The Solomon Effect

by C. S. Graham

“I just got the report from my lab guys,” said Walker, settling into an upholstered bamboo chair framed by a garden of wind-ruffled palms and dark tropical foliage.

  Boyd’s voice was a low growl. “And?”

  Walker let the moment draw out, enjoying the suspense. He took a sip of his juice. “The shipment was still 60 percent viable.”

  “That’s good.”

  “Good?” Their best-case scenarios had been 40 percent. “It’s great.”

  “When will it be ready?”

  “We should be able to sail with it Wednesday morning.” They were transporting the shipment to the mainland on Walker’s private yacht. “We’ll make Miami by Friday.”

  There was a pause. Boyd said, “It’s come to my attention you’ve been making some unusual financial transactions.”

  Walker sat forward. How the hell had Boyd found out about that?

  “This isn’t about money, Walker. It’s about doing what has to be done to save this country.”

  Walker let his head fall back, his eyes squeezing shut as he enjoyed a moment of quiet amusement. The General Boyds of this world never could seem to grasp the fact that, in the end, everything always came down to money. Of course this was about money—money that should be going to education, to rebuilding America’s crumbling roads and collapsing bridges, to fixing a medical system that was a disgrace to the Western world. The country was flushing itself down the toilet, wasting billions and billions of dollars every month for—what? To wipe the noses of a bunch of ungrateful rag-heads in Afghanistan and Iraq? To prop up Israel? And why? Because that pissant little country was strategic to American interests? Hardly. Walker supposed there were some people who might actually believe that. Much easier to swallow the standard line than to admit that certain individuals with divided loyalties had grown so powerful that they had every politician in America falling all over themselves to kiss their asses—while all the gullible, Armageddon-obsessed Christians just stood around singing hallelujah and waiting for the Rapture. Walker had learned a long time ago that the world revolved around money. It was only dinosaurs like Boyd who thought life was about honor, and loyalty, and service.

  “Don’t worry,” said Walker. “No one’s going to notice.”

  “Someone might see a pattern.”

  “You mean, like the interesting financial transactions that occurred right before 9/11?” Walker took another sip of his juice. “So some conspiracy nut notices and puts up an Internet site. So what? Americans only believe in conspiracies if they’re hatched in a cave in Afghanistan. If you were smart, you’d make some adjustments of your own.”

  “I will not profit from what is about to happen.”

  “Well, I’ll tell you what: I’m sure as hell not going to suffer because of it.”

  “If you jeopardize the mission—”

  “I’m not jeopardizing anything. I’m just recouping my costs.” With a little extra, Walker thought. He let his gaze linger on the stretch of turquoise water before him and felt its calming influence. “Relax, Boyd. Things are going better than we ever expected. In less than a week, it will all be over.”

  “Really? I’d say that by this time next week, it will have only just begun.”

  29

  Kaliningrad, Russia: Monday 26 October

  9:10 P.M. local time

  The flight from Kaliningrad to Berlin smelled of raw onions and vodka and hot, closely pressed bodies. Tobie leaned back in her seat and closed her eyes, but she was too exhausted and jittery to sleep.

  Jax passed out before the flight even pushed back from the terminal.

  Watching him sleep, she knew a welling of frustration that only seemed to grow with each passing minute. In less than a week, an unknown group of terrorists would launch a deadly attack on the United States. She had successfully located the U-boat the men had salvaged. But the true nature of its cargo had turned into an enigma, while the identity of the terrorists themselves remained a mystery.

  No one knew better than Tobie the limits of remote viewing. Anything she tried to view from here on out could be dangerously influenced by what she already knew about the case. And tasking herself was always tricky. Without the protocol of an official viewing in place, no one in the intelligence community would give credence to anything she “saw.” But she had to try.

  Taking a deep breath, then another, she willed herself to relax, sinking slowly down into her Zone. Her target was a person: the leader of the force that attacked the Yalena Saturday morning and killed its crew. Her target time: now.

  The first images were, as always, indistinct. She saw a man. Dark hair. Dark skin. A flat nose. Full lips. Dark jeans. A heavy pullover sweater. She could feel the anger seething within him, combined with a lethal determination that sent a chill down her spine.

  She pulled back from him, trying to get a sense of place. She was aware of the pinch of cold. Smelled damp earth and wet leaves. He stood outdoors, in the country, perhaps, or in a garden. In the darkness, trees and bushes were all reduced to indistinct shadows buffeted by the wind.

  Pulling back further, she saw the faint glow of a lamp spilling through an uncurtained window. The sulfurous haze of a streetlight shining on wet pavement. A city, but not a crowded city.

  What city?

  Patiently, she returned to the man standing in the shadowy garden. The house behind him began to come into focus. High gables. Jutting dormers. Steep roof. Mullioned windows. A large house, well cared for, yet quiet.

  She shifted her perspective to the street, the images of the neighboring houses becoming increasingly cleaner, stronger. If she were ever to find herself on this street, she would recognize it in an instant. But when she tried to move beyond the darkened houses, to the city itself, her impressions became less distinct and dangerously susceptible to “overlay” by her imagination.

  With a sigh, she opened her eyes to stare out the plane’s small window at the darkness beyond. She felt the vibrations of the jet’s engines thrumming through her, and she knew it again, that sense of frustration combined now with a growing urgency. She had seen the man they sought; she was sure of it. She had felt his anger and his dark purposefulness. But who was he?

  And where was he?

  It wasn’t until their flight hit the runway, bounced, then rattled to a shuttering halt that Jax opened his eyes.

  She said, “How do you do that?”

  He glanced over at her and yawned. “What? Sleep? Practice.”

  “I’m beginning to think I might kill for a bed and a shower.”

  “You should be able to get both at the station.”

  “The station? What station?”

  He got that look on his face, the one he always got whenever she reminded him just how little she knew about espionage or the world of spycraft. “The CIA station at the embassy. Every embassy has one. They’ll probably debrief you there before sending you back to the States.”

  She paused in the act of leaning over to pick up her carry-on bag and straightened slowly. “The States? But…I thought we were going to follow up on Baklanov’s contacts in the Middle East.”

  “No. I’m following up on Baklanov’s contacts in the Middle East. Your role in this assignment is over.”

  She felt a pulse of anger throb through her, making her fingers tingle and her face grow hot. She said, “Why? The U-boat was in Kaliningrad, just like I said it would be.”

  “And what did you see in Turkey?”

  She looked at him blankly. “I didn’t see anything in Turkey.”

  He unbuckled his seatbelt and stood. “Exactly. The woo-woo part of this mission is over.” He didn’t say it, but she knew what he was thinking: Thank God.

  She followed him down the narrow, crowded aisle. “You’re going to Turkey?”

  “Yes.”

  “But…why?”

  “Because Kemal Erkan is in Turkey.”

  “But Erkan was interested in buying the submarine, not the cargo; I think we should go to Lebanon. T
hat’s where Baklanov was planning to sell the cargo.”

  He glanced back at her over his shoulder. “Did you see that in your crystal ball, too?”

  “I don’t have a crystal ball and you know it.” She waited, but when he still didn’t say anything, she said, “I vote we go to Lebanon.”

  He went to stand in one of the long immigration lines. “This isn’t a democracy. I’m going to Turkey. And you’re going to New Orleans.”

  They’d just cleared Customs and were pushing their way through the crowd waiting outside the wide double doors when a female voice with a pronounced Bronx twang said, “You can stop right there.”

  Tobie turned to find a stocky woman with short-cropped dark hair descending on them, a manila envelope clutched against her brown pantsuit jacket.

  “Why, Petra,” said Jax with a smile that didn’t exactly ooze charm and good cheer. “You didn’t need to put yourself to the trouble of meeting us.”

  The woman’s dark brown eyes narrowed down into hostile glints. “Believe me, meeting you is a lot less trouble than cleaning up after you.” She slapped the manila envelope against his chest. “This is for you. Don’t even think about leaving the airport. You’re both booked on the red-eye flight to Izmir.”

  “Both of us?”

  “Both of you.”

  Tobie poked him in the ribs with her elbow. He ignored her.

  Petra said, “You got a report from Division Thirteen headquarters. It’s in the envelope with your e-tickets.”

  Jax’s hand tightened around the envelope. “You’re very efficient. Thank you, Petra.”

  Her frown darkened. “You haven’t asked, but I’m going to tell you anyway: we cleaned up your little mess.”

  Tobie looked from one to the other. “What mess?”

  For the first time, Petra’s gaze shifted to her. “What mess? He was in Berlin less than eighteen hours and he still managed to find the time to kill someone.”

  Tobie blinked.

  Jax said, “Did you ever find out who the guy was?”

  “No.” Petra turned to leave. “The tickets to Izmir are one-way. Make sure that however you come back, it’s not through Berlin.”

  “Thanks, Petra. You’re a champ.”

  She spun back to face him. “Catalano. My name is Rita Catalano.”

  Jax gave her a smile that showed his teeth. “You’ll always be Petra to me.”

  “You’re gloating again,” he said as they pushed their way into the waiting area for the flight to Izmir.

  “I’m not gloating.”

  “You’re gloating.”

  Tobie allowed her smile to spread a little wider. “Okay. Maybe just a little.” She dropped her voice and threw a quick look around. “You didn’t tell me you killed someone in Berlin on your way to Kaliningrad. Who was it?”

  “Some jerk with a big nose and a gun he intended to use on me.”

  “You think he’s connected to our friends on the Kawasakis?”

  “Probably.”

  “But…how did they know you were going to be in Berlin?”

  “That’s the troublesome part. I was only in Berlin because my Aeroflot connection was canceled. And the Company made my hotel reservations.”

  Tobie was silent a moment, considering this. “You think that CIA woman had something to do with it? Is that why you were kinda funny with her?”

  “Petra? Nah. She’s just a pain in the ass.”

  They found a couple of seats squeezed in between a wall and a green-eyed woman, dressed in dark slacks, a tunic, and a headscarf, who was nursing a toddler on her lap. Jax opened Petra’s envelope and pulled out the report from Matt.

  Tobie peered over his shoulder. “What’s all that?”

  He thumbed through the pages. “Matt checked with Interpol. Oh, look. Surprise, surprise: Baklanov Salvage seems to have been involved in low-level smuggling.”

  “Let me guess. Cigarettes and vodka?”

  “You got it. But that’s not all. There’s also strong suspicion that our friend Jasha was into gunrunning.”

  “To Lebanon?”

  “Right again.”

  “See. I keep telling you we should be going to Lebanon.”

  “Did the guy on the Kawasaki look Lebanese to you?”

  “No. But he didn’t look Turkish, either.”

  Jax flipped to another printout, this one with columns of phone numbers. Some of the numbers had names associated with them, but most were only identified by location—if that.

  “Those are Jasha’s cell phone records?” she said, eying them.

  He nodded. “The last three months’ worth. Looks like this guy was in contact with people in Beirut, Spain, Florida, Finland…a real international businessman.” He ran his finger down the list. “Here’s our friend Kemal Erkan. He lives in some place named Aliaga, wherever that is. In the last two days, he’s called Jasha six times.”

  “Aliaga is just north of Izmir.”

  He looked up at her. “How did you know that?”

  She glanced away, to where a steady stream of passengers was unloading through a nearby gate. “My dad was stationed at Izmir when I was a kid.”

  “So you speak Turkish?”

  “Yes. Do you?”

  When he said nothing, she leaned in close to say, “I guess it’s a good thing you’re going to have me along after all, isn’t it? So I can do all the talking.”

  “Don’t let it go to your head.” He flipped to the transcript of Erkan’s voice-mail messages. “Ah. It’s all coming together. This guy Kemal Erkan owns a shipbreakers yard.”

  “A what?”

  “A shipbreakers yard. They tear old ships apart for scrap. It can be done right, with good environmental controls and safety procedures for the workers. But doing it right is expensive, so most companies sell their aging ships to countries like India or China. They cut the ships apart right on the beach and just burn or dump whatever they can’t sell.”

  Tobie rubbed the bridge of her nose between one thumb and forefinger. “I’m confused.”

  The toddler next to them began to cry, its face screwed up in a wail of exhaustion. The mother stood, jiggling him up and down as she walked him back and forth.

  Jax said softly, “I have a hunch our mysterious friends heard Baklanov Salvage had experience raising old World War II-era submarines, and hired Jasha to raise U-114. Only, Jasha got greedy. He decided he could make more money selling the sub to Turkey for the steel and hawking its cargo on the black market…and on eBay, of course.”

  “So they killed him?”

  “And took whatever it was they wanted from the sub.”

  “Which may or may not have been gold.”

  “Which probably was not gold.” Jax thumbed back through Baklanov’s cell records and sucked in a hissing breath.

  “What is it?” she said.

  He pointed to the last two entries on the list. “Look at this. Someone accessed Baklanov’s voice mail on Sunday morning, then again this afternoon.”

  “I don’t get it. Baklanov was killed early Saturday morning. How is that possible?”

  “Easy. You kill a man. You take his cell phone. And then you check his cell records to see who he’s been calling.”

  “And who is calling him.” Tobie watched the woman in the headscarf swing her son up to her shoulder and pat him softly on the back. “I think Mr. Kemal Erkan might be in trouble,” she said.

  “No shit.”

  30

  Kaliningrad Oblast, Russia: Tuesday 27 October

  7:30 A.M. local time

  Early the next morning, Stefan was crouched down on his hands and knees, digging for carrots in an overgrown field near the half-collapsed barn where he’d spent the night, when the dog came to him.

  Black and tan, with floppy ears and a waggy tail, it looked like some kind of a shepherd mix, half grown and skinny. Panting hopefully, it leaned against Stefan’s legs and looked up at him with softly pleading brown eyes.

  “
Go away,” said Stefan, throwing a frightened glance about. “Go home.”

  But all the villages and farms around here were deserted, inhabited only by storks and ghosts. The dog whined, its head dipping.

  Stefan reached out a tentative hand to scratch behind the pup’s ears. It flopped down beside him, its tongue flicking out to lick his wrist.

  He ran his hands down the dog’s bony sides and flanks. “What’s the matter, boy? Hmm? You lost? Or don’t you have a home at all?”

  The dog whined again.

  Stefan stared down at his small pile of hard-won carrots. He hesitated, then broke one into quarters and held it out in the palm of his hand. “You hungry?”

  After Sunday night’s disaster near Ayvazovskaya, Stefan had vowed once again to avoid all villages and towns. But the dog didn’t seem to care for carrots, and it kept whining. After two hours of walking, the pup was lagging, its head drooping. Drawing up at the top of a low rise, Stefan hunkered down to loop an arm over the pup’s shoulder as he eyed the town below.

  It was a cheerless place, its ugly concrete houses dating back to the Soviet era. Built on the edge of a stretch of marshland, the town’s only reason for existence seemed to be the railroad tracks that ran on an elevated embankment along the edge of town. Stefan could see a freight train coming in the distance, the dirty brown smear from its diesel engine stretching out across the marsh.

  He brought his gaze back to the town center, where a line of shops fronted a small rubbish-strewn square with the inevitable statue of Lenin at its center. He wasn’t going to try stealing again—he’d learned his lesson. But surely ten rubles would be enough to buy the dog some scraps from a butcher?

  Trying desperately not to attract anyone’s attention, Stefan walked down the hill to the town’s desolate windblown main street, one hand clutching his lucky amber horse head, the dog limping at his heels. They had almost reached the looming statue of Lenin when he glanced up and saw a big black Durango parked at the edge of the dusty square.

  Stefan’s mother had a saying: Honest men drive Russian cars. In Kaliningrad, only New Russians, thieves, and whores drove Durangos and Mercedes.