Launch Code

THIRTY-NINE

Megan sat on her bed and stared at the four walls of her crappy little room. It was the smallest in the house; well maybe Maya’s was smaller, but Maya’s was cuter and had a view out over the marshes, whereas Megan’s room looked out over a scruffy field to a row of back gardens in the village. It was true she could see the windmill on the hill above Barnholt, the real windmill with its broad wooden sails, not one of those giant propellers spinning out to sea.

There was no floor space. One large suitcase remained upright and unopened, the contents of the other covered the carpet. It was not as if there was anywhere to hang anything.

Megan wondered if this was where she would stay for the next few weeks in Norfolk. Surely, once everyone else had left and Dad had returned to London, she could take over Alice and Toby’s room?

This was so not working out as she had planned. As in most big families, Megan assumed, each child had their role. Alice was the conscientious elder daughter, Maya was the youngest cutest one, Brooke was the anxious one, and Megan was the naughty one.

She had enjoyed this role as a child, getting into scrapes and rubbing her father and mother, both of whom she loved desperately, up the wrong way. She had run away from the house in Cobham when she was eight, and hidden herself away in nearby woods until two a.m.; she had got caught smoking when she was twelve at the International School in Brussels and she had been discovered by her Australian boyfriend’s mother having sex with him when they were both aged fourteen in the garage in the expat compound in Riyadh. He wasn’t even really a boyfriend, but he was a kindred spirit and he had his own issues which intrigued her.

Then their mother had died. Megan was nineteen and at college. All four girls had reacted in different ways. Maya’s beauty had become soulful, and she had withdrawn from the family; Brooke’s anxiety had increased to the point where their father sent her to a therapist; Alice had taken over from their mother in running the family and Megan became that bit more disruptive. She dropped out of college. She found a boyfriend who was a jerk and a criminal. She took stupid jobs that didn’t suit her. She occasionally sought her father’s advice, but, whenever she did so, she was careful not to follow it. She let her sisters down, especially Alice.

She didn’t exactly do it on purpose. When she had accepted the invitation to Alice and Toby’s wedding in London, she thought she was going to go. It was just, when the day arrived, she didn’t. Why should she? They didn’t really want her there. The family wouldn’t notice her absence: they would probably be glad she wasn’t around to embarrass them all. She was doing them a favour by not showing up.

And all that was fine, because she knew that her mom and dad loved her, and even when her mom died she knew that Dad together with Alice could cope. She was safe screwing up her life, because her family would always be there for her.

But now what was she doing? Behaving like a brat. Coming home with all her stuff like some freshman dropping out of college. Being rude to her father.

This time the family could not cope. The family was falling apart around her. Alice was in trouble. Dad was losing control. Brooke had run away scared, following her own husband who felt justifiably betrayed. Maya had slipped away without anyone noticing.

Which left Megan. And Toby.

She liked Toby. He was kind. He was concerned – not just for Alice, but for all of them, including her. He took her seriously.

It was no surprise that Alice had nabbed him; Alice was always going to marry a kind, supportive, good-looking husband.

Now Megan had a job to do. She had to pull her family back together again. None of her sisters could do it.

She was smart. At least as smart as Alice – no, she must stop comparing herself to her sister!

She couldn’t believe her father’s fear that Alice had killed Sam Bowen. Like Toby, she wouldn’t believe it. The police couldn’t figure out what was going on, so she must.

She opened her computer and began tapping out ideas. Things she knew. Things she suspected.

Then she looked for connections.

Assuming her father was telling the truth, there seemed to be two possible avenues to follow, both connected to the Alexander Hamilton: Craig Naylor’s death on board the submarine and Commander Driscoll’s approach to Pat Greenwald.

First Megan checked online for any traces of reporting on the Hamilton’s near-launch back in 1983. Unsurprisingly, there was nothing. There were articles and extracts from books on the other near misses that Sam Bowen had mentioned: the false readings of missile attacks at NORAD and at the Soviet early-warning centre in the early eighties.

Next, Lieutenant Naylor’s death. There was very little about this either. In fact, all Megan could find was an obituary in the local paper of the town in New Jersey where he had grown up and where his parents lived. There was a photograph of someone who looked very much like Justin Opizzi. Craig had been a good-looking guy with a warm, open face and a military haircut. He had played for the high school baseball team, and left a grieving wife, Maria, a father who was a lawyer, and a mother, as well as a younger sister, Victoria. There was a memorial service at the local Presbyterian church.

Nothing about how he had died. And nothing about how he had separated from his wife.

Megan didn’t know whether Craig’s parents were still alive: it was possible. But his sister was, as was his ex-wife, Justin’s mother; Justin had spoken to them both about Craig’s death.

Megan had never met Vicky, nor had she heard any mention of her within her family, although she had heard quite a lot about Craig himself. Given what Justin had said about Vicky’s suspicions of Craig’s death, and her own father’s reluctance to face her, it was quite probable that Bill and Vicky had avoided each other over the years.

Should Megan try to contact Vicky?

Maybe. From what Justin had reported, she sounded as if she was still angry about her brother’s death. It was possible that Justin hadn’t asked her the right questions, or hadn’t been entirely honest about what she had told him.

Megan hesitated. Justin would not be at all happy if she contacted her, and neither would her father. But then Justin wasn’t happy anyway, and pissing off her father was nothing new. She considered a phone call, but decided on an email. A little searching on the Internet yielded Vicky’s email address, and she quickly tapped out a brief message:

Megan hesitated before hitting Send. It was likely Vicky would ignore the message. And if she didn’t, she would ask Megan what really happened on the submarine, and Megan wouldn’t be able to tell her.

What the hell? Megan had to do something. She clicked Send.

If Craig Naylor’s death was indeed what had spurred Sam Bowen’s murder, the most likely reason seemed to be that someone was trying to prevent that news from coming out. Who? Her father? Alice protecting her father? The US Navy or the US intelligence services?

And what about Lars’s death? Well, that could be an attempt to shut him up as well. Or it could be Justin taking revenge on who he believed had killed his natural father. But was there any reason that Justin might have killed Sam Bowen?

None that Megan could think of.

Unless maybe Justin was concerned that the world would find out that his father wasn’t a hero after all, but had actually wanted to start a nuclear war? That couldn’t be right: it was clear Justin had no idea what had happened on that submarine; that was what was driving him so crazy.

She heard a car pull up outside and Alice enter the house, but Megan ignored her sister.

OK, Commander Driscoll next, and then Pat Greenwald.

Once again, the only substantive mention of Commander Driscoll was a brief obituary in a Wichita Falls newspaper from July 1984. Nothing about the cause of death, just that it had been ‘sudden’. Blowing your brains out counted as ‘sudden’. Megan jotted down the names of his brother and parents, and his ex-wife and their two children.

She was more hopeful in her search for Pat Greenwald, and indeed there was quite a lot about her involvement in the anti-nuclear movement in the 1980s and 1990s. There was even a short Wikipedia entry for her. Which stated that she was murdered in 1996.

What!

Megan’s fingers flew over the keys as she did some more Googling. Greenwald had been killed only yards from her home in Brooklyn Heights in a mugging gone wrong. The perpetrators had never been caught, but there had been a number of murders in the area related to the crack cocaine epidemic.

She was survived by a husband, an academic at Columbia University named Ron Greenwald, and a son, Henry.

1996? That was when her father had said that the FBI had visited him and her mother in England to ask about Pat Greenwald. Could that be a coincidence? It could be. But then again, it might not be.

Naturally, there was no indication that Pat Greenwald had been suspected of being a Russian spy. Megan started Googling her husband, who was a professor of Earth and Environmental Sciences. He had written a number of books and articles about environmental issues, including nuclear energy. But there was virtually nothing about him joining his wife in the anti-nuclear movement in the eighties and nineties.

He, too, had died. Of cancer in 2012, the same year as Megan’s mother. Now, that must be a coincidence.

There was one son, Henry. Megan Googled him. Nothing. Checked him out on Facebook and narrowed the few Henry Greenwalds down to one guy who was thirty-nine, a geriatrician living in Brooklyn, married with two kids. He wasn’t an active user of the service. Not expecting much, Megan clicked on Henry’s Facebook friends. There were not many of them. On the second page she saw a name she recognized.

Sam Bowen.

It was the Sam Bowen. Writer and historian at Newcastle University.

So Sam had stumbled upon Pat Greenwald after all. She was certainly someone many people would want to keep out of his book.

Megan considered a message on Facebook, or sending Henry an email directly.

But then she had a better idea.