What is he staring at? "What do the two of you look like together?"
Lofton turned to her, a suggestion of a smile at the corners of his mouth. "I am he and he is me." His gaze wandered back to...
...The NAV table! She casually turned her head, seeing the chart he'd laid out. She knew it well. The legend's large black letters read:
NOAA Chart Number 18740
San Diego to Santa Rosa Island.
No! She searched for his eyes.
He focused on the starboard bulkhead and spun a fork.
"Could I have some more wine, please?"
"What?"
"Damn you, Brad Lofton!" Bonnie slammed her fist on the table. Dinnerware jumped and tinkled.
"What? Bonnie, Jesus you scared--Bonnie, don't cry." He slid over and held her. "I'm sorry, Bonnie, I really am."
She sat up and wiped her eyes. "Me, too. We've both been through a lot. First Walt. I couldn't do anything about Bob. For a year and a half I couldn't do anything about him..."
"I'm sorry." He kissed her ear and stroked her hair.
"And you can't do anything about your brother."
Lofton leaned back and arched an eyebrow.
She looked at him, "He's like you?"
"Exactly. You should see, like I was standing outside my head and watching myself. I got to know him on the way back and--oh, God!" His gaze went back to the NAV table.
Bonnie paused for a moment. "Why don't we just go to the police?"
Lofton shook his head. "Nothing's changed. Renkin has me over a barrel. They'll arrest me for Thatcher's murder. And then--"
"How about a lawyer? Maybe somebody in government service? There has to be somebody..."
Lofton put his palms to his temples. "There's nobody. And if I just sit back, Carrington will find me. It's as simple as that. He probably has people out looking for me now." His eyebrows shot up. "Maybe you, too."
Staring at the NAV table, he slid out.
Bonnie grabbed his hand. "Brad," she said quietly. "You don't even know where he is."
He slumped back. "I do. It came to me in the shower. Last night, someone said 'sub pen.' That has to be the place where I work--worked. It would be a good hideout. A good place to keep a prisoner."
"You're sure?"
"I think so. But they'll have him in Mexico soon. Or stuffed in the hold of some freighter. I have to move, now."
He slammed a fist. "Damnit! If only Walt were alive we could raid the place. Hell, we could set up a diversion somewhere, then drive a truck through the front door and have Anton out in sixty seconds. Walt..."
"That's what I'm trying to say. You can't do it yourself."
"It's my only chance." He stood. "Bonnie, would you like to go to Avalon again?" He spread his arms and looked around. "True Blue this time."
He looked at the bulkhead-mounted Seth Thomas: 1622. Sunset would fall in a little over two hours. He went to the NAV table and checked his figures. Twenty or so miles to Avalon. The seas were calm, True Blue could power at a little over five knots. That was four hours or so. He could board Brutus between ten and ten‑thirty.
Lofton said in a half-tone. "Without help, a land assault isn't feasible. But I could do it with Brutus. In and out. All I have to do is swim under the gate and set up a diversion."
"There will be guards." Bonnie waved a hand. "That--that man's henchmen, his goons."
"Not that many. I know that place well. Hell, I practically lived there for the past eighteen months. I can get in all right. I'll only have to take out one or two people. The rest will be asleep."
She stood and moved next to him, her eyes glistening.
He took her in his arms. "He's my brother. My...my last one. Kirby, gone. Ullanov, gone. I've got to, I've got to try, Bonnie."
They held each other and swayed. Lofton kissed her. They swayed again.
"Brad." Her voice squeaked.
He broke away. "Losing time." With a pair of dividers, he stepped off the distance from Avalon to Point Loma: sixty-eight miles. If he could squeeze twenty‑four knots from a wheezing Brutus, the trip would take a little less than three hours. The San Diego Harbor transit would take another forty-five minutes or so. He would be there between twelve‑thirty and one in the morning. O.K. Except...
"Rust." He bit his thumbnail.
"What rust?" She ran her arm around his waist as he stared at the chart.
"Damn thing almost blew up." He told her about the H2O2 master control solenoid valve problems he'd had aboard Brutus on the trip to and from Petropavlovsk.
He did not tell her that just before he exited off Catalina to pick up Them Bones, he'd seen it growing on the fuel block again. And no more spare parts nor time even if he did have spares. Brutus could explode while he was en route to San Diego. He'd have to chance it.
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE
The open, brass cage elevator took Yuri Borodine up to the Del Coronado Hotel's fifth floor. He walked down the hall to a blue-and-white paneled door marked "Presidential Suite." Borodine checked both directions and knocked.
Ted Carrington opened the door immediately. "Good evening, Mr. Hatch."
Borodine shuffled in with a nod. His limp was pronounced from fall dampness and further aggravated by the hotel's proximity to the coast.
"Ah, welcome to San Diego, Worthington, good to see you again." Felix Renkin rose from a sofa and greeted his control with both hands. "Come on in, Carrington will fix us something." He waved to a wet bar. "What can we offer you?"
Borodine took in the room. Green and pink pastel walls and mauve carpeting complemented rosewood furniture and heavy Victorian accents. An area to his left contained a pool table. The room felt cold. He stifled an urge to hug his arms to his chest. "Sorry I'm so late, Dr. Renkin. Sherry, please."
Renkin led him to a conversation area situated before a large window. They stood for a moment taking in Coronado's empty streets and Mediterranean-style buildings with tile roofs. Except for two ships and small craft navigation lights, Glorietta Bay and San Diego Harbor stood as a black void to his right. Lights from the San Diego Naval Base winked across the bay. He'd seen parts of the North Island Naval Air Station as he crossed the Coronado Bridge. The brightly illuminated USS Constellation was moored there and he'd recognized a pair of S-3A Viking ASW jets practicing night touch-and-goes on North Island's main runway. The submarine base was over at Point Loma. It hit Borodine that he stood in one of the great centers of U.S. naval power.
Renkin waited until Borodine got his bearings, then waved him to a chair. "Marvelous, isn't it?" He took the sofa. "Where are you staying? Close by, I hope."
Carrington handed Borodine his sherry in a crystal goblet, moving tactfully to the pool table.
Borodine sat and peered out. "I haven't made arrangements yet. A motel, perhaps." He looked around. "The Presidential Suite. Where did the president stay?"
Renkin smiled. "With friends in Rancho Santa Fe."
"Ah, security. You were his surrogates?" Borodine sat back and relaxed.
Renkin nodded. "In a manner of speaking. They believed he was quartered here. The president commuted by helicopter to North Island Naval Air Station and did conduct his press conferences here in the hotel."
"I see. And how long will you be staying?" Borodine winced as Carrington broke the triangular cluster of balls with a loud clack.
"We were scheduled for another week. But something has come up. We return tomorrow afternoon."
Carrington drove balls with a vengeance. They slammed into the pockets, rattled underneath, and clacked to the bin at the table's head. Borodine gritted his teeth. He raised an eyebrow to Renkin. "Can we speak?" he asked softly, and waved his glass at Carrington.
"Yes, there are no devices here and, as you know, Carrington is my administrative assistant."
"All right, Dr. Renkin." Borodine crossed a leg and sipped his sherry. "We have a problem. We need assurances about our V‑22 purchase. Senator Phillips's speech today has us curious a
bout your ability to deliver."
"You doubt me?"
"No. We need assurances."
"Mr. Hatch, please, I would like to know your name."
Borodine sipped again, then nodded. "Please forgive me, but I am compelled to remain Worthington Hatch, art dealer." He watched Renkin. The man almost pouted.
"Very well. Yes, the V‑22s. Unfortunately your down payment has been invested in some very illiquid real estate. An office building. Otherwise, we'd give it back."
"That was not our--"
Carrington blasted another rack of balls. One skipped off the table.
"Carrington."
"Yes, sir?"
"Perhaps you could find something else to do."
"Yes, sir." Carrington stowed the cue, sat in a club chair and flicked through a magazine.
Borodine said, "That's not our intention, Dr. Renkin."
"What?"
"A refund does not worry us. You promised a V‑22 and we have closed other channels because you were supposedly the best source. We would lose too much time reopening those channels. Therefore, it has to be you."
Renkin steepled his fingers. His bald head gleamed. "Fine. Is that what this is all about?"
"Of course."
"Ah. Then please explain to your associates that the matter will be taken care of," Renkin said. "Even sooner than I had indicated previously."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning I can deliver a V‑22 to you sooner than we had agreed."
"How? We had agreed on a 1992 delivery in South America."
Renkin exhaled. "What I can say is that I may have an opportunity to hand you one of the first five."
Carrington stopped flicking pages.
"Indeed. How soon?" Borodine asked.
"Umm, within six months or so. I can arrange a disappearance, over water perhaps..."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes."
Carrington picked up another magazine and stared at the cover.
"We need proof."
"Look, Mr. Hatch. I have not failed you before, in forty years of dedicated service."
Borodine watched a pair of lonely headlights sweep over the Coronado Bridge. "Dr. Renkin, they're very angry about the Petropavlovsk affair. They feel it's your fault. I shouldn't be telling you this. I'm doing you a favor." Borodine waved a hand. "Now we need proof."
Renkin smiled. "How can you accuse me? You had both the man and the X‑3 in your custody. The blame lies elsewhere."
"Possibly, Dr. Renkin, but it was your man and your submarine that did the damage and escaped."
"And your man," Renkin reminded him.
Pins and needles shot up Borodine's right leg. He crossed it over his left. "Yes, but--"
"Or was it men? Your message said something about a master sergeant--Carrington!" Renkin called loudly over his shoulder. "What was that sergeant's name?"
"As I remember it was Ullanov, sir."
Renkin swung back to Borodine and counted on his fingers. "Three defectors, Mr. Hatch. We've exposed three defectors for you: PITCHFORK--"
"Who?"
"Your man in Petropavlovsk plus Ullanov and Dobrynyn. You should agree that we're doing our job well on this side, so you can begin to control yours." Renkin gave a tight-lipped smile, pleased with himself, pleased to swing the subject away from V-22s.
"Dr. Renkin, we believe they were kidnaped by your man."
"Two highly trained, elite Spetsnaz, kidnaped?"
"Well, yes, coerced by a highly trained SEAL," Borodine shot back.
"Mr. Hatch, your message said Lofton escaped with the aid of your two men and that they planted limpet mines."
"That's not what the evidence shows now. Our men were kidnaped."
"If they were kidnaped, why did you try to kill them with a nuclear weapon?"
"We killed them because we thought they deserted. We didn't know until later that Colonel Dobrynyn and Sergeant Ullanov had been coerced." Borodine paused to gain control. "And, incidentally, your Mr. Lofton--"
"My Mr. Lofton? It was you who suggested he work for me."
"I wont go into that now." Borodine drew a breath. "Mr. Lofton is also responsible for the death of one of the Soviet Union's top physicians. Colonel Sadka perished horribly. His hands and legs were tied with piano wire and he was burned alive in the car that was to carry him and Lofton to the airport."
Renkin checked his watch: a little after midnight. He'd taken care of the V‑22 problem and Hatch's zealous blunders had provided a good night's entertainment. Amazing. He'd given Hatch more credit for intellect and diplomacy. The little man was really upset, he must be under terrible pressure. And he hadn't mentioned retirement. Maybe they had forgotten about it.
Time to get it over with. Be nice to Hatch, make him feel useful. Offer him a nice room, a Lanai suite perhaps. They had spectacular ocean views, one could see the Coronado Islands off the coast of Mexico. Then, after videotaping Dobrynyn, send Hatch home with his prize.
Renkin set a grim expression. "That's terrible, Mr. Hatch. You can rest assured that we are very sorry for Lofton's actions. Did Colonel--Dr. Sadka have a family?"
"I suppose so. Now, Dr. Renkin, about the--"
"Are you certain the blast sank the submarine?"
"Yes, nobody I know of can survive five kilotons." Borodine sat back, satisfied with the strength of his rebuttal. He recrossed his legs. "Perhaps you do?"
It was time. He had to do this right. "Yes, Mr. Hatch, I know of at least one."
Borodine said, "A disfigured freak, perhaps?" For some reason he thought of his foot.
"I'm sorry to tell you the submarine survived the blast--"
"What?"
"--and we have captured one of your defectors."
"Impossible!"
"His name is Lieutenant Colonel Anton Pavel Dobrynyn."
Borodine's eyes flicked right and left. Then he managed to say, "You're joking! He's dead, with the others."
"Not in the least, Mr. Hatch. Colonel Dobrynyn successfully journeyed to Southern California. He arrived last night and we captured him."
Borodine shifted forward in his chair, still stunned. He'd been assured the midget submarine had been sunk. What was Renkin trying to do?
"We have him nearby, Mr. Hatch. He's yours to interrogate and, after a day or two, send home if you wish. We'd be glad to help. I suggest going by way of Mexico. Things aren't too difficult traveling south through Tijuana."
Borodine narrowed his eyes. "He's in San Diego?"
Renkin nodded. "About ten minutes away."
Borodine's mind whirled with the possibilities. Dobrynyn still alive! How? "May I see him?"
"Of course."
Borodine nodded, started to rise and sat back. He rubbed his leg, but it wasn't pins and needles that bothered him. Renkin was trying to divert him from the V-22 problem. And he hadn't touched the main part of his agenda. Belousov had issued the ultimatum. Make Felix Renkin commit to retirement within twelve months--V-22s or not. If he refused, Borodine had permission to imply that Renkin would be killed.
Borodine hoped the Ph.D would choose retirement without further pressure. For in the process of winding up his affairs, Renkin could still provide a V-22 within, as he'd just said, the next six months. Excellent. Borodine could still carry out Belousov's order and have his prize, too. He could even take care of the Dobrynyn matter.
Borodine stroked his cheek. He would have to make sure.
Renkin drummed his fingers on the sofa's arm. "Mr. Hatch. Do you wish to see him now?"
"How can you do this?"
"Simple. We'll arrange for a nice room for you here and drive you over. We can be back within a short period of time and--"
"That's not what I meant, Dr. Renkin."
Renkin's fingers stopped drumming. His eyebrows went up. "Yes?"
Sitting close to Renkin, Borodine lowered his voice. "I said 'How can you do this?'"
"Please explain."
"That man is your
own son."
Renkin's mouth opened, then closed just as quickly. His lips pressed together. "You'll never let me forget, will you?"
Borodine's voice was chillingly cold. "You are willing to send Anton Pavel Dobrynyn to a firing squad to deflect our attention from V-22s?"
"Of course not. I'm merely trying to help."
"Can you really deliver a V 22?"
Renkin looked out the window.
"Dr. Renkin?"
Silence.
"Dr. Renkin."
"I don't know. Possibly. It all depends on how this Phillips investigation turns out."
Borodine's heart sank. "When will you find out?"
Renkin shrugged. "A few months."
With a sigh, Borodine said, "Dr. Renkin. I have instructions. We want you to retire."
Renkin's head jerked to Borodine.
"They've given you twelve months."
"I wont be uncovered," Renkin said.
"We can't take that chance."
"All right. If I am discovered, I'll just come over to you."
Borodine steepled his fingers. "No."
"What?" Renkin sat forward.
Carrington rose and walked toward them.
"Sit down, Carrington," Renkin said. He looked back to Borodine. "What do you mean?"
"We can't take that chance, either, Dr. Renkin. We would jeopardize our relationship with the U.S."
"I'll insist." Renkin waved a hand and stammered. "I could fly to Moscow and turn myself over."
"We wouldn't allow that, Dr. Renkin," Borodine said.
"No!"
"What is all this crap?" Carrington said.
Borodine eyed Renkin and Carrington as they stared at him.
Renkin asked softly, "You would use the apparatus?"
Borodine cleared his throat. "I'm sure that won't be necessary."
"Bastards!" Carrington roared.
Renkin waved a hand. "Sit, Carrington. Just sit."
Carrington drew up a chair and sat. The three stared at one another.
"I'm sorry, Dr. Renkin. There is a nice villa for you and," he nodded to Carrington, "in the South of France."
"What if the investigation becomes involved and they don't let me retire?"
THE BRUTUS LIE Page 38
