Текст книги "Circle of Bones"

Автор книги: Christine Kling

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Текущая страница: 21 (всего у книги 32 страниц)

CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

The Atlantic Ocean

February 17, 1942

By the fifth day, Woolsey decided he might go mad before they ever got to Martinique.

When they first locked him in the hold with only a corpse for company, they left him in darkness for what seemed like a fortnight. But once they opened the door on him blinking and shivering, he learned it had only been about twelve hours. That first time, the captain came down to the hold and oversaw things himself, the pistol displayed on his waist. Lamoreaux only allowed two men into the compartment, and though he ignored Woolsey, he watched his crew’s every move as they walked among the crates that contained the gold. The men removed Mullins’ body, swept up the broken glass, and allowed Woolsey to go to the WC under guard.

After that, it was only Michaut who was allowed into the hold. They left the lights on for him during the day, shut them off at night. Michaut came in with his food rations and escorted him to use the toilet twice a day. The young man wasn’t as friendly as he had been before the bomb. Woolsey ate in silence while Michaut waited for his dishes. If the two of them happened to pass another sailor in the confines of the sub’s passages, likely as not, the Frenchman would curse under his breath or spit on the ground at Woolsey’s feet.

After they turned the lights on and cleaned away the glass, Woolsey had played with the gold coins to amuse himself. The captain had collected the coins from the broken bottles and placed them in a cloth sack inside one of the crates. Woolsey took it out from time to time and poured the coins into his hands, letting them clang on the deck. Though his was a wealthy family, and he had never lacked for anything, still, there was something glorious about feeling the heft and mass of that much gold. He passed the hours trying to calculate just how many coins were there in all the cases.

But after four days of not talking to another human being, he decided he just might be going crazy. When Michaut entered the hold, dropped his tin plate and mug onto a crate, then began to unload cutlery from his various pockets, Woolsey leaned against the bulkhead, his arms crossed. He watched the heart-shaped birthmark on the young man’s face grow brighter under the scrutiny. Woolsey said, “So, have you got orders against talking to me?”

Michaut shook his head, but he refused to look at Woolsey. He sat down on another crate, his back turned.

Woolsey sat down on the crate next to his food and rubbed the stubble growth on his chin. “Any chance you could get me a razor, Kewpie?”

Michaut sighed and shook his head. Without turning around, he said, “Lieutenant, why do you want to blow up this boat? You hate the French people?”

Woolsey picked up a fork and wolfed down a couple of bites from his plate of stewed beef and potatoes, soaking up some of the rich wine gravy with a slab of French bread. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve.

“Michaut,” he said at last. “This is war. It’s not personal.”

“But if you kill me, I think that is very personal.”

“Yeah, well, I was following orders. Like you’re following orders now.”

Woolsey drained the mug of water while his young companion stood up and wandered over to one of the cases. Michaut pulled out the cloth sack and looked inside.

“You do realize, Henri, that by turning me over to the authorities in Martinique, you’re killing me? They’ll hang me for trying to blow up Surcouf.”

“Yes, but there is nothing I can do.” He reached inside the bag and pulled out a handful of coins.

“Just as there was nothing I could do when I received my orders.”

After another period of quiet, the young man said, “I hate this stupid war.” He let the coins fall back into the bag and the soft clinking noise sounded almost like music.

Woolsey smiled. “Not everyone feels that way. Some men are making a great deal of money off this war.”

Woolsey watched the young man reach back into the bag, take several coins out and place them in his pocket.

“That’s what doomed Surcouf, you know. Not that gold. No one knew about that except your captain. But all the money the Allies have put into this old boat. No return on that.”

Michaut replaced the bag in the crate.

 Woolsey continued. “It’s always about the money, isn’t it? And politics. Power.”

Michaut shrugged.

“Kewpie, what would you say if I told you that I’m not only a Lieutenant in the Royal Navy?”

“I don’t understand, sir.”

“Neither do I sometimes. But I also work for some Americans. Got involved when I went to university in the states. A place called Yale. Ever heard of it?”

Michaut shook his head.

“Doesn’t matter,” Woolsey said. “They don’t want you to know who they are. Very hush, hush, you know. They invited me to join their lot in the spring of ’40. Anyway, lots of money to be made in a war like this and these Yanks, boy, they know how to do it.”

“I do not understand.”

“Listen, man, somebody has got to build all these ships and planes, make the bombs and the bullets. They sell them to the government and make a fortune, and they know there will always be a need for more as long as we are at war.”

“But many men are dying.”

Woolsey shrugged. “Not their problem. But one thing they’re not interested in is seeing America pour millions of dollars into an old French submarine. The problem is, General DeGaulle would never stand for seeing this boat retired. So she must be martyred.”

Michaut turned to face Woolsey. “No. Is not necessary. That is why we go to Martinique.”

“I’m not so sure we’ll make it, my friend. When the Americans don’t hear from me, they will send out planes looking for the Surcouf. There is something aboard this boat they do not want to see fall into the enemy’s hands. In fact, I’m certain they are searching for us right now.”

It was less than an hour after Michaut had left with his dirty dishes, when the door to the hold opened again and Gohin entered with Michaut. It was exactly what Woolsey had predicted would happen.

Gohin shouted, “Allez. Vite.”

“Come with us,” Michaut said. “Le Capitaine want to talk to you.”

The captain’s cabin on board the Surcouf was quite large for a submarine. It contained a small writing desk and another sitting chair opposite. The bulkheads were paneled in rich, varnished wood. The captain turned from where he had been working at his desk when they entered. He lifted a white ceramic coffee mug, took a drink, then indicated the extra chair by gesturing with the mug.

“Sit down, Lieutenant.”

Woolsey eased himself into the chair. He saw the plate on the desk and realized they had interrupted his meal.

“What’s this Michaut tells me about something else on board this vessel that I know nothing about?”

“Do you remember the mail bag we got from that Canadian frigate a couple of days before we arrived in Bermuda?”

“Yes.”

“There was a diplomatic pouch from London with highly classified documents in there. My instructions were to set the device aboard the Surcouf and then to deliver those documents to America. It’s been several days now, and they have not heard from me. They will have figured out that something went wrong – that I’m still aboard this boat. I don’t know what’s in that pouch, sir, but I’m certain the Yanks are scouring the Atlantic right now looking for us. When they see you’re headed for an enemy port, they won’t hesitate.”

“And where is this pouch now?”

“In the safe in the radio room.”

“Michaut, take the lieutenant, get the pouch and both of you come straight back here.”

Ten minutes later, Woolsey placed the heavy canvas bag on the captain’s desk. The pouch was of the sort often used for top secret documents. The canvas was rubber-coated on the outside to make it waterproof, and lead lined to assure that the fabric could not be cut. Also, if the ship were to sink, the pouch would not float to the surface later. The top of the pouch was folded over several times and was secured with a steel bar and a combination lock.

The captain sat down and rubbed his own day’s growth of stubble as he stared at the pouch. “You do not know what this contains?”

“No, sir. But I do know that it was sent by a Special Envoy to the American President. They only told me the code words for these documents. They called it Operation Magic. I know that neither one of us would be permitted to read it. But if you are headed to Martinique to surrender this boat to the Vichy government there, you will be passing top secret classified material into German hands. The Yanks know this, and you can be certain they have every ship and plane they can afford out looking for us.” Woolsey knew that only a few select Americans knew about the pouch, but they wielded enough power to make this threat very real.

“I have been worried about being spotted, so I have taken an unconventional route. At present, we are passing between the islands of Guadeloupe and La Désirade.  It is one of the last places they would look for a submarine.”

“I hope you’re right.”

“So, you are certain you do not know the combination to this pouch?”

Woolsey looked at the tumblers on the combination lock and he wondered. The Special Envoy did have a sense of humor. Woolsey asked himself if he really wanted to know what was inside. And did he want the Frenchman to know? Lamoreaux was the enemy now, but he could also torture Woolsey. He knew himself well enough to know that he would not hold out for long. He was no hero. And Woolsey suspected they would never make it to Martinique.

“I suggest you try the numbers three-two-two.”

CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

Foggy Bottom

March 28, 2008

11:40 a.m.

Riley was still trying to comprehend what her father had just said. She felt as though she were being carried along by the swift-moving current as she had in that river on Dominca, with the scenery flashing past her before she could even take it all in. What had her father just said?

Diggory stepped through the doorway and Mrs. Wright followed behind him, a smug smile on her face.

“Dig?” Riley said. “What are you talking about? Who’s Yorick?” There were so many other questions she wanted to ask him, like why he had lied to her about her father’s stroke, why he wanted her there in DC. But she couldn’t stop thinking about her father’s words. I would have stopped it if I could – he had to die. Was he talking about Michael? No, it couldn’t be true. It was the illness talking, making him say crazy things.

Looking at Dig, she pointed at her father. “Did you hear what he just said?”

Dig crossed the room and stood behind her father’s wheelchair. He pulled the chair back from the window a little, then walked around in front so her father could see him. “I believe he mentioned something about approving the murder of his own son.”

“That’s crazy. No way that’s true.”

“I’m afraid it is, my dear. There is a lot you don’t know about this man.”

Her father had loosened a piece of yarn from his sweater and he pulled at it, refusing to look at Diggory.

“Dad?”

He would not look up at either of them.

“Isn’t that right, Yorick?”

“Diggory, leave him alone. And stop calling him that.”

“But that’s his name – his Bones name.”

The current was pulling her under again. She could not breathe. “What?” No. She would have known if her father had been in Skull and Bones. He would have told her.

“I’ve known your father much longer than I’ve known you, Riley. He was a sort of mentor to me in Skull and Bones, you know. Helped get me on at the Agency.”

Dig appeared to be addressing her, yet his eyes were on her father as though he really intended the words for him. Riley tried to process what he was saying.

“Yes, Yorick used to be a very powerful man, before he became this pathetic, simpering, mindless shell sitting here in his own urine. And to think, he’s a Patriarch.”

“A what? What are you talking about? Dig, I don’t know what you’re playing at with this stroke story and luring me up here.”

“Don’t flatter yourself, Riley. You’re only a pawn in this game. This is between me and Yorick.”

 “Then why did you go to such lengths to get me here?” Riley placed her hands on her hips, trying to appear more in control than she felt. “It’s time for answers and no cock and bull story about Skull and Bones or my brother.”

His eyes remained on her father. “You’ve been asking me for the truth, darling, so here it is. Fourteen years ago, when I was getting started with the Agency, I got a call from one of the Patriarchs. They had a little problem. The son of one of their own was some sort of math genius.”

She stumbled back a step as though his words had delivered a physical blow. “Stop that. You’re lying,” she said. She wanted to cover his mouth, but she could not move any closer to him.

“The young man had found some documents while skulking about in his father’s study. Not only did he manage to decode them, but he was also able to extrapolate what they meant in the bigger picture.”

She thrashed her head from side to side saying, “No, no, no.”

Dig continued speaking to her, but staring at her father. “The son told his father that he intended to go public with it. Something had to be done, and the men your father associates with never get their own hands dirty.  They always call in someone else to clean up their messes. Someone like me.”

“No. You’re a goddamn liar,” she said, but she was thinking I slept with him – I slept with my brother’s murderer.  And she felt the acid rising in her throat.

He turned away from the old man and smiled at her. “It has to be unanimous, you know. Doesn’t it, Yorick? When the Patriarchs vote to have someone killed, I mean. What’s one life when there are dollars to be made, empires to build? It’s always about the money, the power. And in your father’s case, they rewarded him for his vote.” Dig turned back to her father and moved his face inches from the old man’s nose. “You earned first chair with that vote, didn’t you, Yorick?”

“Dig, shut up and get out of here.” Her voice came out in a whisper.

 “Couldn’t do the dirty work yourself, though, could you, Yorick? You always had me to call on. Well, all that’s finished now. I’m not your janitor anymore. Today, I’m taking your chair.”

Riley turned to the housekeeper. “Mrs. Wright, call the police. Tell them we have an intruder.”

Dig straightened up. “Silly girl,” he said.

The woman glanced at Dig and a look passed between them. Mrs. Wright came up behind her and clamped a large hand around Riley’s arm.

He laughed. “She works for us. Always has, you know. Someone had to keep an eye on this demented old fool – make sure he wasn’t babbling about former projects or trying to confess his part in his son’s murder.”

Dig clutch ed a handful of her father’s white hair and jerked his head back. “That was a stupid move, Yorick.”

Riley lunged forward, but the housekeeper grabbed her other arm and held her.

Diggory leaned in close and spoke in a hushed tone. “Death bed confessions won’t do your soul any good, old man. If there is a hell, your reservation is confirmed. And you know what? You’re about to find out —”

Riley struggled to free her arms.

The old man’s good eye stared at Dig. He hissed one word. “Bastard.”

Dig’s open hand smacked across her father’s face so hard the old man’s head bounced off the handle of the wheelchair.

“No! Stop!” Riley broke free and launched herself at him, but Dig was too fast.

CHAPTER SIXTY

The Library of Congress

March 28, 2008

Earlier that morning

10:55 a.m.

Cole Thatcher climbed out of the cab at the corner of Independence Avenue and First Street, pulled the collar of his yellow rain jacket tight around his neck, and hoisted his small duffel bag onto his shoulder. Even with his old fisherman’s knit wool sweater on, he was freezing in this weather. And though he had relented and put socks on, his boat shoes weren’t working to keep the cold out, either.

He stepped gingerly onto the icy sidewalk that led over to the foot of the steps and then looked up at the massive edifice: the Library of Congress. He’d told Theo he needed a bigger library, and this was the biggest library in the world. That it happened to be located in the same city where Riley was had not influenced his decision to drive Shadow Chaser from the Saintes to Pointe-à-Pitre all night in order to catch a predawn flight to San Juan then on to DC. Not a bit.

He trotted up the steps, eager to get inside out of the cold. Cole knew the library building well. His work on the Ocracoke Shipwreck Survey at East Carolina had brought him here on many occasions to search old maps, ships’ logs, personal accounts, newspaper articles, etc. as they’d worked to identify the thousands of ships that had foundered off Cape Hatteras.

Today was different, though, he thought as he nodded to the librarians behind the counter in the Main Reading Room. He headed for the stairs to the second floor and the Hispanic and Early American collections. Today, he was here to learn what he could about this End of Days business.

An hour later, Cole leaned back in his chair and sighed. This was getting him nowhere. There was far too much information on this Mayan Calendar. Most of what he’d been reading here had little to do with the sky-is-falling-mania he had read about on the Internet. He’d learned that the Mayan Calendar was also sometimes called the Aztec Calendar and it was all based on the Aztec Sun Stone that was discovered in Mexico City in 1790. In fact, though, the Mayan Calendar was really three calendars: the 260-day religious calendar, the solar calendar, which divides the years into 365 days, and the long count calendar. That’s the one, Cole discovered, that is supposed to end on 12/21/12. That calendar started counting off the days on Day One and continued to an end date. The Mayans noted all the important days in their history by that long count calendar. By correlating some long count dates inscribed in stone monuments of known Mayan historical events, archeologists were able to fix the start date for the long count as August 11, 3114 BC.

But how did that help him? It was all too confusing. He didn’t see how the Mayan long count calendar could relate to the 40-years calendar they had found on Dominica. He rubbed his hand across his forehead. His temples were throbbing and he hadn’t eaten anything since the night time run on Shadow Chaser up to Pointe-à-Pitre. They no longer served anything resembling food on airplanes.

He wanted to talk to Riley about this Mayan Calendar stuff. But more than that, he needed to know that she was okay. He reached into the pocket of his rain jacket and fingered the business card he had picked up on her boat. It only had an email address and a cell phone number. He checked his watch and saw that it was almost noon. He wasn’t sure she wanted to see him, so he was reluctant to call. She might be at the hospital. Probably was. But he could find out where she was staying. He knew that her father had worked for the US Foreign Service, and it was a good bet his name was Riley, too. How difficult could it be to locate his address? After all, here he was in the largest repository of information in the world – and there were plenty of computers available.

Twenty minutes later, Cole was riding in another cab, and he asked the driver to let him out a block past the address he had found for Richard Riley. The street was lined with two-story attached houses that looked like they were at least a hundred years old. He wanted to get a good look at their place first, so he would be able to watch it from down the street. He wasn’t sure yet what he intended to do. He wouldn’t be able to stay out here in this cold very long. Should he walk up and knock on the door? What if she answered? What would he say?

He paid the driver and climbed out onto the sidewalk. Theirs was the brick front with the bay window upstairs and the black iron gate that separated the little front yard from the street. He supposed it was a lovely neighborhood in the summer, but now the trees that lined the street stretched their bare black branches towards the sky like spindly thorns. It had started snowing during the drive, so Cole dropped his duffel and pulled the hood of his rain jacket up over his head. He cinched the string tight under his chin.

He was still standing there staring down the street at the house he presumed belonged to Riley’s father, when he saw a black Lincoln Town Car pull up from the opposite direction. The door to the back seat opened, and he recognized the man who got out. The man walked up to the front porch, and the door opened before he even knocked. It was the same man Theo had photographed on board the Brewsters’ boat, and the man Cole had last seen on Dominica ushering Riley into that taxi van.

He crossed the street and walked down closer to the two-story house, hoping to see something through the windows. He tried to look nonchalant so the neighbors wouldn’t think he was some kind of peeping tom. Through the upstairs window, he could make out the form of a person, a man he thought, sitting in a chair facing the window. There was another figure behind him. Cole swung open the gate and stepped into the front yard of the house. He could make out the old man clearly now. He was sitting in a wheelchair, and he appeared to be crying.

Then Cole recognized the hair and the profile of the woman standing behind him. Riley.

Her body was turned away from the window as though she were talking to someone else in the room. He saw another woman step up behind her and take her arm, then the man obscured his view.

Cole was trying to decide what he should do, knock on the door or wait and observe – when he heard her voice shout loud enough to penetrate to the cold outside air. Just two words.

“No! Stop!”