A little more time online and he learned a submarine of that type had been lent to the US government for practice war games, but was currently supposed to be back in Sweden. He even found a photo of it patrolling the Baltics dated a few days earlier. So, the ship he’d seen couldn’t have been that one.
According to the Internet, the Saab Group had built three (red) subs of that class at the Kockums shipyard in Malmö. If the sub hadn’t been the Gotland, it could have been the Uppland or the Halland. They sounded like IKEA furniture names. He’d nearly been killed by an IKEA submarine. That didn’t seem likely. Why would the Swedes be hanging around off the coast of New York running over civilians?
He dug deeper and discovered a news story about a hacking at a Swedish military installation. Details were sparse, but it looked as if a foreign entity might have stolen the design for the Gotland-class submarines. Searching told him the culprit hadn’t been identified, but suspicion had fallen on China. China was notorious for hacking classified military documents, so it wasn’t farfetched. If China had obtained the plans, maybe they had built the sub that had run him and the prince down. They could have sold it to anyone. Made more sense than angry Swedes.
Eventually, Edison whined and looked at the door, and Joe realized he was starving. The dog must be hungry, too. Shame on him for ignoring Edison. Edison was a hero and ought to be treated like one.
“Let’s see about food.” He ruffled Edison’s damp ears. “We’ve got steaks in the fridge.”
Edison’s tail wagged at the word steak. He’d earned that treat and more.
“Steak?” Joe said, heading down stairs carpeted with a red Persian runner older than he was. “Who wants a steak?”
Edison ran ahead. His toenails were muffled by the rug as he bounded down the stairs and through the hall. Joe followed a lot more slowly, a hand on the wall. His head ached, he was dizzy, and he felt weak. Overall, though, better than he’d expected. While the knockout drug had a lot of unpleasant aftereffects, none was as bad as being dead.
“Are you feeling better, Mr. Tesla?” Mr. Rossi, his lawyer, stood at the foot of the stairs. As usual, his salt-and-pepper hair was immaculate, his Italian suit perfectly pressed, and he looked like George Clooney. His tie was embroidered with tiny anchors. Joe had seen enough anchors for a while, but he smiled.
“Why are you here?” he asked. “Is Vivian OK?”
“She suffered a cracked ulna, but is otherwise fine. She wished to be here until you awoke, but I sent her home to rest and took her place.”
“Thank you for both.” Vivian never accepted you-saved-your-boss’s-life bonuses, but he knew her mother needed a new refrigerator, so he’d have a fridge delivered to her house. It might bother her, but once it was installed, she couldn’t send it back.
“Some gentlemen from the New York Police Department’s Harbor Patrol Unit are here to speak to you about the accident.”
As if on cue, two (blue) cops came out of his parlor. The older cop looked to be in her early forties, with the leathery skin that comes from being outside in all kinds of weather. The younger was maybe late twenties, his potato nose peeling from a recent sunburn.
“Thank you for pulling us out of the water. I’m Joe Tesla.”
“Detective Bellum.” The woman stuck out her hand, and he took it. She had a strong grip, as if she were proving a point.
“Detective Hap.” The younger guy had a strong handshake, too.
Both were asserting their dominance already.
He wouldn’t be dominated in his own home, so he turned away and headed for the kitchen. He’d promised Edison a steak, and he needed food himself.
“Mr. Tesla.” Bellum’s voice sounded like she’d smoked a pack a day for twenty (blue, black) years. “We need to talk to you.”
He didn’t slow his pace. “In the kitchen.”
Mr. Rossi didn’t voice an opinion.
Joe took steaks out of the converted icebox, cut one up, and dropped it in Edison’s bowl. Edison finished eating before Joe finished washing his hands. “Hungry, boy?”
Edison wagged his tail.
“Mr. Tesla,” said Bellum. “Tell us what happened out in the water.”
“Our sub got sunk.” He dropped the remaining steak on a cookie sheet, drizzled olive oil on it, rubbed in coarse salt and pepper, and dropped a handful of frozen green beans next to it. He walked over to his stove. An elegant piece from the 1920s with gently curving legs like a table, a trio of burners, and an oven that opened at waist height all painted with a glossy white enamel. He’d rewired it himself. He slid the tray into the oven and set it to broil. “Anyone want a drink? I have—”
“Sunk? By whom?” Bellum moved to stand in front of him.
“I’m sure Vivian Torres gave you the details.” He stepped around her and went over to the pantry, where he got out dry food for Edison. He didn’t remember exactly how he got to the surface. Based on his headache, she’d knocked him out somewhere, but he wasn’t going to talk about that part.
“And now we’d like to confirm her details.” Bellum again. Apparently, the other guy was just there for decoration.
He gestured to his kitchen table. Once everyone was sitting, he gave them a rundown of events, including his recent research, ending with, “Who does the giant submarine belong to?”
“There’s no record of a submarine of that type being in that location,” Bellum said.
He looked over at Mr. Rossi, who gave an almost imperceptible nod. That’s why they were here. They hadn’t believed Vivian’s story. Or they hadn’t wanted it to be true.
“I saw it. Miss Torres saw it. There has to be physical evidence. The ocean floor is pretty muddy there. It must have scraped a trench along the bottom when it took out our two subs.”
“Did it leave a trench?” Bellum asked. “Exactly where?”
“I have the GPS coordinates… ” On his sub’s computer, at the bottom of the ocean. “Near where we were picked up by the Harbor Patrol. Right by the contest flags. Blue Dreams had the GPS coordinates for the flags. I’d say start there.”
“We found a body there.”
“I’m sorry to say I’m sure you did.” He’d seen it, after all.
“The body recovered was of the bodyguard of Prince Timgad. The prince himself was not aboard.”
Lucky for the prince, not so much for the bodyguard. “And the sub?”
“We found the remains of Prince Timgad’s sub in that location, as well as yours. But no larger submarine.”
“It seemed very mobile,” he said. “It probably didn’t wait around.”
“The US Navy assures me they would know if a submarine of that description were anywhere near New York, and if there was one, such a thing would be a matter of national security, and we’d appreciate you not disclosing it to anyone outside of law enforcement.”
Someone was clearly covering his ass. He got up and fetched his steak from the broiler. His stomach growled.
“The Harbor Patrol officer says you were impaired when he brought you on board,” Bellum pressed.
He swallowed a bite of steak. “I hit my head.”
“Are you certain your condition wasn’t alcohol- or drug-related?”
“Yes.” Not exactly. His head ached. Definitely drug-related. He forced down another bite of steak.
“Maybe you saw the shadow of a boat passing overhead and mistook it for a submarine.” Bellum wanted him to agree with her scenario.
“A shadow couldn’t smash up my sub. Or the prince’s.”
“Maybe your subs collided, and you’re misremembering.” She didn’t sound like she believed the maybe part of that sentence.
“Nope,” he said.