"How do we use the Antarctica connection?" Nick tugged at his ear.
"We need more data."
Harker's pen tapped. Nick wanted to snatch it from her and break it in half. His head was throbbing. The room vibrated with a faint light.
"What about the sub those mummies came from?" Ronnie said. "Why was it there? If we knew that, we might know why someone came back years later and took out that research station. That's pretty cold, killing a bunch of civilian eggheads studying penguins and snow."
"We have the number of the sub." Harker tapped her pen. "There should be records, maybe an action report. Almost all the U-Boats have been accounted for. We could start by tracking it down."
"That's easy. We can Google it." Stephanie got her laptop and plugged it in. It booted up and routed through the mainframe sitting in the other room. Steph tapped keys and entered a search. In a few seconds the display screen showed a numerical list of all Nazi submarines. She clicked on U-886.
U-886 was listed as a type IX D2, built in July 1944 by AG Weser at the Bremen yards. She'd been sunk with depth charges by a British destroyer on 22 February, 1945. Stephanie pulled up the Admiralty report. The co-ordinates of the action placed the sub's grave at fifteen miles east and south of Mar del Plata on the Argentine coast, on the continental shelf in 35 fathoms of water.
Elizabeth coughed. "It looks like they were running for Argentina. Type IX D2's were converted to carry cargo. They must have had something on board."
"Or they left something behind," Nick said. "If the sub was carrying something away, wouldn't they have taken the crates with the paintings?"
"Why leave anything in Antarctica? The war was almost over and they were heading for safety." Selena looked at the screen. "They couldn't have planned on coming back anytime soon."
Nick thought. "They killed two of their own. Why would they do that?"
"Only one reason makes sense," Ronnie said. "Whoever shot those guys didn't want them talking about what was in the vault."
"And the paintings were outside, not in the vault." Stephanie picked it up. "So whatever was in there was more important to the Nazis than a bunch of Old Masters. That's got to be something pretty special."
"Whatever it was, they never came back for it," Ronnie said.
"Until a few days ago." Harker tapped her pen, set it aside. "Why not before?"
"Maybe they didn't know where it was." Ronnie cracked his knuckles. "Maybe the location went down with the sub. When the scientists found it someone jumped on it before the German government could step in."
Harker frowned. "That means someone would have to monitor transmissions from the Antarctic or have deep contacts in Germany. Then they would have to mount an armed expedition and get it on site in less than a day. That's pretty sophisticated."
The pen came out again, tapping.
"Steph hasn't been able to track the other end of those emails yet. It might be worth it to see if there's anything left on that sub. Something that could tell us what Dysart was referring to."
"If we can find it," Nick said. "Even if we could, there's not going to be much left. It's a waste of time."
He didn't usually argue with Harker, but he was tired. The headache was stabbing him in back of his left eye. He felt nauseous.
She looked at him. "Do you have a better idea?"
"No, but it sounds like a wild goose chase to me."
"We've got the coordinates in the action report. It's a long shot, but if we can find the wreck, I think it's worth a try. It's the only direct connection to Antarctica and whatever happened there. The only connection to Dysart."
"How are we going to get to it?"
"We'd have to dive on it. You must know someone, Nick."
"As a matter of fact, I do know someone. Ronnie knows him, too. His name is Lamont Cameron. He just got out of the Seals."
Ronnie nodded. "Shadow? He'd be perfect."
"Shadow?" Harker's pen stopped moving.
"His mom named him after Lamont Cranston," Nick said, "the Shadow on the radio show. That's how he got the nickname."
"Can you get hold of him?"
"Probably. His mom lives in D.C. She would know where he is. I can track him down, but I still think it's a waste of time."
Harker looked annoyed. "Do that. If he's interested, brief him and bring him here."
"What did Arslanian's flash drive have on it?"
"It's encoded. Steph hasn't cracked it yet."
Later, after he'd gone upstairs, Nick sat on the edge of the bed. His head was splitting. The stitches on his leg were inflamed and sore, he ached from being blown down twice in almost as many days, and he was jet lagging from the air journeys. His left hand was painful and stiff. He didn't know if he should lie down or throw up.
I'm getting too old for this, he thought. Not for the first time.
Selena sat down on the bed. The movement made his stomach turn over. He reached the bathroom just in time. When he came out, Selena helped him undress.
The last thing he remembered was the feel of her slipping into bed beside him and the warm curling of her naked body against his.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Ronnie and Nick met Lamont Cameron at a bar popular with past and present members of the various SOCOM units. It was crowded. It smelled of stale beer and overcooked frankfurters. No one ever came there for dinner.
Lamont looked good for pushing forty. His head was shaved and smooth. His skin was dark reddish brown, the color of fresh ground coffee. His eyes were an odd pale blue, a genetic trait inherited from his Ethiopian ancestors. He had even features, square cheekbones, and an aquiline nose.
A thin, jagged ridge of pink scar tissue cut through one black eyebrow and across his nose, a souvenir from Iraq. He'd left the Seals as a Master Chief. In the Seals that was a real accolade. Lamont was one of the smartest and toughest men Nick had ever met.
He was at a table in the back. He stood up as they approached. The three men high-fived.
"Hey Nick, you look a little rough around the edges."
"Yeah, good to see you too." Lamont signaled the waitress.
"Double Jameson's for me," Nick said, "soda back."
"Coke, with a lime if you've got it," Ronnie told her. Ronnie didn't drink. On the Reservation he'd seen what it could do.
Lamont held up his half empty bottle.
"Another Bud." When the waitress had gone he said, "Saw you on the tube saving the President's ass. What were you doing there, anyway? You Secret Service now?"
"Nope. That's part of what we want to talk with you about. How've you been, Shadow?"
"Can't complain. Nobody would listen anyway." He grinned, lifted the beer in mock salute.
"How's civilian life?"
"Not what it's cracked up to be. I'm staying at my Mom's for now, keeping her company. Lots of changes since the last time I came home and none of them good. I'm trying to get her to move to a better part of town, but she's stubborn. Her church is there, her friends. She'll never move."
Carter had been to the house. It was in part of the city where the landscape looked like a war zone. Decent people like Lamont's mother lived with drive-by shootings, gang bangers and iron bars on the windows as part of life. It was one of those places most of America didn't want to know about. Right in the heart of the American dream, the nation's capitol. Even the cops didn't go there unless they had plenty of backup.
The waitress brought the drinks. Nick downed the Irish and ordered another before she left.
"You have any plans?" he said. "What you're going to do?"
"I know a guy who's a commercial diver. I was thinking maybe I'd hook up with him. He wants to open a dive school."
"Pretty tame." Ronnie lifted his coke, sipped.