The only other certainty about Carla was that she had most definitely disappeared off the face of the earth. Just about every radio and television news station in the United States had carried the story. Not just the media in the local Virginia/Washington, D.C. area; the tantalizing mystery of the Barker Pecker had transported the murder story far and wide.
If Carla had been anywhere in the USA, and indeed been innocent of the crime, she would surely have called in to the 800 number at Joe Segel’s police station to clear her name. But she had not done so, which meant one of two things: she had fled the country, possibly before the body was found, or she was hiding out somewhere in the States until the murder hunt died down.
It was now obvious that her passport was a forgery. The two establishments in London that she had submitted as references had never heard of her. Her apartment yielded absolutely nothing, and the film on the closed-circuit system at Chesapeake Heights was so indistinct and the exiting figure so awkwardly presented, not even Fred Mitchell could swear to God it was Jane Camaro.
The lady had covered her tracks with astounding efficiency. The fact was, Joe Segel did not even know her name. He did not even know her nationality. And he sure as hell did not know where she was. He’d even had the FBI and the CIA launch an international search looking for a port-of-entry clue in every major nation in the Middle East, not to mention London, Paris, Rome, Madrid, Amsterdam, Brussels, Geneva, Berlin, and Milan. Nothing.
Joe did not even have a car description or a license-plate number. There was nothing to go on. This particular murder hunt was headed for the “unsolved” file with near-record speed. There was only one suspect. And that suspect seemed not to exist.
Like Fred Mitchell five days ago, Detective Joe feared for his résumé.
Lt. Commander Ramshawe had to be at the Australian embassy for lunch. His time was thus limited, and he moved fast to make sure he caught Admiral Morgan before he went out.
And again he spelled out his fears to the great man, to no avail, even though he stressed the danger that must be prevalent since it was entirely possible that Emily Gallagher had revealed too much detail to the girl now wanted for murder.
“Arnie, is it not possible for you simply to change the dates?”
“Out of the question. After London, we’re going up to Scotland to stay a couple of nights with Admiral Sir Iain MacLean, then we’re all going to Edinburgh for the Festival and the Military Tattoo.”
“I’ve been to that with Dad,” said Jimmy. “It goes on for about a month. Can’t you just go on a different night?”
“Jimmy, I’m taking the salute on a very carefully planned evening. The dates were only finalized on Friday. I have to go when I said I’d go. Anyway, it’s a pretty big honor. A lot of very big-deal military men have taken the salute at Edinburgh Castle. Churchill did it. The prime minister of England is doing it the night after me. I wouldn’t miss it.”
“Hmmmmm,” said Jimmy, reverting to his rich Aussie accent, as he normally did when under stress. “Basically, I’m wasting my time, right? Just trying to save your bloody life.”
“Which is of course threatened by a barmaid. C’mon, kid. Let’s stay real. I got plenty of protection, not to mention half the British Army.”
“I’m not worried about the goddamned barmaid. I’m worried about her employers. That’s all. You know there’s some hotshot special operators in those jihadist groups. I’m just trying to keep you out of the crosshairs.”
“Don’t worry about me, kid. I’m fireproof. Gotta go.”
Crash. Down phone.
“Stubborn old prick,” muttered Jimmy.
The Kilo-class submarine that bore General Rashood to his destination still ran fast at periscope depth, still snorkeling. Captain Abad was conning her through nine thousand feet of ocean depth, 150 miles south of Majorca in the Spanish Balearic Isles. That put her around fifty miles northwest of Algiers, 37.30 North, 02.30 East.
She ran just below the surface, making twelve knots. In this snorkeling mode, she was, by modern submarine standards, quite extraordinarily noisy, and she was picked up instantly by the sophisticated sonar carried by USS Cheyenne.
Right now, Commander Hank Redford had the big LA-class submarine patrolling slowly, approximately a hundred miles south of the island of Formentera, around 110 miles northwest of the oncoming Iranians. The American sonar operators were scanning the wide deep seas to the east, their long electronic towed array strung out astern of the ship like a giant black snake, catching and processing any electronic movement in the ocean. The sonar team, to a man, was watching, waiting for the distinctive engine lines of the Russian-built Kilo with its trademark five-bladed prop.
The bells of the watch came and went. The day finally gave way to night, and by now the Kilo was sixty-five miles closer. In waters this deep, there is no appreciable advantage to any ship, because it is not possible to “back up” against a “noisy” landmass and force your quarry to aim its sonars into the most confusing area. Out here, where the ocean is vast and empty, bereft of any land, all’s fair. The hunter must stay quiet, and the hunted is supposed to stay even quieter, though in the case of Captain Abad this was impossible.
Generally speaking, a U.S. Navy underwater boat has it all over any perceived opponent, but the Kilo was only weeks out of refit, and in recent years the Russians had done a great deal of catching up.
Cheyenne, with that towed array, would certainly locate the Kilo first, but there was an excellent chance the Kilo would pick up the Americans in the end. Thereafter, it was a matter of Captain Abad holding his nerve and hoping to hell the U.S. commanding officer did not feel especially trigger-happy.
A bookmaker would almost certainly have made the Americans favorite to do anything they liked. And that would be logical, if it was just any old Kilo sliding through the water. But this particular Kilo was state-of-the-art, and there was a chance that some U.S. advantage might have been eliminated in the secretive laboratories of St. Petersburg ’s Admiralty Yards.
The watch changed at midnight. But no one left the sonar room. Everyone knew the Kilo must be approaching. Her course was plainly direct to the Gibraltar Strait, and, so far as the American navigators were concerned, she was already late.
The satellite pictures had recorded her leaving the coast of Lebanon, and she’d been snorkeling all the way at a steady twelve knots. In the hot still of this Mediterranean night, the Kilo kept going, oblivious of the presence of USS Cheyenne. Captain Abad was confident out here in the dark, in deep lonely waters, but he was instinctively concerned about the sea-scape further west in the busy shipping lanes which lead into, and out of, the Atlantic Ocean.
At 0034, still at periscope depth, with the air-intake mast up and the big diesel generators, deep within the submarine, running smoothly, the Kilo was picked up by the Cheyenne twenty miles away.
Chief Petty Officer Skip Gowans said quietly, “I might have something right here, just a faint rise in the level. It could be a rain shower, swishing on the surface-but I thought it was something… arrived kinda sudden… give me a few minutes.”
Commander Redford was standing right at his shoulder. No one spoke, and the chief did not say anything more for at least four minutes. Then he said, “I have a definite rise in the level. I don’t think it’s weather-I’m getting something.”
Again there was silence. Chief Gowans was a study in concentration. The entire operations center was hanging on his decision, and at 0044 he gave it: “Captain-sonar… I have faint engine lines coming up on the array. Relative eight-nine. Lines fit the sample, sir.”