“No, it was Dirk and Al who recaptured the crate. Though its destruction saved it from falling into the wrong hands, the loss of the model has magnified some other problems.”
“Namely?” Pitt asked.
“I’ve been told that neither DARPA nor the Navy have any detailed plans or design specs for Heiland’s work. Carl Heiland was a highly respected engineer—a genius, really—and because of that he was given free rein. Over the years he’s made many brilliant modifications in submarine design and torpedo development. As a result, he wasn’t required to submit the usual mountain of documentation demanded by most defense contracts.”
“So no one else knows how to complete the
“Exactly,” Ann replied with a tight-lipped grimace.
“With Heiland dead and his model destroyed,” Gunn said, “those plans would be extremely valuable.”
“Fowler tells me that is now our top priority.” She looked at her watch and then at Pitt. “The Vice President’s office has arranged a return jet for us to Washington. It leaves San Diego at one o’clock. I’d like to visit Heiland’s headquarters in Del Mar before we go. Could you drive me there on the way to the airport?”
Pitt rose from the table and offered Ann her crutches. “I never fail to heed the call of small children, little old ladies, or pretty girls with wrenched ankles.” He gave a slight bow. “Just show me the way.”
An hour later, they pulled into the headquarters of Heiland Research and Associates. The office occupied a shared building on a rise overlooking the beach town of Del Mar, just north of San Diego. The site offered a clear view of the ocean to the west, as well as Del Mar’s famed racetrack in the valley below. Ann flashed her credentials at the front desk and signed them in.
“Welcome, Miss Bennett,” the receptionist said. “Mrs. Marsdale is expecting you.”
A minute later, a stylish woman with short dark hair entered the lobby and introduced herself as Carl Heiland’s operations manager. As she led them to a nearby conference room, Ann followed awkwardly on her crutches.
“We won’t take much of your time, Mrs. Marsdale,” Ann said. “I’m on the team investigating the death of Mr. Heiland, and I am concerned about securing his working papers related to the
“I still can’t believe he’s gone.” The shock of Heiland’s death still marked her face. “I assume his death was no accident?”
“Why would you think that?”
“Carl and Manfred were just too competent to die in a boating accident. Carl was a safe and prudent man. I know he always had concerns about maintaining the secrecy of his work.”
“We don’t think it was an accident,” Ann said, “but the investigation is still ongoing. We do believe that someone was trying to acquire his test model.”
Marsdale nodded. “The FBI was here a few days ago, and we gave them what we could. But as I told them, this is Dr. Heiland’s business headquarters. We handle the government contracts and related admin support, and that’s about it. The entire firm employs only twelve people.”
“Where is your research facility?” Pitt asked.
“We don’t really have one. There’s a small shop out back, where we employ a few interns for ongoing research topics, but Carl and Manfred seldom worked here. They traveled frequently but actually conducted most of their research in Idaho.”
“Idaho?” Ann asked.
“Yes, there’s a Navy research facility in Bayview. Dr. Heiland has a cabin nearby, where he and Manfred would escape to problem-solve.”
“That would be Manfred Ortega, Dr. Heiland’s assistant?”
“Yes. Carl called him Manny. A brilliant engineer in his own right. The two of them together created magical work. They were the brains of the whole company. I don’t know what we’ll do now.”
There was a long silence as they all realized the deaths of Carl and Manny meant the likely demise of Heiland Research and Associates.
“Did the FBI gather all of the materials here on site?” Ann asked.
“They took all of our admin files—and even our computers, for a time. We had sent the technical files to DARPA headquarters, which was just as well. The FBI agents were like a bull in a china shop, so I didn’t let them in Carl’s office, but they had the run of the rest of the place.”
“Would you mind if I had a look around his office?” Ann said. “I’m sure you can understand the national security ramifications of securing all of his work.”
“Sure. He never left much here, but his office is just down the hall.” Marsdale grabbed some keys from her desk and led them to a corner office. Of modest size, Heiland’s office looked seldom used. Like the man, it was frugal in decor, sporting a few submarine models and a painting of a mahogany rumrunner under sail. The only incongruous item was a stuffed moose head, with an assortment of fishing caps dangling from its antlers, mounted just above the desk.
Marsdale gave a puzzled look when she saw several desk drawers had been left open. “That’s odd.” She suddenly stiffened. “Someone’s been in here and searched his desk. I remember leaving a contract in his in-box for signature and now it’s gone.”
She turned to Ann with a worried expression. “I’m the only one in the building with keys to his office.”
“Were there any other important documents in here?”
“I can’t say for sure, but I don’t think so. Like I said, he was seldom here for very long.”
She looked at the desk and then glanced up at the moose. “There was a picture of his boat and cabin on his desk—it’s gone, too. And Carl used to hang the keys to his cabin on the moose antler when he was here and they’re also missing.”
“Do you have security cameras in the building?” Pitt asked.
“We do. I’ll contact our security firm immediately.” Her voice cracked in distress. “I’m very sorry.”
“If you don’t mind,” Ann said, “I’d like to call the FBI back in to scour the office. Combined with your security video, that should allow us to develop some potential leads.”
“Yes, of course. Whatever it takes to find out who is behind all this.”
As Ann and Pitt returned to the car, she stopped and stared out at the ocean. “They were here, weren’t they?”
“I’d bet on it,” Pitt said.
“I’ve got a favor to ask.” She turned and locked eyes with him. “Would you mind delaying our return to Washington a day? I’d like to redirect our flight to Idaho. If Marsdale is right, all of Heiland’s plans may be safe in Bayview without us even knowing it.”
“I’m game,” Pitt said. “Fact is, I’ve always been curious to see where all those famous potatoes come from.”
22
THE GOVERNMENT GULFSTREAM JET DESCENDED out of a sapphire sky and touched down on the main runway of Coeur d’Alene Airport’s Pappy Boyington Field. A native son of the scenic Idaho town, Gregory “Pappy” Boyington had grown up to fly F4U Corsairs in the Pacific, winning the Medal of Honor while commanding the legendary Black Sheep Squadron. The airport that bore his name was now home to tame Piper Cubs and private jets of wealthy tourists. Pitt grabbed Ann’s crutches and helped her off the plane at the private jet terminal, where they negotiated the use of a rental car. Pitt took the wheel as they headed north on Route 95.
They were traveling up Idaho’s northern panhandle, a region of rich forested hills and pristine blue lakes, far from the potato fields in the state’s southern plains. Traffic was light, and Pitt nudged the rental car past the sixty- five-mile-per-hour speed limit. Twenty minutes later they reached the town of Athol, where Pitt turned onto a side road and drove east. A large sign welcomed them onto the grounds of Farragut State Park.
“An Idaho state park named after a Civil War admiral?” Pitt said.
“As a matter of fact, it is.” Ann scanned a travel brochure she picked up at the airport. “In the early days of World War Two, the Navy established an inland base here after it was feared the Japanese would bomb the West
