"Silent Thunder" - читать интересную книгу автора (Johansen Iris, Johansen Roy)

SEVEN

That had to be him.

Hannah stiffened in her chair at the coffeehouse window as she saw the tall, dark-haired man making his way down the pier.

There was something very familiar about that silhouette she'd stared at in those many photographs. He wore black jeans and a corded cream-colored sweater. Standard-issue Rugged Man of the Sea, she thought.

He boarded the trawler and disappeared inside.

After ten minutes, he reemerged and walked back up the pier. He moved with confidence and masculine grace. She tried to get a good look at his face, but it was getting dark. Damn.

He went inside the saloon.

What now? She could follow and get a good look at him in the bar.

She cast a glance back at his boat.

Or there might be one way to put an end to this. If he was a journalist or submarine buff, she'd probably know after a quick glance inside the trawler.

She packed up her laptop and walked out of the coffee shop. The night had brought even more mist, and the pier's wood planks shimmered from the peach-colored overhead lights. A lone buoy rang in the distance.

She was shivering. Nerves? It wasn't every night that she indulged in criminal trespassing. Or it could be the cold; the temperature had dropped a good ten degrees since she'd been inside. She stopped in front of the trawler and stared at it for a long moment.

Don't think. Just do it.

She climbed over the transom and pulled open the hatch.

Inside.

Dark, smelling of lemon wax and coffee.

She raised her key ring xenon flashlight and shined it around the cramped living quarters. The area was used efficiently, with almost every inch of wall space covered with shelving and corkboards.

Cotton sheets were stretched tightly over a narrow mattress. A military bedroll, she noted. She could have bounced quarters off it.

She turned toward a series of navigational charts plastered across the front bulkhead. Typical Eastern Seaboard charts, available for sale at any bait and tackle shop in town. She moved closer to look for any indication of the boat's recent travels.

She went rigid. "My God."

The charts were far from typical. They were filled with the same odd symbols she'd seen on the bulkhead of the Silent Thunder that night Conner had been killed. Only these navigational symbols were written with a variety of colored grease pencils. They could be other symbols or copies of the ones taken from the submarine. Which meant-

Holy shit.

It meant she was in bad trouble. She had to get the hell out of here.

The hatch flew open!

She caught only a glimpse of cream-colored sweater stretched over broad shoulders before she instinctively barreled forward and tried to get past the man standing in the doorway.

"What the hell are-" He didn't finish the question as his arm flew out to stop her. "Stop struggling. You don't-"

He grunted as her fist connected with his stomach. "Damn you." He knocked her down, dove on top, and straddled her. His hands grasped her wrists and pinned them to the floor. "I've no compunction about beating up on women when they exhibit lethal tendencies. Just give me an excuse."

God, he was strong. She could feel the muscles of his thighs rock hard against her hips. She was a strong woman herself, and he was holding her still with no real effort. "Let me go." Jesus, that sounded as futile as that panicky rush she'd made at him. Stupid. Use your brains, dammit. "You won't hurt me. It would be dumb. Do you think I'd come here without letting someone know I was going to do it?"

"Indeed? And did they know you were going to try to burgle my poor vessel? Very poor judgment. I'd be within my rights to shoot an intruder."

He did have a slight accent, but it wasn't Irish or Scottish. The accent was the same as the Russian naval officers she'd worked with. "I wasn't going to rob you. I just wanted to have a look around." Christ, she felt helpless. She couldn't stand being held down like this. Go on the attack. "And I think you know that, Captain Danforth. I think you know who I am and why I'm here. Either call the police and have me arrested for trespassing, or get the hell off me so we can talk."

He was silent and then chuckled. "May I point out you probably wouldn't be in this position if you'd indicated you wanted conversation earlier, Ms. Bryson? I'm the one who was assaulted. I was only defending myself."

He did know who she was and was making no attempt to hide it. "And how was I to know what you'd do? I've been attacked every time I've turned around lately. Maybe you had something to do with that too."

"And maybe I didn't."

"Then tell me why the hell you have those damn scribblings on that navigational map."

She could feel him tense against her. "You're in a very vulnerable position to discuss the matter."

"That's right, I've nothing to lose. You'd know I saw them anyway. If you're going to kill me, you'll kill me. If you're not one of those bastards who killed Conner, I'm going to keep after you until I get answers."

He hesitated and then swung off her and stood up. "Then by all means, I must let you get your breath before you start interrogating me."

She felt a rush of relief. God, she'd been scared. "I don't know if I can get my breath." She flinched as she sat up. "I think you cracked a rib."

He shook his head. "No, I only bruised you."

"You seem very sure of that." She ignored the hand he offered and got to her feet. "You must indulge in this kind of violence frequently."

"Enough to be able to gauge the damage." He turned and moved across the cabin. "While you, on the other hand, were miserably inept."

"You took me by surprise. I acted on impulse and didn't mean to-" She was defending herself, she realized in disgust. "I hate violence, and I don't need to make excuses for not being good at it. There's too much-" She stopped. He had turned on the light and she got her first good look at him. A shock of dark hair generously flicked with gray, blue eyes lined at the corners from squinting into the sun, high broad cheekbones. Not a classically handsome man, by any means. Yet it was difficult to look away from that face.

"Acting on impulse is foolish. One must always make excuses for being foolish." He opened the cabinet and took down a bottle. "Would you like a drink? You look like you could use one."

"No, I don't want a drink." She stared at him in frustration. He was perfectly calm, almost offhand, and it bugged the hell out of her. "I want to know about those symbols."

"They're navigational symbols as you guessed. Samsovian school." He poured himself a whiskey. "A bit esoteric but hardly criminal."

"But it's criminal if you kill to get your hands on them."

"True." He gestured to the map. "But if you study them I'm sure you'll realize they're not the same ones on the bulkhead of the Silent Thunder. Go ahead, take a look." He sat down in a chair at the desk. "And you'll see I'm just a poor fisherman charting my path."

She made a rude noise and heard him laugh as she crossed to stare at the map.

She was too upset to concentrate enough to bring up the full memory of those markings on the bulkhead, but now that she studied the map, she could see that they weren't the same. He was right, dammit. Similar but not the same. She turned to face him. "It's different. But that doesn't mean-" She wearily shook her head. "I don't know what the hell it means. I just know that you're probably as crooked as everyone else, and I want to know why you were following the Silent Thunder from port to port."

"Admiration for an exceptional vessel?"

"Damn you."

His smile faded. "I believe that sounded a bit quavery. You do need a drink. But I'll give you coffee instead." He turned to the galley. "Wait on deck while I make it. You'll feel safer than down here with me."

"I don't want coffee."

"But you want answers, and you've found out just enough to be troublesome to me. That might induce me to give you what you want."

"Or it might induce you to permanently remove the source of the trouble."

"I could have done that anytime since you barged onto my boat." He opened the coffee tin. "Wait on deck."

She hesitated, staring at his back. She didn't like orders, and he had been entirely too much in control of the situation. But refusing a possible breakthrough to make a token protest would have been brainless.

She turned and headed for the hatch.

She was sitting on the deck, her arms linked around her knees, when he came out of the cabin ten minutes later. "You took a long time."

"I thought you needed it." He handed her the mug of coffee. "Black. That's how you take it, right?"

"How do you know that?"

"It's not exactly classified information." He sat down opposite her and leaned against the rail. "I guess I must have picked it up somewhere along the way."

"Along the way to where? From where? And why should you know anything about me?"

"We have a mutual acquaintance." He lifted his glass to his lips. "And I have a boundless curiosity."

"Drop this enigmatic crap. Am I supposed to guess what the hell you're talking about?"

"Enigmatic crap," he repeated. "Interesting phrase. It brings up a rather bizarre vision." He held up his hand as she opened her lips. "But I've no desire to indulge in that kind of pretentious bullshit. Life's too short, and by nature I'm basically a simple man."

She studied him. His words had the ring of truth, but she'd judge him to be nowhere near simple. "Yeah, sure."

He chuckled. "You're right. I own to being convoluted on occasion, but that's by choice, not by instinct. Sometimes it's necessary."

"Like it was necessary to follow Silent Thunder from port to port."

"Exactly." He sipped his whiskey. "And like it was necessary for you to try your hand at burglary."

"I wasn't going to steal anything. I just had to be sure-I had to eliminate possibilities and I thought I might-" She was defending herself again. She wouldn't put it past him to have manipulated her into that posture. All the time she had been talking to him, she'd been aware of the easy confidence, the presence, and the sense of power he emitted. "There was a chance that you might be a reporter or someone else completely innocent."

"I haven't been innocent since I was nine years old. But reporters are seldom completely innocent either. I might be-"

"A reporter who's familiar with those Samsovian coordinates? A reporter who knew coordinates were scribbled on the bulkhead even though it wasn't public knowledge? A reporter who's lived on this boat for at least the last three years? A reporter who knows I drink black coffee?"

He was silent a moment. "You've been asking questions. Young Sarks?"

"He was helpful."

"I imagine he was. He likes the pretty ladies."

"And he says they like you."

"Of course, they do. Most women have tender hearts." He smiled mockingly. "And I'm obviously a pitifully lonely man. All I have to do with my life is follow an old submarine around."

There was nothing pitiful about this man. If women were drawn to him, it was because of the mature strength and confidence he exuded. "You're joking. But I know it was you following the sub. Why?"

He didn't answer.

"Dammit, you said that you'd give me what I want. I do know enough to make it difficult for you. I'll go to every newspaper in town, I'll talk to the police. I'll go to Congressman Preston and let him swing his weight around. I'll follow you and dog your footsteps until you-"

His phone rang.

"Pardon me for interrupting this fascinating oratory. I'll be right with you." He answered the phone and listened. "Yes, you're right, she probably did learn too much for comfort from those media files. I'll take care of it right away. As a matter of fact, she's sitting four feet away from me right now." He listened again. "Stop sputtering. I've no intention of disposing of her. Though your clumsiness almost succeeded in doing that several times. If you'd stopped her before she got to this point, I might have left it in your hands. Now she's mine, Bradworth." He hung up.

She inhaled sharply. "Bradworth?"

"Drink your coffee. It will get cold."

"Screw the coffee. You're working with Bradworth?"

"No, but we're working toward a common goal on parallel paths." He tilted his head consideringly. "Maybe."

"Then you're with the U.S. government?"

"No."

"The Russian government?"

"Absolutely not." He got to his feet. "I believe it may be a good idea for us to up anchor and take a little voyage down the coast if you want to talk. Bradworth may be nervous and send someone to check to make sure I haven't dropped you overboard."

"How can I be sure you won't?"

"Get off and walk away." He started the engine. "It's up to you."

But he knew she wouldn't do it, she realized in frustration. She could see it in his expression, the confidence in the way he moved. He was totally in control of himself and his whole damn world.

"I'm out of here. In another minute you won't have a choice," he said. "Make up your mind."

"Shut up." She got to her feet. "I'm not going anywhere, and you know it. Get going, you arrogant son of a bitch."

Twenty minutes later he anchored at a cove down the coast and turned to face her. "Here we are. Deserted. Dark. Lonely. Just the place for me to ply my fiendish way with you."

"Is that supposed to intimidate me? You sound more like a rapist than a murderer."

He snapped his fingers. "Foiled again. It's the nuances of the English language. There are far too many subtleties."

"And you're neither English nor American, are you?" She stared skeptically at him. "Henry Danforth?"

"That's what my driver's license says."

"Papers can be easily forged. Particularly by someone with connections with government agencies."

"You believe Bradworth furnished me with them?"

"Did he?"

"Yes." He opened the door of the hatch. "As well as quite a few other identities. I'm a man of a thousand passports. Well, maybe not a thousand but certainly several. Danish, French, Italian…"

"But you're Russian."

"Oh, yes. I have a Russian passport too."

"Under what name?"

"Nicolas Kirov."

"And is that your true name?"

"Of course not." He started down the steps. "You might as well come down and let me freshen your coffee. It's chilly out here, and the security blanket factor's gone for you."

She followed him. "You're not going to tell me your real name?"

"I didn't say that." He crossed the cabin and poured coffee into two mugs. "I'll probably have to share a few items of information with you. But I'm a private man, and you mustn't expect a bonanza to pour forth in a glorious waterfall."

"I already know Bradworth is our mutual acquaintance. But I can't see him sharing information about the way I drink my coffee."

"No, it wasn't in your dossier. But I spent a little time observing you and probably stored it away. I don't have a photographic memory like you, but I've trained myself to remember details." He handed her the coffee. "You like everything plain and straightforward. Your job, your relationships… your coffee."

"Observing me? What the hell were you doing watching me?"

"You were working on the Silent Thunder," he said simply. "I had to keep an eye on you."

"Why?"

"It was possible you'd stumble across something you weren't meant to find. I had to be there."

"To save Conner and me?"

He didn't answer.

"You bastard. You and Bradworth were sitting there waiting for something to happen, waiting for them to come. Isn't that true?"

He was silent a moment. "Bradworth set up the job with the museum. He thought it was worth the risk to get a qualified expert down there to take the sub apart. He thought I was wrong about the sub being followed. He could have been right."

"Followed by whom?"

"Pavski." He sat down and sipped his coffee. "Very ugly, very criminal, and very desirous of finding that map scrawled on the bulkhead."

"Why?"

"It would lead him to a payload that would set him up in a kingly fashion for the rest of his life."

"Buried treasure?"

"In a manner of speaking."

"What kind of treasure?"

He shrugged. "Not the kind you found on the Titanic." He smiled. "By the way, I admired your work there. I understand that those tiny submersibles of yours were able to show us four times more of the interior bow section than any previous expedition. And I was fascinated by those digital 3-D virtual models that your data made possible. You're the best. That's why I recommended you to Bradworth."

"Damn you, I wish you'd been run over by a truck before you opened your mouth. Conner would still be alive."

His smile faded. "I can't deny it. If I'd let Bradworth bring in his naval engineers, they would have been dead instead of your brother. I never meant it to happen. I hoped it wouldn't."

"Hope?" She stared at him incredulously. "What good is hope? Why didn't you do something?"

"I warned Bradworth. I tried to make sure-" He shrugged. "But you're right. I'm guilty. Bradworth is guilty. Good intentions are never enough. You have a perfect right to detest us."

"You're damn right I do." She was shaking with rage. "Conner was a good man in the prime of his life. He deserved to live."

He nodded. "He seemed to be a fine man, and I could tell you were very close."

"By your spying on us."

"Yes." He turned away. "You're upset. I'll take you back to the dock and drop you off."

"The hell you will." Her hands clenched into fists. "I'm not going anywhere until you tell me how I can get my hands on this Pavski."

"I don't know."

"Dammit, you have to know something about him. You knew he was following the sub."

"I suspected it."

"Why?"

"One of his associates was seen in Helsinki."

"If you know where this associate is, then you can locate Pavski."

He shook his head.

"Why not?"

"Unfortunately, his associate is quite dead."

Frustration seethed through her. "Dammit. Dammit. Dammit."

"We'll talk more later. Here's my cell phone number." He scrawled the number on the back of a napkin and headed for the hatch. "I'll give Bradworth a chance to get the benefit of his share of the venom you're shooting at me. I'll call and tell him to meet you at the dock."

She crammed the napkin in her pocket. "I don't want to talk to Bradworth. Do you think I trust him either? He's told me nothing but lies since I met him."

"But you know he works for your government. Therefore, he's accountable."

"And you're not accountable?"

He didn't answer. "Come back and see me after you've talked to him and had time to absorb and adjust."

"To the little you've told me?"

"It's enough for now."

"The devil it is. It's nothing. And you won't even tell me your name."

"I'll tell you if it will make you feel better." He opened the door. "Dimitri Ivanov."

Ivanov.

She stared at the door after it closed behind him.

The name was familiar. She had heard it or read it…

Ivanov.

Bradworth was standing on the dock when they reached Gloucester. "This was a mistake," he said as he helped Hannah from the boat. "You should have discussed this with me before you came here."

She pulled away from him. "So that you could lie or talk me out of it?"

"So that I could keep you from running unnecessary risks." He glanced at Kirov. "You were wise to bring her back and turn her over to us. We won't tolerate your-"

"I'm not turning her over to you," Kirov said. "I told you she was mine, and nothing has changed. All I'm doing is letting her vent some anger and try to get a few answers from a source she has at least a minimal trust in. But I'm not letting you drown her in red tape or get her killed because you're inept. You had your chance." He turned to Hannah. "I'll be here until tomorrow night if you want to see me." He went down the hatch.

"Son of a bitch." Bradworth was staring after him. "Bastard."

He was afraid of Kirov, Hannah realized in shock. It was there in his expression-anger and frustration and fear.

"I'm sure he is," Hannah said as she turned away and strode down the pier. "And so are you, Bradworth. Let's get out of here. I'm going back to Boston. Follow me and meet me at my condo."

"I'll have one of my men drive your car back. We can talk on the way."

"I don't want to be in the same car with you for that long."

"I can understand your resentment, but I only did my duty as I saw-"

"You can't understand. Damn your duty. Damn you." She opened the driver's door of her car. "Meet me at my condo."

He hesitated, then as she started her car, he turned and hurried toward his vehicle.

Draw a deep breath. She had to get to Boston, and she didn't want to pile up against a tree because she was so angry she couldn't see straight. That would be a victory for those bastards who'd killed Conner.

Pavski. She had a name now. Not much more, but it was a start.

And she had another name.

Ivanov.