Bloch agreed, “That would fit most of what we know. It’s also remotely possible that one of the scuttling charges might have gone off by accident.”
Sonja Franks said, “So, in either case, the ship went down, and as soon as we find it we can get to work retrieving these weapons.”
“Retrieving the weapons would not be an option,” Bloch said.
“Why not?”
Bloch turned again to the map. “We pre-programmed a course for the ship that kept her in very deep water. The area where she’s down has a minimum depth of nine thousand feet. A salvage there would be a major undertaking. Only a few countries in the world have the technology to do it, and none of them would have any interest in weapons of this type — they’re dinosaurs.”
“All right, so what now, Anton?” Jacobs asked, wanting to wrap things up.
“The EC-130 should report back tomorrow. Hopefully they will have found the ELTs and we can pinpoint where the ship is.”
“And then?” Steiner asked.
“And then nothing, if we’re lucky,” Bloch said. “We just let it sit on the bottom of the ocean and keep our secret as best we can.”
Some around the table seemed relieved, but General Gabriel looked concerned. “What about searching for survivors?”
“We can’t ask for help and expect to keep this quiet,” Steiner insisted.
“I’m afraid he’s right,” Sonja Franks agreed.
Jacobs nodded reluctantly. He looked to General Gabriel. “Let’s put everything we have into a search. Planes, ships, whatever we can do.”
“Yes sir,” Gabriel responded.
It was a feeble gesture and everyone knew it. The room was quiet until someone asked, “What if somebody else picks up survivors, or finds the wreckage floating around?”
Bloch said, “I’ve been told there are no shipping lanes where she went down. Just a lot of ocean.”
Zak concurred, “It would really be a long shot.”
“Yes …” Jacobs hedged, “but not out of the question.”
Zak said, “Anton, why don’t we send a message out to all our stations in North Africa and Europe. Let’s listen for anything on this — discreetly.” Heads nodded around the table.
“All right.”
Jacobs rose from his chair. “We’ll meet again tomorrow morning, or sooner if anything breaks. Everyone’s on a half-hour call-back until further notice.”
Yosy Meier walked out of Harrods with one of the newest Barbie dolls and a model airplane kit tucked under his arm. In the other hand he carried his small suitcase. He’d always been able to find something for Evie and Max at Harrods. In the old days, it was more an effort to ease his guilt at having been gone so much. Today he did it just to see the smiles on their faces — that and to kill some time, since his flight didn’t leave for another three hours. He had turned in the rental car at a different location from where he’d gotten it, telling the agent he was in a hurry. From here, Meier would take the tube to Heathrow, only he didn’t want to be early.
He wondered if he was getting paranoid. He hadn’t seen anything of the BMW or its occupants since ditching them yesterday. That much was good. But he still couldn’t find Slaton. He’d called the embassy twice and talked to Emma. Still nothing. Meier finally decided it was too risky to stay on, and he booked the first flight home.
Traffic ran heavy along Brompton Road in the midday rush. Meier looked at his watch and figured he had about an hour to lose before getting on the tube. He paused at the curb of a busy intersection. Businessmen, tourists, and shoppers jammed the sidewalk around him, none venturing to jaywalk as cars, taxis, and scooters shot past. Meier spotted a Thai restaurant across the street. What better place to kill an hour? he thought.
A car alarm suddenly went off somewhere behind. People turned to look. Meier was struggling with his packages when a heavy forearm shoved him in the back. It caught him completely off-guard and he pitched forward into the street. As he fell, everything seemed to revert to slow motion. He saw the Barbie falling. He saw the street, with its painted crosswalk coming toward his face. And he saw the grill of the huge red bus that was barreling straight at him. Yosy Meier realized he was about to die, and the last instant of his life was spent thinking about the family he would never see again.
The sound, a muffled thud, was what most people noticed first. Next was the screeching of brakes and an image of what looked like a big rag doll rolling into the intersection. Once they realized what had happened, the bystanders reacted, a cacophony of hysterical screams, shocked “Good Gods!” and the wailing chant of an old Indian man.
Someone yelled to call an ambulance, although everyone could see it was no use. A hundred feet back on the sidestreet, no one noticed the owner of a big blue BMW as he calmly walked to his car, disabled the alarm, and drove off.
Chapter Three
Christine looked at the telltales on the shrouds and trimmed in the main sheet. A brisk early morning breeze was pressing Windsom along at nearly seven knots, but it was rough going. The seas were four to five feet, and choppy. Fortunately, it didn’t seem to bother her patient. He’d been asleep since the previous afternoon. His vital signs were strong and the wound across his ribs showed no signs of infection. Even the blistering on his face and arms had begun to improve, but she still wished she had antibiotics and an IV to give him fluids. Best of all, Christine had calculated that with these winds she’d make Lisbon by noon the next day. One week in a proper hospital and he ought to be as good as new.
She’d spent two hours the previous night toying with her recalcitrant radios. The sat-com, the one she really could have used, was still down — she couldn’t even get it to take power. The marine two-way had dried out and seemed to be working, but she hadn’t been able to raise anyone. After one last check on the autopilot, she decided to go below to check on her patient and try the VHF again.
Christine had just reached the companionway steps when she saw it, slightly off the port bow. A ship! A big freighter of some kind, probably ten miles off, and on a crossing path that wouldn’t bring it any closer. But definitely within radio range.
She ducked down into the cabin, turned on the VHF and grabbed the microphone. The radio was already set to the emergency frequency, 121.5 MHz. Christine stretched the spiral cord tight and poked her head back through the hatch, somehow not wanting to lose sight of the ship as she spoke.
“Mayday! Mayday! This is Windsom calling any ship this frequency.”
Nothing.
“Mayday! Mayday! This is Windsom, over.”
More silence, and then finally a deep voice with a thick German accent. “Calling mayday, this is the Breisen. Say again your call sign and what is nature of your problem.”
“Yes!” Christine shrieked. “Breisen, this is the sailboat Windsom. I am a civilian vessel of United States registry. I have to report the sinking of another vessel in this area and my sat-com is out. Can you relay information for me?”
The silence returned. “Breisen, this is Windsom, over.”
Something wasn’t right. Christine hadn’t heard the clicks from the radio sidetone on her last transmission. She looked down into the cabin and was stunned to see her patient standing next to the radio. He had his finger on the power switch — and it was off.
“What are you doing?” she asked incredulously.
The man simply stared at her, a direct, riveting look in his eyes. Christine lowered the microphone from her lips.