by C. S. Graham
“Because according to Matt, the Navy has been keeping an eye on U-114 ever since they located it. That hit a sour note with me. I just can’t see them doing that if all they thought she was carrying was gold.”
She was aware of him watching the scene outside the window, although he’d been careful not to look directly that way again. She glanced toward the parking lot, and saw nothing except silent rows of cars.
“What do you keep looking at?”
“Don’t stare.”
She obediently looked away. “Why? What is it?”
“There’s a black Mercedes GL-Class parked beside the Jetta. See it?”
She threw a quick sideways glance at the shadowy rows of vehicles. “The SUV?”
“That’s it.”
“So?”
“So, they pulled in about ten minutes ago. Only, no one got out of the car.”
“Could be a coincidence. They could be waiting for someone.”
“It’s possible.”
Tobie reached for her beer stein and took a long, bitter swallow. “What do we do?”
Jax signaled their waitress for the bill. “I’ve got an idea.”
After they paid their tab, Jax walked up to the middle-aged man at the inn’s front desk and said in flawless German, “I’m afraid we have a problem. My friend here”—Jax nodded toward Tobie—“is being stalked by her ex-husband, and he’s out in the parking lot right now, waiting for us.”
The desk clerk, a small man with fair, receding straight hair and a long, thin nose, threw a nervous glance toward the front of the inn. A worried spasm crossed his nipped features. “Where?”
“The black GL-Class. Next to our red Jetta.”
He cleared his throat. “You would like me to phone the police?”
“I don’t think we need to do that.” Jax laid the Jetta’s key on the desk, along with a hundred marks. “The last thing we want to do is disrupt your patrons with an unpleasant incident. Perhaps you could simply bring our car up to the front and leave it running for us?”
The man’s thin nose quivered. Germans hated scenes almost as much as the British. His hand closed around the key—and the hundred-mark note. “Yes. It would be better. I’ll get it right away.”
“And leave both doors open, would you?” Jax called after him.
They stood just inside the door and watched the man walk briskly across the shadowy lot toward their car. “As soon as he pulls up in front,” Jax told Tobie, “we run out and jump in the car. I’ll drive.”
“But it’s rented in my n—” she began, then broke off. She’d never seen anyone who could handle a car the way Jax could. “All right. But please, please don’t wreck it.”
“I’ll try.” They watched the Jetta’s reverse lights come on, just as the big SUV beside it roared to life. “Here he comes.” Jax slapped open the gasthaus door. “Now.”
They sprinted down the short walk to the curb. Tobie dove in the Jetta’s passenger door, pulling it shut behind her just as Jax hit the gas. They were halfway out the parking lot before Jax’s door slammed shut.
He spun the wheel, the Jetta’s backend fishtailing as they screeched out onto the narrow country road. “What’s he doing?”
Tobie swung around to stare out the back window. Careening out of the parking lot on two wheels, the big Mercedes barreled after them. A second GL-Class roared after it.
“Shit. There’s two of them!”
45
Jax floored it, the engine whining as he shifted rapidly up through the gears.
They tore through a darkened countryside of flat farmland edged with hedgerows, the road curving around shadowy groves of silent trees. As they pulled clear of the last straggling houses of the village, the first SUV swung out into the opposite lane, hit the gas, and laid on his horn. Jax yanked the wheel to the left and swerved into him.
Tobie let out a yelp. “What are you doing? He’s bigger than we are!”
Jax flashed her a grin. “Yeah. But is he braver?”
She made a grab for the armrest. “Oh, my God.”
At the last possible nanosecond, the Mercedes chickened out and dropped back, horn blaring.
“See?” said Jax, spinning the wheel again.
“You’re crazy.”
Tires squealing, he rocked the Jetta back and forth across the centerline, weaving from side to side, cutting off the SUV each time it tried to creep up beside them.
Suddenly, the headlights of an approaching car pierced the darkness, bearing down on them. Tires screeched. Jax cut back into his own lane the instant before a sleek BMW convertible whipped past, its angry driver leaning on his horn.
The Mercedes swung back out into the other lane again, moving up fast. Jax hit the gas, crowding him over.
Tobie said, “Uh…curve coming!”
“I see it.” Shifting down, Jax cut back into his own lane.
The SUV stayed in the other lane, pulling abreast of them as they swung around the bend.
“Oh, shit!” cried Tobie as a glare of lights hit her in the eyes. She heard the blast of a horn, the squeal of brakes. The driver of the SUV swerved to the left, careening off the far side of the road and down a small embankment to crash into a darkened stand of shrubs as a panel truck tore past in the opposite direction.
“What’s the second SUV doing?” said Jax, shifting rapidly back up to fifth.
Tobie craned around to stare at the twisting road behind them. “He’s staying with us. But it doesn’t look like he’s trying to crowd us.”
They raced through the dark night, past a farm with a looming old barn and a neat white picket fence that glowed out of the darkness. “I don’t get it,” she said, just as Jax’s phone began to ring.
He unclipped the phone from his belt and hit Speaker.
“What the fuck are you doing, Alexander?” demanded a man’s gruff voice. “You were supposed to pull over.”
Jax cast a quick, incredulous glance at the phone. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me. You just ran my guys off the road.”
Jax raised his gaze to the rearview mirror. The second Mercedes was still there, its headlights two bright unwavering points of light racing after them. “Who the hell are you?”
“This is Agent Farnsworth, with Homeland Security.”
Jax kept his foot on the gas. “Like that explains anything?”
“You’re in trouble, smartass.”
When Jax said nothing, the voice barked, “Pull over, damn it. We need to talk.”
Jax smiled and feather-edged a corner, the Jetta’s engine purring. “We are talking.”
“Just pull the fuck over.”
Jax said, “I’ll pull over when I can see you in a well-lit area with lots of people around.”
“Are you crazy?”
“No. Just careful.”
There was a moment’s fuming silence. Farnsworth said, “There’s a village about a mile up ahead. Will that do?”
“Probably.”
The houses whizzing past on either side were growing closer together. Jax eased up on the gas. They thumped across a narrow old stone bridge, into a main street where the curtained windows of close-packed stuccoed houses glowed brightly with light. A man in a raincoat and hat looked up as they passed, the little wire-haired dachshund at the end of his leash letting out a halfhearted woof.
“It’s well lit, with lots of people,” barked the voice on the phone. “What are you waiting for?”
“I’ll know it when I see it.”
Near the far outskirts of the village they came upon a closed market, its small lot well lit by a high bank of sulfurous lights. Rolling into the lot, Jax threw the Jetta into reverse and backed into a slot just in front of the market’s closed doors, his headlights stabbing out into the lot.
“I want you to park directly across from me and turn off your lights,” he said into the phone.
“You got it, asshole.”
Jax watched the big Mercedes back into the
row across from them. Turning the phone off Speaker, he covered the mike and whispered to Tobie, “Get out your gun and cover me.”
She dug the compact Beretta out of her bag. “You know I can’t shoot, right?”
“You’ve got twelve bullets. If anything goes wrong, just point it in these guys’ direction and let it rip.”
Tobie eased off the safety with trembling fingers. “Right.”
“Now open your door, slowly, and stand behind it,” he told her quietly. “Keep your gun out of sight, but ready.”
She nodded and cautiously lifted the handle of the door.
On the far side of the parking lot, the driver of the Mercedes killed his lights. Jax could see two tall figures silhouetted against the streetlamp behind them.
Agent Farnsworth said, “What now, asshole?”
“Now get out of your car. Carefully. If you’ve got an ID, I want it in your hands. And that had better be all that’s in your hands. Hold your ID up to your chest with both hands and walk across the lot toward me. Your friend stays in the car.”
“You got it.” The passenger door of the Mercedes swung open. A tall, lean man slid out carefully and began to walk toward them.
Jax opened his own door and slowly straightened, his Beretta in his hand. He waited until the guy was maybe three feet away, then said, “That’s far enough.”
Agent Farnsworth drew up, the muscles of his clenched jaw working furiously. He was a lean, hard-muscled man with dark eyes and darkly tanned skin and a sharp-featured face that ended in a pointed goatee.
“Keep your hands where I can see them and hand me the ID,” said Jax, the car door still between them.
“What’s your fucking problem?” said Farnsworth, holding out his badge. “It’s a fucking Homeland Security ID. It’s real.”
Jax gave a soft laugh. “Yeah. I had FBI credentials myself just two weeks ago.”
He glanced through the guy’s credentials, then tossed it back. Farnsworth caught it with one hand. Jax said, “What do you want?”
Farnsworth started to put his ID away, then froze when Jax said quietly, “Don’t.”
The muscles along the man’s jaw bunched again. He said, “This is a Homeland Security operation from here on out. You’ve done your job. Now it’s time for you to back out.”
Jax stared at the idiot. “That’s what this stunt was for? So you could tell me that?”
“You’re the one who decided to play cute by taking off.”
“I’ve got people trying to kill me.”
“We’d have identified ourselves if you’d have just given us a fucking chance.”
“Give the wrong people a chance, and you end up dead.”
The guy was practically grinding his teeth. “It’s not your problem anymore. Now that we know for sure what we’re dealing with, we can take it from here.”
Jax hooked one elbow over the top of the Jetta’s open door. “You know, I hate to tell you this, but I don’t take orders from you guys. I work for a whole different outfit.”
“We’re all on the same team, remember?”
“That’s what I keep hearing. I tell you what: you go back and pull your guys out of that ditch, and just go on with whatever you were doing. When my boss tells me to quit, I’ll quit.”
Farnsworth jabbed the air between them with a pointed finger. “You’ll be hearing from him,” he said, and turned back toward the Mercedes.
Jax said, “By the way—”
Farnsworth swung around again. “What?”
“Where’d you get my phone number?”
Rather than answer, Farnsworth just turned his back and walked away, one finger raised in a backward salute.
Jax called after him, “Next time you want to talk to me, use the damned phone.”
Farnsworth kept walking.
“Well, that was all very adult and highbrow,” said Tobie, sliding back into the car and slamming her door.
Jax shut the driver’s door with a click. “Hey, I didn’t hurt the car, did I?”
She stared across the parking lot. “I don’t get it,” she said as they watched Farnsworth jerk open his door. The Mercedes’ powerful engine roared to life, tires squealing as the agents peeled out of the parking lot and raced back up the road.
Jax turned the key and eased the Jetta into gear. “It’s just a bureaucratic turf war. Homeland Security grew big and fast after 9/11, which meant they hired a lot of arrogant assholes who don’t really know what the fuck they’re doing. And thanks to the Patriot Act, they think they can do anything they want.”
“But what are those guys even doing here? I didn’t know we had Homeland Security people in Germany.”
“Are you kidding? We have Homeland Security people everywhere. Even the NYPD has ‘anti-terrorist’ guys over here. It’s supposed to make everyone feel safer.” Jax thrust the Jetta into gear and hit the gas. “Bankrupt, but confident.”
She was silent as he rolled slowly back through the quiet village. As they hit the outskirts and he began to pick up speed, she said, “Do we back off?”
“Not until Matt tells us to.”
“Do you think he will?”
Jax shifted rapidly into fourth, then fifth, the Jetta’s engine purring through the dark night. “Not a chance in hell.”
They took a room in Bremen, at a small guesthouse beside the Weser River. While October took her first shower in four days, Jax called Matt.
“I take it you passed on my information about the possible atomic nature of U-114’s cargo to Homeland Security?”
“Share and share alike; you know our new motto. But their reaction was interesting.”
“How’s that?”
“I got the feeling it wasn’t exactly a big shock to them.”
Jax was silent for a moment. “Are we the only ones who thought this whole thing was about Nazi gold?”
“Probably. You know what Washington is like. No one ever levels with anyone else.”
“Share and share alike.”
“Right.” Matt was silent a moment before blowing out a harsh breath. “This is serious shit, Jax. If these terrorists really have got their hands on an atom bomb—even an old one…”
“We’ll find them, Matt.”
“You’re running out of time.”
“I know.”
After he got off the phone with Matt, Jax sat at a small, round table overlooking the Weser. The thick bank of clouds building overhead hid the moon and turned the water sliding past into something black and cold. After a moment he got up, rummaged around in his bag, and found a sweater to pull over his head.
Halloween was just over forty-eight hours away. Somehow, knowing exactly what kind of attack they were facing made that date seem to loom even closer. And they still had no idea where the attack was going down, or who was behind it.
Twisting the top off a bottle of springwater, he went to lean against the window frame, his gaze on the river below. Somehow, it all kept coming back to the Russian connection. The Yalena. Kaliningrad. The Russian archives that had kept the German scientists’ records buried for the last sixty years. If only there were some way—some way to…
Reaching for his phone, he put in a call to Colonel McClintock. “Colonel? Jax Alexander here. I want October to do another remote viewing.”
46
Washington, D.C.: Wednesday 28 October
4:00 P.M. local time
Vice President T. J. Beckham stood behind his wide, well-polished desk and waited for the Director of Central Intelligence to walk up to him.
Beckham liked to think of himself as a down-home kind of guy, easy and approachable. Normally, he went out of his way to make folks feel comfortable, to keep from overawing people with the authority of his position.
Today, he wanted to reinforce it.
“You asked to see me, Mr. Vice President?” said Gordon Chandler.
“Yes, Gordon; I did.” Beckham waited while Chandler settled in the comfortable leather club chair on t
he far side of the desk, then he rubbed his nose with his knuckles and eased out a perturbed sigh. “I’ve just received a somewhat disturbing report, Gordon.”
Chandler’s eyebrows rose in a parody of innocent inquiry. “Sir?”
“About U-114. It seems that submarine wasn’t carrying gold, after all. Word is, it had a real live atomic bomb on it. And you knew about it.”
Chandler blinked, but kept silent.
Beckham flattened his palms on the surface of the desk and leaned into them. “Why wasn’t I told?”
Chandler cleared his throat. “Up until now, it was just a theory, and not one we tended to give much credence to.”
“A theory. Where exactly did this theory come from?”
“Some of the files we seized from Germany at the end of the war—combined with reports from certain captured scientists—suggested that Germany was actually farther along in their atomic program than is generally believed.”
Beckham studied the other man’s smooth, handsome face. “You obviously had more than that. Something that led you to focus on U-114.”
Chandler shrugged. “We knew the Nazis had secretly commissioned one of their XI-Bs. It seemed reasonable to assume they were using it for something important. And the timing was right—March of 1945.”
“So we knew U-114 was an XI-B, rather than an XB?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And how did we know that?”
Chandler’s complacent expression never slipped. “We’ve returned most of the archives we seized to the Germans, but not quite all of them. Some sensitive material is still classified. We knew U-114 sailed for South Africa and Japan as part of Operation Caesar, and we knew that amongst its other cargo it carried an unidentified weapon referred to only as ‘die Klinge von Solomon.’”
Beckham frowned. “What’s that?”
“It’s German for ‘the Sword of Solomon.’”
Beckham felt a chill run up his spine.
Chandler said, “It all seemed to fit.”
Beckham pushed away from his desk to stand and look out the window. It was a moment before he spoke. “None of this explains why I wasn’t told the truth.”
