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Dam Neck Annex—Virginia Beach, Virginia
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Commander Hartford Maxwell regarded the phone on his desk like it was a venomous snake, poised to strike. It was an apt simile since the phone call he was about to make posed a potentially fatal risk, though not for him.
“Maddock, what have I gotten you mixed up in,” he murmured.
He shook his head ruefully. Like it or not, he had his orders, and inasmuch as they were not to the best of his knowledge illegal or immoral, he was obliged to follow them.
“Let’s get this over with,” he said aloud, and reached for the handset, but before he could close his fingers around it, the phone began ringing. He started a little, pulling back his hand reflexively, but after a couple calming breaths, reached out again and lifted the receiver. “This is Maxwell.”
He half expected it to be Maddock, or perhaps Huntley again, goading him to push through his hesitation, but the voice that sounded in his ear was female. “Commander Maxwell? This is Alex Vaccaro. We met a few years back when I was NI?”
“The Hell Ship incident. You were Lieutenant Commander Vaccaro back then, as I recall.”
“That’s correct, sir. I’m at Justice now. The Bureau.”
“I see.” Maxie vaguely recalled Maddock mentioning the young woman’s career change, but decided to dispense with small talk. “Is this official business? Because if it is, you’ll have to speak with someone in JAG.”
“Oh, no, sir. Nothing like that. This is actually a personal matter. I heard that...” She paused a beat, as if trying to regroup and when she spoke again, there was a faint tremor of emotion in her voice. “I heard from a... A mutual friend that Dane... Ah... Lost his... Umm. I just wanted to give him a call. Condolences, I mean.”
Maxie’s pulse quickened. The “mutual friend” had to be Bonebrake, and Alex’s use of the vague term suggested the conversation was something she couldn’t talk about in detail.
He spoke quickly, cutting her off. “Miss Vaccaro, where are you right now?”
“Uh, I’m at work. DC, if that’s what you mean.”
“The Hoover Building?”
“That’s right.”
“Perhaps we could meet somewhere? Get a cup of coffee and catch up.”
There was a long silence on the line, followed by. “O-kay.”
He shot his cuff and checked his watch. Almost seventeen hundred. “There’s a shuttle flight leaving Norfolk in about an hour. If I can get a seat, I should be wheels down at Reagan International by nineteen hundred hours.”
“I guess I could meet you there.”
“No,” he said hurriedly. “Actually, it would probably be better if I came to you. I’ll explain everything when I get there.”
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Washington DC.
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After a quick flight and an even quicker taxi ride, Maxie stepped out onto the sidewalk in front of the Naval Memorial—the location Alex had suggested for their rendezvous. The memorial, which Maxie had visited on numerous occasions, consisted of a small circular plaza, fronted by a pair of fountains and ringed with ships’ masts from which naval signal flags fluttered. The central feature of the memorial was the Granite Sea—a map of the globe centered on Washington, DC, but depicting all the oceans of the world. Watching over the map, from a spot roughly in the vicinity of the Bering Sea, was The Lone Sailor, a life-sized bronze sculpture of a sailor standing on a windswept pier, his sea-bag packed and ready beside him. The southern rim of the Granite Sea was bordered by twin semi-circular half walls, with stone benches on the interior, and on the exterior, a series of twenty-six bronze high relief sculptures showing various scenes and famous personages associated with the history of the United States Navy.
The sky was already darkening into twilight, but for the moment, there was still plenty of foot traffic on Pennsylvania Avenue—mostly tourists making their way from one historical monument to the next. He surreptitiously scanned both street and park, taking note of every face, from the camera-toting visitor studying the bronze plaques on the southeastern border of the Granite Sea to the homeless man sleeping on the north steps leading down into the plaza. Any one of them might be there to keep him or Alex under surveillance, or none of them. Professionals were almost impossible to pick out of a crowd, particularly without an extra set of eyes. He would have to conduct himself as if he was being watched, and choose both his words and his actions very carefully.
His slow visual sweep ended when he caught sight of Alex, rising from her seat on a bench on the southwestern wall. Her expression was tentative, but she took a step toward him, hand extended in greeting. “Commander.”
He shook her hand then gestured for her to sit. “I’d like to forego the pleasantries if you don’t mind.”
Alex’s demeanor remained wary, but she returned to her spot on the bench and folded her hands on her lap. “Let’s get to it then.”
He sat alongside her, not quite close enough to make physical contact, but close enough to be intimate. “From your earlier comment, I know that you’ve been in contact with one of my men. Bonebrake, probably. And I also infer that you’ve been read in on their current operation, which remains classified.”
“That’s correct. I wasn’t calling you to discuss that.”
“I know, but as it might be difficult to talk around it, I thought a face-to-face meeting might be in order.” He dropped his volume to barely above a whisper and added, “You never know who might be listening in.”
“I remember how to be discreet, Commander Maxwell.”
“I’m sure you do.” He let that hang for a moment, then went on. “Bones wasn’t being completely honest with you. Maddock did lose both his parents in a car accident last week, but he’s not on bereavement leave. He’s part of the same operation. Until a couple days ago, he was out of contact. Bones was covering for him.”
“He should have come up with a better story,” Alex remarked.
“Yes, well, it may have been serendipity since it gave you a reason to contact me.” Maxie leaned closer. “What I’d like to know is how you got pulled into this?”
Alex’s gaze darted left and right, perhaps in thought, perhaps checking to see if they were being surveilled. “They needed some help with a research project. Naval history. That’s my area of expertise.”
Maxie studied her expression carefully, wondering how much it was safe to reveal. Strictly speaking, they weren’t even supposed to be having this conversation, but his gut told him that Alex was trustworthy. “I’ll be straight with you. I’ve been mostly cut out of this operation.”
She nodded. “That doesn’t surprise me. That guy...”
“You don’t need to say it. The point is, you probably know more about where they are and what they’re doing right now than I do. I do not like being out of the loop when my boys are in harm’s way.”
“I read you, Commander.” Her eyes darted around again—definitely checking for surveillance. “I haven’t been completely forthcoming with you, sir. I was hoping to give Maddock my condolences, but I had another reason for wanting to contact him. Something that directly relates to this matter.
“That spook—Huntley—was real cagey. I got the impression Bones had to beg to get him to let me consult, and even then, he wouldn’t say much about what they were really after, other than that it involved Nazi U-boats that went missing near the end of the war. But it wasn’t hard to put two and two together.”
“I know this has something to do with the Russians looking for Nazi loot.”
“I think it might be something more. The way Secret Agent X was acting, you’d think it was something really mind-blowing. Like the answers to the SATs or something. Anyway, Bones decided to play a hunch and search the wreck of a Brazilian navy cruiser that sunk under mysterious circumstances in 1945. His working theory is that the ship was sunk by a U-boat that may have been damaged or sunk in the battle, and that it might be carrying whatever it is the Russians are trying to find. As far as I know, that’s where they were headed. Zero degrees north, thirty degrees west.”
“You said you had information you wanted to pass on to them?”
“Well, I got to thinking. What if the U-boat survived the battle? Where would it go next? Our assumption was that it was damaged, but if not, and if it was carrying important cargo or passengers, it would have had to offload them somewhere, right?”
Maxie nodded. “Go on.”
“I did some digging and it turns out that in August 1945 the FBI intercepted a radio message from local police discussing a raid in Villa Gessell. They were responding to a tip about some Germans who supposedly arrived by U-boat. They didn’t arrest anyone, but they did turn up a short-wave radio transmitter. A couple years later, though, three confessed German agents who had settled in Villa Gessell admitted to helping unload two U-boats on the night of July 28, 1945.
“Now we already knew that two U-boats made it to Argentina, but one of them, the U-530 surrendered on July 17. Almost two weeks prior. One of them could have been the U-977. It didn’t surrender until August 17. The captain might have waited a couple weeks just to give his passengers some time to assimilate into the population. But the second U-boat... That could be the one they’re looking for. Those Germans claimed to have offloaded eight trucks worth of cargo, along with dozens of passengers. There might have been more than just two U-boats out there. If so, where did the others go? I’m betting they sailed out to deep water and scuttled them to cover their tracks and hide their numbers. It may be too late to figure out where they went and what that cargo was, but those boats might still be out there, just off the coast of Argentina. That’s where they should be looking.”
“The Russians are taking this search pretty seriously,” Maxie said after considering the revelation for a moment. “I don’t think we can afford to do any less.”
“So you agree, Bones needs to hear about this. I would have called him myself, but I don’t have any way to contact him.”
“I’m not sure I do, either. Our friendly neighborhood spook is keeping them incommunicado. I can pass the information along next time he deigns to call me, but that could take a while.” An idea struck him. “I might have a workaround.”
He took out his cell phone and brought up the call history. He scrolled down to an eleven-digit number, and dialed it. As it started ringing, he explained. “Huntley told me to have Maddock report to an Agency handler, ASAP. I was putting it off, but I guess there’s no time like the present.”
There were several clicks as the connection was made, and then Maddock’s voice issued from the speaker. “Maxie? What’s up?”
“I’ll get to that in minute, but how are you? Where are you?”
“We’re fine. We’re in Berlin at the moment, following up on something.”
Maxie did a quick mental calculation. The time difference between DC and Berlin was six hours, which meant that it was after midnight in Germany. “Whatever it is, you’re going to have to wrap it up. Captain Midnight has new orders for you. He wants you to go to the nearest embassy and report to the station chief.”
There was a long silence on the line. When Maddock spoke again, his voice was low, surreptitious. “Can’t you just tell him you couldn’t reach me?”
“That might work for a day or two, tops, but I think you may want to consider biting the bullet. There’s been a development. I’m here with an old friend of yours...” He glanced over at Alex. She nodded for him to continue. “A certain Naval historian you worked with a few years ago.”
“It’s turning into a regular family reunion,” Maddock remarked. “How’d she get mixed up in this?”
“Your teammates consulted with her a few days ago.”
“Why did they do that?”
“They’re searching for a...” He frowned and looked to Alex again, wondering how much to reveal. “A U-boat that may have played a role in the matter they’re investigating. Now she has some new information for them, but no way to get it to them.”
“I don’t understand. Can’t you just call them?”
“That change of management I told you about... It’s disrupted communication. I’m not even certain where they are.”
Alex chimed in. “If things went according to play, they’re in the Atlantic, off the Brazilian coast.”
“I’m betting that Captain Midnight will bring you all together again,” Maxie said. “Even if he doesn’t, you’ll still be able to pass on what we’ve learned.”
“So you need me to play carrier pigeon.” There was no mistaking the note of irritation in Maddock’s reply.
Maxie frowned but decided to let the rare display of pique pass without comment. “Tell them to take a look at a place called Villa Gessell.”
“It’s in Argentina,” Alex added, “just up the coast from Mar del Plata.”
“Got it. I just have to follow up on this lead first.”
“Dane, you need to move this to priority one.” When Maddock did not reply, Maxie moved the phone away and saw, displayed on the small screen, the words, “Call ended.”
He stared at the phone for a few seconds before putting it away. He understood Maddock’s frustration, even sympathized with it, but he really didn’t have the time or patience to hold his platoon leader’s hand. Personal tragedy notwithstanding, Maddock was still part of a team and needed to buck up and play his part. He decided to give his subordinate a few minutes before calling him back for a more pointed conversation without an audience.
He turned to Alex again. “I’m afraid that’s all we can do for now. I appreciate you bringing this to me.”
“Of course. I hope it helps you guys find whatever it is you’re looking for.”
She stood, preparing to leave. Anticipating her, Maxie bounded to his feet and offered his hand. “I’ll do my best to keep you updated,” he said. “Assuming of course that I’m kept in the loop, which...”
He trailed off as he glimpsed something from the corner of his eye. In the instant he had risen from the bench and turned to Alex, the man with the camera, whom he had earlier noticed studying the bronze plaques, had shot a quick but meaningful glance in their direction. He had looked away just as quickly, returning his attention to one of the bronze relief images that adorned the exterior of the low wall that encompassed the Granite Sea. It happened so fast that Maxie’s natural impulse was to dismiss it as a coincidence. Despite years of driving a desk, his training as a Naval Special Warfare operator told him to ignore that impulse.
Alex sensed the shift in his demeanor. “What’s wrong?”
He saw the tendons in her neck tighten, signaling that she was about to turn her head. “Don’t look,” he said, his voice low but calm. “Don’t react. We’re being watched.”
She forced herself to relax, nodded and maintained eye contact with him. Her hands fell loosely to her sides, closer to where he assumed her sidearm was holstered. “Where?”
“My three o’clock,” Maxie said. “Twenty meters. Caucasian male, dressed like a—”
Before he could finish the description, the subject’s head snapped up and swiveled in their direction again, and this time there was no mistaking his intent. His right hand darted into the camera bag.
“Down!” Maxie shouted, reflexively tackling Alex to the ground.
His instincts did not let him down. A fraction of a second later, he heard the muted jackhammer report of a suppressed machine pistol, and the slightly louder noise of rounds striking the wall behind them, just a few feet to the left of where they had been sitting a moment before. Maxie felt something strike his back. Not a bullet, he decided, but a fragment of stone, blasted loose by one of the rounds.
Alex had dragged her pistol—a Glock 23—from its holster and now rolled away from the incoming fire, coming up in a kneeling stance. She held the small gun before her in a two-handed grip, looking for the target, but the man had disappeared from view, ducking down behind the low wall.
Probably reloading, Maxie thought. The shooter had probably burned through an entire magazine with that one burst, which suggested either poor fire discipline, or more likely, that he had plenty more in the bag.
Some part of him—the part that had been cultivated in the Naval Academy and refined through years of leadership—was coldly assessing the situation. The gunman’s decision to start shooting seemed hasty—a reaction to being discovered, perhaps—and yet the very fact that he had been packing a suppressed machine-pistol bore testimony to his capacity for violence.
The shooter had preceded him to the rendezvous, which suggested he had probably been covertly watching Alex, which could have meant that Bones’ decision to involve her in the search for the U-boat had unwittingly placed her in the crosshairs. But then again, Alex was a federal investigator, and almost certainly had enemies of her own.
Either way, this seemed like a fight they couldn’t win. He grabbed Alex by the shoulder. “We need to get to cover.”
She looked at him, her eyes flashing with anger, and he could tell that she had no intention of backing down from this fight.
“Alex!” he yelled. “Look around you!”
To her credit, she did, and almost immediately divined the meaning behind his plea. They were the gunman’s target—there seemed no question about that—but there were more than a dozen people milling about the memorial plaza, only a few of whom seemed to have grasped that they were practically in the middle of a firefight. Most remained oblivious, or worse, curious. All of them were innocent civilians, and potential collateral damage from the shooter with his fully automatic weapon or from Alex’s Glock.
Motion caught his eye. The gunman was back up, stabbing the extended barrel of his weapon toward them. Alex responded by aiming her weapon at him. She didn’t fire a shot, but her actions succeeded in causing the man to duck his head down, though not before he squeezed the trigger, unleashing another burst that stitched an arc across the Granite Sea.
Something plucked at Maxie’s right sleeve just above the elbow. The pain came a moment later. He ignored it, and grabbed Alex by the arm, dragging her toward the end of the wall. She offered almost no resistance, which struck him as odd until he took a second look and saw why.
Alex had gone rigid. She was clutching her chest with her left hand. A red stain was visible through her clawed fingers, slowly spreading across the fabric of her blouse. There was another stain, this one shaped like a handprint, on her arm. The blood was his. Under his uniform jacket, his shirt sleeve was soaked through from his own bullet wound.
Alex’s head came up, her eyes meeting his. Her teeth were clenched in a rictus of agony, but she was still clinging to consciousness. And her weapon.
She thrust it toward him.
He took it, his fingers curling naturally enough around the Glock’s small pistol grip. His fingers were tingling, losing feeling. He switched the weapon to his left hand. In his younger days, before he’d gotten promoted out of operational status, he’d become proficient shooting with either hand. It was a perishable skill and he was out of practice, but accuracy wasn’t as important right now as being able to break the five-pound trigger. He quickly checked left and right to make sure the gunman wasn’t trying to flank their position, and then, with the Glock at the ready, risked a peek above the low wall. There was no sign of the gunman. Either he was also ducking down or, more likely, he had broken contact and melted away.
Maxie pointed the gun skyward and fired three shots.
He eased back down and placed the pistol on the stone pavement next to Alex. Her normally golden skin had gone a ghastly pale. She was losing blood and probably in shock. He awkwardly tore open her blouse, exposing the wound, about an inch above the top of her bra, and pressed his left fist against the bloody hole. His right hand was numb, useless.
The discharge accomplished what the suppressed rounds from the machine-pistol could not. Even before the echoes of the reports died away, cries of alarm went up and people began fleeing the area. But clearing the plaza was only a blessed side-effect. Maxie’s real intent was to alert the authorities. FBI Headquarters were only a block away. Maxie had no doubt that help would be arriving soon.
Soon enough to save Alex? God only knew.