Stark took advantage of the moment of hesitation with a riposte. Though he wished for one of his old épées or sabers, the fishing knife still found its mark as its tip pierced the East African’s eye. When the man dropped his bat and brought both hands up to his face, Stark thrust the knife into his unprotected abdomen. As he buried the knife he heard a snap and saw the glint of metal; instinctively, he held out his shield arm and waited. The life vest could deflect the strike from a tire iron but could only slow the penetration of a knife. The cold metal cut into his left forearm. He tossed the vest aside, and with it more than a few drops of his own blood, and shoved the man with all his strength.
Blinded in one eye and overcome by pain from it and his abdomen, the second attacker lost his footing and fell backward off the dock. Stark heard the unmistakable crack as the man’s head hit the transom of the boat in the next slip.
Only one of the three attackers remained, but Stark was injured now. The third man pushed Stark back into the cockpit and climbed on board for his own height advantage in this combat. His furrowed brow suggested a more cautious approach than his fellows had used and concentration on his next move. This man was not an amateur.
Behind him Stark saw a fourth shadowy figure approaching from the pier. The idling car engine and the screams of the second Somali had muffled the footsteps. He knew he had to dispatch the man in front of him before he could possibly handle the fourth.
The third East African drew back his knife and waited. Stark had experienced the pause of combat before, each side waiting for the other to make a move, hoping for a mistake on which to capitalize. His fencing training took over. Stark planted his left foot on the deck, shifting his shoe to create a dryer spot from which to launch his attack.
The East African bent his knees as if to project himself onto Stark and then grunted in surprise when an oar came from behind and hit him square across his legs. His feet slipped on the wet locker and Stark pounced, throwing him hard to the deck. He grabbed the slack of the stern line and wrapped it tightly around the man’s neck. The East African struggled and vainly swung his knife, trying to connect with Stark. Stark pulled the line tighter and tighter until the man’s arm fell by his side and the knife dropped harmlessly onto the deck. With the remainder of his strength Stark tightened the line one last time. The man’s entire body went limp.
“I could have taken him,” he said to the figure still on the dock.
“You can’t do everything alone,” Maggie said.
DAY 3
USS Bennington (CG-74), North Arabian Sea, 0342 (GMT)
“Attention in the pilothouse, this is Ensign Fisk. I have the conn. Belay all reports.”
Fisk’s eyes continued to adjust to the darkness around him and the ambient light from the consoles. Barely a quarter of the four hundred souls on board were awake and attending to their duties. It was oh-dark-thirty, and Bobby Fisk had joined the officer of the deck, a lieutenant junior grade who had been three years ahead of him at the Academy.
“You might want to hold off on belaying your reports, Bobby. It doesn’t hurt to reinforce what’s going on.” The OOD took a sip of coffee and grimaced as he handed another cup to Bobby.
“Thanks.” Fisk shuddered at the first sip. “Seaman Grace still trying to figure out the coffeemaker?”
“Yeah, but at least it’ll keep us awake.” The OOD pointed him in the direction of the port bridge wing and secured the hatch behind them. Both men zipped up their jackets to keep out the cool night breeze. Bobby pulled his ship’s ball cap lower on his head to secure it from a sudden gust. The blue cap was embroidered in gold with the Ticonderoga-class cruiser’s name and hull number, crest, and motto: Vigilant and Victorious.
“Captain gave you double duty, too?” said the OOD. “Not exactly the way you thought you’d join your first ship, is it?”
Bobby shook his head, his round, earnest face solemn. “Six weeks ago I was walking across the stage and shaking hands with the vice president at the Naval Academy stadium and getting my commission. And I’m already in trouble.”
“You can’t blame yourself for what happened,” the OOD said. “Heck, none of us were at fault.”
The Bennington had been under way from Bahrain for less than twenty minutes when the commotion started. First came the standard intervals of the navigator’s recommended course headings and adjustments, essential information even in a familiar channel. Bobby, as the conning officer, repeated the figures to the helmsman, who repeated them back to Bobby to ensure there was no misunderstanding.
The scratchy, high-pitched voice of the five-and-a-half-foot-tall captain had broken in, ordering a course change. The navigator disagreed and stated the proper course. The ensuing countercommands and recommendations reached a confusing intensity. At another command from the captain, the ship jolted with an increase in speed and the port lookout simultaneously sang out a warning. Bobby felt a sudden gut-wrenching slam and heard a noise pitched a thousand decibels higher than the captain’s voice, the unmistakable sound of steel meeting steel scraping along the port side of the hull. Bobby dashed out to see what the ship had hit.
Directly beneath him was one of the channel’s buoys, passing fore to aft and leaving most of its paint on the Bennington.
“NAV, you’re relieved. OPS take over for NAV,” screeched the captain. “Red mittens! Red mittens for everyone!”
Bobby knew what that meant for NAV, a woman he’d spoken to only briefly in the wardroom. She had tried repeatedly to warn the captain about his ordered course changes; he wouldn’t listen. Now her career was effectively over. And it was entirely possible that the rest of the bridge officers wouldn’t be far behind her.
All Bobby saw of NAV—or rather ex-NAV—after that was her back as she boarded the helo back to Bahrain with her bags.
The breeze picked up as the OOD lightly tapped his coffee mug against Bobby’s cup: “Cheers.” After another sip and grimace he continued. “It’ll get better, Bobby. This ship’s not that different than the old YPs we used to drive on summer bloc, except she has ten times the crew, is three times as long and fast, and has weapons. Just remember what the chiefs of the YPs at the Academy used to say—drive it like you stole it, and park it like you bought it.”
Even in the dim light, Fisk could see the wink and grin that accompanied that last comment. He smiled weakly back and felt a little less alone.
After his watch, Bobby stopped by the wardroom to get some water. On his way out he paused at the cabinet devoted to the ship’s namesake. Behind the glass was a map detailing a Revolutionary War battle and a portrait of the New Hampshire general who had led his troops to victory there—a stone-faced man holding a musket in one hand; his other arm was raised, commanding his men to follow. Ensign Fisk wondered if leaders like Brig. Gen. John Stark, hero of the Battle of Bennington, still existed.
Antioch, Maine, 1330 (GMT)
“Going to the coroner’s office, are we?” asked the police officer emerging from one of the back rooms. He carried a cup of coffee in his left hand and with his right placed a pen in the left pocket of his neatly pressed, short-sleeved uniform shirt. The nametag pinned above the pocket read Hertz. “I’m Tom,” he said, reaching out to shake the visitor’s hand.
“Damien Golzari,” Golzari responded. “Diplomatic Security Service,” he added as he held out his identification. Hertz nodded with less surprise than the fat lady on the plane had shown. Hertz led the way outside, where the two men got into the squad car and left the lot.
Little escaped Golzari’s sharp eyes, but even a casual observer would have noticed immediately that the few people walking the street on this windy day were dressed in the traditional full-length thobes of the Middle East. Judging by their clothing and features, he guessed they were Somalis. Odd, he thought, for a small town in Maine. “How long have you been with the department?” he asked Hertz.
“Nine years, ever since I graduated from the police academy. I grew up here.”
“I used to be a beat cop—in Boston. I miss it. This place looks like it’s half a world away from there instead of a couple hundred miles,” Golzari said, his eyes scanning the pedestrians and their unusual garb.
Hertz laughed, surprised that this well-dressed government agent with a refined British accent had walked the streets of Boston as a cop. “Two blocks away is ‘Little Mogadishu.’ I’ll give you a little tour.” He turned into a blighted-looking neighborhood near the river. “A few years ago, the local politicians brought in a few thousand Somali refugees. It was a nice thought, but there were no jobs. The mills closed down years ago. Life is hard for them, maybe harder because a lot of them haven’t tried to fit in. The cops have even been told to overlook certain things here and in a couple of other housing communities.”
“What kind of things?”
“Medical issues, for example, like girls being brought into the local emergency room because of botched clitoridectomies. My girlfriend is a nurse at the hospital, and she comes home with some real horror stories. Bankers talk on the QT about seven- and eight-thousand-dollar payments being wired overseas. Lots of other odd stuff. You ready to see the coroner, Damien?”
Golzari’s mind had wandered, thinking about the people of this neighborhood and the vast difference between their immigration experience and his own, remembering what people had thought of him as an Iranian immigrant. Hertz’s question snapped him back to the present.
“Yeah, I’ve seen enough here.”
As the squad car turned toward Antioch’s small downtown, a Mercedes-Benz SUV pulled out behind it. The Somali driving the Benz followed the car at a decorous distance. He relished the thought of killing again. He had already killed three people in America, not nearly as many as he had been responsible for in Somalia and barely enough to keep his skills intact. He took his eyes off the road to admire his image in the rearview mirror, then put a bottle of spray cologne close to his neck and squirted himself several times, breathing in the scented mist.
Ullapool, Scotland, 1350 (GMT)
“Who were they?” Stark asked the detective, giving Maggie’s hand another reassuring squeeze. Maggie didn’t relax her grip. They had spent most of the night in the pub in a booth overlooking the harbor. Two police cars with their flashing blue lights remained at the pier.
“Still don’t know who two of them were,” the detective replied. “Not exactly the kind that carries identification, are they. The only name we have is the man who rented the vehicle. His current residence is in Birmingham, but he was born in Somalia.”
“Somali?”
“You did quite a job on them, Connor. Three men attack you, three men dead.”
“Would you have preferred a different outcome?”
“Alive so they could answer questions would have been nice,” the detective grunted. “We need more information. This doesn’t seem like a crime of opportunity. We tracked the car to the other towns between here and Birmingham, and there were no significant crimes when they were there.”
“Maybe they wanted my boat,” Stark said dismissively.
The officer stared at him for a moment. It didn’t take a Scotland Yard detective to figure this out. “There were other boats that didn’t have anyone on board and were easier targets. Did you owe them money?”
“I told you, I never saw them before.”
“Have you ever dealt with Somalis?”
Stark paused. “I’ve dealt with a lot of people.”
“Care to elaborate?” the officer asked.
“No,” he said as two men in khaki uniforms entered the pub and strode up to the booth.
“Thought you two were supposed to leave at first light. What happened to Navy punctuality?” Stark said to them.
“We’re still waiting for an answer, sir,” said Lieutenant Commander Billings.
“It seems everyone is,” Stark replied, looking first at the detective and then at Maggie. “Gentlemen, could all of you wait outside for a few minutes?” he asked.
When the last man left, he turned to Maggie, trying without success to mask the resignation clearly evident in his eyes. “We never did have that talk at the house,” he said.
She released his hand and touched his face softly, struggling to make eye contact. “Had you already decided?”
“I wasn’t sure. I was going to talk with you first.”
“And these men you killed changed that?”
“Yes. They changed everything.”
Antioch, Maine, 1407 (GMT)
The coroner pulled back the sheet that covered the body. Golzari had seen dead bodies before. Lots of them. Young, old, male, female, intact, dismembered. Too many to let the body of this young man affect him. He reviewed the police report and saw the reporting officer’s name—Hertz. He glanced up at the officer who had brought him from the police station before turning back to the report. “John Malesherbes Dunner the Fourth. Age twenty,” Golzari said without looking up from Hertz’s report. “Sophomore at Antioch College. Hair brown. Eyes brown. Hometown Potomac, Maryland. Clothed body found on the northern bank of the Passamaquoddy River one hundred yards from the falls at 6:45 p.m. by a jogger crossing the bridge into Antioch. No known witnesses. Roommate identified the body.”
Golzari set the report aside and looked up. “I know his father.” He looked at Hertz. “Have you questioned the roommate yet?”
“No. When I was told you were on your way here, I thought I’d wait.”
“Thanks. Dunner’s father is on a flight from Mexico and should be here in a couple of hours.”
“Can I start the autopsy now?” asked the coroner. Golzari nodded, accepting the silent offer of some Vick’s VapoRub for his nose to help mask the stench.
The body was discolored, mottled in a dark green pattern that reminded the DSS agent of Irish Connemara marble. “Did anyone check the temperature of the water?” Golzari asked.
“The normal sixty-six,” Hertz responded.
“If he was found yesterday at around 6:45, he would have died about a day ago, give or take a few hours. His blood was reacting to the hydrogen sulfide. Is that right?” Golzari asked the coroner.
The hefty, triple-chinned coroner merely nodded as he waddled to the other side of the table and began to cut. The autopsy showed nothing out of the ordinary until the coroner pried the boy’s mouth open with his hands and pulled back his cheeks to get a fuller view. “Hmm,” he mumbled.
“Something?” Hertz asked.
“The teeth. Overall they seem very healthy. Basically what you’d find in someone his age and background, though he could have brushed more. Except—strange—they have a slightly green tinge. Almost like he smoked or chewed tobacco, but a different color. Unless this got caught in his mouth while he was in the water, it looks like he chewed whatever it was right before he died.” The coroner produced a small, wet leaf that had been lodged between the young man’s molars.
“Maybe. Hertz, are these his clothes?” Golzari pointed to a tray to the side.
“Yup. T-shirt, shorts, and sandals. He probably took a walk on that old pedestrian bridge the night before. Options are: one, he lost his footing, in which case it was an accident and this is closed; two, he knowingly jumped, in which case this is also closed; or three, he was pushed, and this becomes a homicide.”
Golzari took a breath mint tin from the pocket of the shorts and unscrewed the lid to expose its still-dry contents. “Fancy that.” Surely the coroner couldn’t be so naïve as to believe that this was chewing tobacco. “Doctor, don’t be surprised if his blood sample shows signs of an amphetamine.”
“You mean like meth?” Hertz asked, peering into the open can and then staring suspiciously at the DSS agent.
“No, like khat, or cathinone to be precise,” he said, turning his back on the body and heading toward the door. “Let’s go talk with the roommate.”
The dormitory room smelled like unwashed socks, skunky beer, mildew, and leftover pizza. Johnny Dunner’s roommate wa
s dressed much as Johnny had been—T-shirt, khaki shorts, and leather sandals. Unlike the clean-shaven Dunner, the roommate sported a sparse goatee on his chin, a mere shadow of Golzari’s own meticulously groomed growth.
“Want a seat, guys?” the roommate asked motioning to Johnny Dunner’s bed, which was covered with dirty laundry.
“Thanks, I’ll pass,” Golzari said looking at the pile in disgust.
“I thought all I had to do was identify Johnny.”
“Agent Golzari has just a few questions for you,” Hertz responded. The roommate sat back on his bed and looked up at the two law enforcement officers.
“Okay. Ask away. Mind if I chew?” He pinched a small wad of leaf from a tin and picked up a cup from his desk to spit in.
“When was the last time you saw Johnny,” Golzari began as he watched the young man’s jaws move rhythmically.
“Couple of days ago,” the boy said matter-of-factly.
“More specifically?”
The roommate’s eyes rolled upward as he tried to recall. “About ten o’clock that night.”
“Here?”
The roommate, still drowsy after this unusually early wake-up call, was slow in trying to remember. “Yeah, but he left.”
“Do you know where he went?”
“No,” the boy said, spitting leaf juice into the cup. Golzari had seen it before, of course, but he remained repulsed by the disgusting act.
“Are you nervous?” Golzari asked.
“No,” the roommate said slowly.
“Why was Johnny on the bridge at the falls?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did he regularly go there at night?”
“I don’t know.”
“How often do you brush your teeth?”
“Huh? What?”
“Simple question. In case you haven’t noticed, there’s a hint of green on your teeth. Unless you’re going for the Saint Paddy’s Day look—a few months too late—I’d say it’s from something else. Where’d you get the khat?”
The Aden Effect Page 3
