He dropped his bags on the kitchen table and opened the fridge. It was empty save a tupperware container filled with something fuzzy and green; he tossed it in the garbage. That left a shrunken apple and a beer. Tanner tossed the former and opened the latter.
On the counter, his answering machine blinked at him. Half the messages would be from his parents. He hadn’t called them since the start of DORSAL, and there would be hell to pay with his mom. He decided he could use a little motherly nagging.
An hour later, he was shaved and showered and sitting in the living room in front of the stone-hearth fireplace. The decor was simple, consisting of wood paneling, a couple rattan pieces, a sectional sofa, and a modest collection of Winslow Homer prints on the walls under track lighting. Outside, the wind was picking up, and Tanner could see a rain squall on the horizon. The hanging plants on the deck swung wildly.
Unexpectedly, Camille’s face popped into his head. He missed her, he realized. Think about something else, he commanded. On the coffee table sat the box he’d brought back from Japan. He reached for the phone and dialed.
When the line clicked open, he said, “Mrs. Tanner, have you got room at the table for your wayward son?”
Henry and Irene Tanner now owned a small colonial in Bay Ridge. Regardless of where they’d lived while Briggs was growing up — whether Switzerland or Kenya or points in between — their homes had always been warm and smelled of cinnamon and freshly baked bread. It was the magic of Mom, Briggs supposed.
He was halfway up the walkway when Irene burst from the front door and ran to him. After a long embrace, she pulled back and squinted at him. “You look tired.”
“I am tired. It’s good to be home.”
“What’s in the folder?”
“Something for Dad. A mystery.”
“Oh, he’ll love that.” She put on her stern face. “Where have you been? Oh, never mind. I should know better than to ask. Come in.”
Henry shook Briggs’s hand, then gave him a hug. As usual, his father wore an old, loose cardigan and equally old leather moccasins. Perched on his nose were a pair of half-glasses. He tilted his head back and studied his son. “Starting to get a little worried about you.”
“I know. I should have called.”
“No matter. You’re here now.”
“Dinner’s almost ready,” Irene called.
Henry took his son’s arm. “You better be hungry.”
After dinner, Tanner and his father sat over coffee. “Dad, are you working on anything right now?” Tanner asked. Henry was an avid amateur historian, and it was rare for him to not be absorbed in some obscure research project. World War II was his specialty, and much of its intrigue had rubbed off on Tanner.
“No, as of late, your mother’s got me weeding the garden. Why?”
“I’ve got something that might interest you.”
“Shoot.”
“During the war, how many U.S. fleet subs were lost off the coast of Japan?”
“Depends on how you define coast. How close do you mean?”
“Three, four hundred yards.”
“I’ve never heard of anything like that.”
“What would you say if I told you I found one a stone’s throw off Honshu?”
“Is that what you’re telling me?”
“Yes.”
“How did you find it?”
“Recreational diving,” said Tanner.
“Uh-huh. Did you get a sail number?”
“Tanner shook his head.”
“Hmm,” said Henry. “That is a mystery. You check with the local guides?”
“Nothing. No wrecks within two miles of the area.”
“Did you get inside?”
“That’s where it gets good.”
Tanner recounted their discovery of the two skeletons, one in the wardroom with a bullet hole in the forehead, and the other in the foreward torpedo room with one wrist chained to a stanchion.
“And this one was wearing leg braces?” Henry asked.
“Yes. I’m thinking polio. He couldn’t be one of the crew.”
“Curiouser and curiouser. You want me to do a little digging?”
“I thought we could work on it together. I’ve got some free time.”
“I’d like that.” Henry peered at him over his glasses. “So tell me: Is all this just a matter of personal interest?”
“Why?”
“First of all, my boy, I know that look in your eye; it’s the same one you got as a kid when you fixed your sights on something. Like the time you got the Evel Knievel bug and set about jumping your bike over everything in sight. You remember?”
Tanner laughed. “I remember.”
“Plus, you’re back in town less than a day, and you bring this to me.”
Henry had a point. He wasn’t sure how to answer. Looking at Ohira’s chart three weeks ago, he’d felt certain the spot off Shiono Misaki had been significant. But now? Perhaps Ohira had been a recreational diver, and the sub had been a favorite spot of his. Hell, maybe he and Bear had misread the chart altogether. There could be any number of explanations. Why then, wouldn’t that nagging voice in the back of his head go away?
“For now, let’s just call it personal interest,” he said.
“Fair enough. Now, without a name, we—”
“Would engine serial numbers do?”
Henry grinned. “Damn right they will. Let’s see them.”
42
Latham, Randal, Stan Wilson of HRU, and Janet Pascehl met in Latham’s office to finalize details of the sting that evening.
“Janet, you’ll be heading the Glen Echo team. Paul, you and Stan will take the Greenbelt house, and I’ll handle Rock Creek. Once we take Vorsalov, that’ll be the signal for the other teams to go. Timing will be critical. We’ll all be moving at nearly the same time. Stay on the radio. The last thing we need is a firefight.
“Tomorrow night is do or die for Vorsalov and his people. If they don’t get the information from Smith, or if Smith fails to show up, chances are they’ll either run or go violent.
“There’s also another complication,” Latham said and held up a copy of the Washington Post. The headline said, “Senator Smith AWOL?” “This is an advance of what they’re running Thursday. We’re not sure how they got the story, but it reports Smith has taken an ‘unplanned vacation.’ If Vorsalov or Fayyad see this, we’re sunk.”
“Speaking of the senator, how’d you get him to cooperate?” asked Wilson.
“I talked his language.”
Latham knew the U.S. attorney was not as interested in nailing Smith as they were in catching Vorsalov and Fayyad. Smith was a would-be traitor, but they were murderers. In return for his cooperation and agreement to immediate retirement without pension, Smith would avoid prosecution.
Still half drunk from the previous night, Smith laughed at the proposal. “You’ve got nothing that ties me to either of these assholes, or whatever the hell you think they’re doing.”
Smith’s lawyer said, “Herb—”
“Shut up, Harmon.”
Latham leaned forward. “Senator, I’m going to give it to you straight, so listen closely: The two men you’ve been dealing with are killers, and I’m going to get them. If I have to ruin you to do it, I will. The Russian murdered an FBI agent ten years ago, and the other man is a terrorist. You know about the Delta bombing, I assume. That’s his work. Five people killed, seven injured, including the only daughter of Congressman Hosteller. I wonder how he would react if he knew you refused to cooperate. Do you think your career would survive it?”