“How do you expect me to take it? When I commanded a submarine, I had my tactical steps mapped out better than my adversary. In every arms deal I’ve brokered, I’ve known my client’s military needs better than he. But betrayal? Dead colleagues? I’ve never been caught so off my guard. I must start over with nothing.”
“Start over?” she asked. “You expect to stumble across another opportunity to acquire nuclear weapons?”
“I have moles in intelligence agencies, contacts in the weapons community, and a strong client relationship with the Taiwanese Minister of Defense. It will take time, but I will arm Taiwan.”
“I admire your determination and optimism,” she said.
Renard ignored Marie’s assessment and shifted his thoughts to moving forward.
“One of our wireless phones is lying on Chernokov’s corpse. We need to erase Verincourt Enterprises and all aliases and records associated with it. I trust you know what to do.”
“Of course,” she said. “I will shift our operations to the business in Lyon.”
“Good. Once in Lyon, contact all my resources — moles, business colleagues, past clients, even old naval shipmates. Perhaps an opportunity has arisen while I was focused on my Russian warhead operation.”
“Warhead theft, you mean.”
“If you disapprove of my ways, then why do you stay with me?”
“Because I… you pay me well.”
Renard mustered as much compassion as he could spare.
“I know what you want from me,” he said. “But you know that I refuse to settle down until I close this deal with Taiwan, and my resolve is only stronger after coming so close.”
“Perhaps I can accelerate things,” she said.
“How?”
“You underestimate me,” Marie said. “While you were in the field, I maintained contact with several of your moles. I believe I may have found an opportunity.”
“You kept looking? I’m not sure if I should commend your diligence or reprimand your lack of faith in me.”
“Do neither,” she said. “I know that you will never be mine until you satisfy yourself that you’ve restructured the balance of power in the Pacific Ocean to your liking. Consider it a self-serving act of insurance.”
Excited, Renard stamped out his half-smoked Marlboro and lit a fresh one.
“Well?” he asked. “What opportunity?”
“Your CIA analyst mole has been busy. You must have impressed her on your last recruiting trip to the States. I imagine that she’s beautiful, is she not?”
“No, she’s hideous and weighs one hundred kilos if she weighs a gram,” he said. “That’s why it’s so easy. The money helps, too.”
“You’re a scoundrel.”
“What did she find?”
“One of her databanks indicated that an American naval officer was removed from the nuclear weapons stewardship program for emotional instability. There was a tip from an anonymous source that he had threatened the life of his commanding officer, but he was returned to full duty with a generic explanation. Removal is rare, and return to duty without a detailed list of reasons is abnormal.”
Renard’s mind cranked into motion.
“This hints of a buried truth — possibly an ugly one,” he said. “Do you know what weapons he oversees?”
“He’s stationed on a Trident Missile submarine.”
“Excellent,” he said. “The U.S. Navy pushes nuclear responsibility much farther down the chain of command than their other branches. I want you to make contact with the officer.”
“Me? What would you have me do?”
“Investigate his condition,” Renard said. “If he’s emotionally unstable, there’s a reason for it. I want you to find out what it is.”
“Why should I do it?” Marie asked.
“He’s young, is he not?”
“Wait.”
Renard heard Marie flipping through her notes and thought of her handwriting. When she was happy her handwriting flowed with long strokes and wide curves, but when she felt used, her writing became robotic.
“He’s twenty-six,” she said.
“Still a walking hormone,” Renard said. “Unlike Chernokov, he’s taking in a respectable salary. I’m sure that I will ultimately need money to recruit him, but if he’s emotionally frustrated, initial contact needs to target his weakness. For a man his age that means sex.”
“You would have me mount him and grind at his loins until he screams out his darkest secrets?”
“The illusion of sex will suffice,” he said. “You have your sex appeal, your charm, and your wit. Approach him, convince him you care about him, and extract a little honesty from the man. He will find you attractive, and being nearly a decade older, you will represent maternal concern to his subconscious. He will confide in you.”
“And if the illusion of sex fails?”
Renard chuckled.
“Modern submarine fleets are staffed by men of strong mind and will, not necessarily of strong body. Chances are that I would end up pitying you if the illusion fails, but I expect you to extract the information any way you can.”
“Do you really think you can use him to get your hands on American nuclear weapons?” she asked.
“You doubted I could use Chernokov to get to Russian weapons,” he said, “and I almost had them in my damned hands. I know how to create possibilities.”
“Okay,” Marie said. “I will serve as your whore, but if he happens to be gorgeous, you will have no right to an iota of jealousy if I must sleep with him.”
The line went dead.
The next morning, Renard took a plane from Anchorage to San Francisco International. Then he took a taxi to a four-star hotel where he had reserved a room for weeks. An apprehensive woman opened the suite’s door.
Renard said nothing. His arrival three weeks early without a Russian officer beside him conveyed the news that Chernokov’s widow feared. She grabbed his arms and dug her fingers into his skin. Her thumbnail grated his bullet wound, and he accepted the pain as his penance.
“He loved you. He died bravely. I’m sorry,” he said in crude Russian.
The woman collapsed and wailed.
Renard reached into his breast pocket and lowered a piece of paper with a name and number on it.
“This man will advise you about your money.”
She spat her anger too quickly for Renard to comprehend, but he read the hatred in her eyes.
“I’m sorry,” he said as he retreated. When he was alone, he vowed — not for the first time — to create no more widows.
CHAPTER 5
As Jake returned his mud-covered off-road motorcycle to the garage, his cell phone rang. He ducked into his Jeep Grand Cherokee, rifled through his duffle bag, and answered the phone.
He heard a friendly voice.
“Hey, Jake. It’s John Brody. How are you?”
“Good to hear from the master and commander of the Miami,” he said.
“Best submarine in the world.”
“Why is it you sound like you have a shit-eating grin on your face?” Jake asked.
“Because I do,” Brody said.
Talking to Brody usually made Jake feel confident and upbeat, but not today.
“Not in the mood for games,” Jake said.
“Okay. I’ve got a main seawater valve that won’t shut all the way, and I’m bringing the Miami in for dry dock repairs at Kings Bay. I’m in that cockamamie swizzle stick of a waterway you guys call a navigable channel.”
“Right now?”
Jake heard the wind whipping over Brody’s receiver and knew he had asked a stupid question.
“Yes, right now. I’m on the bridge with my fingers crossed that I don’t beach my boat in the sand. I don’t know how the heck you guys steam through this channel in those bloated Trident submarines.”