America

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The mood was somber at the office that afternoon after Jadot's death. Jake changed from his bloody uniform into his jogging clothes. Two secretaries and one of the junior officers went into the women's room and cried, several of the men felt like crying but didn't, so finally Jake Grafton sent everyone home except Tarkington and Carmellini, who were working on DeGarmo's hard drives.

The boss, General Blevins, was in Florida, huddled with the techies. The software gurus were narrowing down the possibilities of what might have gone wrong with the SuperAegis rocket. Blevins had brought in more experts from Space Command and felt he had to be present while the experts consulted.

Jake walked through the empty office, fingering this and that, trying to put the pieces of the puzzle together.

Washington, the dead city!

The newspapers were back in production, somehow, and people had proudly carried in copies this morning. A small symbol of normal life had returned, and welcome it was. The papers were full of predictions about when power and telephone service would be restored, when life would be "back to normal."

Normal.

And they were full of speculation about Kolnikov, America, and Tomahawk missiles. "Where is Kolnikov?" screamed one banner headline. If only Kolnikov had known. With a good lawyer and the right public relations firm, the Russian skipper could probably beat the rap and sell a book for millions, perhaps even get a movie sale. Add in a highly publicized relationship with a naughty pop singer or starlet. . well, the possibilities boggled the imagination.

The question, though, was a good one. Where was Kolnikov?

Jake was drinking coffee and thinking about possible answers to that question when Krautkramer, the FBI special agent in charge,

came in.

Krautkramer told him more than he wanted to know about Myron Matheny. He grunted occasionally as he listened to the FBI agent, but he had no questions. When Krautkramer ran down, Jake said, "Tell me about Peter Kerr."

"The missing NASA specialist? What do you want to know?"

"Everything you haven't told me. The works."

"When do you want this?"

"Now."

Krautkramer snapped his fingers.

"Tomorrow afternoon," Jake said.

"Must have been pretty rough, seeing Jadot get it like that."

"I think he was dead when he hit the ground. Bullet seemed to go through a lung and into his heart. Actually a pretty good way to go, all things considered."

"Was he the target? Or you?"

"Maurice Jadot was a genuine nice guy who had the misfortune to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. He was sent to the liaison team to learn all he could about SuperAegis and report back to French intelligence. Presumably he did just that. If he knew anything at all about submarines and Tomahawk missiles, he never gave me a hint."

"I heard Matheny had your photo in his car."

"Maybe he was after me, maybe not," Jake said, not willing to label himself worth killing. "If I was his target he made a hash of it. Jadot's tough luck, killed by an incompetent assassin. Hope they don't put that on my tombstone."

"Umm," said Krautkramer, and looked around. "Where's Carmellini? I have some information for him. He asked me to check a fingerprint. Well, actually some prints embedded on latex finger sleeves." He removed a manila envelope from his file and tossed it on Jake's desk. "That guy is something else. Some cock-and-bull story about a sultry wench and knockout drops… and the sleeves have a dead woman's prints on them." He told Jake the name.

Grafton went to the door and called for the CIA officer.

Carmellini stared at Krautkramer when he heard the news. "How long has she been dead?" he asked, so softly he had to repeat the question. "How long?"

"She died in a car wreck about a month ago."

Jake jumped in. "This ID is off the FBI fingerprint computer?"

"In Clarksburg. We just scan in the print and they code it digitally and the computer searches the files."

"Has anyone hacked into the files lately?"

Krautkramer looked startled. "Not to my knowledge, but that isn't the kind of thing that lands on my desk."

"Does the government maintain any other fingerprint files?"

"A few agencies still maintain their own. It's a duplication of effort, so we're trying to get them all in-house, but you know bureaucrats."

"Indeed I do. But these databases… someone has been manipulating the data they contain. I can tell you for an absolute fact that a collection of career flag officers hasn't invested money in currency futures and hasn't sold out to Jouany. Let's find out who Sarah Houston really is. How about sending an FBI team to the CIA safe house in New York where Carmellini met this woman and have them go over the place for prints. See if these are the prints of the woman he knew as Sarah Houston or if someone at the CIA substituted prints."

"Okay. We can do that."

He waited until Krautkramer was out the door before he tossed Carmellini the envelope. "You and Toad visit some Beltway bandits today. The Reston area is full of small high-tech shops that don't use the FBI master fingerprint files."

Toad was standing in the door. "We're not fingerprint experts," he said, frowning.

"You don't have to be. The FBI has classified the prints, so it's a matter of matching classifications. Not good enough for court, but good enough for us. I want a name and photo of a woman who isn't dead. It's a long shot, I know, but it's possible she is the person who manipulated Jouany's database. If she is, she's a computer expert, and that means she's been around the high-tech industry. If she isn't, she an tell us who sent her to bat her eyes at Carmellini. Let's turn over some rocks and see what's underneath."

Toad nodded. "Nothing on DeGarmo's hard drives is of interest us boss. E-mails to nieces and nephews, his brother, a couple women he is apparently mildly interested in, and that's about it. Oh he does answers to suggestion box questions on one computer."

"Mail the hard drives back to him. Try to do it in such a way that Krautkramer doesn't come charging over here waving warrants for our arrest."

For the first time in weeks, Jake saw a glimmer of light. He told himself not to get his hopes up — but. Somewhere in this mess was someone who knew a whole hell of a lot about computer databases and security systems. And he doubted if that someone was Peter Kerr, the missing NASA software expert.

When Vladimir Kolnikov was convinced that there were no submarines lying in wait, he eased the photonics mast above the surface. The camera looked at the sky, lowered its point of aim, spun through 360 degrees, then automatically eased down into its housing. In the control room, Kolnikov, Turchak, and Heydrich examined the video. After they had run through it slowly, they ran it again and froze the frame on a ship anchored three miles away, at the entrance to the bay at Cadiz.

"That's her, Global Pioneer."

"I see no American ships, no airplanes," murmured Turchak, who was worrying a fingernail.

"We have done it, then," Kolnikov said. He looked around the control room, at Eck, Boldt, and the others, and smiled. "And done it well."

"We're only halfway there," Heydrich growled. "Just you be here when I come back."

"Or what?" Kolnikov demanded harshly. Then he softened his tone. "God, you are tiresome."

"Bring us some beer," Eck said.

"A reasonable request," Kolnikov agreed. "A case, please. Something bitter. A good German beer."

Heydrich turned and went aft. Kolnikov followed him. From the engineering spaces they climbed a ladder to the compartment that housed the airlock. One climbed through it to gain access to the minisub, which was mated to the boat above it. Heydrich went first, climbing the ladder. He settled into the minisub pilot's seat while Kolnikov stood on the ladder with only his head inside.

Heydrich flipped switches, and the minisub's battery brought it to life.

"Don't forget to flood the ballast tanks or you'll bob to the surface like a cork," Kolnikov advised.

"I won't forget, Captain."

"We will cruise back and forth. Use the underwater telephone and your lights. We will have our lights on. You shouldn't have any trouble once you see us. I'll have the boat at three knots to maintain plane effectiveness."

"I understand."

"Good luck," Kolnikov said, dropping down into the airlock. He carefully shut the hatch and dogged it down. Only when he was sure that the hatch was properly sealed did he continue on down the ladder and close the hatch at the bottom of the lock, then dog it down.

He stood listening. He heard water rushing into the minisub's tanks. After a few moments that sound ceased. Finally he heard the minisub's hydraulic latches retract. He heard it scrape along the hull, bump several times, then it was free of the boat, swimming on its own.

Only then did Kolnikov leave the compartment and make his way forward toward the control room.

The minisub had no windows. Closed-circuit video cameras showed the pilot what was ahead and to the sides. Worse, the pilot had to skillfully manipulate the cameras by means of joysticks, adjusting the sensitivity of the light sensors, all while operating the rudder and planes. The task required skill and practice, neither of which Heydrich had ever had.

He immediately realized he was in over his head. For the first time in his life, Heydrich knew fear. When he released the hydraulic locks that held the minisub to America, he also engaged the electric motor. The minisub actually slid backward, scraping along the hull, before he gave it enough power to keep pace with the mother ship. Then he found he had too much ballast aboard and slid off the rounded side of America. The sub sank, the nose dropping, as he pulled back on the yoke and added power and blew off some ballast.

Finally, he wasn't sure how, he got the craft stabilized. America was a dark presence on his starboard side, separating from him in the gloomy sea.

For the first time he looked at the compass. Yes, he realized with a flash of panic, he had not even checked the submarine's base course or whether the minisub's compass jibed with that number. He had no choice; he had to assume all was working properly. If it wasn't, he would soon be on the surface, he hoped, swimming to stay alive.

He bit the bullet, picked up the underwater telephone, and keyed the mike. "What is the course I should follow?"

The answer, when it came back, was ethereal. "Try steering one two zero, which will be a ten-degree crab for the current. Three miles."

Gingerly he turned the sub to that course and concentrated on holding a steady heading and even depth.

Gradually the fear left him. He could do this! He had used underwater sleds before — this was just a larger version, he told himself. Yet he wished he had paid more attention when Rothberg had explained the controls.

With the current running, the minisub took a half hour to make the three-mile passage. It was with great relief that Heydrich saw the hull of Global Pioneer materialize in the murky water ahead.

He was getting the hang of operating the minisub now, so he steered under the ship, adding ballast judiciously, until he saw the dark black hole in her keel. That was the hole through which underwater fiber-optic cable was laid. Fortunately there was no cable dangling there just now, so Heydrich inched the sub forward using the maneuvering jets, taking his time. When he got under the hole, he tilted the forward camera up, so he could see into it. And he saw lights.

Reassured, at what he judged was the proper moment he blasted the ballast tanks with compressed air to lift the minisub quickly. She caromed once off the side of the hole, then rose into it.

When he opened the top hatch, a voice spoke to him. "We thought you'd never get here."

Heydrich made two trips between Global Pioneer and America, ferrying divers and their gear. He also brought two cases of beer and a stack of newspapers that detailed the physical damage the E-warheads had caused in Washington and New York, and the psychological, political, and financial damage, which was, by any measure, stupendous. The administration was in deep and serious trouble, according to the pundits. Congress was in a mercurial mood, demanding the heads of everyone responsible.

Which includes us, Kolnikov thought as he read the stories while sipping beer in the wardroom. At the next table the divers laughed and scratched with several members of the crew, who were delightedly telling them about the battle in the depths.

When the cook brought in food, Heydrich came in and sat down beside Kolnikov. "So how did it go?" Kolnikov asked.

"I made many mistakes," Heydrich admitted. "I have learned much."

"I have heard it said that experience is a mistake you lived through."

"Then I have gained experience."

They discussed the minisub, how it operated, each man learning from the other.

"What are our chances of finding the satellite on the seamount?" Heydrich asked.

"Such a long distance, such a small target. If the missile missed by more than four miles, it will be too deep for us to recover with the gear we have. You will have to return later with one of your salvage ships. If the Americans haven't found it first. Believe me, they haven't given up."

"I understand."

"The water over the seamount is shallow and very dangerous for a submarine. If a submarine comes prowling while you are out, or a patrol plane, my first responsibility will be to save the boat. I will return for you when and if I can."

"I understand."

"These others," Kolnikov indicated the laughing men at the next table, "do they understand the risks?"

"Diving is a dangerous life. They know that. The money for this job is very, very good. No one lives forever."

"So they say," Kolnikov replied.

That afternoon one of the televisions at Hudson Security Services was tuned to a local cable news station in Alexandria, Virginia. By midafternoon the station had the story on the shootings at Crystal City and the subsequent death of the assassin in a traffic accident. Zelda Hudson glanced up when she heard it, watched the footage, most of which was of the mangled remains of the stolen Ford, and said nothing. She was writing a proposal for a company in California and continued working on it, huddling with three or four of her staff, negotiating with a travel agent over train schedules to get two people to the West Coast.

When the staff left for the day, Zipper Vance stayed behind, as he usually did. "I'm worried," he said, "about Willi Schlegel. He sent you that E-mail after Washington. After New York, nothing. Total silence. That's not like him."

"He wants the satellite," she said dismissively. "He'll get it too. He doesn't give a damn about New York."

"That assassination attempt in Washington," Zip continued, "killed a Frenchman. Would you know anything about that?"

"Never heard the name before."

"I have," Zipper said brightly. "Works with Jake Grafton in the SuperAegis liaison office. As I listened to the story, I wondered."

Her face revealed nothing. "Wondered what?"

"Wondered if you hired someone to kill Jake Grafton."

"He's no threat."

Vance snorted. "Hell, he's the only threat. He's got this caper figured out. Doesn't have any proof yet, but he'll get some. Carmellini is working with him now — oh, yes! I browsed through the classified, encrypted E-mails those people are firing around. Why in the world you did that little charade with Tommy Carmellini is beyond me."

"Who else was going to do it? You? Carmellini wouldn't have been interested in your manly charms."

"Did or did you not try to have Jake Grafton murdered?"

"For Christ's sake, Zipper, don't get squeamish on me now." She picked up a newspaper off a nearby pile, one with a front-page, above-the-fold photo of a column of smoke arising in Brooklyn from the crash of an air force fighter, and held it where he could see it. Then she tossed it back on the pile.

"We didn't kill anyone, Zel. Until now."

"Don't give me that shit!" she roared. "I won't listen! You and I worked very hard to get this snowball rolling. Now it's an avalanche, and I don't want to hear you holier-than-thou telling me you have clean hands."

"We'll go to our graves with those people's deaths on our conscience," Vance whispered, refusing to meet her eyes. "But we never pointed at one person and said, 'You! I sentence you to die.' "

"Oh, there's an important distinction," Zelda said acidly. "I am really not in the mood for this shit. How about taking it down the street."

Standing at the elevator door, waiting while the cage rose, Vance said, "Guess I'd better start watching my back, huh? Like Jake Grafton. One of these days it will occur to old Zelda that Zipper Vance is the only eyewitness who could testify against her. Too bad for the Zipper, but he'll never see it coming. Won't feel a thing! And we all gotta go sometime."

He got into the cage and pushed the button to take it down.

She waited until she saw him walking away from the building on the outside security camera, then went over to raise the elevator and turn it off.

Who did he think she was, anyway, some bleeding-heart flower-power hippie like her mother used to be?

Zip Vance needs to open his eyes. This is the twenty-first century, the age of capitalism. Hudson Security Services exists because the world is full of companies that want to protect their secrets. And they want to buy other people's secrets. She made a fine living selling both stolen secrets and security systems to the same people! Everyone wants to buy! Ethics? Don't make me laugh!

Today it's Europe, Incorporated, versus America, Incorporated. Forget the flag-waving bullshit. Those are the two big dogs and they are vicious. Willi Schlegel, billionaire industrialist, has spent a lifetime making sharp deals and squashing anyone in his way. Antoine

Jouany, financier, has been busy separating people and their money any way he can get away with. He has even invented ways. Regardless of how he got it, he knows that money spends just fine.

Scruples? Ha! Give me a break!

People die every day. Zip knows that. Car wrecks, cancer, lightning, plane crashes, stray bullets from gang-bangers. . What is the difference?

"Admiral, this is Commander Packenham," Toad said. "He was the officer in charge of training the Blackbeard team in New London."

If Packenham thought there was anything unusual about having a conference with a flag officer wearing a T-shirt and shorts, he didn't mention it. He had driven down from Connecticut, he told Jake, at Toad's request. He began by describing the training program he had constructed for the team, then discussed personalities.

Jake Grafton said little. When Packenham discussed Kolnikov, however, Grafton met his eyes, listened intently.

"Kolnikov was the best of them," Packenham said, "the quickest study. Turchak had as much experience as he did, but Kolnikov was a natural leader. He would have done very well in anyone's navy." A few minutes later Packenham said, "Nothing bothered Kolnikov. He was the calmest, steadiest man I have ever met. The others worried about safety, about backup systems and emergency procedures and all that, but not Kolnikov. He listened and absorbed the information, but it didn't seem to me as if" — Packenham paused and searched for words—"as if life or death really mattered to him anymore. It was as if he didn't care. About anything! Does that make sense?

When Jake arrived home that evening, Callie was on the balcony of the apartment washing clothes by hand. She was heating water on the charcoal grill, washing the clothes in a tub, then hanging them on the railing of the balcony to dry. He helped her while he told her about the shot that killed Maurice Jadot and critically wounded an Arlington police officer.

"Why," Callie asked after she had heard him out, "would an assassin shoot Jadot?"

"I don't think he intended to," Jake replied. "I think he shot at me and missed." He hadn't said that to the FBI agent — he didn't know whom he would repeat the comment to — but he always leveled with Callie.

"Jake! You set up that whole thing with Ilin. Those people were FBI."

"I don't think this had anything to do with that little adventure. I was just trying to make Ilin talk that day. I think the shooter today wanted to shut me up."

"Why?"

"Someone told somebody something."

"Who?"

"Ilin, maybe. Maybe not. He told me Russia doesn't want Europe to get the satellite."

"Is that what this is about? That satellite?"

"Maybe. I think so. But hell, I don't know."

He poured the hot water over the tub of wet clothes to rinse them, then began working the soapy water from a pair of undershorts.

Callie sat down abruptly. She stared at the sky, examined her hands, then rose and went into the apartment.

Jake worked his way through the tub, twisted each item to get as much water out as he could, shook it out, and hung it on the railing. When he had finished he went to find her.

Callie was sitting in the kitchen, crying silently.

"Hey," he said. "What's wrong?"

"Like everyone else in this damned city," she said, "I am working my ass off trying to keep body and soul together. Classes were canceled at the university, so I have no job. The dealer sent a tow truck today for the car — the driver said two weeks at least, maybe three. They're swamped.

"I cook on a charcoal grill, wash clothes in a tub, sweep the apartment with a broom, eat canned food by candlelight — I don't ever again want to go to a restaurant that has candles on the table — take sponge baths, and go to bed ten minutes after dark because there is no television or radio or CDs or movies or Internet. Nothing! I live like my great-great-grandmothers, reading by candlelight. Then my husband comes home and casually announces that someone tried to murder him today. The bullet missed by an inch or two. No big deal' Ho-hum, just another day in twenty-first-century America." Tears leaked from her eyes and ran down her cheeks.

He reached for her. She pushed his hand away.

"I'm feeling sorry for myself. Okay?"

"That's allowed," he said.

Her voice was hoarse. "I didn't volunteer for any of this. I don't want my husband shot to death. I don't want to be a widow. I don't like get-back-to-nature campouts in the city. I don't want to live a simpler life — I liked it fine just the way it was. Jesus, is this America? What the hell happened to my country?"

After this outburst her tears dried up. She sniffed and swabbed at her cheeks. In about a minute she said, "I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"For being selfish."

He bent over and kissed her. "You aren't selfish. You're human. No apology necessary."

"Oh, Jake!"

"Hey, they didn't get me. We're still alive and kicking."

"Yeah."

"We're still trying to figure it out."

"Figure out what?"

"What happened to our country."

The following morning Jake Grafton was in a thoughtful mood. The police had said that the dead assassin was carrying a silenced pistol in a shoulder holster.

Twice during the night Jake had awakened thinking about that pistol.

Was he really the target, or was that deduction mere anxiety from being so close to a death by violence? Had he really felt the whiff of the rifle bullet? Did his sudden movement throw off the assassin? Or did the assassin aim at Jadot? If he was the target, why didn't the assassin shoot at him with his second shot?

There was no way to know any of the answers, of course. After the rush of adrenaline, there was only a cold memory of the edge of the abyss.

While he was putting on his blue uniform he dug out an old

Smith & Wesson.38 from the bottom of his sock drawer and loaded it. He put it behind his belt in the small of his back. Just in case, he told himself. Then felt foolish.

Foolish or not, he still had the gun on him when he kissed his wife good-bye. She was still in bed. On his way out he pulled the apartment door closed until it locked. Then he tried the handle.

The September air was like wine as he stood on the sidewalk examining the people passing on foot and in cars. The sunlight was brilliant, the shadows crisp.

If he had been the target, someone else might try again. He consoled himself with the thought that only a fool would ignore that possibility.

Still, the pistol felt heavy and hard in the small of his back.

A smile crossed his face. God, it felt good to be alive.

He was still savoring the air and the people and the noise when a car pulled to a stop beside him on the street. Flap Le Beau was in the front passenger seat and a marine was behind the wheel. Jake climbed into the back.

"Good morning, sir," Jake said. "Corporal."

"Good morning, sir," the driver said.

Flap just grunted and passed Jake a newspaper. It was from Atlanta. The headline was the revelation that the top echelon of American military officers was profiting from the travails of the American economy. Someone leaked the list Carmellini had brought back from London.

Jake glanced at the story, which originated in London. So the leaker wasn't anyone in his office. For some reason, that fact made the headline easier to take.