McCory followed Ginger down the companionway and reached around her to push open the door. She turned on the salon lights.
“Now, a beer?”
“Is it a long story?”
“I can make it that way.”
“White wine.”
McCory went to the galley and opened the overhead wine cabinet. Devlin McCory had built the racks from teak. He pulled a bottle of Chablis from its cradle.
“It’s not cold,” he told her.
“That’s okay. I can live with it.”
Ginger was wearing a white summer cotton dress, hemmed just a fraction above her smooth knees. The belt matched her shoes and was pale aqua. To maintain her banker’s image — what there was of it — she also wore a pale blue scarf tucked into her collar.
She kicked her shoes under the helmsman’s seat, then went around pulling the off-white drapes over the windows.
McCory got himself a bottle of Michelob from the refrigerator, then found two glasses, one stemmed, in another cabinet.
Ginger unknotted her scarf, slipped it from her neck with a whisper, and tossed it on the dinette table. She unbuckled her belt, zipped through a half-dozen buttons, and peeled off her dress.
Clad in panties and a half-cupped bra, she settled into the corner of the sofa under the windshield and watched him fumble with the glasses.
He nearly dropped the stemmed glass.
Unplugged the Chablis and filled her glass.
Unscrewed the top of the beer bottle and filled his own glass.
“I can see this is going to be a tough story to tell,” he said.
“Want me to get dressed?”
“Unh-uh. I’ll struggle.”
Handing her the wine, he sat down beside her.
“Start at the beginning,” she suggested.
“Let’s see. At one o’clock yesterday morning, the U.S. Navy tried to board me.”
Ginger almost spilled her wine. “What!”
“That was just before the boat blew up.”
Eyes wide, she asked, “That was the damned beginning?”
“Well, not quite.”
Chapter 5
“Advanced Marine Development has had a long relationship with the United States Navy,” Malgard said. “Since 1956. It would have been courteous to have notified me of the theft of my boats, rather than let me find out by way of television. I’ve had to wait two days for this meeting. And then come in on a Sunday morning.”
Malgard thought his indignation sounded sincere. He stood in the small conference room and glared at the men sitting at the table. Commander Roosevelt Rosse, the black man from Procurement with whom he normally worked, sat at one side of the long table. Next to him was another commander, named Monahan, who did something with the Second Fleet. At the head of the table was a rear admiral. A skinny, tall man with a horsey face and a protruding Adam’s apple, Matthew Andrews, was in charge of fleet intelligence.
“Sit down, Mr. Malgard,” Andrews said, rather firmly.
Malgard slowly sat down but kept the anger showing on his face.
Andrews tapped a thick file resting on the table in front of him. “The Navy’s relationship with AMDI was primarily conducted with your father, I believe. A series of contracts for marine fittings and accessories over the years, all of high quality and delivered on time. From what I read here, it was a satisfactory arrangement.”
Malgard nodded, not certain where the admiral was leading the discussion.
“In late 1985, your father passed away, and you assumed control of the company.”
Andrews paused.
Malgard nodded again.
“Since then, I note quite a few instances of late shipments and cost overruns.”
The son of a bitch was questioning his management. Malgard looked to Rosse for support, but the man’s face was noncommittal. Commander Monahan sat with his elbow on the table, his chin resting in his hand, and his eyes showed intense interest in the accusations.
“In the fall of 1986, AMDI proposed its first major contract, that is, for a complete program, rather than as a subcontractor. It was awarded the XMC-22 stealth assault boat program.”
“Is this what you’ve been doing for two days, Admiral? Reviewing history, instead of looking for my boats?”
Andrews’s eyes bored at him, and he continued as if he had not been interrupted. “The XMC-22 program is nineteen months behind schedule, and there have been cost overruns amounting to three hundred and sixteen thousand dollars.”
“Don’t lay that on me, Admiral,” Malgard said. “Your people have a big hand in there.”
Rosse cleared his throat and said, “That’s true, Admiral. We have made some design changes, after testing, that have contributed to the delay. The sonar was changed out. Intake baffles were redesigned. There were some cooling system alterations, also, I believe.”
“Nineteen months’ worth?” Andrews asked.
Monahan spoke for the first time. “Mr. Malgard, as I understand it, once the test sequence is approved, AMDI is to begin production of twenty boats. The basic program has already been approved by the Department of Defense and Congress.”
“That is true, Commander, but with exceptions. Any additional costs due to design changes would have to be approved by Congress.”
“So you’re almost two years behind the time you thought you would have contract income for your company?”
Malgard suddenly felt as if he was under interrogation. It was supposed to be the other way around. He looked to Andrews, but the admiral’s face suggested he was in favor of Monahan’s line of questions.
“Almost two years. That is correct,” he said cautiously. “Research and development payments have been made on schedule, of course.”
“Of course. Along with additional payments for unexpected costs. You’ve been pressuring the procurement division to get the full program underway?”
“I’ve talked to some people, yes.”
“The reporter for The Washington Post told us that he received an anonymous tip that led to his story on the Sea Spectre. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?” Monahan’s gaze was unwavering.
“I don’t know a thing about it,” Malgard said. “What the hell’s going on here?”
“It seemed to me,” Monahan said, “that that article in The Post was intended to generate interest in the boat, maybe put some pressure on people to get the production program started.”
“That’s absurd.”
Monahan shrugged. “We’ve certainly got exposure now. Classified information on secret weapons system leaked to the press. The boats stolen. Television and newspaper reporters all over the building. Dead man, too.”
Malgard felt his face reddening. From anger. “Commander, are you suggesting that I stole my own boats?”
“The boats belong to the U.S. Government,” Andrews said. “You’re the contractor and designer.”
“Listen, goddamn it!” Malgard said, “I’m here, because I want to know what you’re doing about recovering them.”
“We would like,” the admiral told him, “a complete listing of your personnel.”
“What!”
“We want to know the background of everyone working for you. There may be a possibility of insider information.”
“Ridiculous!”
“The dead man,” Monahan said, “has been identified as Muhammed Hakkar. According to the CIA and Interpol, he has connections with a terrorist group known as the Warriors of Allah. We want to make certain that he did not also have connections with someone working in either your plant or your office.”