“So, you’re waiting to tell Torrinson, right?” Grant nodded, and Adler said, “I knew you would. Hell! We’ve got the rest of the day to find him.”
Grant could barely manage a half smile before getting out of the car.
“Captain Stevens!” Townsend called from the passageway, seeing the two men coming into the lobby.
“Do you have a minute, sir?” Grant asked.
“I didn’t expect to see you so soon. Come to the conference room,” he said with a wave.
By the time Grant and Adler got there, Townsend was already sitting at the head of the table.
Adler closed the door, as Grant stood opposite Townsend. “Sir, we’ve got a problem.”
“Tell me,” Townsend said, sliding a notebook closer.
“Commander Henley and his wife are nowhere to be found, sir. We don’t know if they’ve gone into hiding or if they’ve been kidnapped.”
Townsend sat up straighter. “Kidnapped?! Why would they be kidnapped?”
“Sir, I wish I could fill you in completely, but as of now, I don’t have authorization.” Adler’s eyebrows shot up hearing the statement.
Townsend didn’t like that response, but just proceeded with the question, “When and what proof do you have?”
Grant pulled a chair out and sat down. Townsend sat quietly listening to the report on the two men’s visit to Henley’s neighborhood.
When Grant finished, Townsend shook his head and finally commented, “Not much to go on.”
“I know, sir,” Grant answered, “but EOD personnel were to pick up the commander at 0700. He never answered the door, and hasn’t responded to repeated phone calls. That’s why Joe and I went to the house.” Grant shook his head, worried. “I don’t know why he hasn’t contacted anyone, sir, unless he’s unable to.” Before Townsend could comment, Grant asked, “Sir, have your men gone to the harbor to stake it out?”
“They have.”
Grant shoved his chair back then got up. “We’re running out of time to find Labeaux, and now maybe the Henleys, sir. Have you had any luck with the rental houses?”
Townsend flipped over two pages of the notebook. “There were three rented within the past two months, but I don’t have renter names yet.”
“Any possibility you could have someone check those three?”
“I’ll get right on it. Where will you be?”
Grant extended a hand to Townsend. “Flyin’!”
As Grant drove out of the parking lot, Adler called Chief Becker directing him to have the chopper brought back to St. Mawgan. What they’d do if they found the boat was a whole different ballgame, aside from the fact they didn’t have a clue on what they were looking for… except it could float.
Flying just under four hundred feet and three miles off the Cornish coast, the Sea King headed north to the Isle of Lundy.
Grant and Adler sat near the cargo bay door. Headsets were already in place. Grant rested his back against the bulkhead, while Adler dangled his legs over the side.
Grant heard Taylor’s voice in the headset: “Sirs, we’re approaching the southern part of the island.”
Grant scooted to the open doorway, holding onto his binoculars. “Copy that, Lieutenant. Stay at this altitude and distance from the beach till you’re past the island. We want to start our search at the very north end. Then circle back around and head south. Keep a mile off the coast.”
“What are you looking for, sir?”
“A boat, Lieutenant.”
Taylor’s eyebrows shot up. “A boat, sir?”
“Yeah. A boat, and probably bigger than a rowboat,” Grant smirked. “And they can’t see us lookin’ at them, Lieutenant.”
“Yes, sir. Understand.”
As the chopper came around, Adler pointed. “Looks like there’s more rain comin’ in.”
“No surprise there,” Grant said disgustedly. The chopper vibrated as it started decelerating. “Okay. Let’s see what we can find.” They were ready to give orders to the cockpit. They raised the binoculars.
Inspector Townsend was correct about the island. This end had little activity, especially with a prospect of bad weather.
Within two minutes, Adler spotted something. “Hold your position,” he said into the mouthpiece to Lieutenant Norris. He readjusted the binoculars. “Skipper, is that a catamaran? Twelve o’clock.”
“Sure as hell looks like it.” Grant moved the glasses, looking for any other crafts nearby. “And it looks like it’s all by itself.” He lowered the glasses, looking at a darkening sky. “Think we’ve got time?” he asked with a wink.
“Let’s do it!”
“Lieutenant!” Grant called into the mouthpiece.
“Yes, sir?”
“Circle back around to the western side and take us inland. Put us down about two hundred yards south of our current position. We’re gonna exit and take a look.”
“Aye, aye, sir!”
Coming in from the west at a low altitude, the chopper touched down in a field. The short, green grass whipped around in a rotating pattern caused by the chopper blades’ downdraft.
Grant and Adler jumped out. Running two hundred yards across an open field, they finally had some cover by ducking behind mounds of rocks near the crest of a hill. Dropping to the ground, they crabbed their way toward the summit. The ground beyond fell away at a forty-five degree angle. Green grass covered the two hundred foot slope until it converged with sandy beach and rocks.
Focusing their binoculars, they immediately spotted the catamaran. It was anchored no more than fifty to seventy-five yards off the beach. Three men were on deck. A light was on inside the cabin but curtains were drawn. All they could see were shadows. It was nearly impossible to tell how many more were inside. Even though Grant and Adler were looking through binoculars, none of the men they did see looked familiar.
“There’s a Zodiac hanging off the ass end,” Grant said.
“Yeah, I saw it. Look what else there is. Port side, midships,” Adler said in a loud whisper.
Grant moved the glasses. “Shit!” Coils of det cord were set on top of a box of C4, partially covered with a tarp. Grant tugged on Adler’s arm. They scooted backwards till they were clear of the summit, then they hauled ass, running back to the chopper.
Lieutenant Taylor stood by the open door. Grant shouted, “Take us home, Lieutenant!” He and Adler climbed in as the rotors wound up.
On the flight back to St. Mawgan, they had to make a decision about the Cat. With the bad weather coming in, it could prevent the boat from leaving the island. But they couldn’t take the chance. Explosives meant not only lives at the base were at risk, but possibly the town.
Should they contact CID? Brit Coast Guard or Navy? Involve the local police? Or maybe they should just handle it themselves, giving them the possibility of a G2. They needed information, like where the hell was Labeaux? And where the hell were the Henleys?
The basement of Tafton Manor was the same as it had been for nearly three hundred years: dark and clammy, with a hard-packed dirt floor and stone walls covered with dust. Cobwebs hung from original, rough hewn beams. Against the south wall, narrow, steep wooden stairs led to the kitchen, which was closed off by a heavy wooden door.
Rusted hinges squeaked as Labeaux pulled the door open. Light from the kitchen barely illuminated the first few steps. He stood briefly in the doorway. Feeling along the wall in the dark, he found a kerosene lamp. Lifting it from a hook, he scraped a match against a stone, lit the lantern, then blew out the match.
Holding the lantern in front of him, he adjusted the flame until it glowed brighter. He started cautiously down the creaking stairs. Without a handrail, a misstep could prove disastrous.