Wednesday's Child (14 page)

John went over them with me in detail.  Suddenly, he slammed his palm down on his desk.  “I think this is what you want – a local group fronting for a European consortium who need to be able to recover items lost in shipping accidents.  They want to put transponders on critical items so they can be tracked under water.  The sub performed a simulated recovery.”

He checked a file on his computer.  “Let’s see, the test was successfully conducted on Friday the eighteenth, almost two weeks ago.”  The day before William took us on a cruise around New York harbor.  “The sub they used was trucked back here on Tuesday.  It’s due for a complete overhaul of its systems.  It’s still in the loading area waiting to be moved into the lab.  The pilot’s around somewhere, too, if you want to talk to him.”

“I’d also like to check the sub’s storage bay for traces of radioactivity.  It’s even possible that there’ll be some in the pilot’s bloodstream.”

22.

The pilot met us in the loading bay, a cavernous space filled with hoists and miscellaneous equipment, like something out of Dr. Frankenstein.  The steel and fiberglass minisub was roughly cylindrical, sixteen feet long and eight in diameter.  It weighed six tons, carried six passengers, and had three hundred cubic feet of inboard cargo space, but external, waldo-operated grappler arms could carry more.

Peter Dignan looked like he should have been piloting a sportsub around Seaworld, in his flowered shirt, white Capri pants, and sockless, white canvas boat shoes, but he turned out to be down-to-Earth and serious about his job.  He remembered the two men he’d taken on a tour of the floor of New York harbor, showing off the submersible’s capabilities.  William would interview them later, but I wanted Peter’s impressions.

Reiterating what John had said, Peter told me they wanted to test the ability of the sub’s electronics to detect and track transponder signals on the ocean floor.  “They’d dropped some capsules into the harbor a couple of days before, just off the main shipping lanes.  We simulated the sub’s ability to find and recover them without knowing exact locations, but if we failed, they’d lead us to the right spots to get their canisters back.”

“What can you tell me about them, personally?” I asked.

“Well, they certainly weren’t novices.  The way they dressed and their behavior both told me being in a sub wasn’t new to them.  The first time down, most people spend their time oohing and aahing. The rest are too busy fighting claustrophobia.”

“Did they sound like Americans?”

“They both spoke perfect English, if that’s what you mean.  One of them had a mild accent that I couldn’t place, but I’d guess he was Mediterranean or Middle Eastern from his complexion.”

“What about the canisters?  Did you store them on board?”

“They wanted to use the grapplers, but there are only two of them, and it would have been impossible to recover all four canisters that way unless I went outside the sub and lashed them together.  We were only in about seventy feet of water, so I could have, theoretically, but John would have had my hide if he found out I left them alone in the sub.”

“So you brought the canisters inside?”

“Two of them.  We let the grapplers hold the other two.”

Peter caught me exchanging glances with John.  “Is there a problem?”

“Probably not,” John said, wrapping a reassuring arm around the younger man’s shoulders.  “But just as a precaution, we’d like you to go down to the infirmary, let them take some blood and skin samples, and piss into a cup.”

“Jesus, John, what the hell was in those canisters?” 

“Probably nothing that was dangerous for you,” I said, trying to sound reassuring.  “There may have been radioactive materials in them, but if they were properly sealed, leakage would have been trivial if there was any at all.  I wouldn’t worry.”

“No wonder those guys were so edgy.  Sonofabitch!  If you don’t think it’s dangerous, why are you testing me?”

“Any traces we find will help us identify what you recovered from the harbor.”  I tried my best to look stern.  “Listen to me, Peter.  This is a highly classified federal investigation.  Just do what John asked and keep quiet about it, for your own sake.  In the remote event that you need it, John’ll make sure you get immediate medical attention.” 

Peter’s perfect suntan seemed to have faded, but he nodded compliantly and headed off toward the infirmary.  When he’d gone, John said, “Do you think he’ll be all right?”

“Shit, John, you know how deadly that stuff is.  Let’s test the walls of the storage bay and the grappler arms.”  I put the case I’d brought on the floor and worked its combination lock.  “I always come prepared, like a doctor with a stethoscope.”

We donned heavy, lead-lined gloves and protective goggles, and John marveled at my state-of-the-art detection gear.  We found traces of radioactivity that was marginally stronger than what Samir found on the ship, then used diamond-tipped tools to obtain samples for later testing.  I got a significantly higher reading off two teeth on one of the grappler arms, not enough to make us run for cover, but sufficient to raise our eyebrows.

“The grappler must have dug deep into one of the canisters, maybe even caused a hairline crack,” John said.  A more serious crack could have exposed Peter and the others to enough radiation that they’d have long since showed symptoms like internal bleeding and hair loss.

“You’d better get this thing out of here till we know what we’re dealing with,” I said.

John ordered the loading bay evacuated and sealed, and called one of his Navy contacts to arrange to have the submersible quarantined.  We left the bay and headed down the link to the main complex, entering an area that looked like the inside of a university engineering building.

“Everyone on this floor works for me,” John said.  He gave me a tour as we walked through the building, poking his head into various offices and working labs, telling me what was done in each.  We passed one in which the largest work table was piled high with cartons.  Its occupant was sealing the last one as we looked in.

“Almost packed?” John asked him from the open doorway. 

The other man came toward us, shaking his head wearily.  “Why I am wasting my time like this?” he asked, in a clipped eastern European-sounding accent.  “Security is just going to open them all and censor what I take anyway.  Why don’t they just come in and pack for me?” 

“Come meet my old friend Dylan,” John said.  “Dylan Brice, meet Ari Gelsen.”  I shook hands with Ari, surprised at his aggressively strong grip.  “Ari’s been with us since last October on loan from the Israeli Navy.  It’s no secret, since the White House outed us in the media, that our submarine systems group has been working on port security, but the paranoid morons in security withdrew his clearance and INS canceled his work visa. Apparently, our allies are now divided into categories, and Israel is no longer in the one that supports Ari having a blue badge.”  Badges were color coded by security clearance, and blue was the lowest color that could work in John’s area.

“Don’t be upset with them, John,” Ari said, philosophically.  “They are finally learning what my country has always known.  It is best to trust no one unless you absolutely must.  It is probably a good lesson for them to learn.”

“Hell, John,” I said, “it’s not exactly a new idea.  FDR wouldn’t allow the British, the Canadians, and even naturalized Americans like Albert Einstein to work on the Manhattan Project.”

We chatted for another minute and then John announced that it was lunch time and led me away.  Ari walked out behind us, a thick manila envelope under his arm, as he put on a light windbreaker and zipped it.

We had lunch in the in-house cafeteria, but we didn’t linger over it.  I was restless, thinking about getting my samples tested, considering catching an earlier train, and wondering idly whether when I talked to Ilene this morning she already knew I’d be coming back earlier than I planned but decided that was something she shouldn’t tell me.  It didn’t matter, because William called as we were finishing lunch and killed the idea.  I was to meet Special Agent Henry White at the motel in Laurel at 4:00.

John stood and held out his hand.  “I guess I’ve played hooky long enough, but it sure was good partnering with you on something important again.”

“It was, John. I’m embarrassed that it took something like this to make me call you.  When it’s over, I want you and Barb to come up to New York and stay with us for a weekend.”

“Is us still you and Ilene?” he asked.

“Of course.  Oh, you mean…”

“Yeah, almost nine years ago, I’m afraid.  Took me almost two to get over losing her.  A car crash.  She died in my arms.” 

I handed him a couple of napkins so he could wipe his eyes and beard.

“Anyway, for me, us is now John and Jill.  I knew there was a reason I never wanted to be called Jack.  We’ve been married three years, and yes, I’d love to come up for a weekend.”

Reconnecting with John had been an unexpected plus.  I surely would have told Ilene about it on Wednesday.  I thanked her, silently, for letting it be a surprise. 

We turned in my visitor badge, and John said he’d walk me to my car, which was in the back of their huge lot.  When we got to the last row, I had to grab his arm to keep him from stepping in front of a car that came down the aisle twice as fast as it should have in a crowded parking lot.

“Damn fool!” John muttered.

“I can’t be sure,” I said, “but I think that damn fool was your friend Ari.”

“What the hell’s wrong with him?  I know he’s upset, but it’s not like him to be so inattentive.”

“Could that have been intentional?”

“No.  Absolutely not.  Something must have distracted him.”

As we spoke, we watched Ari’s car come to a stop about a hundred yards away. Because of the gentle curve of the lot’s rows, we could only see its roof.  “What’s he doing?” I said.  “Maybe he saw us in his rear view mirror and he’s coming back.”

It was soon clear that he wasn’t.  He just sat in his car.  We watched to see what he’d do, and that pattern-seeking thing my brain did clicked on.  “I don’t claim to know anything about him, but did you notice what he did back in his lab?”

“I didn’t see anything special.  What are you getting at?”

“Keep in mind that my paranoia antenna’s on full gain today.  He made a fuss over security checking everything he took out of the complex, but he held a big envelope stuffed with papers out of the box he’d just sealed.  He took it with him when he left.  What do you suppose was in it?  Personal stuff?  Reports?  Technical notes?”

“Come on, Dylan.  That’s really reaching.”

“You think so?  What would you say the heat index is today?  About ninety-five?  You and I are out here sweating in short sleeve shirts.  He put on a jacket and zipped it before he went out.  I was watching him.  Something about him didn’t feel right. 

“Once he was outside the building, I couldn’t see the envelope any more.  Then he turned and I saw his profile.  He’d stuck it inside his jacket; I could just see the bottom sticking out.  I remember because it reminded me of the way I used to do that with my school books when I was a kid, on frigid days, so I could keep my hands in my pockets.”

John didn’t say anything, and I wondered if he thought I was losing my mind.  “There’s another thing.  Remember what he said before we left?  Something about how it would be good for Americans to learn not to trust people so much?  He seemed to be trying to accept being thrown out of the country, but maybe he was being ironic.”

“Damn it, Dylan, does your mind always work this way these days?  You’ve got me half believing he’s up to something.”

We watched silently, crouched behind a minivan for a few more seconds.  Then Ari got out of his car, erasing any doubt that it was him.  He left the door open. We couldn’t see his expression from that distance, but he looked over both shoulders as if making sure no one was watching as he walked quickly toward a parked car thirty feet away.  The driver’s door opened and a man got out.  I could only see his right side.  Despite a rather substantial white bandage obscuring his cheek, I felt a faint twinge of recognition.

“Wait here,” I said to John, and began making my way toward them, moving stealthily the way William taught me to when I didn’t want to be noticed.  The two men talked until I was within a hundred feet of them.  Then Ari pulled the envelope from his jacket and handed it to the other man, who gave Ari something small enough to fit in his hand in return.  I’d have bet it was a roll of large denomination bills.

Ari hurried back to his car and drove off.  The other man waited, scanning the scene carefully, finally turning his head until he was looking straight at me.  I didn’t know if he saw me, but he turned quickly, got in his car, and drove away.

I’d only seen his face for a couple of seconds, but even with the bandage, it was enough.  I’d just witnessed Ari Gelsen selling something to Rod Burdak.

23.

I told John what I saw, omitting the fact that I’d recognized Rod.  He said a quick goodbye and hurried off to contact security.

I had requested a late checkout at the hotel, and it was time for me to head back there.  I called William on the way.  He picked up on the first ring.

“How’d it go at APL?”

“Good and bad.  I know who recovered the canisters
Al Khalifa
dropped. We confirmed the presence of radioactive materials and the possibility that the recovery may have caused a leak in one of the containers.  I’ll fax you the info you need when I get back to the hotel.”

We talked about the hazards of a possibly leaking container and I told him about Ari Gelsen. “Remember that guy, Rod Burdak, I asked you to check out?  My friend’s husband?”

“I sent a request for a profile through right away.  I’m still waiting for a response.”

“It’s no longer a fishing expedition.  Burdak’s the guy Gelsen passed the package to.  His wife thinks he’s in Washington at State Department briefings for his trade association.  There are too many coincidences associated with him.  There has to be a connection.”

“If it’s there, we’ll find it.  Call me after your meeting at the motel.”

“I will.  And by the way, about tonight?  Skip the train station.  I need to get home and sleep.  I’ll come to your office first thing tomorrow morning.” 

I had never been good at lying convincingly, but my new lifestyle was forcing me to learn.  William bought my excuse − I intended to stay in Maryland and see what I could find out, both about Rod and the murders at the motel.  The idea had been germinating since I recognized Rod, driven by a need to apply my out-of-order days to some useful end.

Two weeks earlier, I’d observed that my presence on Wednesday caused some things to occur differently than when I wasn’t there.  And last week, I’d used my knowledge of what happened on Thursday to influence William’s actions on Wednesday evening, so his Thursday would turn out differently.  Now, I was planning a third scenario.

Ilene told me I’d gone home tonight and was with her on Wednesday morning.  In other words, I had foreknowledge, from her point of view, about something I would do tonight.  Staying in Maryland instead of taking the 7:30 train home would be the first true test of how much free will I had.  Would I be overcome by a mysterious compulsion around 6:30 and drive myself, robot-like, to the railroad station or would I be able to change what Ilene had told me I’d already done?  I’d have to wait and see.

Since I’d requested a late checkout that morning, my room would be the last to be cleaned, and one of the last rented tonight.  As long as the hotel wasn’t booked solid, I’d have no trouble keeping it another night, which meant I could go to sleep in my hotel bed tonight and wake up in it Wednesday morning.  I called Ilene’s cell phone and left her a message, telling her not to expect me tonight, wondering if that would change her memory of me waking up next to her Wednesday morning, but I couldn’t worry about that.  I had to focus.

Once I was sure I had a bed for the night, I drove to Laurel, arriving forty-five minutes early for my appointment.  I wanted to get a feel for the area on my own.  I pretended to be looking for a place to rent while working on a satellite launch at Goddard.  I might learn more that way than if people thought I was with the police or the feds.

I parked my car at the motel’s rental office, under a large sign that proclaimed, “Easy Access to Laurel Racecourse,” and advertised daily, weekly, and monthly rates.  Perfect.  I walked in trying to effect an attitude of unhurried calm, almost indifference.  The motel manager started when he saw me.  Then, he seemed embarrassed and apologized for mistaking me for someone else.  Could he help me with something?

I introduced myself and asked if there was anything available for a full month, peppering him with appropriate questions.  When he excused himself to answer the phone, I walked to the window and looked out at the taped-off crime scene, as if noticing it for the first time.  I pretended to be fascinated by the comings and goings of the forensic team that was wrapping up for the day. After a couple of minutes, the manager joined me at the window.

“It’s terrible, what happened there,” he said, shaking his bald head.  He was a small, nervous, ineffectual-seeming man, the perfect caricature of a desk clerk.

“Sure looks like something serious,” I said.

“Two men were murdered in there yesterday.  It was in all the papers and on TV.  They even interviewed me, quoted me in the
Post
.  Terrible, terrible thing that was.” 

I’d seen a few lines attributed to the motel manager in the paper that morning, but in case I hadn’t, he rushed off to get one of the twenty copies he’d made to show his friends.

“See?  Here.  ‘Motel manager Arrin Karminian said the Home Stretch Motel was a nice, quiet place.  Nothing like this had ever happened before, and he’d never had any trouble from the two murdered guests,’” he read.

“That’s really cool, your name being in the
Post
and all.”  He seemed to be enjoying my reaction to his moment of fame, but something about him didn’t ring quite true.  “I’ll bet people are calling you every five minutes trying to get you to tell them stuff no one else knows.”

He grinned diffidently, turning self-effacing.  “Me?  What would I know?”

“Come on, Mr. Karminian, motel keepers are like bartenders.  Souls of discretion.  I’ll bet you know things people would pay a fortune for, like who the mayor and the police chief are sleeping with.  I read where some motel managers have secret cameras in some of their rooms so they can watch.”

“Not me, Mr. Brice, I assure you.”

“No, of course not.  I’m sure they weren’t talking about you.  And even if you’d seen or heard something no one else knew, why would you tell me?  The tabloids would probably pay you enough to retire on for an exclusive.”

“You think so?  Not that I know anything.”  It had been a wild shot in the dark, but Mr. Karminian’s nervous expression said he might well know something worth bidding on.  I leaned closer to speak in a conspiratorial whisper. 

“Look, Mr. Karminian, I certainly don’t care; I didn’t even know about this until you told me.  I’ve been traveling from Australia for almost thirty hours.  Haven’t seen any news at all.  But I know people in New York who follow stuff like this who might be very interested in meeting you if you’re of a mind to.  You’d be surprised what even the most trivial-sounding information could be worth.  Here, take my card.”

Except for watching TV cop shows, I had no idea how real detectives elicited information from people.  I was afraid I might have pushed him too hard, so I turned to leave. 

“You’ll let me know if a room comes available?” I said, from the doorway.  Like what I’d heard about salesmen, I tried to convey that I was willing to leave without closing the deal now that I’d baited it.  Before I’d taken two steps through the doorway, he cleared his throat.

“Aaaah…Mr. Brice.  A moment, please.”

I came back into the office and closed the door with what I hoped was an innocent, expectant expression on my face.  He walked quickly into the back room, coming back a few seconds later with a metal box, about twice the size of the one I kept in my file cabinet at work.  He unlocked it using a key on his key ring.

“What’s this?” I asked.

“Unclaimed items left behind by guests.  I store them in here for safe-keeping in case they call about them.  It’s the least I can do for my customers.  The more interesting or valuable items I keep as long as there’s room for them.”

“That’s extremely thoughtful of you, Mr. Karminian.”  The box contained all manner of things, earrings, watches, fine pens, CDs and DVDs, small stacks of foreign currencies tied with rubber bands, a few dozen miscellaneous credit cards, though his guests never seemed to leave American money behind. 

Also in the box was a blank, white, legal-sized envelope from which Mr. Karminian withdrew a small sheaf of folded papers.  He seemed flustered as he fumbled for words. 

“Mr. Brice, would you look at these, please?”

Unfolded, the sheets looked well handled.  The first two were professionally printed in Arabic, in a formal font that resembled calligraphy.  Three more were hand-written in what looked to me like a careless scrawl, but I was no expert on Arabic penmanship.  There were also various things written in different colored inks, by at least two other people.  Margin notes, comments – I didn’t know, but I was sure Samir would.

“Did these belong to the murdered men?”

Mr. Karminian studied me carefully.  “I am not stupid, Mr. Brice.  You did not come here to rent a room.  Yet, I have decided to trust you.  My housekeeper found these in their room two days ago.  Normally she would have simply arranged them neatly on the desk and left.  You must understand, we remember what happened before.  When two sullen-looking Arabs check in and stay for days, and there are comings and goings from their room at all hours, well…the Government asked everyone to be vigilant and report suspicious activities, did it not?”

“I understand,” I said.  I’d badly underestimated him.  “I apologize for the way I approached you, earlier.  You are obviously someone who cares about his country.”

“I cared about my old country too. I saw firsthand how mindless religious fanaticism can destroy a place.  I didn’t know what to do when she brought these to me.  One does not wish to accuse unfairly.  For all I knew these were instructions for a holy day celebration.  I know a few words – many people spoke Arabic where I come from.  See, here and here,” he pointed to identical-looking words on the printed pages.  “This is Arabic for Allah, and here, the prophet.  But here,” he said, pointing to one of the margin notes.  “This means jihad.  I do not believe these words sprang from a loving heart.”

He looked at me speculatively, making we wonder who he’d mistaken me for, earlier.  “Who are you, really, Mr. Brice?  I have no interest in selling these for profit.”

I told him I was an anti-terrorist investigator, that I’d be meeting with the FBI in a few minutes.  I’d be happy to pass his papers along and make sure the Government knew of his contribution.  He deserved recognition for what he’d done. If he preferred, I’d bring the agent by to meet him.

“No,” he said.  “You take them.  I’m happy to be rid of them.  I just want to know you’ll use them to stop those bastards.”