water shower and lain down on his couch when he heard someone knocking on the apartment door. He was wearing jeans and a sweatshirt, so he answered it.

A marine corporal was standing there. "Admiral Grafton? General Le Beau sends his compliments, sir, and asks if you would accompany me back to the Pentagon."

"Are you on a horse?"

"No, sir. The marines at Quantico sent every vehicle on the base."

"Give me five minutes to get on a clean uniform. Come on in."

Callie talked to the corporal while Jake dressed. Of course the young marine stood tongue-tied, unable to think up a single comment in the rarefied air of a flag officer's powerless apartment. He was from Tennessee, was a fan of the Titans, thought the marines were a lot of fun, a comment that drew a grin from Jake Grafton in the next room.

As Jake puckered up to kiss his wife, she handed him a handful of candles.

"Use these to put a little light on the subject."

"Very funny," he said. "Ha, ha, and ha." But he took the candles.

He kissed her and followed the corporal out the door.

In the Pentagon war room, Sonny Killbuck and Vice-Admiral Val Navarre were the center of attention. The Joint Chiefs were in their usual chairs and tossing questions. Behind them sat the senior members of the staff. The session had just started, apparently, Jake thought as he dropped into an empty chair in back.

Sonny was in the front of the room holding a pointer, using it on the map that was projected on the screen. He pointed out where the U.S. Navy submarines and antisubmarine patrols were located. Now he overlaid the patrol plane tracks on the screen. The navy had indeed been busy. Still, none of the searchers had found America.

Space Command was on full alert, watching for cruise missile launches in the North Atlantic, the air force had AWACS planes aloft, looking for incoming missiles, and fighters on five-minute alert all along the Atlantic seaboard, ready to attempt to intercept incoming cruise missiles. Two carriers were at sea, using their aircraft to search areas that the antisubmarine patrol planes were not covering. There was no doubt — the United States military was exerting itself to the maximum. Everything that could be done was being done.

When Sonny finished his canned brief, the Joint Chiefs began discussing the military's worldwide response to the new defense condition set a few hours ago by the president, DEFCON ONE, war alert. The senior officers of the Joint Staff fielded questions as fast as they were tossed. Some of them made notes.

No one mentioned Cowbell.

Or the fact the Americas Cowbell wasn't working. Was that an unfortunate coincidence, or did Kolnikov and company know about Cowbell and disable it? And if they knew, where did they acquire the knowledge?

Well, Jake Grafton thought, Cowbell was history. If he had not already done so, the CNO would have to order that all the Cowbell beacons be disabled and removed from the submarines they were installed on. To do otherwise was to risk the entire submarine force, all of them, in the event of war. Or, Jake thought, in the event that the submarines are America's primary target now.

What if America was hunting them?

When the brief was over Sonny came back and sat down beside Jake Grafton.

"I have a question for you." Jake spoke so softly Sonny had to tilt his head to catch the words. "Can America detect a Cowbell beacon?"

Surprised, Killbuck glanced furtively around to see who was listening, then eyed the admiral. "Yes, sir," he acknowledged. "All our submarines can detect the beacons. It would be a high-pitched noise, very loud."

"Have you tried to trigger America's beacon?"

"Yes, sir."

"Why isn't it working?"

"I don't know, sir. It could be a software problem. Or a problem with the transmitter. Or the satellite."

"Or it could be," Jake Grafton said, "that someone somewhere told Kolnikov about the beacon and he disabled it. We'd better find out which it is. The answer to that question might be the key that opens a lot of doors. Has the FBI been briefed about Cowbell?"

Killbuck squirmed in his seat. "Not to the best of my knowledge."

"Hadn't we better find out?"

"Sir, you are trespassing on Vice-Admiral Navarre's turf."

"Like hell!" Jake Grafton snarled. "That stolen submarine is my turf, shipmate. We've got subs manned by American sailors at sea right now with those beacons on board. And the news may be out! Worry about that, mister!"

Killbuck looked ill. "You're right, sir. I apologize."

"When the crowd clears out, let's talk to the heavies. The FBI needs to be told about this, and now."

Flap Le Beau listened to Jake without comment, without a question. He glanced at Sonny Killbuck, who tried to keep his stomach from flip-flopping. A tip-top secret, and he had spilled it to Jake Grafton in violation of every reg in the book. And General Le Beau didn't even ask Grafton where he got his information! He merely crooked a finger at Stuffy Stalnaker and said, "We've got a big problem."

After Stuffy listened to Jake's explanation again, he said, "I wondered why those clowns at the White House didn't order that thing sunk. I guess Cowbell just slipped my mind."

When Jake looked mildly surprised, Admiral Stalnaker added, "The politicians demanded Cowbell years ago and we installed it. And promptly forgot about it. Captain," he said, addressing Sonny Killbuck, "if Cowbell isn't working we certainly need to know why.

Let's get the FBI working on this. Then have the system disabled in every sub we have as soon as possible. Draft an Op Immediate message for my signature. The course of human events seems to have handed us an excellent rationale to rid ourselves of this albatross. Let's take advantage of this gift from heaven."

The chairman of the Joint Chiefs, General Alt, nodded his concurrence. He had tossed out his share of questions this evening, but as he had listened to Jake explain Cowbell earlier, he had seemed in a pensive mood. No doubt, Jake thought, he is as horrified by this mess as everyone else. More so, probably. It happened on his watch, and the ax is probably already falling.

Jake looked around the room at the four-stars there. The chairman, CNO, Navarre — those three at least would get the chop. And soon.

He was under no illusions: If the submarine wasn't found soon, Flap Le Beau was going to soon be playing golf every day. With Jake Grafton.

Vladimir Kolnikov was eating a piece of apple pie and drinking a cup of excellent coffee in the submarine's control room when the faintest nicker of light caught his eye on the big sonar displays. He froze in midbite, staring at the display. . and saw nothing. Kolnikov swallowed the last bite of pie and put down the dish.

As he sipped coffee he glanced from display to display. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. And yet…

There. He saw it again. A momentary flash. He picked it up from the corner of his eye. Yes, he could pick up the flash with his peripheral vision, yet when he looked straight at the screen he saw nothing.

Now he checked the computer display of the tactical situation.

"Eck."

The German was drinking coffee and munching a roll. He came over to where Kolnikov was sitting, his cup in his hand.

"Out of the corner of your eye, watch the display. No, look at me. Just be aware of the display."

"A flash," he said. "I see it."

"What is it?"

Eck went to work on the computer, his coffee forgotten.

"It's a sound from within the boat," he said after a bit.

"Internal?"

"Yes. A knocking, sounds like to me. Listen." He put the sound that he had distilled from the hydrophones onto the loudspeaker.

Now Kolnikov heard it, an irregular clicking. Something metallic.

"Okay, Eck. Go find out what in the hell that is and let's get it fixed. Start back aft."

Eck went, striding purposefully.

Kolnikov sipped coffee as he listened to the sound on the sonar speaker. Finally he turned off the speaker, the net effect of which was to magnify the sound for transmission away from the submarine. He wondered how close the nearest SOSUS hydrophone was.

He finished his coffee, forcing himself to sip slowly and leisurely for Turchak's benefit, because he was watching.

"You are a fake, you know," Turchak said finally. "You are going to break that cup if you squeeze it any harder."

"Go aft with Eck, will you, Turchak? Check on him. Tell me about that noise."

Turchak touched Kolnikov's arm lightly, then nodded and went.

Twenty minutes passed before Turchak returned. He was wiping oil or grease from his hands on a rag, which he disposed of in the trash. "I think a bearing has gone out in an oil recirculation pump. It's clicking irregularly."

Vladimir Kolnikov took a deep breath. He waited for Turchak to continue.

"I recommend that we go dead in the water and repair the bearing."

"The towed array is out," Kolnikov objected. The array was trailing along twenty-five hundred feet behind the sub. If the sub went dead in the water, the array would slowly sink until it was hanging straight down at the end of its cable. Automatically Kolnikov glanced at the tactical display to check the depth of the water. More than ten thousand feet.

"Reel it in. Then we'll go DIW."

Kolnikov unconsciously tapped a finger on the tactical display. "Any idea how long this will take?"

"I looked at the bolts in the housing. Perhaps three or four hours if we have a replacement on board. They're checking that now. But it could be longer."

"Okay," Kolnikov said. He shrugged. The good news was that the submarine would generate almost no noise as it lay drifting fif-

teen hundred feet below the surface. Working on the machinery would cause some noise, of course, but not much, and anyway, there was no one close to hear it. They would be safe enough.

Tom Krautkramer of the FBI looked alert but tired when he sat down in Jake's office in Crystal City. The hour was past midnight. Jake had lit his candles from home. They flickered bravely in the small office and reflected their tiny glow in the black windows.

Jake talked for twenty minutes, telling Krautkramer everything he had learned about Cowbell. When Krautkramer ran out of questions, he said, "We can't find hide nor hair of Leon Rothberg, that missing New London simulator expert. We think he's one of the two extra men on that sub."

"Okay."

"He was one of the lead engineers programming America's holographic simulator. He knows how every system in that sub works and how to operate the weapons' systems. He's up to his eyeballs in debt — he has judgments against him and every credit card company has shut him off."

"Any family?"

"Single. An ex-girlfriend getting a grand a month in child support. His parents in Michigan that haven't talked to him for months. The last time he was home he hit them up for a five-grand loan."

"Okay. Who's the other guy?"

Krautkramer took a deep breath and squeezed his nose before he answered that one. "We aren't sure. Rothberg is apparently the only American who knew enough about America to be useful who can't be accounted for. Other people are on vacation or sick at home or whatever. One guy who is supposed to be on a fishing trip with his buddies is actually shacked up in Florida with a female co-worker."

"So the other person isn't an expert on this submarine."

"Apparently not. In fact, we're looking into the possibility this person isn't American. We're trying to sort out immigration entry information, build a list of possibilities. That's complicated. We're running the computers and talking to huge numbers of people… it's going to take a while. This massive power outage didn't help. The computers at headquarters here in Washington are history. We're using machines in St. Louis and Chicago, but" — he slammed his fist on the desk—"goddamn it, Admiral, it's going to take time. I doubt if we have enough. Those bastards could be shooting more missiles this very minute."

"Antoine Jouany. Could that last person be someone who works for him?"

"We're trying to determine if that is a possibility."

"A Russian or German official?"

"Government?"

"Why not?"

"Let's hope not," Krautkramer said. "They'll be covered too well for us to dig them out without moving heaven and earth."

"I thought you were moving heaven and earth."

"We can only shovel so fast, Admiral. I'm being fully supported with top priority, but there are lots of rocks to peek under."

"I understand."

"I'll put people to work on Cowbell."

"Let's start with the list of people who had access. There couldn't be more than a couple dozen."

Krautkramer made a face. "In government, maybe. But you can't manufacture anything these days with only two dozen people. There's a factory somewhere, engineers, executives, assembly workers… Even people with superclearances who work on black projects have spouses and sweethearts and occasionally talk too much. And everybody uses computers, puts everything on them. Everything! Engineers use computers to design circuits and parts and you name it. E-mail, spreadsheets, contracts, specs — you heard about that fourteen-year-old kid who broke into the Pentagon computer system?"

After the FBI agent left, Jake got out a legal pad and turned it sideways. He sat for several minutes staring into the flame of the candles, then drew a small submarine on the pad. He put the sail well forward, made it long and slender. It looked like a man-made fish.

Or a shark.

The door to the captain's cabin aboard USS America opened inward. Vladimir Kolnikov knocked politely, then used the key from his shirt pocket to unlock and open it. Standing well back with his pistol in his hand, he pushed at the door with his foot.

Heydrich was sitting on the bed in his underwear.

"Ah, the jailer."

"We need to have a little chat," Kolnikov said, keeping the pistol down by his leg.

"Same thing you said to Steinhoff?"

"That is up to you."

Kolnikov closed the door behind him and sat in the chair by the small desk so that he was facing Heydrich. He laid the pistol in his lap.

"I confess, I don't understand what you are doing or why you are doing it," Heydrich said, watching Kolnikov's face. "When this is over, we will need Willi Schlegel's help to permanently disappear. The Americans will be looking for us in every hotel, hut, and whorehouse on this planet. If you think you can hide in some backwater that has no extradition treaty with the United States, you are going to be severely disappointed."

"I figured, taking these risks, why not maximize the return?"

"So you went looking for business."

"Not really." Kolnikov grimaced. "I was approached by a woman. She knew about Blackbeard. Don't ask me how she heard it, because I don't know. I almost died of fright. After she got me calmed down, she introduced me to Schlegel's man. And another person."

"You jeopardized Schlegel's mission."

"If we had been arrested before we stole this boat, one suspects that the Americans would have done nothing. Schlegel, the man I knew — all of them would have denied everything and hidden behind a phalanx of lawyers. The CIA would have been grossly embarrassed — there was really little risk. They would have hustled us out of the country and told us to never come back."

"Schlegel would have killed you."

"We all have to die and, thankfully, only once. Everything worked out, the men and I will get you to Schlegel's treasure trove in the pink of good health, ready to apply your expensive skills in a cunning and industrious manner for the greater glory of Schlegel and friends. A few days later Herr Schlegel and the people I know will each pay us several million apiece. On that glorious day we shall set forth with wallets bulging to live in the happy ever after. You have been thinking of the happy ever after, haven't you?"

"Something like that, I suppose."

Wondering if he was going to get there, Kolnikov thought. The fate of his shipmates was of no concern to Heydrich; it would never occur to him.

"Predicting the future is always tricky," Kolnikov said thoughtfully. "The slightest unknown can destroy the finest calculations. If nothing goes wrong, we will launch Tomahawks on at least one more occasion, perhaps two. There is no double cross. Everyone will share in the proceeds."

"All these promises — I sincerely hope there is some real money in them."

"Precisely my point. I recall saying that very thing to Schlegel the last time we met, that evening we ate at the Hotel George V."

Heydrich yawned. "Willi doesn't like surprises. I think they offend his orderly mind. He is not a man to mislead or leave with a false impression."

"Fact is I sent Willi a letter above your signature, told him we were going to rob enough ships to either make some serious money or get killed doing it."

The possibility that Kolnikov had a sense of humor had never before occurred to Heydrich. He said lightly, "Did he write back?"

"No. Apparently he doesn't waste ink on the hired help."