She thought about it. “The chef’s knife. And you touched the back doorknob.”
He turned toward the kitchen. “Come on. Let’s get out of here.”
“I hope you’ve got something,” Jax told Matt as they headed back toward the beltway, “because we just ran out of luck.”
“Your idea to check out who might have accessed the Navy’s report on U-114 turned up something interesting: a colonel by the name of Sam Lee. He’s one of Boyd’s protégés-in fact, Boyd got him assigned to the CIA two years ago. He may be our mole.”
“Have you talked to him?”
“That would be difficult. He was found in Rock Creek Park about an hour ago. Dead.”
“Shit. Sounds like they’re cleaning up their loose ends. I hope this doesn’t mean the operation’s over.”
Matt let out a harsh sigh. “I stumbled across something else while I was digging around. Somehow or another, the U.S. government knew U-114 went down with a mysterious weapon called die Klinge von Solomon on board. That’s why they sent the Navy looking for it when the Brits authorized their Operation Deadlight Expedition. They thought the Sword of Solomon might be the German A-bomb, and they were afraid the publicity surrounding the plans to raise the old U-boats might give someone ideas.”
“But that doesn’t make sense,” said October when Jax relayed Matt’s information to her. “The U.S. government had all Kline’s nasties at Fort Detrick. They should have known what the Sword of Solomon was.”
“You’ve gotta remember they didn’t have computerized databases in those days. Kline knew DP3 used to be called the Sword of Solomon, but I doubt anyone else did. Why do you think they renamed all his nasty little bugs? Because they didn’t want anyone to know they were carrying on where the Nazis had left off. I’ve no doubt all the original records were destroyed decades ago. Even if they weren’t, you need to understand that the kind of guys playing with plagues up at Fort Detrick don’t regularly communicate with the guys down in Washington who worry about Nazi A-bombs and sunken subs. No one in Washington talks to anyone else, remember?” He paused for a moment, then reached for his phone again and hit Matt’s number on his speed dial.
“What now?” she said.
“I’ve got an idea.” To Matt, he said, “Did Boyd ever go to MIT?”
“Nope. He’s a West Point man.”
“Then I think we may have a lead to the guy who’s bankrolling this operation. Get onto the university and see if you can get a list of Kline’s former graduate students. We’re looking for a male with ties to Florida.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
“And Matt?”
“Yeah?”
“Hurry.”
71
They were on I-270 headed toward the Virginia state line when Matt called back. “You need to turn around. I’ve got a plane waiting at Frederick Airport to take you to Miami.”
“A Company plane? I thought we were off the clock?”
“Yeah, well, I found a way to get creative when I looked at Boyd’s flight schedule. He’s made a bunch of trips to Miami in the last ten months that don’t seem to correlate to anything he was doing for SOCOM. And he left Washington for Miami this afternoon at twelve thirty.”
Jax glanced over at October. Boats and palm trees.
“And get this,” Matt was saying. “You remember that viewing session Tobie did in Kaliningrad with the Russian?”
“Yes. Why?”
“I’ve been comparing her drawings of that bridge with all the bridges in the Miami area. I think it’s the Venetian Causeway. You’ll find a boat waiting for you at Bayside Marketplace. The way I figure it, the only way to find that house is to have her look for it.”
“Let me get this straight,” said Jax. “You want us to cruise around Biscayne Bay looking for a house October saw in her head?”
“You got any better ideas?”
Jax thought about it. “No.”
The boat was a Speedboat Marine V-drive with a Shepiro-craft inboard rear-mount 350 Chevy. By the time they reached Bayside Marketplace, the sun was a big ball of fire sinking low behind the city. The heat was beginning to go out of the day-or maybe that was just the effect of the long shadows cast by all those skyscrapers crowding up against the water.
Jax caught the keys tossed by a dark-skinned man in shorts and a white T-shirt, who said, “The hardware’s in the lockbox up under the bow.”
Jax waited until they were well away from the quay before hauling it out: a Beretta Cougar for himself, and another Beretta he held out to October. “Here. The Smith and Wesson must be out of ammo.”
She hesitated, then slipped the pistol in her bag.
“You need to get a holster.”
She just looked at him. “Oh, right; and where am I going to hide it?”
He swung around Dodge Island and cut under the Mac-Arthur Causeway, the small, light Speedboat soaring over the sparkling blue waters of the bay. “That look like your bridge?” he said as the Venetian Causeway rose before the boat’s bow, the elegant white guardrail sweeping from one man-made island to the next.
Her head tipped back, she put up a hand to catch the hair fluttering around her face. “Yes.”
“So which way do we go? Left or right?”
She glanced around her. “I guess that depends on whether or not my brain reversed things.”
“Great,” said Jax. “We’ll try north first.”
They ran up the island, past dozens of palatial villas with indoor and outdoor pools, squash courts and tennis courts, fleets of Mercedes and BMWs, Porsches and Bentleys. “When I see this kind of stuff,” he said, eying the hundred-foot, gleaming white Chedyek rocking gently beside the nearest private dock, “it reminds me of this book I read about the French Revolution when I was a kid.”
She turned to stare at him. “You read books about the French Revolution as a kid? Why Jax, who’d have thought you’re really a secret nerd at heart?”
He spun the wheel, hitting the throttle as he brought the Speedboat in a wide arc and headed south under the bridge again. “I was never a nerd. I just liked history.”
“Okay. So what about the French Revolution?”
“I just remember reading about those noblemen in their chateaus, with their carriages and their jewels and their velvet gowns, and wondering how they could look at all those starving peasants and not realize they were being really, really shortsighted.”
“This from the guy with a BMW convertible and a townhouse on the Potomac?” she said. “If you’re not careful, someone’s going to get the idea you’re a-” She broke off.
He cut back on the throttle. “What is it?”
They were coming up on a pale pink Italianate villa with an arched arcade and a wide terrace overlooking an Olympic-sized pool and meticulously maintained lawns that swept down to a private dock. “That’s it,” she said, leaning forward.
Jax studied the massive fiberglass Hargrave yacht with a raised pilothouse tied up at the dock. “Is that the boat you saw?”
She shook her head. “I honestly couldn’t say. All big white yachts kinda look the same to me. But this is the house. I’m sure of it. Now what?”
Jax turned the Speedboat in toward the dock, spinning the wheel and cutting the engine so they drifted in to bump gently against the pier. “Now we look for a fluorescent yellow cylinder in an aluminum metal case,” he said, tossing her the bowline, “and hope to hell we’re not too late.”
72
Jax was tying the stem line to a cleat on the dock when he heard a man’s shout. Looking up, he spotted a big, blond-headed security guard loping down the lawn toward them. The guy was wearing tan slacks and boat shoes with no socks and a Hawaiian shirt that flapped open as he ran.
“Hey!” the guy shouted again, waving one beefy tanned arm as he jogged out onto the dock. “This is private property. You can’t tie up here.”