Washington Navy Yard
Armed with a name, Henry returned to Building 57 the following morning. It took ten minutes for John to return with three boxes. “Gotta warn you, it ain’t sorted.”
“That’s okay, John. Thanks.”
Over the next four hours, Henry read every scrap of paper in the boxes. Stonefish had a long record, he found. He found lists of patrols, crew manifests, dry dock records, situation reports—everything was there. Finally, at the bottom of the last box he came across a message from COMSUBPACFLT (Commander, Submarine Pacific Fleet) to the chief of naval operations that recounted Stonefish’s fate. He scanned past the header to the text:
PBY BASED SAIPAN REPORTS USS STONEFISH (COMMANDED IX HUGH CARPEN) SUNK BY ENEMY AIRCRAFT, 30 JULY. APPROX. POSITION 158° 12′ EAST, 27° 14′ NORTH. ONE SURVIVOR RECOVERED, EN ROUTE AUSTRALIA.
“What the …” Frowning, Henry read it again. He opened his pocket atlas and plotted the coordinates. This couldn’t be right. According to the Navy, Stonefish was sunk not off the coast of Honshu, but almost 500 miles to the south.
Bethesda Naval Hospital
Though there would be months of interrogation in Vorsalov’s future, the first questions Latham asked had been assembled by the DORSAL group. Vorsalov’s answers sent Latham directly to Bethesda, where he found Fayyad sitting up in bed.
Latham introduced himself. “We have Vorsalov in custody. None of your friends from the safe house made it.”
“They were not my friends, Agent Latham.”
“So it seems. I read Agent Randal’s report.”
Fayyad looked at Paul. “Randal. I owe you my thanks.”
“Why did you do it?” Paul asked. “Why risk your life for hers?”
“When I saw Ibn run for the stairs, I knew what he was going to do. In that moment, none of it made sense. What they do—what I have done—is no longer about a cause. It’s about hate. Their Islam is not my Islam.” Fayyad smiled sadly. “Perhaps I am getting soft.”
Despite himself, Latham smiled back. “Well, as it stands now, the charges against you are murder, espionage, and extortion. The U.S. attorney has declined to press accessory to kidnapping charges.”
“Why?”
“He also read Agent Randal’s report.”
“I see.”
“We also know about the Delta bombing. The girl survived and—”
“Cynthia. How is she?”
“She’ll recover.”
“I’m glad. So what happens now?”
“That depends. If you help us, they’ve agreed to not push the death penalty.”
Fayyad nodded, but Latham saw nothing in his eyes. He doesn’t care.
“Tomorrow will take care of itself,” Fayyad said. “Ask your questions.”
When they finished, Latham and Randal stood up and headed for the door.
“Agent Latham.” Fayyad called. “A moment in private?” Latham walked over. “I know I have no right to ask, but … Tell me about Judith. Does she know?”
“About you? Not yet. We haven’t … We’re still sorting it out.”
“When you do, please tell her I am sorry. I know she won’t believe me, but I wish … Just tell her I am sorry.”
Langley
“There’s two immediate issues we’ve got to deal with,” Latham told Dick Mason. “One, Vorsalov has to contact Beirut with an update. Do we call it quits, or do we spread the net to reach the group that hired him? At most, we have four days before he’s got to report.”
From Mason’s expression, Latham saw he’d struck a chord. They want the whole bunch, he thought. But how? Hollywood portrayals aside, it was exceedingly difficult to dash into a foreign country, scoop up the bad guys, and dash back out.
“And the second issue?” said Mason.
Latham recounted his discussions with Vorsalov and Fayyad. “Their stories match,” Charlie said. “The names, the dates, the places … everything. On top of that, we know Vorsalov has been freelancing for them for years.”
Coates said, “Even so, we can’t rule out the chance he’s lying.”
“To what end?” said Sylvia Albrecht. “We’ve got him, and he knows it. If I were in his shoes, I could think of a dozen clients I’d rather betray. That’s a pretty strong selling point.”
Mason stared at the wall. “Charlie, before I ruin a lot of people’s day, I have to be sure, so I’m putting you in the hot seat: Is he telling the truth?”
“Yes, sir, I believe his is.”
“Okay.” Mason nodded and pushed his intercom button. “Ginny, call the White House. Tell Jim Talbot I need to see him right away.” He turned to his DDL “Sylvia, I want everything you’ve got on General Issam al-Khatib.”
Rappahannock River
When Tanner got home, he found his father sitting on the deck. “Dad?”
“Nice view you’ve got here. You can almost see down to the bay.”
“A little farther when the fog lifts. Come on in. You’ve got something?”
“You could say that.”
Over coffee they sat down at the kitchen table. Tanner could see the glint in Henry’s eye as he plopped down a stack of photocopies. “You’ve been busy.”
“You weren’t kidding, y’know,” said Henry. “This is a genuine mystery.”
It took fifteen minutes for Henry to recount his search. He ended with the report of Stonefish’s sinking. “That can’t be right,” Tanner said. “Five hundred miles south … that’s near the Bonin Islands. I got the serial numbers right; I’m sure of it.”
“I believe you,” replied Henry. “I did some cross-checking. The report stated she was sunk by enemy aircraft. First of all, there’s not a single documented case of a submarine going down with all hands after that kind of attack. If she sinks on the surface, somebody has always gotten off. Second, I couldn’t find a single reference to a search-and-rescue effort.”
That got Tanner’s attention. Since its birth, the U.S. Navy had never given up on a missing ship until all hope was lost. “Are we talking about a cover-up?”
“Maybe. I took a copy of Stonefish’s crew list, and we plugged the names into the computer—”
“You what?” Tanner asked with a grin. The closest his father came to computer literacy was using a pocket calculator to do his taxes. “You plugged the names into a what?”
“Well, John did it. I watched.”
“Dad, are you telling me you hacked into the Navy’s mainframe?”
“I did no such thing. We checked the names against the Bureau of Personnel’s listings, then matched those against the VA. I figured if anyone had actually survived, there had to be some record of it: duty assignments, separation date, that sort of thing.”
“And?”
“All but one of the crew is dead.” Henry consulted his notepad. “An ensign—a captain, I should say—William Myers, retired.”
Tanner smiled. “Are you telling me he’s still alive?”
“Yep. And he’s only a stone’s throw from here: Manassas.”