Then she remembered the simplified luxury of the limpets chirping at a constant sonic frequency. Antoine Remy needed only seconds to identify the Doppler shift of the limpets and tell which way the Goliath turned.
She recognized a discrepancy. “That’s the wrong way. That’s away from Hormuz.”
“And it’s towards the Iranian coast.”
“Do your guys have a new direction, uh, what do you call it? Heading? A new heading for the Goliath?”
“Possibly. Allow me to enquire.”
“Go ahead.”
After taking several deep breaths to calm herself, she heard the Frenchman’s response. “Due north.”
She compared the stolen ship’s new direction against her memory of the Gulf of Oman chart. “That’s the shortest route to Iranian waters.”
“So it is.”
“You can’t follow the Goliath into Iranian waters, and you can’t ask the Omanis to fly into Iranian air space. Your deadline just got tightened.”
His hesitance catalyzed her hypersensitivity to his mood, and she noticed a slight tone of defiance in his voice. “Agreed. The Goliath is ninety-six miles from Iranian waters. That gives me an earlier tripwire at eleven hours.”
She considered challenging his compliance. Although he voiced his recognition of the new time constraint, she detected his dismissal of it. But she kept her sensation secret.
The chilling concept of the Iranians crushing her world froze the inner girl, but the monster stayed cool. It made her withhold her challenge of Renard’s intentions — to judge him innocent until future evidence would implicate him threatening to cross the Iranian nautical boundary. Instead of attacking the Frenchman with a premature accusation, her beast made her use the new clue. “This means something. I’m going to take a harder look at possible Iranian involvement.”
“I wouldn’t rush to a conclusion. It’s possible I simply scared the thieves into running towards a border they believe their pursuers won’t cross. I’ve made them desperate.”
The Goliath’s pointing towards the Persians pricked her mind, and she needed to pursue the possibility. “This is the first clue pointing to any nation, and if the Iranians are involved, I need to know.”
“I’ve always trusted your instincts. I’ll defer to you.”
“Yeah… this is what I do best.”
Her head drifted towards the human psyche and its governing motivations. Then she morphed her mind into the perspective of a Persian man, rooted in the religion of submission, possibly wronged by Renard, and equipped to enact vengeance.
Her thoughts tumbled and ricocheted through myriad mazes, seeking possibilities but leaving her lost.
An Iranian faction seeking an electromagnetic pulse attack against the United States had suffered nine years ago from Renard’s participation, but the hypothetical chain of vengeance from that source seemed vapid.
She recalled recent hostilities Renard had inflicted on the Iranian submarine fleet, but Volkov’s dolphin attack against a Kilo-class submarine amounted to an insult she doubted would compel Persian vengeance.
Later, she’d give it deeper thought, but for now, she had nothing.
“Olivia?”
“What? Sorry. I need to probe for suspicious activities that don’t get automatically flagged.”
“Yes, of course. But before that, please remember to send me the tactical update.”
“I’ll have someone send you the data of nearby naval assets, but the summary is that you’re clear.”
“You mean I’m clear on what’s known — surface combatants.”
“If I help with friendly submarines, I’ll draw attention by asking the question, and I can’t help you with non-friendly submarines at all.”
He paused, seeming to collect his thoughts. “Non-friendly around here means Iran. And given their massive numbers, they’re a problem. I need whatever information you can give me on the Persian fleet.”
“I can find out which submarines are in port and when the rest deployed. I’ll make sure you get that information ASAP.”
“I appreciate it. I’m speeding into the jaws of the world’s fifth largest submarine fleet, and it’s a competent one.”
She tapped her memory banks of the Frenchman’s victims. “The Kilo submarine Dmitry damaged almost five months ago is repaired and deployed again. That’s one angry commanding officer with one angry crew.”
“I doubt the minimal damage I inflicted on just one submarine would put me on a nation’s most wanted list.”
“It’s hard to say. Wounded pride can motivate men, but I agree that Iran barely breaks the top ten list of people who want to disembowel you.”
“Well, I never killed any of them.”
“They may still be trying to even the score.”
“Regardless, I assume you wish to become knee-deep in dossiers, and I need to return to tactical matters.”
“Yes, you do. Don’t screw me, Pierre. Don’t screw this up.”
He scoffed. “Have I ever?”
“Argentina. Crimea. And probably a few other times you covered up before I found out.”
“And I covered up — adapted my plans, rather — in those situations because I excel at turning chaos into control. And I will return the Goliath into my possession in one functional piece.”
“I can’t afford to share your confidence. Not when you’ve been caught off guard like this.”
“Young lady, my own interests aside, I’d win this ship back to protect you as a gesture of our friendship, which I hold dear despite your view of me as a manipulator.”
The monster insulated the inner girl from feelings. “I also can’t afford to trust a friendship.”
“It’s unfortunate, but I understand why you cannot.”
“But I can trust your interests. While they’re aligned with mine, we’re more powerful together than apart.”
“It’s a synergy, if you’ll excuse the cliché.”
“Get the Goliath back. I’ll be watching.”
She hung up and slid her phone into her pants pocket.
Looking away to clear her mind, she saw December’s early darkness blotting her office windows, and she recognized the challenge of supporting the Frenchman after hours. Any assistance she might seek beyond normal intelligence traffic risked being construed as suspicious within the CIA’s self-policing machine.
Curious in the Iran possibility, she needed private help — a favor that might require a gift in return.
She remembered her Iran expert, Matt Williams, who had helped her six years ago. Back then, he’d given her overt advice, and she’d limited her gratitude to polite greetings when they’re paths crossed and to positive comments about his abilities when the topic arose with CIA colleagues.
Her informal approval had earned the junior analyst immediate advancement and had given him momentum for his next promotion.
She suspected he retained his gratitude for her backing of his success, but she acknowledged the fickleness of memory and the inaccuracies in the accounting of intangible favors. If he considered himself free of her debt, she’d need to offer him something.
Scanning her mental inventory of influence, she remembered a drunken flirtation at a holiday party two years ago with his boss. The sloppy kissing amounted to nothing beyond ammunition to blackmail her victim, but the threat of one phone call to a jealous wife gave Olivia leverage.
Her inner child recoiled while the beast tallied the count. A threat to his boss would beget a gift to Matt Williams — if he had the audacity and courage to claim it.
She found his number, dialed it, and put her phone to her ear.
His voice was strong and confident, like a man who’d grown accustomed to being revered in his position. By casting a shred of her luminance upon him years ago, she’d made him.