The Einstein Papers

CHAPTER 15

John Taft sat in a lawn chair on the wooden deck behind his house, looking out at the Potomac. It was a clear and sunny day. The faint breeze was scented by the fallen leaves Taft had raked into a pile, then covered with black plastic to build a compost heap. Dressed in only a worn pair of cut-off jeans, he rested his large bare feet on a wooden side table.

Taft had a barrel chest, darkly tanned, and his thick blond hair was bleached light by the sun. Glacial blue eyes stared toward the water with a cool intensity. To his right, reclining on a chaise lounge with her face buried in a Clive Cussler novel, lay a stunning and leggy brown-haired beauty.

Taft turned his gaze from the river, reached into his partially empty glass of iced tea, and pulled out a crescent-shaped ice cube. He casually tossed it onto the lady's stomach. She sat idly staring at the ice resting in her navel without moving a muscle. Then, after several seconds, she rose from the lounge chair and flicked the partially melted ice cube back toward Taft. She struck him dead in the middle of the forehead. Just then Taft's cell phone rang. "John Taft."

"Hey, my friend, how's it going?" Martinez's voice said cheerfully.

"Larry, I'm glad you called. I was thinking I might actually have a day off," Taft said wearily.

"No such luck. A few moments ago the NSA at Fort Meade called General Benson. The Chinese Embassy in New York wired a large sum of money to a marine salvage firm based in North Carolina three days ago. A second large payment was made to the Axial Group."

"I'm listening," Taft said, smiling at the woman, who was arching her back suggestively. "Anytime I hear those shitbags at the Axial Group are involved, it piques my interest."

"We still don't know what it all might mean. Benson thinks it might be tied to Choi's abduction and Jimn's theft of the diaries. Just to be safe, however, we're checking all avenues. The intelligence satellites were positioned to shoot the eastern seaboard and they have observed a salvage vessel named Deep Search working a tight grid for the last several hours. It appears that they've found an underwater object and have anchored beside a buoy."

"Do you think the Deep Search is connected to the Chinese?" Taft asked slowly.

"No idea. We're attempting to find out who owns the Deep Search and if anyone from the firm in North Carolina is on board. No luck yet. Benson doesn't want to raise a red flag just yet, so he ordered you and me to quietly check it out. The powers that be think that to use navy or Coast Guard ships would make us too obvious."

"It sounds like a long shot," Taft noted.

"True, it's probably nothing. Benson also ordered a black-bag team to North Carolina to wire up the company's offices, and I'm running a computer check on the Deep Search's registry, but nothing has turned up yet. This may just be a garden-variety salvage job not even tied to the Chinese, but there's a fishy smell to it. I think we better go ahead and investigate."

"Okay," Taft said easily. "What's my cover?"

"You're being flown from Andrews to Long Island. Pick up a rental car, then drive to the docks — we have a boat waiting there for you to use. You may not know it, but you're quite the serious deep-sea fisherman."

"I think this is more bullshit busywork," Taft said, lowering his voice. "Besides that, I think I was close to getting laid," he whispered into the phone.

"I don't get laid as much as you and I'm married," Martinez said. "Now quit your whining. You're due at Andrews in forty-five minutes."

"All right. Call me back when you have some more information," Taft said in disgust.

"Don't I always?" Martinez said and hung up.

Taft turned to the lady standing on the deck looking out on the water. "I was called into work."

"How long will you be gone this time?" she asked.

"I'm not really sure."

She rose to her feet and planted her hands on her hips. "You play hard-to-get really well, John," she said.

Taft smiled.

"Do you have any moral arguments against quickies?" the lady asked.

"No," Taft said easily.

"Got a spare ten minutes?" she said seductively.

Estimating the distance to Andrews and the time it would take if he broke the speed limit, Taft winked at her. "I've got fifteen."

"Saddle up, cowboy," the lady said as she sprinted for the bedroom. Twenty minutes later Taft s Ramcharger was doing ninety on the Capitol Beltway. Four hours later, in a fishing boat nearing Block Island, Taft backed off the throttle and the boat slowly settled in the water as it came off plane. Directly ahead lay the salvage ship Deep Search. Walking back to the stern of the fishing boat Taft raised the engine hatch cover, then peered for several minutes into the crowded space. The Deep Search bobbed quietly on the surface only seventy-five yards away. Unlocking the boat's communications box, Taft turned on the VHF radio and keyed the microphone.

"Ship off Block Island, this is the fishing boat off your port bow." The answer came immediately. "Go ahead, this is the ship off Block Island," the radio blared.

Taft noticed the ship did not identify itself by name, strange in itself.

"I'm having fuel problems," Taft lied. "I need another fuel filter. Can you help me out?"

"Hold one minute," the voice on the radio said.

As Taft waited, he found an old package of black licorice in a side compartment of the boat and chomped off a piece. The candy was dry and cracked as he chewed. On board the Deep Search, the captain and first officer held a rushed meeting. They had been ordered to stay on station above the Windforce and talk to no one until the recovery could begin. They also knew that to anyone monitoring the radio, a refusal to help a stranded boat was tantamount to burning a church in Rome. It would definitely be noticed.

Taft waited as the next several minutes passed slowly.

Suddenly the radio crackled. "The chief engineer states he has no filters; he suggests you bypass the filter until you reach port," the radio voice advised. Whoever they are, they're sharp, Taft thought. "Roger that, I will attempt to bypass." Taft returned to the stern and spent twenty minutes doing nothing to the fuel filter. Satisfied that he had taken long enough, he straightened up. Returning to the helm, he turned the key and the engine roared to life. Then he closed the hatches, engaged the drives, and set out toward the Deep Search. As the fishing boat drew near, several men quickly ran onto the deck of the salvage ship and waved him away. Taft observed the men carefully to see if they were wearing any type of uniform or patches that might identify them. He noticed nothing.

The radio on board the fishing boat barked. "Pull back," the voice ordered. Taft backed off the throttles and idled the fishing boat alongside the Deep Search, looking carefully to see if he could determine what work the crew was performing. He could not. The Deep Search appeared to be a catamaran, but no trawl nets or work gear could be seen. After marking the long-range navigation system — or LORAN—

coordinates, as well as the GPS numbers, so he could find the site in the future, he reached for the radio.

"Just wanted to thank you. I'm running fine now."

"You are most welcome. We are doing some very precise environmental work that you are disturbing. Could you please leave this area?" the voice on the radio asked politely.

"Roger, Captain, I'm leaving for port," Taft said finally. Taft cranked the wheel of the fishing boat hard to port and engaged the throttle. He pulled away, leaving the crew of the Deep Search slowly shaking their heads. Bringing the boat quickly on plane, he dialed up Martinez on the secure phone.

"I didn't see anything unusual," he said as soon as Martinez answered. "They claimed they were doing environmental work. I didn't see anything to suspect they weren't, but I recorded the position on my charts just in case."

"Sounds good," Martinez agreed. "I'm still working on tracking down the registered owner of Deep Search. Once I do I'll get back to you."

"Can I go home yet?" Taft asked.

"Not just yet."

"You're starting to annoy me," Taft said as he hung up the phone, locked the cabinet, and steered the fishing boat back toward Montauk Point.