To The Death Part 20

"Because she never had a car."

"So how did she get to work and home at night?"

"She had a chauffeur, who dropped her off at different places close to the hotel, quiet streets only. And at night he waited for her at an agreed place. She just slipped across the parking lot and ran to where her car was waiting. Until the night when Matt Barker decided to ambush her."

"Was the chauffeur her boyfriend?"

"Christ, no. More likely a fellow member of Hezbollah or Hamas, or maybe even from a Middle East emba.s.sy. Someone right here in the USA gave her that dagger to protect herself if necessary. She'd never have tried to bring it through airport security herself."

"Well, it all sounds plausible, and I do remember that hotel manager saying she must have removed her doc.u.ments from the file. And she plainly gave a false address, that Bowling Wharf or whatever it was."

"Listen, Jane. Sooner or later, someone's going to report a missing tenant in an apartment block. Remember Emily's words, apartment, doorman, balcony. And the police are going to trace Carla Martin's pa.s.sport, and it will be a dead end, and no one will ever have heard of her.

"And we'll still be the only people who care about her real purpose. Because Emily told Carla all about the admiral's trip to London, his hotel, date and time of departure from Washington. And someone is going to be waiting for him. And that someone is going to try to kill him. Arnold's life is in the gravest possible danger."

"Is anyone going to believe all this?"

"I doubt it. Certainly not Arnold."

"So what are you going to do?"

"I'd like to stop him from going. Which will be a lot like trying to stop a freight train with your bare hands."

1000 Friday 6 July Police Station, Brockhurst.

Detective Joe Segel had more "information" on his plate than he knew what to do with. There had, so far, been more than sixty-five "sightings"-people who claimed to have seen a youngish lady fitting Carla's description driving toward Brockhurst during daylight hours.

The vehicle identifications were more diverse than the geographic locations, ranging from small compact automobiles to huge SUVs. A few callers claimed to know where she lived, and Joe Segel had been moving police cruisers all over the area to check out the possibility of "apartment, doorman, balcony," as reliably mentioned by Emily Gallagher.

Three had emerged as possibilities, but police checks had revealed no one answering Carla's description in residence, no one having gone missing, and no female who was out after 10:30 P.M. on Monday night. All three of these expensive apartment blocks employed a.s.siduous doormen who logged in every resident on a computer, every night. None of the buildings was named Chesapeake Heights.

Joe considered all of that added up to a huge disappointment. But the biggest stone wall he ran into was the identification of Carla Martin. Computerized records revealed only three white females of that name born in the USA in May 1982. Joe Segel trusted Jim Caborn on that one.

Further checks revealed that two of them had never applied for pa.s.sports. The other Carla Martin had been born on May 27, 1982, in Baltimore, Maryland. She was unmarried and now lived in Phoenix, Arizona, where she worked at a high school, teaching physical education. There were approximately 278 students, about 19 teachers, and 67 parents perfectly willing to swear that Miss Martin had been running three soccer games last Monday until seven o'clock in the evening, nine o'clock in Brockhurst. No, she did not have a part-time job moonlighting in a hotel bar 2,350 miles away in Virginia.

The local Phoenix police did interview Miss Martin, but only half-heartedly, since she was plainly innocent of any crime. They thus failed to discover that her first cousin on her mother's side, Kathy Streeter, was married to Mr. Dori Hussein, a cultural attache at the Jordanian emba.s.sy, in northwest Washington, D.C.

Like his colleague, Ahmed, Mr. Hussein was a field officer for Hezbollah. And a good one. Doc.u.ments were his specialty, having graduated from the Rhode Island School of Design.

Well, how the h.e.l.l did the Brockhurst Carla get ahold of the Phoenix Carla's pa.s.sport? That was essentially what Joe Segel wanted to know. Although he realized it was a blind alley, because the pa.s.sport Carla showed to Jim Caborn was blatantly a forgery, and could have been scanned and copied in a dozen different ways. The forgers might even, in a blind coincidence, have invented all the names, dates, and places. That was essentially what Joe Segel wanted to know. Although he realized it was a blind alley, because the pa.s.sport Carla showed to Jim Caborn was blatantly a forgery, and could have been scanned and copied in a dozen different ways. The forgers might even, in a blind coincidence, have invented all the names, dates, and places.

And had Carla used it to enter the United States, IF she was foreign? Who the h.e.l.l knew? Who the h.e.l.l knew? And anyway, that was none of Joe's business. All he wanted to know, for chrissakes, was who had killed Matt Barker. And the only certainty with which the day had presented him was that a lady who taught sports at an Arizona high school was not guilty. And anyway, that was none of Joe's business. All he wanted to know, for chrissakes, was who had killed Matt Barker. And the only certainty with which the day had presented him was that a lady who taught sports at an Arizona high school was not guilty.

A blanket check of all ports of entry on the East Coast of the United States had revealed nothing. There was no record of any Carla Martin. And the fact that Joe Segel did not even have a proper name for his prime suspect was really bothering him.

But at ten minutes before noon on that Friday morning, he got one. Fred Mitch.e.l.l, the ex-Green Beret who manned the door by night at Chesapeake Heights, called in to reveal that he almost certainly knew the barmaid the police were seeking. Better yet, he knew her address and apartment. "Sir," said Fred, "she lived right here in this building, and I'm afraid she might be dead."

Detective Segel rounded up two officers, boarded a police cruiser, switched on the warning lights and siren, and sped out to Chesapeake Heights. And there Fred informed them that one of the tenants looked exactly like the photo-kit versions he had seen in the local newspaper last night and on a television news program. What was more, she worked nights, usually arrived home around 11:30 P.M. Yes, all apartments above the tenth floor had balconies. There was an especially large one on the penthouse floor where the lady lived.

"However, sir," said Fred, "she wasn't no Carla Martin. Nossir. Her name was Jane Camaro. She had been in residence for only a couple of weeks. On a four-month rental lease she had paid for in advance. Cash, the evening she arrived."

Detective Segel nodded, unsurprised by any of this. "And why do you think she is dead?" he asked.

"Sir, we had a little trouble last Monday night. Coupla hoods broke into one of the tenants' cars, brand-new Lincoln out back. It happened just after Jane arrived back, like I said, around 11:30 P.M., maybe a little after that.

"Anyway, I saw her come in, and then I had to go and check out the break-in. I came back in, maybe five minutes later, contacted the tenant whose car windshield had been smashed, and told him to call the police. Then I logged Miss Jane in on the computer, and no one's seen her since. Brad-he's the daytime doorman-has not logged her out since then, and I have certainly not logged her in."

"Can we go take a look at her apartment?"

"Sure we can. I got keys to all the apartments here. But I sure ain't looking forward to this. Nossir."

"You think she's died?"

"Well, I don't know what else to think. No one can get in or out of this building without one of the doormen seeing 'em go."

"How about she has a boyfriend in this building and moved in with him for a few days?" offered Joe Segel. "Just gone AWOL. That's absent without leave."

Fred grinned. "I know all about that, sir. I did fifteen years in the Green Berets. I wouldn't say there was any chance of that, sir. Right here, we got mostly married couples."

"Well, if we don't find her, my men will have to interview the residents."

"I understand, sir," said Fred, as the elevator came to a halt on the twenty-first floor. The four men turned to the left and walked along the corridor, led by the doorman. At the second door, Fred inserted his key and pushed open the door, tentatively. Inside, there was nothing much to see. The apartment had been abandoned in a major hurry.

In the bedroom, the wardrobe and drawers were still wide open and there was nothing left, not even bed linens. The bathroom yielded not so much as a spare toothbrush. The kitchen was bereft, the refrigerator empty, nothing whatsoever in the cupboards. There was one clean plate, one knife, one fork, one gla.s.s, two coffee mugs. All in the dishwasher, all thoroughly cleansed in scalding-hot water. There was not one single trace of either Jane Camaro or Carla Martin.

There was not much else to do except to leave. And Fred was relieved that Jane Camaro was not dead. "Wouldn't look good on the resume, right?"

But on the way down in the elevator, Detective Segel asked him one specific question: "How do you know that no one left the building while you were away from the desk, for maybe ten minutes?"

Fred beamed. "We got closed-circuit television right here, sir. One small camera right above the door, another at the far end of the foyer. When you gentlemen have left, I rewind the film, right there at the desk, and check out if anyone entered or left. The film displays the correct time."

"How about someone you cannot identify?" asked Joe Segel.

"Nothing's perfect, and that's a flaw. But I sure as h.e.l.l could identify Miss Jane Camaro. That was one great-looking chick."

"Did you check the film after the break-in, you know, maybe catch a glimpse of her leaving?"

"No, I didn't bother. I was only out at the side of the building for three or four minutes, and I'd have known if anyone came in or left. Headlights, car engines, and all."

"How long would it take to run the film back right now so we could take a look?"

"Maybe coupla hours. There's a lot of film in that system."

"Okay. Perhaps you'd do it when you got some time and let me know?"

"No problem, sir."

"Did Jane have a car?"

"Well, she never filled out the vehicle identification form for a reserved s.p.a.ce in the parking lot. But she must have had a car. Ain't no other way to get out here in the country. I guess she must have forgot."

"Is the management strict about these procedures?"

"h.e.l.l, no. This parking lot's half empty most of the time. Ain't something we take very seriously. But since you mention it, I never saw her behind the wheel of a vehicle. But that don't mean she didn't have one."

Joe thanked Fred for his help and said they'd be in touch, with regard to police interviews with the residents. When he arrived back at the precinct, he picked up the telephone and dialed the personal number of Lieutenant Commander Jimmy Ramshawe at Fort Meade.

1530 Same Day National Security Agency.

The call from Detective Segel, in Jimmy's mind, caused more questions than answers. How long after "Jane" came home did the break-in occur in the parking lot? Who told Fred it had happened? Precisely what was on that film during the few minutes Fred was out? And what the h.e.l.l was someone doing smashing the windshield of the Lincoln? No one breaks into a car like that, especially one with an alarm system.

In fact, these days, very few people break into cars at all because the systems are so good. Whoever broke into that Lincoln certainly did not want to steal it and then drive around with no windshield. And through the windshield was no way to get inside the car.

No, pondered Jimmy, pondered Jimmy, that made no sense, unless it was pure vandalism. And who the h.e.l.l would want to do something that stupid, knowing they might get caught when the alarm went off? that made no sense, unless it was pure vandalism. And who the h.e.l.l would want to do something that stupid, knowing they might get caught when the alarm went off?

There's only one person who logically might have broken that windshield, and that was someone who wanted Fred away from his station for a few minutes. Time either to get into, or get away from, Chesapeake Heights.

He picked up the phone and called Fred, who jumped right to attention at the contact from a Navy lieutenant commander at the National Security Agency. He promised to call back in two hours with some answers. And, when they arrived, every one of those answers was precisely what Jimmy guessed they would be.

The break-in occurred eighteen minutes after Jane Camaro returned home. Fred did not hear the alarm because he was watching television. He was alerted by a chauffeur who rushed in through the front door and said he saw a couple of hoodlums running away from a big Lincoln automobile with a smashed windshield and an alarm blaring.

Fred saw the chauffeur fleetingly, and identified him as a guy who could have been Italian or Puerto Rican. And yes, he had studied a rerun of the film and identified a figure leaving the building who could have been Jane. But she had turned away from the camera as she walked through the foyer, covering her face with a magazine. It may not have been Jane, because she was walking kind of funny. But it could have been. Anyway, she was carrying a medium-sized suitcase.

Carla Martin, you are one very professional lady. Jimmy Ramshawe's admiration was sincere. Jimmy Ramshawe's admiration was sincere.

Right now, he had about three hundred coincidences. And in Jimmy's mind, they added up to one large warning light. Someone was most certainly determined to eliminate Admiral Morgan. But he doubted Arnold would believe him.

He was right about that too. "I guess it's possible," the great man grunted. "But I'm not running my life around the antics of some G.o.dd.a.m.ned barmaid. I got a lot of security, and it'll be as good in London as it is here. Jesus Christ, Jimmy, leave it alone. Why don't you check out that Iranian submarine at the eastern end of the Med? I see it's only about two hundred miles from a U.S. carrier. That's too close. Call me."

The phone went down with a crash. Arnold, of course, never said good-bye to anyone. Not even the president. Jimmy usually chuckled at this gruff eccentricity. But he found nothing amusing today. Absolutely nothing.

0400 Sat.u.r.day 7 July In the Mediterranean Sea.

The Russian-built Type 877 Kilo Kilo-cla.s.s submarine, owned by the Iranian Navy, slid through clear ocean waters five hundred miles south of Italy's Gulf of Taranto. Her captain was Mohammed Abad, who had twelve officers, fifty-three crew, and one guest under his command. The guest, General Ravi Rashood, C-in-C Hamas, had come aboard off the coast of Lebanon, delivered by a Syrian Army helicopter.

These were strange seas for the Iranians, who normally patrolled only the Gulf and the Arabian Sea. But this particular submarine had just emerged from refit conducted in her birthplace, the Admiralty Yards in St. Petersburg, on the sh.o.r.es of the Baltic. It had been commissioned back in November 1996, and it had not been necessary to return to Russia since then. The engineers at Iran's submarine base, Chah Bahar on the northwest sh.o.r.es of the Gulf of Oman, had been more than competent.

However, Hull Number 901 had experienced some major mechanical difficulties eighteen months previously and had missed an Indian Naval Review. With her propulsion system on the blink, the Kilo had been towed behind a Russian frigate all the way back to the Baltic. Now, restored to pristine fighting condition, she had spent three months at the eastern end of the Med, patrolling the waters off Beirut and generally making the Americans very jumpy.

There were certain admirals in the Pentagon, and one in Chevy Chase, who thought she should have been sunk, forthwith, in deep water. There could, after all, be only one possible reason why the Islamic Republic of Iran should deploy one of her four diesel-electric insh.o.r.e submarines in the Eastern Med. And that reason was all-purpose-to a.s.sist the terrorist organizations Iran had financed and supplied for so long.

According to U.S. Naval Intelligence, that could mean anything from supplying missiles to Hezbollah in Lebanon to opening fire on Israeli warships-the Russian Kilos carried 18 torpedoes-or perhaps even sinking a U.S. warship, since there is often an American fleet patrolling these volatile seas. This latter course of action would almost certainly turn into a suicide mission for the Iranians, but with Allah awaiting the crew in Paradise on the other side of the bridge, and sounding the three trumpets, this is not considered a bad fate for Muslim extremists. At least it's never deterred them before.

The Type 877 Kilo is a formidable opponent for even the most modern surface ship, because she bristles with state-of-the-art radar surface-search systems. Underwater, she is even more dangerous, equipped with the highly efficient Russian Shark's Teeth sonar.

She's silent under five knots and can dive to seven hundred feet. Her range is six thousand miles cruising at seven knots. However, her single shaft and 3,650-hp electronic engine can drive her through the depths of the ocean at greater speeds. If she struck hard, however, underwater against an opposing warship, she would be d.a.m.n near impossible to find if the CO cut her speed.

The Russians have long gloried in the potential of this export-only submarine. Indeed, they have a big four-color trade advertis.e.m.e.nt which reads "THE KILO CLa.s.s SUBMARINE-the only soundless creature in the sea." And when they wrote that ad, they had Hull 901 in mind. The address in St. Petersburg, complete with phone, fax, and E-mail, is that of RUBIN, Russia's central design bureau for marine engineering.

This is where the design refinements for the 240-foot-long underwater boat were perfected. The RUBIN scientists have worked for years trying to make the Kilo as quiet as the grave, every engine mounting, every working part, every vibration considered, improved, and eventually silenced. Running deep, Hull 901 would make no more noise than a modern computer.

All three thousand tons of her, superbly streamlined, can slip through the depths at six knots, betraying virtually nothing. She cuts her speed below five, she's vanished. Of all the underwater warriors, the Kilo is one of the most stealthy, partly because, unlike a big nuclear boat, she has no nuclear reactor requiring the support of G.o.d knows how many subsystems, all of them noisemakers.

There is but one flaw in this masterpiece of Russian design. And that happens when she needs to recharge the huge batteries that power her electric motors. The Kilo is vulnerable when snorkeling, because her generators are merely two big diesel internal-combustion engines, which, like a car, must have air.

And that requirement sends the submarine to periscope depth, where those generators can be heard, the air-intake mast can be picked up on radar, and the ions in the diesel exhaust can be "sniffed." If she's not careful, she can even be seen, and there is absolutely nothing she can do about it.

The Kilo- Kilo-cla.s.s submarine, moving swiftly, must snorkel and recharge her batteries every two hundred miles. Through the Mediterranean Sea, from one end to the other, she needs to complete this process twelve times before exiting into the Atlantic.

Of course, the U.S. Navy's detection systems are extremely advanced and the mighty Los Angeles- Los Angeles-cla.s.s nuclear boats are certainly a match for the covert Russian submarine. The chances of a Kilo getting close enough to hit an American ship are remote, just as long as no one takes their eye off the ball.

Nonetheless, the retired American admiral residing in Chevy Chase, Maryland, continued to believe Iran's Mediterranean submarine should be hit and sunk forthwith. President Bedford was inclined to agree, particularly since it was possible for a big U.S. nuclear boat to get rid of any foreign submarine and never be located.

In subsurface warfare, it has been ever thus. Because, contrary to popular perception, submarines cannot communicate with home base while they are underwater. Their only form of communication is via satellite, and for that they must have a mast, briefly, jutting above the surface.

Thus, all submarines have a daily call time, when they come to periscope depth, usually in the dead of night, and announce their course, speed, and position in a minisecond electronic burst to the satellite circling twenty-two thousand miles above the Earth. They then ask if there are any messages, scoop them up, and return immediately to the ocean depths. If the entire process takes more than fifteen seconds, then someone's been grotesquely inefficient.

The progression from this myriad of Naval Intelligence leads to one stark truth-if a submarine hits another with a torpedo, no one knows it's happened. The stricken ship will sink to the floor of the ocean, sometimes without a trace. The first clue to its disappearance will be a missed call home via the satellite. And this might very easily be twenty hours after the hit.

And one missed call is not usually a five-alarmer, because the problem could have been electronic, or maybe even carelessness. Certainly one single missed call-in does not signify the ultimate horror of a submarine lost with all hands. And so to the second missed call, the following night. What does this mean? And what to do?

It might be forty-four hours since the submarine was sunk. And an enemy could very easily have been traveling at twenty knots, speeding away from the scene of the crime. That's 880 nautical miles! In any direction! In any direction!

Which leaves some hapless home base with a search area of thousands and thousands of square miles in waters perhaps one or two miles deep. Chances of crew survival: zero. Chances of location: close to zero. Situation: hopeless. What to do: probably nothing.

The victim's navy will most certainly not admit what might have happened. The perpetrator will, naturally, not know what anyone is talking about. And the entire incident may never be disclosed. By anyone. Has it ever happened? Of course. But the oceans guard their secrets darkly. Who knows how many iron coffins rest in the weird, lost canyons of the seven seas? All it takes is one well-aimed torpedo, with a big warhead, and no one will be any the wiser.

Which was why Admiral Arnold Morgan had, on several occasions, advised President Bedford to hit that Iranian Kilo- Kilo-cla.s.s submarine-before the sonofab.i.t.c.h hits us or the Israelis. The submarine to which he referred was, of course, the very one that now carried General Rashood, commander in chief of Hamas, on his mission to a.s.sa.s.sinate Admiral Morgan himself-a poetic malevolence worthy of the Devil. The submarine to which he referred was, of course, the very one that now carried General Rashood, commander in chief of Hamas, on his mission to a.s.sa.s.sinate Admiral Morgan himself-a poetic malevolence worthy of the Devil.

At 0400 on this Sat.u.r.day morning, General Rashood was in the navigation area, talking to the young officer who was plotting the course of Hull No. 901, Lt. Rudi Alaam, a career officer from the eastern Iranian province of Kerman. Both men were leaning over a circular computerized chart that highlighted the central part of the Mediterranean.

It showed the submarine, which was running hard, snorkeling at periscope depth, moving west through the channel north of the island of Malta and its tiny offspring Gozo, both of which lie in the broad waters that separate Sicily and Tunisia. The Med goes shallower through here, and it was the first time the navigation officer had had to attend to the depth of the water.

Almost immediately, running west away from the coast of Lebanon, the Kilo had run into vast ocean depths, nine thousand feet, lonely waters, the Greek island of Rhodes 240 miles off their starboard beam. The GPS read 34.00 North, 22.30 East when they were southwest of Crete.

Right here, 120 miles off the coast of Libya, the ocean floor shelved down even deeper, another three thousand feet. They pa.s.sed well south of Sicily's Cape Pa.s.sero with more than two miles of blue water under the keel. A land soldier rather than a sailor, General Rashood found the whole exercise somewhat creepy.

So far, they had not encountered any U.S. or Royal Navy warships. But headed for the narrow waterway where the tip of Italy's boot looks likely to kick Sicily straight into Tunis Harbor, the submarine needed to exercise inordinate care. This was an ancient throughway for the Royal Navy. The ocean was much shallower, less than two hundred feet in places, and the carrier battle groups of the U.S. Navy tended to treat the place like Chesapeake Bay.

Detection was something Captain Mohammed Abad wished to avoid, but not at the expense of his speed. If he thought he was being tracked by a U.S. nuclear boat, he would slow and dive. But he doubted the Americans would actually sink him right here in these busy shallows. He knew that once located by the hugely sophisticated U.S. sonars, they could track him with ease and put him on the bottom of the Atlantic as and when they wished, as soon as he ventured into deep ocean water.

But he had as much right to be here as they did, and, like all Iranian politicians and military leaders, he did not think they would dare.