The Dark Hour
Robin Burcell
Dedication
To my family
Acknowledgments
For Their Expertise and Guidance
As usual, there were many people along the way who helped me with details, advice, research, and support, allowing me to bring this book to life. If any errors are made, I plead my standard excuse, as the fault is mine: It’s fiction.
To Susan E. Crosby. I’m not sure what I’d do without you.
To FBI Special Agent George Fong (Ret.), who still answers my e-mail in the middle of the night (don’t you ever sleep?) to make sure my FBI agents are top-notch.
To DP “Doug” Lyle, MD, for taking time out of his own writing to help me regarding stab wounds to the heart and intramuscular injections of morphine to the thigh.
To former EOD diver Matthew “Pat” Whalen, for assisting me with diving, shooting, and explosions in the water.
To Steven Kerry Brown, PI, for providing me with information on diving as well.
To all the lurkers at CrimeSceneWriters, who pop up to answer questions as we writers need them.
To my mother, Francesca, who helped me remember the places we visited so that I could get the details right, and whose imagination helped shape a few scenes.
To my cousin Monique l’Hoir and her husband, Dirk Willink, of Winterswijk, The Netherlands, who graciously made us feel at home during our visit, allowed me to use their names and their house for my secret agents and safe house, and vetted my Dutch phrases. And to my Uncle Paul, for picking us up from the train station, driving us around, and taking us out for the great fried fish meal, which I also used in the book.
To my agent, Jane Chelius, for always being there for me.
And last but not least, to all the wonderful folks at HarperCollins, and especially to my editor, Lyssa Keusch, who braved a downpour walking the piers of San Francisco with me, sans umbrella, while we discussed this book and how to make it better.
For a Worthy Cause
To Julie H. Boucher, for her very generous donation to Rotary Club of Stockton in exchange for a character named for her daughter, Madeline “Maddie” Boucher.
Theme
Dedication to duty has a price.
Epigraph
The central belief of every moron is that he is the victim of a mysterious conspiracy against his common rights and true deserts. He ascribes all his failure to get on in the world, all of his congenital incapacity and damfoolishness, to the machinations of werewolves assembled in Wall Street, or some other such den of infamy.
H. L. MENCKEN, 1936
Contents
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Theme
Epigraph
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Fact or Fiction?
An Excerpt from The Black List
About the Author
By Robin Burcell
Copyright
About the Publisher
Chapter 1
November 19
Ten miles off the coast of the Cayman Islands
“I’m not kidding. There are ruins down there. I saw them.”
April Robbins lifted her scuba mask to get a better look at her diving partner’s face as he treaded water just a few feet from her. Martin Hertz was a know-it-all, in her opinion, always spouting off that his father was a former navy SEAL—which made Martin think he was the resident expert in diving. He was twenty-two, a year older than she in age, but light years younger in emotional maturity, and she was fast losing her ability to feign politeness around him.
“Ruins? You mean rocks?” she said.
“Where would rocks come from out here? They’re ruins. ”
She glanced back toward their boat, the Random Act, and the rest of their team, who were diving very near it, searching for signs of a sunken ship—even though they were all supposed to be studying the effects of global warming on ocean life. Frankly, she wanted to be there with them, not Martin, but he’d insisted on exploring in the opposite direction.
She lowered her mask, about to swim back to the boat, when he clasped his hands together and gave her a hangdog expression. “Please . . .”
“For God’s sake, Martin. If those were ruins, someone would’ve discovered them by now. The professor definitely.”
“He didn’t see them. Just come with me, and if there’s nothing there, go back and join the others. I’ll leave you alone for the rest of the trip.”
She turned around, glanced toward their friends, who didn’t seem to notice the approach of a cargo ship. There were four other divers gathered around the Random Act, with their professor remaining on board, the dive flag up. The offshore wind carried the sound of their laughter toward her, and she wished herself there, until she saw Tim reach out and caress Diana Walker’s face. At least it looked like a caress. Hard to tell with the water bouncing them up and down, and she suddenly wondered if that wasn’t half her annoyance with Martin. He wasn’t Tim. Great. Who was the mature one now?
“Fine,” she said to Martin. “Where exactl
y are these ruins?”
He pointed in the opposite direction of the boat. Toward the open ocean.
“Out there?”
“About fifty yards.”
April looked at the sky, thinking they might have another couple hours of sunlight. “Let’s go see what you found.” She put in her mouthpiece, dove, then followed Martin. As they neared the location, she took a frustrated breath, thinking that her first instinct was right. Just a bunch of scattered rocks, probably left over from some ancient volcanic activity.
She was about to rise to the surface when Martin tapped her on the arm, then pointed to where a shaft of sunlight lit up the ocean, the light becoming dimmer the farther down she looked. At first glance, it appeared to be more of the same barnacle- and algae-covered rocks, everything in hues of green, blue, and gray. But she watched in fascination as Martin directed her attention and she realized what she was looking at was a broken column. She followed him down farther, and saw another column, almost intact, as well as part of an arch, as though an ancient temple had come crashing into the water—which didn’t make sense, since there was no land nearby for it to come crashing down from.
She wasn’t sure how long she remained there, staring at the ruins, lulled by the sound of her air tank as she breathed in and out, as well as the muted rumbling of the freighter off in the distance. Her gaze caught on a school of tiny fish darting through the shadows of the ruined structures, and she swam closer, finding what she thought was the arm of a statue half buried in the ocean floor by the arch.
She dug in slightly, scooping out a handful of sediment at the bottom, then let it slip through her fingers. Something small and round fell. Envisioning a ceramic bead that had withstood eons under water, she caught it with her other hand, then kicked up closer to the surface and the light to see if it was anything significant.
A snail shell. She almost laughed at so anticlimactic a find. Still, she’d gotten to see the ruins. And though there was so much more she wanted to see, she checked her diving watch, noting they had less than ten minutes left of air, then signaled to Martin that she was ready to surface. He nodded, and together the two swam the rest of the way up.
“It was amazing,” she shouted over the wind, after she pulled out her mouthpiece.
A loud whistling pierced her ears. She and Martin turned toward the sound. The air rocked with an explosion. A fireball lit up the horizon, then dissipated.
April jerked back. It was a moment before she recovered, then, “Oh my God!” She started swimming in that direction. “Where’s the boat?”
Martin grabbed her arm, stopped her. “Pirates.”
She froze, heart thudding as she bobbed in the water. The freighter they’d seen earlier was positioned about fifty yards beyond where the Random Act had been. A small inflatable boat jetted from the larger ship toward the flaming debris. Two men sat within the boat, both armed with long rifles aimed toward the water. If these were pirates, they weren’t bothering with any survivors for ransom.
“What do we do?” she asked.
“How much air do you have?”
“About ten minutes.”
“Swim as far away as we can. Under water, we’ll have a decent chance. They might not know we’re here.”
She jammed in her mouthpiece, and just before she submerged, caught a glimpse of the pirates circling the area. She prayed that they hadn’t been seen, that nobody bothered to notice two divers had escaped. And that ten minutes of air would be enough time for them to find a way out.
Chapter 2
December 3
Interstate 395
Washington, D.C.
FBI Special Agent Sydney Fitzpatrick turned on her windshield wipers, clearing the gray splatter from the dirty snow that edged both sides of the highway. She was driving point on a surveillance, partnered with her ex-boyfriend, Special Agent Scott Ryan, who’d asked her to fill in at the last minute. Their mark was a tan Hyundai, about three cars up in the fast lane, a couple of would-be bank robbers, and so the last thing she expected in the middle of their operation was to field a call from her mother. She handed her cell phone to Scotty. “See what she wants?”
“Hey, Mrs. H. Oh. Hey. Uh, we’re a little tied up . . .” He listened, then, “No . . . Oh my God . . . Yeah. Yeah, she’s here. Hold on.” He pressed the speaker function of the phone and set it in the center console, so Sydney could talk.
Imagining any number of emergencies, everything from her eleven-year-old sister, Angie, being deathly ill, to her stepfather having a heart attack, she gripped the steering wheel in anticipation. “Mom? What’s wrong?”
“It’s not Mom, it’s me!” came her sister’s overly dramatic reply. “And everything’s wrong.”
Syd glanced over at Scotty, who mouthed, Forty-niners lost.
Great. “Angie, we’re really busy right now.”
“Are you chasing bad guys?”
“Two in fact.”
“That is so cool!”
“Aren’t you supposed to be in school?”
“Mom’s taking me to the dentist. She wants to know if you’re coming home for Christmas.”
“Of course I’m coming home. Can we—”
“And she says you better book a flight if you want a good price.” Her voice was singsong, implying that their mother was probably in the background, telling Angie what to say.
An SUV pulled onto the freeway in front of her car, blocking her view. “Tell Mom that—well, I’m sort of in the middle of something. Okay?” As much as Angie loved Sydney’s occupation, their mother did not, and Syd found it best to keep her from hearing about the more dangerous aspects of her job, like hurtling down the freeway after possible bank robbers. “Call you later?”
“Okay.”
“Love you.” Syd turned her attention back to the road, did some quick maneuvering around the SUV, clearing her line of sight. “Is the info on this Hyundai legit?” she asked Scotty. They’d been following it for ten minutes, with nothing suspicious to back up the claims.
“Called in this morning anonymously, so hard to say.” He turned on the FM radio. “You got any news channels programmed in? Senator Grogan’s talk is coming on pretty soon.”
“Wouldn’t want to miss that exciting entry in the annals of political speeches.”
“Trust me. This one you’ll want to hear,” he said, adjusting the volume of the talk show he’d found, keeping it low enough to still hear the police radio. “I think he’s prepping to drop a bombshell at the upcoming global summit meet.”
“What bombshell?”
“He wanted to reopen the LockeStarr investigation.”
A political nightmare was the first thing she thought. Two years ago, LockeStarr Management was being considered by the Senate to manage and secure the control of U.S. ports of entry. The bid was backed by several key politicians who were in favor of turning over the running of the ports to a private entity to free up much needed tax dollars. And it would have slid by the Senate hearing without a hitch had one of them not inquired about who actually owned LockeStarr.
Apparently there were more foreign investors than U.S.
And still, even with that knowledge, the Senate was prepared to award the contract to LockeStarr—until 60 Minutes ran their piece about foreign entities running U.S. ports. The public outcry was instant. LockeStarr pulled its bid, and it was seemingly forgotten, except for the investigation that was quietly opened, then closed when nothing turned up.
“So why now?” she asked, glancing over at him, then back to the road.
“Those college kids who were killed by the pirates.”
“What does that have to do with LockeStarr?”
“Just that it backs up Senator Grogan’s reasoning to tighten security, not just in the ports but in our shipping lanes. The bombshell, though, is he wants to see if someone in th
e U.S. helped facilitate the attempted takeover of the U.S. ports by LockeStarr. He thinks that whoever owns LockeStarr is behind it.”
The Hyundai suddenly swerved from the fast lane to the slow. She pulled her foot off the gas pedal.
Scotty grabbed the mike. “They’re exiting!”
“Stay on ’em,” Special Agent White radioed back. “The intel is the job’s going down today. We’re about a minute behind you.”
Sydney eyed her mirrors, saw nothing but big rigs behind her, the exit coming up fast.
“Go!” Scotty said. “Go! Go!”
She braked until her vehicle was directly parallel to the space between two of the semis. Foot over the accelerator, she stabbed it, yanked the wheel over, wedged her car between the two trucks, then veered to the off ramp. The Hyundai driver, thankfully, didn’t seem to notice her maneuver and she kept a good distance between her car and theirs, as she weaved in and out of the thick traffic on the surface streets.
Scotty keyed the mike. “We’re still on them,” he said, calling in their new location as Sydney followed the Hyundai into the parking lot of a shopping center.
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