The Best American Mystery Stories 2015 (22 page)

He stepped out of the Camry, started walking to the jetty. It was a warm day in late May. As with every previous Wednesday, his target was sitting on a park bench adjacent to the jetty, an old man with a metal cane balanced between his legs, looking down the channel, at the buildings, cranes, and docks of the shipyard.

Michael walked around the park bench, sat down, and gave a quick glance to the man about three feet away. He seemed to be in his late sixties, wearing a white cloth jacket, partially zippered up, a blue baseball cap with the U.S. Navy emblem in the center, dungarees, and black sneakers that had Velcro snaps. He looked over at Michael, then turned his gaze back to the shipyard. His nose was large with big pores, his face leathery and worn, white eyebrows about the size of butterfly wings.

“Nice day, huh?” Michael asked.

There was a pause, and the man said, “Yeah, it sure is.”

“But I bet fog can come up pretty quick, thicken everything up.”

“You know it.”

He sat still for a bit longer, not wanting to spook the man. All those months and weeks, poring over the dusty files, then making last-minute travel arrangements, and then ending up here. He had finally made it, and he didn’t want to screw it up.

“Think the shipyard will close now that the Cold War is over?”

A shrug. “Beats the hell out of me. But somethin’ that’s been there for nearly two hundred years, it’d be a shame if it did.”

“I agree,” Michael said, putting warmth into his voice. “I mean, there are good-paying jobs over there, with a lot of skilled guys and gals, am I right? Working with their hands, having special knowledge, knowing how to build subs.”

“Nobody over there builds subs,” the man declared.

“Excuse me? It’s a shipyard, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, but all they do now is overhaul work or the occasional repair. Last time they built a sub over there was the USS
Sand Lance.
Launched in 1969.”

“What kind of submarine was that?”

“An attack sub. Sturgeon class. Used to hunt Russian missile subs.”

“Oh. I see.”

Michael kept quiet, folded his hands in his lap. Looked back at the older man, said, “Excuse me for asking this, I get the feeling you worked there. True?”

A long pause. The old man rubbed his hands along the top of the cane. “Yeah. I did. A pipefitter.”

Michael felt a small sense of triumph, tried to keep it out of his voice and expression. “You miss it much?”

“The people,” he said quickly. “You miss the guys you worked with. A real smart bunch of fellas, could pretty much figure out how to solve any kind of problem, no matter what it was, no matter if it was welding or electronics or anything else. Most of the times, we finished the boat under budget and on schedule. A great, great group of guys.”

“Sounds like it,” Michael said. “Makes it good to know that the place might still stay open.”

The old man kept quiet, and Michael stayed with him a few minutes longer, and said, “Lots of birds out there today.”

“Mostly seagulls,” the old man said. “More like rats with wings, not sure if they count as birds.”

Michael spoke softly. “Ever see a kingfisher?”

“No,” he said sharply. “Never have.”

He let it be, and after a couple of minutes got up and said, “So long,” and walked back to his rental car.

Good ops were like going fishing. Getting that initial nibble was always encouraging.

Exactly a week later, Michael came back to the Great Island Common and once again found the old man sitting at the same park bench, like he had never left. He sat down, and when the guy glanced over, he put his hand out and said, “Michael.”

The man took his hand. It was wrinkled and rough. “Gus.”

“Glad to meet you, Gus.”

They sat there for a while, and Gus said, “What brings you here?”

Michael sighed. “You know, Gus, sometimes I just need to sit outside and get some fresh air. I work in an office, and after a while, you realize, man, is this it? Is this your life? Moving papers from one pile to another. Going to lots of meetings. Moving some more papers around. Kissing the right ass. Go home, go to bed, get up and do it again. Blah.”

Gus stayed quiet, and Michael said, “I know this sounds crazy, but sometimes, you know, sometimes I envy guys like you. Worked with your hands. Building things. Fixing things. Could point to something at the end of the day. Could say, hey, that submarine that just got launched, I had a part of it.”

“Well . . . it wasn’t easy work.”

“Oh, man, yeah, I know that. I know it was hard, dirty, and maybe dangerous. But I’m sure you felt like you were helping out the country, you know? Helping defend it by making the navy strong. Me? End of the day, end of the month, what do I get? I moved some papers around and made some middle managers happy. So what?”

Gus cackled. “Yeah, managers. Always tend to get in the way, don’t they. Paperwork, procedures, forms, checklists. If it wasn’t for completed and filled-out forms, made you think whether they could breathe or not.”

“They sure do. Man, so how many submarines did you work on?

Gus shrugged. “Lose track. Eighteen, maybe nineteen.”

“So you were there when they went from diesel subs to nuclear?”

“That I was.”

“Bet security was really something, back then.”

Gus didn’t say anything, and Michael wondered if he had gone too far. He waited, wondering what to say next.

The old man finally said, “Yeah, it was something. Had to be. We were in the middle of the Cold War, weren’t we?”

Michael nodded. “People tend to forget that, don’t they?”

“Well, I don’t.”

“Neither do I.” Michael got up. “Tell me, you ever see a kingfisher fly by here?”

A firm shake of the head. “Nope, can’t say I ever have.”

The third time, the third Wednesday, it was overcast, with a steady breeze coming off the Atlantic, whitecaps making the channel choppy. But Gus was still sitting there, watching the gray buildings and cranes of the shipyard.

Michael sat down, having brought two cups of coffee with him. He passed one over to Gus, who took it and murmured, “Thanks, appreciate it.”

“Not a problem.”

A cargo ship was making its way slowly out of the harbor, being escorted by two tugboats. Michael watched it slide by and said, “Your dad work at the shipyard?”

“No, he was navy.”

“Oh. During World War II?”

“Kinda. He joined up just as it was wrapping up. Went to Japan as part of the occupation forces, right after the war ended.”

“I see.”

“Me, I got into the shipyard in the late 1940s, just as a kid.”

“Bet your dad was proud of you.”

“Yeah, you’d think,” he said, speaking slowly. “But my dad . . . something in the navy really changed him. Didn’t talk about his duty for a long, long while. But he hated the fact I had anything to do with the military.”

“Really? That sounds strange. I mean, you read all those books and see those television shows about ‘the Greatest Generation.’ It seems most guys were proud of their service. My grandfather, he fought the Nazis during the war. Said it was the best four years of his life. Nothing ever came close to giving him that close bond, of being part of something larger than him, fighting against fascism.”

Gus took a noisy slurp from his coffee. “Yeah, but the war was pretty much over when my dad joined up. No more fighting. Just occupation duty.”

“Something must have happened to him, back then.”

Michael sensed he had gone too far. It seemed Gus was staring at something very, very far away. His orders told him to do something, but he couldn’t do it. Not yet.

He didn’t know enough.

Finally Gus said, “This coffee is good. Thanks.”

Michael sat with him for a little while and then got up.

“Later, Gus.”

The old man didn’t say anything else.

In nearby Portsmouth, the Federal Building in the center of the city contained offices from the post office to the Armed Forces Recruiting Centers to the local office of the FBI. Michael parked nearby and walked for a bit, arriving at a room where he made a phone call to give an update.

His supervisor was brusque with him. “You should be wrapped up by now.”

“I’m close. I don’t want to spook him.”

“This whole thing can blow up in our faces unless it gets handled right. So handle it.”

“I will.”

“You better.”

And then his supervisor hung up.

The Wednesday next, Michael came to the park bench where Gus sat. In addition to bringing two coffees, he had brought a bag of doughnuts. Gus grunted when he saw the doughnuts. “My doc says I shouldn’t eat this stuff.”

“What do you say?”

“My doc should mind his own goddamn business.”

The doughnuts came from a local bakery—not a chain shop—and they were tasty and filling as both men ate. Michael took in the channel, the bridges, the brick buildings of Portsmouth, and the cranes and gray buildings of the shipyard.

“You said you worked on a lot of subs over the years,” Michael said. “Any one of them stand out in your mind?”

Gus took a good mouthful of coffee. “No, not really.”

“You sure? I think there’d be at least one that stuck out in your mind.”

“Nope.”

“Not even the USS
Thresher?
You sure?”

Gus paused, one hand holding the coffee cup, the other holding a half-eaten cruller. He coughed. “What do you know about the
Thresher?
”

“It was built over there, at the shipyard. Came back for some overhaul work in 1963. Went out one morning for a test dive off Cape Cod. Something went wrong. It sank, all hands lost. One hundred twenty-nine crew members and civilians. Hell of a thing.”

Gus lowered his shaking hands, let the coffee and the cruller fall to the ground. Michael said, “Went out on April 10, 1963. A Wednesday. Funny thing, huh? Every time I come by here and you’re sitting here, looking at the shipyard, it’s a Wednesday. What a coincidence, eh?”

“Sure,” Gus said. “A coincidence.”

“Never a Tuesday. Or Friday. Or Saturday. Only Wednesday. Why’s that?”

No answer.

Michael pressed on. “Tell me. You ever see an osprey out there?”

Gus turned to him, tears in his eyes. “Who the hell are you, anyway?”

Michael took out a leather wallet with a badge and identification and held it up for Gus to look at. Gus looked at it, sighed, and sat back against the park bench. He seemed to age ten years from one heartbeat to another.

“How did you do it, Gus?” Michael asked. “How did you sink the
Thresher?
”

Michael waited, thinking he now knew this guy pretty well, and Gus didn’t disappoint. He didn’t argue, he didn’t deny, he didn’t try to get up and run away.

Gus just seemed to hold on to his cane tighter. “Wasn’t meant to sink the damn thing. That wasn’t the plan.”

“What was the plan, then?”

Gus said, “You told me the code words, in the right sequence. You should have figured it out, you and the rest of the FBI.”

Michael put his identification away. “You’d be surprised at what we don’t know.”

“You seem to know enough.”

“No, not really,” Michael said. “Biggest thing for me is, why didn’t you bail out once I said ‘kingfisher’ that first day?”

Gus turned to him. “What? Where would I go? Shuffle off to my assisted living facility? Empty out my savings account and take a Greyhound to Florida? I didn’t know who the hell you were . . . so I waited you out. Maybe you were a birdwatcher. Maybe not. I’m old enough now I don’t really give a shit.”

Michael knew his supervisor wanted him to wrap this up as quickly as possible, but he was patient. Maybe too patient, but he wanted to make sure he had this one settled before proceeding.

“So what can you tell me, Gus?” he said. “How did it start?”

“You go first,” he said. “How the hell did you find out about me, after all these years?”

Michael laughed. “What, you haven’t been watching the news last year? In case you didn’t get the memo, the goddamn Evil Empire has collapsed. The Communist Party’s practically outlawed, peace is breaking out, and the Soviet Union is no more.”

“So?”

“So when you got a country that’s collapsing, the army’s being called out to harvest potatoes and their navy is sinking dockside, then everything’s for sale. Everything! So we’ve had guys going over to Moscow and other places, passing out the Benjamins, getting files and dossiers. You wouldn’t believe the old secrets that are being given up. We had special squads lined up to get answers to old puzzles . . . I put in for the JFK squad but I was assigned to naval matters. And we found your dossier . . . or parts of it. Got your real name, your job at the shipyard, and your assignment for the
Thresher.
”

Gus sighed. “I never got contacted after she sank. I thought I was in the clear. Thought they had forgotten me.”

Michael said, “Then you don’t know how they operated. The KGB had a seal they’d put on some of their more sensitive documents.
Dolzhny khranit’sya vechno.
Know what that means? It means ‘to be kept forever.’ That’s how their minds worked. They thought they’d be victorious against us evil capitalists, so nothing would ever be burned or shredded. Their proud files would be kept forever.”

Gus looked out at the channel, and Michael said, “But something was missing in your dossier, Gus. It’s why you did it. Was it money? Were you that hard-pressed for money back in the 1960s? Was it gambling? Medical bills for a family member? Did the KGB promise you a ton of cash?”

“No, nothing like that. It wasn’t for the money. Didn’t get paid a dime.”

“So why did you do it, Gus? Why did you betray your country? Sabotage a nuclear-powered submarine, the first in its class, a sabotage that would sink it and kill everyone on board?”

The old man sighed. “You wouldn’t believe me.”

“Try me. C’mon, let me in on it.”

“Why?” he shot back. “To make it look good on your arrest report?”

Michael laughed. “Who said anything about arresting you?”