Grant smiled as he stood to greet the marine, extending a hand. “Gunny, thanks for coming. It’s good to meet you.”
Baranski returned Grant’s handshake with a firm grip. “You, too, sir!” As he smiled, dimples appeared in his clean-shaven face.
Grant gave a quick look around. A couple of small boats were moored to the breakwater, with two men on deck doing maintenance. No one was at the west end by the harbor entrance.
“Let’s take a walk,” Grant said as he shoved his hands into his jacket pockets.
Baranski kept his eyes straight ahead, as he asked, “What can I help you with, sir?”
“What we’re about to discuss is top secret.”
“Understand, sir.”
“I believe there’s been a serious breach of security at St. Mawgan.”
Baranski came to a standstill, turning to look at Grant. “I can assure you, sir, it’s not any of my men!”
“I’m sure you know your men, Gunny, but I’d like you to keep this under wraps for now.” Grant started walking again.
“Then who, sir? Do you have any idea?”
Grant shook his head. “Pretty much in the dark. Don’t have a helluva lot to go on. Any chance you’ve heard of someone by the name of Derek Carter?”
“Sure, sir. He’s one of the custodians on base. He’s taken care of some maintenance issues we’ve had at the barracks.”
“Hewas one of the custodians, Gunny.”
“Was, sir?”
“Yeah. Some kind of car accident.”
“Damn! That’s too bad. But where’s the security breach come into this, sir?”
“Let’s just say I’ve got something that’s leading me to believe that.”
“Understand, sir. Tell me what you can.”
Grant proceeded to fill in the few details he had and his own suspicion that nukes were involved.
Coming to the end of the breakwater, Grant stopped and leaned against the wall. “That’s all I’ve got. Have you heard any scuttlebutt, anybody spouting off or bragging that could point us in the right direction?”
Baranski rubbed the back of his neck as he took a few steps away from Grant, trying to remember conversations, or scuttlebutt. “Sorry, sir, but haven’t heard anything out of the ordinary.”
“Shit,” Grant mumbled under his breath.
Baranski hesitated, uncertain whether he should bring it up. “Don’t know if this means anything, sir, but do you know Commander Henley’s brother-in-law works on base?”
Grant wasn’t sure how he should react to the piece of news, wondering why Henley held that back. “He failed to mention that. But what’s the connection, Gunny?”
“Well, sir, I’ve seen Mr. Webb and Mr. Carter together on base. The two of them have been with the commander at Sailor’s more than once. It could just be that they’re all friends, sir.”
“Do you know Webb’s first name?”
“I think it’s Colin, sir.”
“And just where does this Colin Webb work?”
“He’s a mechanic who works on the Nimrods, sir.”
“Christ! A mechanic and a custodian.”
“Sir?”
“It’s not getting any easier, Gunny. Still can’t connect the dots.”
“Wish I could help more, sir.”
Grant looked over Baranski’s shoulder, noticing two men walking past the lifeboat building. They were still too far away for facial recognition, but Grant could see one carrying a briefcase. He was average height and wearing a black raincoat. The other man was about the same height, but large-framed. He had on a dark sports coat, dark slacks.
Not getting a response from Grant, Baranski said, “Sir?”
“Don’t turn around, Gunny.” Baranski remained still.
The two strangers were more than half-way to Grant and Baranski when they stopped near a moored motor boat. It was no more than eighteen feet in length, and had one outboard engine. A small cabin with a wood door was on the port side, and the wheel was starboard of that. The cabin was small, used only for accessing two bunks tucked under the bow, one port, one starboard.
As the larger man bent down to undo one of the mooring lines, his jacket opened. That’s when Grant saw the shoulder holster.
The man with the briefcase climbed into the boat, immediately sitting on a bench seat on the port side just aft of the cabin. He grabbed the collar of his raincoat, holding it closed against his throat.
The other man came onboard and started the engine. Climbing onto the bow, he undid the last mooring line, then pushed the boat away from the breakwater before going to the wheel.
“Come on, Gunny.”
Without questioning, Baranski walked with Grant toward the end of the breakwater, the narrow entrance to the harbor.
“There’s a small boat getting ready to leave the harbor,” Grant said. “Try to get a look at any numbers or markings without being too conspicuous.”
“Yes, sir.”
With their arms resting on top of the stone wall, Grant and Baranski looked out across Newquay Bay, hearing the sound of the boat engine getting louder as it approached. Grant turned around, leaned back against the wall, then linked his fingers behind his head.
The speed limit for boats entering and leaving the harbor was four knots, slow enough that Grant hoped he could get a good look. As the boat started passing between the breakwaters, Grant strained his eyes, trying to identify or at least take a mental photograph of either man.
The “raincoat” seemed to be in his early or mid-forties, white or blond hair, clean shaven. The “packer” had short light brown hair, large build. Not a helluva lot to go on.
As Grant turned, “raincoat” looked up at him for a brief moment, not with recognition, just… looking. Then he immediately put his head down and shifted his body so he was facing the bow.
In that brief instant, Grant knew it was somebody he’d seen before, but he couldn’t pull the picture from his brain.
Once clear of the harbor, the driver wasted no time putting the engine into high, heading for open water.
“Get any markings?” Grant asked, as he continued watching the boat.
“Did, sir. From the ID number, it’s definitely a rental. I’ve rented boats from one of the shacks down near the lifeboat building. Same series of numbers.”
“Let’s go,” Grant said. “Maybe we can get a name.”
As they walked, Baranski asked, “What makes these men suspicious, sir?”
“A raincoat and a sports jacket. The guy with the raincoat was carrying a briefcase. The guy in the sports jacket was packin’. Not exactly what I’d call fishing gear, Gunny, except possibly for the weapon.”
Baranski laughed. “Roger that, sir!”
The closer they got to the kiosk, Grant started rethinking his idea to get a name from the boat rental agent. He couldn’t take a chance of arousing suspicion.
Only one kiosk was open for business. Grant stepped to the counter. An older gentlemen was sitting on a stool in the corner, stuffing tobacco in a pipe. His gray hair was just long enough to curl around his ears.
“Good morning,” Grant said.
The man stood and laid the pipe and tobacco pouch on the stool. “Morning to you,” he answered as he came to the window. “What can I do for you today?” he asked in a thick Cornish accent.
“My friend and I noticed a motor boat leaving the harbor a little while ago. That’s about the size we’re interested in.”
“Do you want to rent it for today?”
“We’re hoping we can.”
“Those gentlemen paid for three hours.” He pulled a pocket watch from his jacket. “They’re scheduled to return at two.”
Grant turned and looked in the harbor, then back at the old man. “And that’s the only boat you’ve got?”