Despite what’s depicted in the movies, discharging a bullet underwater can be as dangerous for the shooter as it is the intended target. It doesn’t do much good for the weapon, either.
The effects had been drilled into Roarke. Shock/pressure waves could severely damage the shooter’s eardrums as the blast is amplified underwater by a factor of four. The chamber can explode sending shrapnel backward as well as outward. The pistol might blow up in the shooter’s hand. The bullet may not follow the intended course. Or, in this case, it could strike Katie.
Roarke’s gun was out of the question.
The killer’s flippers could have taken him beyond Roarke’s reach, but he swam slowly, not knowing he was being pursued. After all, time was on his side. He just continued to drag Katie lower. The more he did, the less she resisted.
The midday sun shot beams of light through the Charles. Roarke swam away from Katie’s outstretched arms. It was the most difficult thing he’d ever done in his life. To save her, he had to ignore her. Roarke needed to come around the diver’s blind side.
Roarke kicked harder. He was glad the kids told him to lose his shoes. Faster! he willed himself.
He swam under Katie. Deeper. With hardly any air left and all the power he could muster, Roarke rammed his head into the diver’s kidneys. The regulator instantly popped out.
Roarke figured that he couldn’t survive a fight more than a few seconds. That’s when the odds tipped against him. The man pulled a five-inch blade from a sheath on his leg; somehow he still held onto Katie’s hair. Roarke instinctively drifted away. The hesitation gave the diver the opportunity to reinsert the regulator and take in more air.
Enraged, the diver swam forward, his arm outstretched, the knife blade catching the light from above. But he moved slower than he wanted because he had Katie in tow.
As if in a slow-motion aqua pas de deux, Roarke faked to the left and leaned right, dodging the first thrust. But sensing Roarke’s next move, he lunged forward. Roarke kicked away, but not quickly enough. The knife grazed Roarke’s left calf.
Roarke jerked backward. He fought the temptation to look down at the wound. Instead, he let his body relax. He dropped his arms to his side, giving the diver an easier, stationary target.
Jun Chung had taught him what to do, albeit on dry land and on a gym mat. The lessons from his Tae Kwon Do master in Los Angeles seemed like a lifetime ago. It might be if he didn’t execute the next moves correctly.
“Slow or fast makes no difference,” the Tae Kwon Do master had explained. “It is the point of contact. Concentrate on force, not speed.”
Roarke heard Master Chong through the water, through the years, and through his pain. Concentrate on the force. Force, not speed.
As the attacker pushed through the water, Roarke dodged right, twisted his body and reached forward with his left hand. He gripped the assailant’s right wrist, held it, then with his own right hand coming into play, he forced the man’s knuckles unnaturally backward. The killer struggled to free himself, but he couldn’t. He let go of the knife and tried to kick away. Again, he couldn’t.
Roarke increased the force, still remembering force, not speed. With his left hand still on the man’s wrist, he released his right hand, extended his whole arm flat against the killer’s arm, elbow touching elbow. He bent the arm against what nature intended, and it broke. Roarke heard the amplified crack through the water.
The man suddenly drifted upward. Roarke kicked to stay with him. Accelerating, he extended the fingers of his right hand straight out, held them tightly together, and drove them directly up and into the man’s unprotected Adam’s apple. Roarke pulled away and repeated the move, further drilling his fingers into the man’s neck. This time he felt bone crush. But he was not finished. Now with his left palm flat, he slammed up into the man’s right lung, instantly collapsing it.
The attacker’s mouth opened; an automatic reflexive motion. This had a serious effect underwater. He gagged and gasped. But the Charles River filled the space that hungered for air.
Roarke and the man who wanted to kill Katie were inches apart. Roarke ripped off his face mask. There was nothing the scuba diver could do to stop him. Not anymore. Roarke stared into the lifeless eyes and recorded the face.
He took in a lungful of air from the regulator that hung over the dead man’s shoulders. Now for Katie. But Roarke couldn’t find her.
Chapter 32
Boston, Massachusetts
Up or down? Roarke needed to see better. The mask was still in his hand. He put it over his face, and using the scuba mouthpiece, he cleared out the water.
Up or down? He didn’t know. Roarke held the dead man close in order to suck in another breath.
Up or down? Down was dark. He didn’t even know the depth of the river, or how far Katie could have sunk. If she went down?
Roarke replayed the pursuit and the fight. Katie reached out. Her arms were there. I swam around her. Did she see me and give up? I rammed him. He held onto her. Then the final blow. Where did she go?
He remembered that the man had begun to rise in the water. He let go! Katie must have gone down. Down to where there was only darkness.
Roarke looked up to the light. He saw the outline of two boats: Katie’s and the boys. And then a splash. One of the boys was coming toward him.
He turned away. He’d given too much thought to where she was. Roarke had to go deeper. He took one more blast of air, let the dead man go, and dove. As he kicked, he thought he felt a fish brush his foot. He hadn’t seen any, but there definitely was a tickle; a touch of some sort. He kicked again and swam farther into the darkness. The feeling was there again.
Roarke glanced back. It was really too dark to see anything, but he felt the sensation once more. It was like a touch…a touch that moved up his body until it was on his hand…a hand holding his hand.
It was Katie.
Chapter 33
Maluku, Indonesia
The drug production increased by 60 percent over two weeks. It’s amazing what people can accomplish when they want to live, Commander Umar Komari rationalized. Soon he would set up another transaction. This one would finally leave him with the cash to complete his purchases. Drugs to cash. Cash for weapons. What a wonderful world.
Komari expected to have firepower to take and hold a moderate-sized, poorly defended Indonesian city. But for bigger gains he needed more men. More men meant more supplies. His solution lay in the history of his own land. The terrorist commander took a page out of the Dutch conquest. Night after night, the colonel dispatched his forces into villages in neighboring islands to steal what they needed. The more fathers and husbands saw hungry mouths at home, the more they turned to people who had food. Of course, they were the very forces that stole from him in the first place: Colonel Komari and his men.
And so the militia grew.
“You see,” he told his lieutenant, Musah Atef, “it is a simple matter of supply and demand. We can put the hunger in their bellies. Now comes the real challenge. Can we put the hunger in their hearts? What will it take to transform ditch diggers into Muslim warriors? We must quickly teach them that our Jihad is their one true calling. By giving them a reason to die, they’ll have a reason to live forever. We must do that, Atef. We must do that without delay.”
Komari closed his eyes and visualized the success of his mission. “The edge of our sword will slice across our homeland, and the words of the Prophet shall be on everyone’s lips. We will drive the non-believers from our midst, and the one true God will look over you, your children, your children’s children, and for all who follow.”
Colonel Komari ranted on endlessly, as despots do. His minions pledged they’d follow, as obedient sheep would. And night after night, the ranks of Komari’s personal army swelled. His plans grew bolder by the week. He had seen other noble soldiers of Islam strike deadly blows against the infidels. Bin Laden. Hussein, in his day. Even his br
other miles away shared his passion against the Great Satan, the Christians, and the Zionists.
The day will come. Soon he thought.
Komari ended every speech the same way. “Have no doubt: Have no fear, my people. From this, our one little island, we will form a new nation. A nation true to Allah. And no one will stop us.”
The South Pacific
The 7th Fleet’s area of operation is immense. It stretches across more than 52 million square miles of the Pacific and Indian Oceans. The borders frame much of the globe. The fleet patrols west of the International Date Line to the east coast of Africa, north from Kuril Islands off the coast of Russia, and far to the south, to the Antarctic. The Navy conducts at least 100 exercises a year in the Pacific theater, not only as a way to strengthen bonds with allies, but to keep the fleet at a high state of readiness.
President Lamden’s order to deploy elements of the 7th Fleet to the waters between Australia and Indonesia put American Super Hornets within hours of both nations.
Taylor honored the commitment without hesitation. One of his first acts as chief executive was to call Prime Minister David Foss. He pledged his support and reassured the PM that the fleet, under the command of Admiral Clemson Zimmer, would answer any call. President Taylor also added a personal aside. As a Navy commander and an F/A-18 pilot, he participated in one training mission with the Australians—INDUSA RECONEX. This bilateral reconnaissance exercise took him into Indonesia and familiarized him with the region.
President Taylor reaffirmed the promise that America would maintain a highly visible presence in an area fourteen times the size of the continental United States. That meant that Adm. Clemson constantly would have to move his pieces—some 40-50 ships, 200 aircraft, and about 20,000 Navy and Marine Corps personnel—on a floating chessboard. This included coordinating with the local military forces, transoceanic freight trade, and pleasure craft.
At the back of the PM’s mind was whether or not the U.S. could help in time. Australia was now in the terrorists’ crosshairs. They’d targeted the hotel scheduled to hold a multinational conference. God knew what else could happen.
Boston, Massachusetts
“That sonofabitch!” she cursed as soon as they got in an FBI car. Roarke had warned Katie not to say anything until they were away. “The fucking sonofabitch, Witherspoon. He did it.”
“Take it easy. You don’t know that.” He wrapped a blanket around her, then checked the bandage on his leg.
“Yeah?” She was furious. “Who else? It’s Witherspoon.”
“Why?”
“He caught me looking up case law on FRT. He probably—no, not probably—he definitely figured out what I was doing and who I was doing it for!”
“Oh, God, I’m sorry, Katie,” Roarke said.”
The danger was beginning to settle in. “Scott, he tried to have me killed. You could have been…”
He held her in his arms, warming and consoling her.
She whispered through her shivers, “You know he bugged half the law firm? Installed cameras everywhere. He called it security.”
“A chip off the old block?” Katie didn’t get the reference. “Like his mentor—the recently departed Haywood Marcus.” Roarke referred to the late partner of Freelander, Connors, Wrather & Marcus. Marcus had represented the Lodge family estate. He was killed in the North End by the man Roarke presumed to be Depp. “You are making a lot of accusations, counselor. Are you sure you want to go there?”
“Do I ever!” She unraveled the blanket and used it to dry her hair.
By now, the car was moving west on Storrow Drive, away from her apartment. “Hey, where are we going?” she asked.
“Someplace safer,” the FBI agent said from the front.
Katie looked at Roarke, expecting more of an answer.
“For a while,” he explained. “Until we sort things out.”
“You mean until you get Witherspoon!” She surprised herself with what she said. “I mean, until you arrest him.”
Roarke looked directly ahead, not answering. He let out a tension-filled breath. It hardly cleansed him. Katie turned to her own thoughts. She retraced all of the steps in her mind: steps that tied Witherspoon and Marcus together.
“I can’t believe I never realized it before. I’m such an idiot,” she said.
Roarke took her hand. He worried what would happen when the experience fully caught up with Katie. Her anger would mask the shock for only so long. She can’t be alone. He decided to stay with her. He’d think about what to do. Some way to flush Witherspoon out. But for now, his mind went back to his first encounter with Witherspoon. He remembered how much he instantly disliked the man. He didn’t seem dangerous when they met a year earlier. He simply represented the worst in lawyers. Katie showed him the best.
Roarke took Katie back in his arms for the rest of the ride to the safe house, a 200-year-old farm in Lexington. They talked about Witherspoon for the rest of the afternoon and into dinner. They took the discussion to bed a few hours later. Katie propped her head up with her arm—still too angry to realize she’d been so close to death.
“Why?” she finally asked her boyfriend. “Why, Scott?” Tears finally filled her eyes.
Roarke sat up and leaned over her. “There’s always been someone at the top of all this,” he said softly. “We have an assassin doing his work and functionaries below him. On one level, Marcus. Then, if you’re right, Donald Witherspoon. But who knows how far it goes after him?”
“They can’t all be sleeper spies.”
“No,” he answered. “I don’t even think Witherspoon was. But people trying to get rich? That’s another story. They don’t know why, they just get sucked in. Marcus either brought Witherspoon in, or worse, he was recruited by our number one. My guess is that Donald Witherspoon operated independently, maybe even unknown to old Haywood Marcus himself.”
“A mole?” she asked.
“Yes, exactly.” Roarke’s eyes lit up at the thought. He suddenly felt he might have a shortcut to Depp. “A mole we can trap. We can…”
He stopped. Katie was crying now.
“If you didn’t come to the Esplanade to say goodbye….”
“I know, sweetheart. I know.”
Roarke rocked her in his arms. For the hours that followed, they shared each other’s tears, and declared through the deepest kisses and the most passionate love their commitment to one another.
As they fell asleep, Roarke tried to push an image out of his mind. Not tonight, he said to himself. Not now. He didn’t want to see Depp’s face. But it kept forming and it wasn’t the man being dragged by a grappling hook from the bottom of the Charles.
At 5 A.M., Roarke called a special number. He bet the man at the other end would be up already, too. He was right.
“Boss.”
“Hello, Scott. I heard I’m not the only one who had an unexpected day.” Morgan Taylor was in the Oval Office reading the updates he requested from each of the Cabinet members. “Is Ms. Kessler okay?”
“Yes, shaken, but she’s remarkable.”
“You’re very lucky,” the president said.
Roarke corrected him. “She’s lucky.”
“You are, to have her.”
Roarke had to smile. “Yes, very lucky.”
“So what’s your theory? I read the FBI report and saw the pictures of the dead man. He’s not your guy, is he?”
“Nope. But Katie is certain that one of her colleagues is responsible for the attack. Donald Witherspoon, a Marcus lackey.”
“And you agree?”
“Well, it’s plausible. I’d like to let him stew for a day or two. Make him feel uncomfortable.”
“Why?”
“A nervous man makes foolish mistakes.”
“Turn it over to the FBI, Scott. No stove piping. You don’t need to—”
Roarke interrupted him, something he never did. “Yes, I do.”
&nbs
p; “I understand,” the president acknowledged.
“Thank you, sir.”
The president raised his eyebrow, unseen to Roarke on the phone. Roarke rarely said sir. “Go on.”
“Well, now I have one for you.”
“Yes.”
“President Lamden?” Roarke declared. “Was it a heart attack?” He could ask the question over the scrambled phone line.
“The doctors are quite certain. Yes.”
“A natural heart attack?”
President Taylor was caught short by the question. Roarke reacted to the silence.
“Yushchenko.” The name was enough of an explanation. When Viktor Yushchenko ran for president of the Ukraine, he was poisoned with the dioxin TCDD, a key ingredient of Agent Orange. The plot failed to kill him, and he lost. The nation’s Supreme Court determined that the election was fraudulent. A new election put Yushchenko back on the ballot. The electorate made him president.
“Are you thinking that terrorists…?”
“Not terrorists. Terrorist, singular. Or assassin,” Roarke offered.
Taylor hadn’t considered the possibility. He didn’t know whether Lamden’s doctors had, either.
Lebanon, Kansas
Monday, 25 June
Elliott Strong did more for talk radio than the legends who came before him. Out of respect, he often referred to them on the air. On the other hand, he didn’t thank the people who quietly fed him information and talking points on an almost daily basis. He never mentioned that he knew which congressmen and senators were vulnerable to a barrage of constituent complaints. He failed to disclose how he had a seemingly sixth sense for what argument would provide the next flashpoint for Capitol Hill debate.
Strong wasn’t the first to have inside briefings. For years, critics of conservative talk argued that Limbaugh and the other like-minded hosts must have had a cozier-than-cousin relationship with the Bush administration. But unlike many of his predecessors who once wore the crown of AM talk, Elliott Strong did not support the president. Any president. Not the Republican Taylor. Not the Democrat Lamden.
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