To Hunt a Sub Read online

  The waitress clunked their food noisily on the table. The spicy scent wafted up, but Kali’s appetite had vanished.

  “Zeke’s SEAL Team answered. To the villagers and me, they were a miracle. Zeke said he could take only me, not the rest, because the helicopter couldn’t carry that much weight. I said they would die and refused to go without them. I guess Zeke believed me because he loaded everyone into the chopper and we left. I don’t know how the pilot did it, but he got us to safety. Afterwards, I realized the position I had put Zeke in. His decision to do what I asked could have cost his men their lives. He never blamed me, but hasn’t spoken to me since.”

  Kali hung her head. While she had struggled through PTA meetings and felt sorry for herself every dateless Saturday night, Annie and Zeke had faced death. What was Wyn doing while Zeke decided the fate of a village? More than the quality of clothes separated the two men.

  Annie’s story broke the ice and they chatted through dinner like old friends.

  As they paid the bill, Kali asked, “When will I get to meet the man worthy of you?”

  Annie took a breath before answering, “He’s a she.” Kali froze as Annie waited, eyes hooded. “You never had a lesbian friend? Do you think we bite?”

  Kali giggled. “What you see is relief you won’t fight me for Zeke.” She caught Annie’s eye. “I guess I thought I’d know.”

  “I usually wear a sign. Seriously, Kal, I’ve never been happier.”

  As they walked, Kali clopped along in clunky wedge sandals while Annie moved silently, eyes alert, body poised and ready. So much like Lucy.

  Once home, they Kali went to bed and Annie settled into a chair with a book. Sandy flapped his ears in confusion and then sprinted toward Annie.

  Chapter 32

  Saturday

  An alarm shrieked, fracturing Rowe’s sleep. He palmed the phone from the nightstand almost knocking the lamp over. 3:30. It was still dark out so it must be AM. He read Fairgrove’s papers last night until he passed out, as confused by this batch as the first. It was like a puzzle with no corner pieces. What he did know was something didn’t fit, but two nights in a row without enough sleep didn’t help his mental capacities.

  “Bobby. You’re better than an alarm.”

  “You awake?” James sounded fresh, but edgy. Too much coffee—already—which he confirmed by barreling past the answer. “We caught someone,” and he told Rowe about the young woman who thought she was a patriot.

  Rowe rubbed his eyes. They felt like sandpaper. “That’s great news.”

  “Maybe. All she did was follow orders. I am surprised how fast they were able to manufacture the update. Either Stockbury was right—it is a simple weapon—or they’re better than we think. We’re analyzing the formula.”

  Rowe yawned, hoping James was done. He wasn’t.

  “I intercepted a call to Fairgrove. Listen:

  Salah: “Persuade her to discover faster. Have you solved the Rowe problem?”

  Fairgrove: “I instructed Kalian to avoid him. What did he do to you, Salah?”

  Salah: “He is smart. I dislike smart people.”

  Suddenly, Rowe was wide awake.

  “I’m running ‘Salah’ through NCIC as we speak.” James punched through keystrokes, one-fingered judging by the speed.

  “I like worried bad guys, Bobby. They make mistakes, but I don’t like the reference to Kali.”

  “Annie won’t let anything happen.”

  Rowe swung his feet to the floor and hunched into a sitting position on the edge of the bed and waited.

  “Here we are. NCIC found 897 felons named Salah. Cross-checking them against our case gives me one match: ‘Salah Al-Zahrawi’, active with radical Islam. No contact info, no address.”

  Rowe had no doubt he was also looking at the generous Gegham Keregosian, “I’ll follow Fairgrove. If they meet, I can compare his ‘Salah’ to the file image.”

  Rowe completed his morning workout, showered, donned old sweatpants and a cutoff t-shirt, ate a spoon of coffee crystals and two Tigers Milk bars, and caught Fairgrove as the scientist pulled out of the driveway. Rowe stayed well back, not because Fairgrove would catch him, but to see if anyone else was tailing him.

  Fairgrove started at Nordstrom’s, left two hours later empty handed, then took an aerobics class at his fitness club. Ten minutes into it, he stumbled to the sidelines where he mopped his brow and ogled the hard-bodied women. He exchanged a few hellos, but no one seemed interested in chatting with him. What a surprise.

  He stopped for lunch at a bistro while Rowe founded a secluded spot to park. It was overcast, a perfect day for sitting in a car surveilling. Fairgrove flirted with the waitress and read the New York Times while he ate what might have been chicken salad, drank two glasses of white wine and pretended to be busy. Rowe munched through two more Tiger’s Milk bars and a warm soda, acting the part of an office worker on his lunch break, always keeping Fairgrove in sight while basking in the breeze that drifted through his open window.

  After eating, Fairgrove got a haircut and then glued his phone to his ear. From the dramatic expressions and expansive arm movements, he was trying to line up a date. When he stopped for carry-out, Rowe figured there were no takers. While Annie dined with Kali, Rowe staked out Fairgrove’s home hoping Salah Al-Zahrawi or Gegham Keregosian would drop by. He gave up at 2 a.m. and went home to sleep.

  But he couldn’t shut his brain off. A mental clock ticked off the seconds, reminding him how much closer the terrorists were to their goal, whatever that was. He finally got up, splashed cold water on his face, ate two spoons of coffee crystals, and read more of Fairgrove’s publications.

  An hour later, he knew what bothered him. Fairgrove’s writing style was all over the place. Sometimes it was clear and precise, other times flowery, and too often, muddled as though he didn’t understand his topic. Rowe jotted down the differences, comparing where the man worked at the time and with whom, playing a hunch.

  Frustrated, he shoved the pile aside. His shoulders were stiff, his knees creaky hinges, and his brain more like an overstuffed file cabinet than a finely-tuned machine. He rode the bike at level twelve hills, did six sets of pushups rotating between normal hand-width, wide stance and one-handed, and fifty pull-ups on a bar set high in a door frame. Then, he let his mind go blank so it could work on the clues.

  Thirty minutes later, after a cold shower, he dressed in pleated chinos, a dark green polo and deck shoes with no socks. He’d eaten the last of the Tigers Milk bars yesterday so drank two power shakes. By four a.m., he was in the Lazy-boy in the living room sipping his second coffee and waiting.

  A thread of Salah’s conversation drifted back—He’s in the way. How was he in the way?

  Quarter after four, He jumped in his car. As he reached his lab, his phone buzzed. “Bobby. Three mornings in a row.”

  “We analyzed the goo that lady wiped on the cables. They re-engineered Stockbury’s virus, removed the backdoor.”

  Rowe froze. Stockbury had been sure no one could find her script. She made it simple and non-threatening to lull them into believing the virus was exactly as represented. Truth was, no one expected them to look.

  “We underestimated them.”

  James grunted. “We caught two subs at the Refit Facility. We hope the others call in, but can’t count on that. Our only real option is to stop Salah before he gives out the locations.”

  “The key is Otto, Bobby. Keregosian knows that.”

  The man was expert at manipulating people. He emailed Kali daily, encouraging without being pushy, inquisitive but not nosy. He asked her opinion about esoteric topics and always offered a thoughtful response to her ideas. Rowe thought, in Kali’s shoes, he too would like the man pretending to be Keregosian.

  What gave him away was the chronic asking about when Otto would be able to track and find. In their last exchange, Kali made it clear that even with funding, she could only work so fast.

  At some point, Ke
regosian/Salah would stop being patient.

  “But why Fairgrove’s interest in Kali? You know him, Zeke. What’s up?”

  After reading much of Fairgrove’s research, Rowe thought he’d figured out what was going on, but wasn’t ready to commit. “Not sure yet. He may not even know Al-Zahrawi’s plans.”

  “We found Devore and his cameraman, half eaten by rats in a deserted warehouse. A note was nailed to his chest.”

  Rowe sucked in a deep breath. “Like Zematis.”

  James grunted. “They’re trying to panic us, force us to capitulate. When the press finds out civilians are being killed and mutilated over nuclear submarines, every crazy anti-war group in the country will be picketing the White House.” He huffed. “What these terrorists want is impossible. Don’t they know Tridents can’t be reached with a telephone?”

  Rowe didn’t think this was an effort to build fear. Al-Zahrawi was buying time, keeping America occupied until the endgame was too close to prevent.

  “I have a call to make,” and James hung up.

  Rowe needed coffee. He forgot to buy grounds for the pot he kept behind his desk so he unburied his mug hidden beneath a stack of research materials on the Dead Sea and re-traced his steps to an outside kiosk. It had ten vending machines, one with excellent brew at a reduced rate if you brought your own cup. Some green initiative that suited Rowe fine.

  As he turned to go back to his lab, inhaling the piquant aroma, he almost ran over Fairgrove. The man wore a suit, jaunty scarf around his neck, shirt with French cuffs, and tasseled loafers. Did he ever work?

  “I was coming to talk to you, Dr. Rowe. You need to do the honorable thing and leave Kalian Delamagente alone. You are hurting her chances for a professorship.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “She’s a great girl with a nice little future. Let those of us who know how to do so guide her.”

  Fairgrove’s tone was surly, his eyes everywhere but Rowe’s face. Rowe snapped his fingers. “Wyn, look at me,” and Fairgrove jerked toward him, eyes wide and frightened. “You’re no good at this. Get out while you still can.”

  “I-I don’t understand?” Fairgrove smoothed his left eyebrow.

  “Do you act this way with Salah Al-Zahrawi? Or should I call him Gegham Keregosian?” Fairgrove’s face blanched, all Rowe needed to confirm he was right. “You can’t be nervous and succeed as a sneaky lying bastard.”

  Fairgrove stuttered something unintelligible about connections he had that would do a lot more for Kali than Rowe, and then tipped his head as though hoping Rowe would agree.

  “OK, Wyn, for the sake of argument, let’s consider what you did for the women in your past. You usurped your high school girlfriend’s work when she died. You took credit for your fiancée’s research when she was killed in a car accident. And let’s not forget your last live-in girlfriend. Is she still missing?”

  Fairgrove’s eyes widened and his mouth parted. Sweat beaded his upper lip and he rubbed his eyebrow again.

  “This you want for Kali?”

  Fairgrove brushed Rowe with a flimsy shove. “For once in your life, you should put someone else ahead of yourself!” and stomped away.

  Rowe took a sip of coffee, breathed in Columbia’s morning scent, and jumped in his car.

  Chapter 33

  Sunday

  It was not even five a.m., too early for work, so Kali poured a coffee and settled onto her stoop. Night still clung to the road, lit only by streetlights and the white cones from the occasional car. When the sky turned from black velvet to gold, the joggers started on their early morning runs and the devout left for worship. For years, she had attended church as an example for Sean until he explained his faith required no building to legitimize.

  Hearing Annie’s stories about Zeke last night made him more puzzling than ever. He risked his life to save Annie, but now refused to speak to her so how did he know she needed a place to stay? And why reach out to Kali? It didn’t add up. As much as she liked the two, it didn’t take a mastermind to know they were hiding something.

  “Let’s go for a run, Sandy. We’ll get donuts on the way back.”

  She changed into jogging clothes, donned the lanyard with her rape whistle and set out on a five-mile loop down Riverside Drive to the traffic circle, then North on Broadway to Harlem and Grant’s tomb. An hour later, she jotted Annie a note and left for work, munching a donut as she walked.

  Kali loved Sundays at Columbia. She could pad around barefoot with no interruptions from colleagues or students or administrators checking her progress. Today would be devoted to her thesis. The Dean was being uncharacteristically patient, but she knew that wouldn’t last.

  “Annie knows a lot about primitive people,” she muttered. “Maybe she can help me understand Lucy.”

  “I’m sorry—I was walking by and missed what you said.”

  Wyn. Kali’s good mood drained away. She smelled the cream and sugar in the cup he set next to her and ignored it, as she’d done the last two times he brought sweetened coffee for her.

  “What’s with you and Zeke?” She saw them argue, from her window. Wyn was frantic, but Rowe couldn’t have been more laid back.

  “He’s a brute, but I’ve faced worse. Academia is no longer a cultured environment.”

  Kali let that go. “I’m surprised to see you on a Sunday.”

  “I work many Sundays. Science ignores temporal boundaries, and I did promise Porter to offer my assistance in completing your project.” He relaxed into Cat’s chair as though he owned it. “Any new pictures?” His face scrunched and he cocked his head. His lips smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “What the girl’s name?”

  Lucy. Kali felt herself relax. “Lucy is so much like me. I just watched her learning to use a spear. She balanced it above her shoulder, parallel to the ground, weight centered in her grasp, and hurled. It didn’t clear her shadow. She retrieved it and tried again. She continued until her palms bled and she could no longer clasp the shaft.”

  Kali leaned toward Wyn. “Wyn, she’s doing what we do—try, fail, try again—experiment. She’s already human.”

  “Why would she do that?”

  Kali pulled back. “You mean try to throw it or not quit?”

  “Well, I suppose either.” His head bobbed absently.

  That did it. Kali swallowed the caustic reply that almost escaped her lips and spun her chair toward Otto.

  “I’m stuck. What do you think of applying Einstein’s Theory of Special Relativity to Otto’s program?”

  Fear filled Wyn’s face. “You’ll figure it out, my dear. I can’t tell you everything.” He pecked her cheek, flicked his finger across an eyebrow, and escaped.

  “Don’t worry, Wyn. I didn’t expect an answer,” she whispered.

  Eitan Sun had been up all night, but he buzzed with energy. After playing Madden Football from 8pm until 2am, everything made sense. He spent the next eight hours digging, collecting, connecting, mulling, and steeping. Every step closer to the truth frightened him. For Kali.

  And Rowe and Cat and Annie.

  Something treacherous was brewing. The How eluded him, but if he was right, which he always was, not much longer. Rowe came by earlier to discuss how to make it look like Otto was stalking a submarine without actually doing it so they could fool Kali’s spy. An hour later, Rowe left, a seed of a plan embedded in Sun’s fertile brain.

  Kali entered, but he couldn’t stop. A stream of beautiful numbers flowed across the screen. An abundance of primes and the Golden Number… describing distance, length, count… Patterns jumped, shining and pulsing, from the erratic tumble of lovely integers.

  Kali’s lips moved, but he ignored her. He found twenty-three satellites—twenty-three, the first prime with numbers in ascending sequential order—with magnetic anomaly detection capabilities. Two could detect a three-inch delta in magnetic fluxes. One was operated by a friend. With a phone call, he secured permission to run its data thr
ough Otto’s algorithm.

  His eyes darted to the second screen, the blue one. A Fibonacci sequence whizzed by, Earth’s own number used by traders to predict the market, Minoans to wage war, and musicians to compose music. How did he miss it earlier?

  Kali’s mouth moved again as she massaged a finger against her temple. The golden string, 1 0 1 1 0 1 0 1 1 0 1 1 0 1 0 1 1 0 1 ...

  Six hours later, he sat back. “Done.”

  He smiled up at Kali, but she was gone. Only a whiff of her perfume remained. He knew why she dropped by. He’d call her. Soon.

  He stuffed a handful of Cheez-its into his mouth and washed it down with orange soda. His screen glowed yellow, an irregular sequence of colors and shapes following a horizon of bulges and valleys. He dialed a friend, left an encrypted message, and then called Zeke Rowe. As he waited for a return call, he pushed play on his wife’s photo.

  “Hello, sweetie. I got Season Six of Star Trek Voyager on DVD. Get your work done and come home. I made popcorn. I love you!”

  He listened a second and third time to the lilt in her voice and the lisp of her tongue thrust, before hunkering down to the mysteriosity of how much danger Kali was in.

  And who would die before the week was up.

  Chapter 34

  Monday

  Today, Kali had no concern about Wyn arriving uninvited. He had plans. She didn’t know what nor did she care. She wanted the uninterrupted time to focus on magnetic signatures. With a few hours work, she could lay it out for DARPA. Not a prototype, but enough detail to garner funding and fulfill her promise to her son.

  She’d sketched out the introduction when Cat arrived.

  “Hey, Kali.” Her voice was dull, emotionless.

  Kali glanced up, fingers still typing, and froze. “What happened?” Her friend’s eyes were rimmed in red, face flushed with sweat. She wore baggy chinos and a crop top, rarely-worn comfort clothes for a woman who spent thousands a month on her appearance.