smoking. The intensity was still there, Mancuso saw. Dr. Ron Jones flipped pages like an accountant on the trail of embezzlement, his finger tracing down the vertical lines on which frequencies were recorded.
'We assume that they'll snort every eight hours or so?' he asked.
'That's the smart thing, to keep their batteries fully charged,' Chambers agreed with a nod.
'What time are they operating on?' Jones asked. Typically, American submarines at sea adjusted their clocks to Greenwich Mean Time—recently changed to 'Universal Time' with the diminution of the Royal Navy, whose power had once allowed the prime meridian to be defined by the British.
'I presume Tokyo,' Mancuso replied. 'That's us minus five.'
'So we start looking for patterns, midnight and even hours their time.'
There were five of the wide-folded sheets. Jones flipped one complete set at a time, noting the time references in the margins. It took him ten minutes.
'Here's one, and here's another. These two are possible. This one's also possible, but I don't think so. I'll put money down on this one…and this one for starters.' His fingers tapped on seemingly random lines of dots.
'Wally?'
Chambers turned to the other table and flipped the marked up sets to the proper time settings. 'Jonesy, you fuckin' witch!' he breathed. It had taken a team of skilled technicians—experts all—over two hours to do what Jones had accomplished in a few minutes before their again-incredulous eyes.
The civilian contractor pulled a can of Coke from the nearby cooler and popped it open. 'Gentlemen,' he asked, 'who's the all-time champ?'
That was only part of it, of course. The printouts merely gave bearing to a suspected noise source, but there were several of the bottom-sited SOSUS arrays, and triangulation had already been accomplished, nailing the datum points down to radii of ten to fifteen nautical miles. Even with Jones's improvements in the system, that still left a lot of ocean to search.
The phone rang. It was Commander-in-Chief Pacific Fleet. Mancuso took the call and made his recommendations for vectoring
'See what I mean, Skipper? You always did know how to listen.'
Murray had been out discussing a few budgetary matters with the Assistant-Director-in-Charge of the Washington Field Office, therefore missing the phone call. The top-secret dispatch from the White House was tucked away in secure files, and then his secretary had been called out to bring a sick child home from school. As a result, the handwritten message from Ryan had been unconscionably late in coming to his attention.
'The Norton girl,' he said, walking into Director Shaw's office.
'Bad?'
'Dead,' Murray said, handing the paper over. Shaw scanned it quickly.
'Shit,' the FBI Director whispered. 'Did she have a prior history of drug use?'
'Not that I recall.'
'Word from Tokyo?'
'I haven't checked in with the Leg-At yet. Bad timing for that, Bill.'
Shaw nodded, and the thought in his mind was transparent. Ask any FBI agent for the case he bragged about, and it is always kidnapping. It was really how the Bureau had made its name back in the 1930's. The Lindbergh Law had empowered the FBI to assist any local police force as soon as the possibility existed that the victim could have been taken across a state line.
With the mere possibility—the victims were rarely actually transported so far—the whole weight and power of America's premier law-enforcement agency descended on the case like a pack of especially hungry wolves. The real mission was always the same: to get the victim back alive, and there the results were excellent. The secondary objective was to apprehend, charge, and try the subjects in question, and there the record, statistically speaking, was better still. They didn't know yet if Kimberly Norton had been a kidnap victim. They did know that she would he coming home dead. That single fact, for any FBI agent, was a professional failure.
'Her father's a cop.'
'I remember, Dan.'
'I want to go out there and talk it over with O'Keefe.' Part of it was because Captain Norton deserved to hear it from other cops, not through the media. Part of it was because the cops on the case had to do it, to admit their failure to him. And part of it would be for Murray to take a look at the case file himself, to be sure for himself that all that might have been done, had been done.
'I can probably spare you for a day or two,' Shaw replied. 'The Linders case is going to wait until the President gets back anyway. Okay, get packed.'
'This is better than the Concorde!' Cathy gushed at the Air Force corporal who served dinner. Her husband almost laughed. It wasn't often that Caroline Ryan's eyes went quite so wide, but then he was long accustomed to this sort of service, and the food was certainly better than she customarily ate in the Hopkins physicians' dining room. And there the plates didn't have gold trim, one of the reasons that Air Force One had so much pilferage.
'Wine for madam?' Ryan lifted the bottle of Russian River chardonnay and poured as his plate came down.
'We don't drink wine on the chicken farm, you see,' she told the corporal with a small measure of embarrassment.
'Everybody's this way the first time, Dr. Ryan. If you need anything, please buzz me.' She headed back to the galley.
'See, Cathy, I told you, stick with me.'
'I wondered how you got used to flying,' she noted, tasting the broccoli. 'Fresh.'
'The flight crew's pretty good, too.' He gestured to the wineglasses. Not a ripple,
'The pay isn't all that great,' Arnie Van Damm said from the other side of the compartment, 'but the perks ain't too bad.'
'The blackened redfish isn't bad at all.'
'Our chef stole the recipe from the Jockey Club. Best Cajun redfish in town,' van Damm explained. 'I think he had to trade his potato soup for it. Fair deal,' Arnie judged.
'He gets the crust just right, doesn't he?'
One of Washington's few really excellent restaurants, the Jockey Club was located in the basement of the Ritz Carlton Hotel on Massachusetts Avenue. A quiet, dimly lit establishment, it had for many years been a place for 'power' meals of one sort or another.
All the food here is good, Libby Holtzman thought, especially when someone else paid for it. The previous hour had handled all manner of small talk, the usual exchange of information and gossip that was even more important in Washington than most American cities. That was over now. The wine was served, the salad plates gone, and the main course on the table.
'So, Roy, what's the big item?'
'Ed Kealty.' Newton looked up to watch her eyes.
'Don't tell me, his wife is finally going to leave the rat?'
'He's probably going to be the one leaving, as a matter of fact.'
'Who's the unlucky bimbo?' Mrs. Holtzman asked with a wry smile.
'Not what you think, Libby. Ed's going away.' You always wanted to make them wait for it.
'Roy, it's eight-thirty, okay?' Libby observed, making her position clear.
'The FBI has a case running on Kealty. Rape. More than one, in fact. One of the victims killed herself.'
'Lisa Beringer?' The reason for her suicide had never been adequately explained.
'She left a letter behind. The FBI has it now. They also have several other women who are willing to testify.'
'Wow,' Libby Holtzman allowed herself to say. She set her fork down. 'How solid is this?'
'The man running the case is Dan Murray, Shaw's personal attack dog.'
'I know Dan. I also know he won't talk about this.' You rarely got an FBI agent to discuss evidentiary matters in a criminal case, certainly not before it was presented. That sort of leak almost always came from an attorney or court clerk. 'He doesn't just do things by the book—he wrote the book.' It was literally true. Murray had helped draft many of the Bureau's official procedures.
