The Trojan Sea (17 page)

Miami

Sophia watched the jogger as he ran down the beach. His skin was pasty white, but his muscles rippled with the tone of a superb athlete. She raised herself on one elbow and scanned the crowd lounging on the sand. She stood so the jogger could see her and took another look at the palm-tree-lined promenade next to the street. She didn’t see any of the trademark signs of surveillance and decided to chance contact. Still, one could never be sure, not in her business. She pulled on a long T-shirt to cover her thong bikini and walked down to the water in time to meet the jogger. She walked past him and murmured, “In front of the coffeehouse on Collins, tonight at eight thirty-five.” He kept on running.

At exactly 8:35 that evening Sophia slowed as she passed the coffeehouse, ready to drive on by. But the jogger was walking toward the curb, the signal that he was clear. She coasted to a near stop and he slid into the front seat beside her. To be on the safe side she leaned over and kissed him. To the unknowing bystander it was either a girlfriend picking up her boyfriend for a little impromptu boffing or a clandestine rendezvous with adultery the prime objective. Both were considered entirely proper forms of recreation on Collins Avenue.

She accelerated into the heavy traffic and reached under the dash to activate the noise scrambler. A low hum filled the car. “This had better be good,” he said.

“We’ve gone critical.”

“With our friends the Puerto Rican loonies?”

“They want to believe my cover since I’ve been so ‘helpful.’ But they want to verify. It’s time for the big test.”

“To make your bones,” he said. It wasn’t a question. “What do they want you to do?” He knew it had to be serious, or she wouldn’t have called for an urgent face-to-face meeting.

“They want me to sanction an informant.”

“That’s it,” the jogger said. There was no way he would ask her to cross that line in order to penetrate the terrorist cell. “To hell with the money. We’re outa there.”

“Why?” she asked.

The jogger looked at her in shock. “We don’t do that, that’s why.”

“If the money’s right, we do.” She let it sink in. “Tell Marsten it’s a go for another thirty thousand.”

“Shit-oh-dear,” the jogger moaned. She slowed to let him out.

“I need a quick confirm,” she said.

“Who’s the poor bastard?”

“A waiter at Café Martí. They think he’s an informant.”

“Is he?” She gave a shrug of her shoulders and waited for him to get out. “I’ll call you tomorrow,” he told her. “No later than noon your time.”

At precisely 10:20
P.M.
on Friday evening, Luis Barrios walked into Café Martí and sat at the bar. He was careful to pick a seat where he could observe the sidewalk patio. Three minutes later, and on cue, Sophia walked into the café and found a seat on the patio. Luis caught his breath at the dress she was wearing. It was perfect: skimpy enough to stop traffic and cause heart attacks without getting her arrested. As expected, the waiter moved directly to her table.

“Se~norita,”
he murmured. “How may I serve you?”

She answered in Spanish. “I was here in September, and you served me the best coffee.”

The waiter lit up like a neon sign. “Yes, I remember. The lady who speaks our language like a native.”
She’s the one who thought the Puerto Rican scum were Cuban
, he recalled.

She batted her eyelashes at him. “You remember?”

He was all gallant charm. “How could I forget?” They chatted for a few more moments as she set the hook.

She was waiting in a car when he got off work three hours later. He opened the door and started to hyperventilate. She was wearing a sleeveless sweatshirt that left no doubt that was all she had on. “Where?” was all she asked.

He mumbled a few words and directed her to a deserted street behind a warehouse. Within moments his shirt was open and his pants off as he drew her on top of him. She kissed him over and over as he pulled off her sweatshirt and threw it into the backseat. She scooted under him and raised her legs, guiding him into her. He barely felt the pinprick in his left thigh.

Luis Barrios was waiting when she let herself into his apartment. “Well?” he asked.

“The coroner will rule it ‘sudden death syndrome probably brought on during lovemaking.’ While it is quite unusual in such a young man, it is not unheard of. Of course, he could have been saved had a set of defibrillator paddles been readily available.”

Luis was incensed, not that she had killed the waiter but that she had betrayed him and the cause by making love to an enemy. “There must have been a better way to do it.”

She reached for him. “I wanted to send him out with a bang,” she whispered.

Newport News

Shanker was caged rage as he paced the family room. “Damn! I don’t believe this. How could the cops think you had anything to do with jimmying the brakes?” He glared at Stuart as if he were personally responsible for coming under suspicion. “Anything mechanical is totally beyond you.”

Martha decided it was time to get her husband back in control. “But the police don’t know that, do they?” Shanker turned his scowl on her. “Don’t go giving me your steely-eyed aerial assassin look.” She fixed him with her no-nonsense gaze.

Jane started to smile but squashed it before Shanker noticed. Seagrave caught it. The Englishman felt uneasy being caught up in a family problem, but as Martha and Shanker’s houseguest, it was unavoidable. It had been the only topic of discussion since Mike had called late Wednesday night and told them about the police interview with the OSI. But Seagrave decided early on that the more heads involved in sorting out the problem the better. And he did trust Jane.
She’s the levelheaded one,
he thought.

Shanker wilted under his wife’s look. “How is Jenny?” he muttered, changing the subject.

“She’ll make it,” Stuart replied. “She’s going to need reconstructive surgery on her face, and Barbara Raye’s already lined up one of the best plastic surgeons in New York. But Jenny’s got to recover from the accident first.”

“Well, William,” Martha said to Shanker. She couldn’t solve Stuart’s problem, but she expected her husband to get involved and do something.

“Okay, we know you didn’t do it,” Shanker said, “but the police think you did.”

“Don’t they always look at the husband or boyfriend first?” Jane asked.

Seagrave threw in his two cents. “So you need to get them moving on.”

“How do we do that?” Stuart asked.

Shanker paced the floor. “Never forget rule number one.”

“Sorry,” Jane said, “you lost me.” Four words or less again.

“In the fighter business,” Seagrave explained, “rule number one is
always
check your six-o’clock position.”

“The guy who shot you down was the guy you didn’t see,” Shanker added.

“Another rule?” Stuart said, not seeing the sense in all the talk.

“Damn right,” Shanker shot back.

Stuart’s head came up as paranoia shot through him. “What if someone
is
out to get me?” Silence all around as he played with the idea. “Look what happened to me on the way home from work—twice.”

“There are better neighborhoods to live in,” his mother allowed.

“It’s getting better all the time,” Stuart replied. “Then Jenny is in an accident driving my car when the brakes fail, and Grant is killed. Tell me it’s all coincidence.”

“Why would anyone be out to get you?” Jane asked.

Shanker snorted. “Barbara Raye. I wouldn’t put anything past that woman.”

“But she wouldn’t hurt her own daughter,” Martha said.

“She didn’t intend to,” Shanker said. “The accident was intended for Mike.”

“It does make sense,” Seagrave said. He looked at Stuart. “So who’s your wingman in all this?”

“He means who can help you?” Shanker explained.

Stuart shook his head in misery. He had never felt so alone and vulnerable. An image formed at the back of his mind. At first it was indistinct, hidden in a gossamer haze. Then Toni Moreno-Mather emerged. “The OSI agent I told you about.”

“You’ll need to give her something to work with,” Seagrave said.

“Like Barbara Raye’s head,” Shanker growled.

Andrews Air Force Base, Maryland

Special Agent Toni Mather shifted her weight in the chair, trying to get comfortable. Stuart recognized the symptoms and smiled at her. “Jenny used to say that husbands should have to wear twenty-pound weights around their middle when their wives are expecting.”

“What a great idea.” Toni paused and groaned. “Ooh! Four more months and he’s already kicking field goals.”

“Then you know it’s a boy?”

“Not really. But only a boy could kick like that.” She scanned her notes. They’d been talking for over an hour, and she needed to go to the restroom. But they were almost finished. She frowned as a loose end caught her attention. Was there a connection between the assault on Stuart and the second victim at the ATM who had screamed and fought back? While Toni believed in coincidence, that would have been one too many. “I need the name of the detective you spoke to about the mugger,” she said. Stuart gave her the name, and she wrote it down. “Okay, that’s it for now. If you think of anything else, give me a call.”

“Will do,” he said, standing up. “And thanks for listening to me.”

When he’d left, Toni called the detective, and they spoke briefly. She jotted down the name Jean McCormick. Then she heaved herself to her feet and walked slowly to the restroom, still trying to put it all in perspective. Was he merely having a run of bad luck? It did happen. And why would anyone be out to get him? The exercise felt good, and she took a little walk on the way back, still playing with the angles, trying to see a pattern. She made a decision. She would go to her commander and get his take. But first she’d talk to Stuart’s boss, one Colonel Roger Priestly.

The Pentagon

Priestly glanced at the photo on the ID card and then back to Toni. Her hair was much shorter, but it was the same person. He suppressed a mental groan. He was totally against pregnant women serving on active duty, but it was career suicide to suggest that motherhood and the profession of arms were mutually exclusive. “What can I do for you, Agent Mather?” He waved her to a seat. “Would you like some coffee or tea?”

“No thanks,” she replied, taking out her notebook. “As you probably know, Lieutenant Colonel Michael Stuart has been experiencing problems lately that have come to our attention. I was wondering about his job performance and if there’s a connection.”

Ramjet put on his concerned look. “I am aware of his problems and deeply worried. Frankly, I think it’s a combination of personal problems at home, and…well, I hate to say this, but careerwise he’s a failure.” He looked pained as Toni jotted down notes. When she didn’t respond, he felt that an explanation was called for. “Stuart is not a team player and is oblivious to the rules.” He sighed. “If he remains under investigation, I may have to act. I’m sure you understand my position.”

A little jerk of her head answered him. “How did you learn that the police were investigating him?”

Ramjet looked thoughtful. “I, ah, don’t recall. Did my secretary tell me? Sorry, I just don’t remember.”

Without commenting, she made another note. She thought for a moment. “Colonel Stuart said he told you he was interviewed by the police in my presence”—she made a show of checking her notes—“on last Wednesday, November thirteenth.” She looked at him expectantly. “Five days ago.”

“I, ah…why, yes, I believe you’re correct. He did tell me. I don’t remember when.” Ramjet was beginning to feel uncomfortable. “I’ve been very busy lately.”

“The burdens of command,” Toni replied.

He breathed in relief. She did understand. “Exactly.”

Toni asked a few more perfunctory questions and thanked him for his time. She wrote down “Lying asshole” before she closed her notebook and left.

Priestly’s fingers beat a relentless tattoo on his desk as a deep frown crossed his face. Slowly his face relaxed into a pleasant expression. It was time to trash Stuart, and he knew exactly how to do it.

Washington, D.C.

It was dark when Stuart unlocked his garage and raised the heavy wooden door. “Be careful where you step,” Jane said. He walked gingerly over the floor and slid behind the wheel of Jenny’s car. “Back straight out,” she said. “Stay in the same tracks.” Stuart did as she said and parked the car in the alley while she turned on the light. “We need a flashlight,” she called. He rummaged under the seat and found the flashlight he had stowed there.

“What are you looking for?” he asked.

“I’m not sure,” she replied. She squatted down and studied the floor. Like everything in Stuart’s life, the garage was clean and tidy as a pin. “Is that oil all from Jenny’s car?”

“I’ll clean it up,” he said.

“No. Don’t.” Her eyes squinted as she concentrated. “There,” she said, pointing to a spot in the center of the floor. “And over there,” now pointing to an area where the right front wheel would have been.

“I don’t see anything,” he said.

She took three careful steps into the garage, picked something off the floor, and then backed out in her same footprints. “Look,” she said, showing him a small, oil-covered gray lump. She wiped it clean.

“What the hell is it?”

She rolled it in her fingers. “Ouch.” She held it in the flashlight’s beam and touched a silver spur stuck in the side. “A metal sliver,” she said. She studied it. “I think it’s a fiberglass patching material, like Bondo.”

“I’ve never used Bondo in my life,” he said. “What’s it doing here?”

“Good question. Where does your landlady live?” Stuart pointed to the main apartment of the converted building. Jane walked quickly up the back steps and knocked at the door. A woman in her late seventies cracked open the door and peered out.

“Mrs. Witherspoon,” Stuart said, “this is Jane Ryan, a friend of mine.”

“Ma’am,” Jane said, “has anyone been in Mike’s garage lately—when he’s been at work?”

The old woman thought for a moment. “A man from the gas company was here about a gas leak. He said he had to look in the garage. That’s where he found the leak. Such a nice young man. He fixed it for free, you know. Spoke with a Texas accent. And in good shape physically. Said he jogged.”

“Do you remember when he was here?” Jane asked.

“Two weeks ago, something like that.”

Jane and Stuart exchanged looks. “That was before the accident,” Jane said. Stuart thanked the old lady as Jane went back to lock the garage.

“You can’t leave your car in the alley,” Mrs. Witherspoon said.

“Don’t worry,” Jane called. “We won’t.”

Stuart got into the car and waited for Jane to join him. “What now?”

“Give this to the OSI,” Jane said, “and tell them about the gas man.” She handed him the chip of Bondo. “And don’t go in the garage.”

Dallas

Marsten’s lips compressed in consternation when he saw the news item on his computer. He hit the print button and buzzed his secretary. “Is Miss Ellis in?”

“I’m afraid not,” Shugy replied. “She returned from Washington quite late yesterday evening.”

A finger hit the speed dial on the phone console as he rang L.J.’s home. She answered on the fourth ring. “Good morning, Lloyd. What a lovely day.”

He recognized the tone immediately. The trip to Washington had been a roaring success, and she was on top of the world, happy and content. “You’re taking a leisurely bath, yes?”

“How did you know?”

“A lucky guess.” Marsten didn’t bother to analyze what was going on inside L.J. She was far too complex for that. He accepted her for what she was: a force of nature who could switch from pirate to saint with the speed of lightning. And when she was happy, she lit up his sky. He hated bringing her bad news and changing all that. “We do need to talk,” he said. It was his code for “We have a problem.”

A little sigh. “I did want to go shopping this morning. Can it wait?”

He didn’t want to ruin her day, but it was urgent. “This afternoon?” he asked. She agreed.

“Until then,” he said, hanging up. He drummed his fingers on his desk as he stared at the photo attached to the news clip. He was a very worried man.

Marsten handed L.J. the news clip and the photo he had taken off the Internet. She glanced at it and read part of the caption. “‘The murder victim was a known informant rumored to be working for the FBI.’” She looked puzzled. “How can an informant be ‘known’ and ‘rumored’ at the same time? Is this important?”

“We may be involved,” Marsten told her.

She arched an eyebrow. “How?”

He sat down on her couch and crossed his legs. “One of my people has successfully penetrated the group who blew up RTX. But our man hasn’t gained full acceptance, and this may be the way he proved himself.” He hated to lie to her, but it was necessary if he was to build a fence around what he was doing to protect her and RayTex.

The look on L.J.’s face was reassuring. He had not ruined her day, and she knew he was not telling her the whole truth.

“But you’re not sure,” she said.

“It’s a possibility, and the timing is right. We may want to become uninvolved. The sooner the better.”

“Why? Especially after going to all this trouble.”

Marsten became very alert. Something was on the boil behind her pretty face. But what? He cut to the heart of the matter. “Is there something I need to know?”

L.J. sat next to him and patted his hand. “Poor Lloyd. You have to take so much on faith.” She smiled at the sad look on his face. Marsten had given his soul to her years ago, and he was her man, regardless of what she did or where she took them. “We may have need of them once we start drilling for the elephant.”

He tried not to sound confused. “For what purpose?”

She suppressed a laugh at his look of total bewilderment. She was really enjoying herself. “To blow up the drilling rig. Of course, there would be plenty of warning to evacuate so no one would be hurt or killed.”

“Why would we want to do that?”

“What did the fiasco at Mukluk teach the industry?” she asked.

Marsten had no trouble following her sudden shifts. He thought for a moment, recalling the time he’d been involved in constructing the gravel island on Alaska’s North Slope for the drilling rig. “Mukluk had a perfect seismic profile, and it still turned out to be a two-billion-dollar dry hole.” His voice grew low. “As for lessons learned, you certainly don’t want to shout before you’ve got it, and it has made the industry very cautious about costly joint ventures.”