Port Elizabeth, South Africa
November 12, 8:34 A.M.
National Sea Rescue Institute Station No. 6 in Port Elizabeth was not fancy, but it was his. Fifty-seven-year-old Station Commander David Hughes sat alone in the second-floor office of the teal blue wooden building. Around him were old, sun-faded prints of ancient sailing ships and shiny framed photographs of his own boats. Hughes had worked for the all-volunteer service most of his adult life. He was a boat designer professionally and wrote songs on the side, and he drew inspiration for both from the sea.
David, his wife, and their daughter, hydro-engineer son-in-law, and granddaughter lived close to the sea. Rarely a waking hour went by where the man’s sun-bronzed face was not turned toward it. He knew its moods, its moves, and the vessels that called it home.
He was on the job today, early, because the bridge that had fallen into the Nahoon River had created logistical ripples that rose the levels of traffic. Engineering and rescue boats were moving in—carefully, given the nature of the attack—and medical vessels were waiting to be admitted when the air was deemed safe.
Hughes was not surprised when the call came from General Tobias Krummeck. The intelligence officer often consulted him on matters pertaining to the movement of suspected smugglers and foreign vessels. The station commander was only too happy to help. His love for his homeland was the last star in the trinity that included family and sea.
“A photograph?” Hughes said in response to Krummeck’s question. “Yes, I’ll look at it.”
Hughes considered for a moment how to put the smartphone on speaker while he accessed a text. His son-in-law had showed him how; he wrote it down to remember the process, but he wrote it on his phone Notes app and was afraid he’d cut Krummeck off. After a few stabs, literally, he accessed his messages without losing the general.
“Let me just magnify a little,” he said, saving the image and expanding the boat. “That’s the Teri Wheel, General.”
“Who runs her?”
“MEASE,” Hughes replied. “Mineral Exploration and Acquisition Survey Enterprises out of East London.”
“When did you see the vessel last?”
“A week or so. They passed here on the way to Mossel Bay. Station there reported them asking for an update on the currents to the south.”
“Where south?”
“Prince Edward. General, has this anything to do with—”
“Thank you, Station Commander,” Krummeck said. “Very much.”
“Any time, General,” the man replied.
But the intelligence officer had already terminated the call. Hoping he had contributed something to the current investigation, and wondering what involvement MEASE might have, Hughes looked out at the sea.
“What do you know about all this?” he wondered aloud. “If only we could understand your language,” he added—then went to the closet where he kept his guitar and began playing so he could expand on the line.…
“Claude Foster,” Krummeck said as he set the phone on his desk. “Illegal gem prospector, dealer. The diamond conglomerates have pressured the government, and the government has pressured us. But we’ve never been able to pin him to anything, not directly.”
“How does he operate? Drills? Blasting? Something that could have opened your buried chest?”
“He would not have blasted where the outpost might have heard,” Krummeck said. “But … drills, yes. He uses drills and acid.”
Williams thought back to his conversation with Dr. Goodman. It was not a natural gas glowing in the light. It was an acid.
“General, was that Foster’s voice on the ship-to-shore radio call?”
“It might have been. He’s never been in open court. The call to the East London police has a lot of noise.” Krummeck reached for his landline. “I’ll ask my people to see if there are old wiretaps and have the SAN look for the Teri Wheel at the last known position. I’m going to—”
“If you’re thinking of having him brought in, remember—he might have the biological agent.”
“Which he would release suicidally?”
“He may have given it to someone else. Or there may be more than one.”
Krummeck picked up the receiver but stopped. “If this is his doing, and we leave him at liberty, he will be free to hold us hostage, and on his timetable. We cannot afford to give him more time.”
“I don’t disagree, but you said yourself he’s slippery. He may know you, your people, your methods. He does not know me or Major Breen.”
The general hesitated then replaced the receiver.
“Do you have a file on Foster?” Williams asked.
“Names, dates, activities—no profile. We have not really needed that, you know. Everything is still so much about a man’s heritage.”
“Is any of that digital?”
Krummeck shook his head.
“All right. Anyone approaching him would not necessarily know those things anyway,” Williams reasoned.
“How will you approach him?”
“The major knows criminals, knows them well. He’ll have better ideas.”
“Legal ones?”
“General, he’ll have the kind we need right now, ones that can come together while we travel from here to there.”
Krummeck appreciated the tactic and respected the hubris but was still undecided. Williams leaned on the desk.
“General, a man like you described—he’s not a sociopath or a terrorist, he’s a savvy son of a bitch who does this for the profit but also for the fun. I’ll bet my life on that. He may not have gotten back in touch because he’s savoring this, maybe waiting to see what we do next so he can slap us again.”
“That’s a fair assessment,” Krummeck admitted.
“Okay, then. That means our side has to take charge of this or we’ll be playing catch-up until one of two things happen. Either we get lucky, or he wins. Let us go down there, make sure this is even the guy we want.”
Krummeck was not a man who liked to share his jurisdiction or his resources. He had given in to Raeburn’s request for transportation to Prince Edward because they had to know if their old operation had been compromised. Raeburn was MIA.
“This is beyond what it was,” the general said vaguely, more to himself than to Williams.
“Sorry?”
Krummeck’s tired eyes locked on Williams. “I’ve got a pair of men. I need to find. It will take ninety minutes to ferry you down. I will have a man meet you, an undercover driver. Whether we have any additional communication or not, you have this for at least a few hours after that. Is that acceptable?”
“Very, and thank you,” Williams said. “Do you have other men in East London?”
“Informants, watchers—noncombatants.”
Williams grinned, barely perceptively. He and Breen would be the only soldiers on the ground. Not South African. Someone to blame if things went wrong.
“My adjutant will get you a flight. Do you have money?”
“About two thousand rand,” Williams told him.
“More than enough for whatever you need. Hazmat?”
Williams nodded and turned.
“Good luck,” Krummeck said to his back as he left the office.
Williams knew the man was sincere. Krummeck wore the uniform of a nation under a toxic cloud. It was a small thought in the big picture, but Williams hoped that he had never been as plainly territorial when he was running the previous Op-Center organization.
When Williams emerged, the adjutant was already on the phone, listening.
“Yes, sir,” she said. Without acknowledging Williams standing before her, she called a number. “The airfield, section three,” she said, then hung up.
She finally looked at the American. It was the same look of bulletproof reserve that he had come to expect, and dislike, at the DNI.
“Deputy Chief Swane will take you to Pretoria Central Heliport,” she said. “She will also provide the name of your contact in East London.”
“Thank you,” Williams said as he hurried toward the staircase.
The adjutant did not wish him good luck.