The Solomon Effect

29

Kaliningrad, Russia: Monday 26 October

9:10 P.M. local time

The flight from Kaliningrad to Berlin smelled of raw onions and vodka and hot, closely pressed bodies. Tobie leaned back in her seat and closed her eyes, but she was too exhausted and jittery to sleep.

Jax passed out before the flight even pushed back from the terminal.

Watching him sleep, she knew a welling of frustration that only seemed to grow with each passing minute. In less than a week, an unknown group of terrorists would launch a deadly attack on the United States. She had successfully located the U-boat the men had salvaged. But the true nature of its cargo had turned into an enigma, while the identity of the terrorists themselves remained a mystery.

No one knew better than Tobie the limits of remote viewing. Anything she tried to view from here on out could be dangerously influenced by what she already knew about the case. And tasking herself was always tricky. Without the protocol of an official viewing in place, no one in the intelligence community would give credence to anything she “saw.” But she had to try.

Taking a deep breath, then another, she willed herself to relax, sinking slowly down into her Zone. Her target was a person: the leader of the force that attacked the Yalena Saturday morning and killed its crew. Her target time: now.

The first images were, as always, indistinct. She saw a man. Dark hair. Dark skin. A flat nose. Full lips. Dark jeans. A heavy pullover sweater. She could feel the anger seething within him, combined with a lethal determination that sent a chill down her spine.

She pulled back from him, trying to get a sense of place. She was aware of the pinch of cold. Smelled damp earth and wet leaves. He stood outdoors, in the country, perhaps, or in a garden. In the darkness, trees and bushes were all reduced to indistinct shadows buffeted by the wind.

Pulling back further, she saw the faint glow of a lamp spilling through an uncurtained window. The sulfurous haze of a streetlight shining on wet pavement. A city, but not a crowded city.

What city?

Patiently, she returned to the man standing in the shadowy garden. The house behind him began to come into focus. High gables. Jutting dormers. Steep roof. Mullioned windows. A large house, well cared for, yet quiet.

She shifted her perspective to the street, the images of the neighboring houses becoming increasingly cleaner, stronger. If she were ever to find herself on this street, she would recognize it in an instant. But when she tried to move beyond the darkened houses, to the city itself, her impressions became less distinct and dangerously susceptible to “overlay” by her imagination.

With a sigh, she opened her eyes to stare out the plane’s small window at the darkness beyond. She felt the vibrations of the jet’s engines thrumming through her, and she knew it again, that sense of frustration combined now with a growing urgency. She had seen the man they sought; she was sure of it. She had felt his anger and his dark purposefulness. But who was he?

And where was he?

It wasn’t until their flight hit the runway, bounced, then rattled to a shuttering halt that Jax opened his eyes.

She said, “How do you do that?”

He glanced over at her and yawned. “What? Sleep? Practice.”

“I’m beginning to think I might kill for a bed and a shower.”

“You should be able to get both at the station.”

“The station? What station?”

He got that look on his face, the one he always got whenever she reminded him just how little she knew about espionage or the world of spycraft. “The CIA station at the embassy. Every embassy has one. They’ll probably debrief you there before sending you back to the States.”

She paused in the act of leaning over to pick up her carry-on bag and straightened slowly. “The States? But…I thought we were going to follow up on Baklanov’s contacts in the Middle East.”

“No. I’m following up on Baklanov’s contacts in the Middle East. Your role in this assignment is over.”

She felt a pulse of anger throb through her, making her fingers tingle and her face grow hot. She said, “Why? The U-boat was in Kaliningrad, just like I said it would be.”

“And what did you see in Turkey?”

She looked at him blankly. “I didn’t see anything in Turkey.”

He unbuckled his seatbelt and stood. “Exactly. The woo-woo part of this mission is over.” He didn’t say it, but she knew what he was thinking: Thank God.

She followed him down the narrow, crowded aisle. “You’re going to Turkey?”

“Yes.”

“But…why?”

“Because Kemal Erkan is in Turkey.”

“But Erkan was interested in buying the submarine, not the cargo; I think we should go to Lebanon. That’s where Baklanov was planning to sell the cargo.”

He glanced back at her over his shoulder. “Did you see that in your crystal ball, too?”

“I don’t have a crystal ball and you know it.” She waited, but when he still didn’t say anything, she said, “I vote we go to Lebanon.”

He went to stand in one of the long immigration lines. “This isn’t a democracy. I’m going to Turkey. And you’re going to New Orleans.”

They’d just cleared Customs and were pushing their way through the crowd waiting outside the wide double doors when a female voice with a pronounced Bronx twang said, “You can stop right there.”

Tobie turned to find a stocky woman with short-cropped dark hair descending on them, a manila envelope clutched against her brown pantsuit jacket.

“Why, Petra,” said Jax with a smile that didn’t exactly ooze charm and good cheer. “You didn’t need to put yourself to the trouble of meeting us.”

The woman’s dark brown eyes narrowed down into hostile glints. “Believe me, meeting you is a lot less trouble than cleaning up after you.” She slapped the manila envelope against his chest. “This is for you. Don’t even think about leaving the airport. You’re both booked on the red-eye flight to Izmir.”

“Both of us?”

“Both of you.”

Tobie poked him in the ribs with her elbow. He ignored her.

Petra said, “You got a report from Division Thirteen headquarters. It’s in the envelope with your e-tickets.”

Jax’s hand tightened around the envelope. “You’re very efficient. Thank you, Petra.”

Her frown darkened. “You haven’t asked, but I’m going to tell you anyway: we cleaned up your little mess.”

Tobie looked from one to the other. “What mess?”

For the first time, Petra’s gaze shifted to her. “What mess? He was in Berlin less than eighteen hours and he still managed to find the time to kill someone.”

Tobie blinked.

Jax said, “Did you ever find out who the guy was?”

“No.” Petra turned to leave. “The tickets to Izmir are one-way. Make sure that however you come back, it’s not through Berlin.”

“Thanks, Petra. You’re a champ.”

She spun back to face him. “Catalano. My name is Rita Catalano.”

Jax gave her a smile that showed his teeth. “You’ll always be Petra to me.”

“You’re gloating again,” he said as they pushed their way into the waiting area for the flight to Izmir.

“I’m not gloating.”

“You’re gloating.”

Tobie allowed her smile to spread a little wider. “Okay. Maybe just a little.” She dropped her voice and threw a quick look around. “You didn’t tell me you killed someone in Berlin on your way to Kaliningrad. Who was it?”

“Some jerk with a big nose and a gun he intended to use on me.”

“You think he’s connected to our friends on the Kawasakis?”

“Probably.”

“But…how did they know you were going to be in Berlin?”

“That’s the troublesome part. I was only in Berlin because my Aeroflot connection was canceled. And the Company made my hotel reservations.”

Tobie was silent a moment, considering this. “You think that CIA woman had something to do with it? Is that why you were kinda funny with her?”

“Petra? Nah. She’s just a pain in the ass.”

They found a couple of seats squeezed in between a wall and a green-eyed woman, dressed in dark slacks, a tunic, and a headscarf, who was nursing a toddler on her lap. Jax opened Petra’s envelope and pulled out the report from Matt.

Tobie peered over his shoulder. “What’s all that?”

He thumbed through the pages. “Matt checked with Interpol. Oh, look. Surprise, surprise: Baklanov Salvage seems to have been involved in low-level smuggling.”

“Let me guess. Cigarettes and vodka?”

“You got it. But that’s not all. There’s also strong suspicion that our friend Jasha was into gunrunning.”

“To Lebanon?”

“Right again.”

“See. I keep telling you we should be going to Lebanon.”

“Did the guy on the Kawasaki look Lebanese to you?”

“No. But he didn’t look Turkish, either.”

Jax flipped to another printout, this one with columns of phone numbers. Some of the numbers had names associated with them, but most were only identified by location-if that.

“Those are Jasha’s cell phone records?” she said, eying them.

He nodded. “The last three months’ worth. Looks like this guy was in contact with people in Beirut, Spain, Florida, Finland…a real international businessman.” He ran his finger down the list. “Here’s our friend Kemal Erkan. He lives in some place named Aliaga, wherever that is. In the last two days, he’s called Jasha six times.”

“Aliaga is just north of Izmir.”

He looked up at her. “How did you know that?”

She glanced away, to where a steady stream of passengers was unloading through a nearby gate. “My dad was stationed at Izmir when I was a kid.”

“So you speak Turkish?”

“Yes. Do you?”

When he said nothing, she leaned in close to say, “I guess it’s a good thing you’re going to have me along after all, isn’t it? So I can do all the talking.”

“Don’t let it go to your head.” He flipped to the transcript of Erkan’s voice-mail messages. “Ah. It’s all coming together. This guy Kemal Erkan owns a shipbreakers yard.”

“A what?”

“A shipbreakers yard. They tear old ships apart for scrap. It can be done right, with good environmental controls and safety procedures for the workers. But doing it right is expensive, so most companies sell their aging ships to countries like India or China. They cut the ships apart right on the beach and just burn or dump whatever they can’t sell.”

Tobie rubbed the bridge of her nose between one thumb and forefinger. “I’m confused.”

The toddler next to them began to cry, its face screwed up in a wail of exhaustion. The mother stood, jiggling him up and down as she walked him back and forth.

Jax said softly, “I have a hunch our mysterious friends heard Baklanov Salvage had experience raising old World War II-era submarines, and hired Jasha to raise U-114. Only, Jasha got greedy. He decided he could make more money selling the sub to Turkey for the steel and hawking its cargo on the black market…and on eBay, of course.”

“So they killed him?”

“And took whatever it was they wanted from the sub.”

“Which may or may not have been gold.”

“Which probably was not gold.” Jax thumbed back through Baklanov’s cell records and sucked in a hissing breath.

“What is it?” she said.

He pointed to the last two entries on the list. “Look at this. Someone accessed Baklanov’s voice mail on Sunday morning, then again this afternoon.”

“I don’t get it. Baklanov was killed early Saturday morning. How is that possible?”

“Easy. You kill a man. You take his cell phone. And then you check his cell records to see who he’s been calling.”

“And who is calling him.” Tobie watched the woman in the headscarf swing her son up to her shoulder and pat him softly on the back. “I think Mr. Kemal Erkan might be in trouble,” she said.

“No shit.”