The Black Silent (8 page)

More important, he figured he was about to learn more about Frick and Crew.

I
t had taken some doing for Ben Anderson to make it to his boat. He'd had to stab a man with a letter opener on the roof of the Sanker Foundation and watch him plunge to the ground, then use the balcony at the far end of the building to get himself down to safety.

Now Ben was to meet his friend Lattimer Gibbons here at the marina at the far south end of Friday Harbor at 1:00 p.m. sharp, and there was nothing he could do until Gibbons showed.

From his position low in the cockpit of the boat, he glanced at his watch, impatient to cast off before he was caught. In recent months, Ben had taken many precautions, to avoid the detection of all of his activities. One of the things he'd done was to "sell" this boat. In reality, he had simply moved it to the far end of Friday Harbor and signed it over to the Arc Foundation, changing its name to
Alice B.,
apropos of nothing in particular. Documentation was now in the name of a corporation owned by a friend.

They changed the canvas colors on the flybridge and the dinghy, scuffed up her sides, and made her look like any other badly used Carver.

He had dive gear aboard and the keys in the ignition. He started the motors to let them warm, centered the rudders, watched the oil pressure, and glanced back at the exhaust.

Then he turned on the electronics, including a sophisticated graphic display depth sounder and forward-looking sonar uncommon on most private yachts. He switched on the GPS and chart plotter and pulled up the Nobeltec bathyscaphe chart for the sometimes treacherous President Channel. One of his biggest concerns remained that he could not reach Haley. As he imagined her anxiety, the pain of it was almost more than he could bear.

Soon he would find a way to make contact. Another call on her cell produced only the voice mail. With his cell phone nearly out of battery power, he called Sarah and got no answer. It was too dangerous to tell her how to meet him by voice mail. There wasn't another phone that he dared use until he reached his destination.

It was of some comfort to him that Haley had a friend like Sam. Sam had been into very heavy things in life. Ben didn't know the details, but he understood the general gist.

Without ever having had a terribly explicit discussion, Ben knew that Sam would protect Haley with his life.
But where is Lattimer?

Ben made another check of the dock. Two men were walking toward him in heavy parkas and casual slacks—odd wear for a November afternoon on this part of the dock.

There weren't that many sizable boats and these guys didn't look quite dressed for a wintertime ride in a runabout. Furthermore, they seemed fixed on the
Alice B.
and that made him nervous. He hadn't time to cast off the lines and motor out; moreover, he needed Lattimer to drop him off.

The men invited themselves right up and into the cockpit. One man was broad and heavy, like an NFL linebacker. The other seemed more wiry but still oversize and broad-shouldered, plenty big enough to enforce his will. There would be no wrestling match between them and Ben Anderson that lasted longer than ten seconds.

"Hello there," said the big man. "You Ben Anderson?" "Yes."

"I'm Special Agent Stu Farley and this is Special Agent Len Morrison. We'd like a word with you."

Ben went weak in the knees. He wasn't liking this, and right after being a near murder victim, he trusted no one unless he knew for certain whom he was talking with.

Climbing down from the bridge, he kept his cool and shook hands affably.

They showed him badges that said
Federal Bureau of Investigation.
It would be illegal to impersonate a federal officer, but that wouldn't stop someone who was onto Ben's research.

"What can I do for you fellas?"

The bigger one, Farley, continued to do the talking. "We understand that you have some insight into some things that concern the United States government."

"You'll have to be more specific, I'm afraid. That statement would apply to just about anyone, wouldn't it?"

"Not everyone's a molecular biologist whose work has national-security implications."

Government or not, they knew what they were talking about. Ben chose a direct approach. "Well, my work doesn't concern the government very much or else the government would be responding to my requests."

"From what we understand," said Farley, "the government was corresponding with you about your research and hit kind of a sticking point. We'd like to talk to you about that."

"My research or your hypothetical sticking point?"

"Both, I'd say."

"Are you officially investigating me?"

"Investigating. Negotiating. Following up. Call it what you want."

"I want a lawyer."

"What we're asking for, Dr. Anderson, is your help."

"I gave my stipulations for a discussion of our information," said Ben, "and so far the government can't seem to comply."

"We understand that you're into all sorts of things that could affect national security.

The government can't merely 'comply' in such a case. You were asked to meet with the director of Homeland Security. And the assistant director of the FBI and the head of NOAA. And if that weren't enough, you were promised a meeting with the National Security Advisor—if it were determined that you knew what you were talking about."

"I gave my conditions."

"Your conditions might take an act of congress." Farley's voice remained calm. "We are a government of laws. The executive branch can't just issue proclamations."

Ben knew he should just shut up, but he couldn't resist giving them a piece of his mind, now that he had government representatives in person. "The government didn't just want a talk. They wanted me to give them hard information. Facts, figures, the substance of my work. I'm not signing over my half of the research and all my rights until I have certain assurances, for the benefit of the public."

"You're playing poker with the government, Dr. Anderson, and we've got all the chips.

With everything you're into, you must have broken some law someplace." Farley's voice deepened subtly. "We don't want to negotiate that way, but if you force us, we'll have to."

"Gentlemen," Ben said with finality, "I know you've got a job to do and I appreciate the government's concern. I'm sure we'll work it out and build a consensus, but it will take time. I'm not ready to talk until the government meets my terms or equivalent terms that provide the same protections."

At that, Morrison, the smaller agent, who still stood over six feet tall, spoke with the authority of the person really in charge. "I'm afraid we're going to have to insist. We want you to take us to your gathering place over on Orcas. We understand you have some work to do over there."

Ben's gut tightened at the information contained in that statement. He thought for a moment, and he didn't like the conclusion.

"You're not from the government."

"We are," said Phillips. "It's just that the government is concerned, and we're not exactly going to play by the rule book on this one."

"You're impersonating federal officers. Now, both of you, get off the boat."

Morrison stepped back, in order to let Farley advance in the cramped quarters. The tall man's face was a mask of sympathy and regret. "Well, Dr. Anderson, I'm afraid I have to decline. We have some handcuffs here and we're going to put them on you, one way or another."

"I told you to go after Sam." Prick's veins were bulging in his neck, but Crew refused to budge.

Sam had disappeared out the door seconds ago.

"Follow him, Officer, and put him in the car," Frick said to Crew. "That's an order."

"Please stay," Haley said.

"With all respect I think I should stay here," Crew said to Frick.

"With all respect," Frick mocked, "get your ass after him. Your career is dead if you refuse a direct order from the officer in charge."

At that moment Detective Ranken came in.

"Ranken here will stay with me and Ms. Walther until Crew gets 'Mr. Multiple Names'

handcuffed and in his cruiser."

Crew looked worried. "I'll go check on him."

"You go with him and make sure he does it," Frick said to Ranken. "And run a check on Mr. Robert Chase."

"I thought you already did that," Ranken said. "And I thought I was staying here."

"I ran the NCIC database, not WATCH. Run the state. That's an order."

Ranken didn't hide his resentment, but he walked out the door.

The instant Ranken was gone, Frick turned to Haley, who took an instinctive step away from him.

"We have this little rubber room over at the jail and tonight, in the middle of the night, it's gonna be just you and me in that room," Frick whispered. "You don't want to be in that room with me."

"I don't want to be anywhere with you."

"That smart mouth won't last the night."

Frick grabbed Haley's wrist, threw her to the ground, and twisted her arm behind her back. As she knelt in incredible pain, he got down on his haunches behind her, close to her ear, and applied more pressure on her arm. With his other hand on the back of her head, he shoved her face into the carpet. Pain turned to bursts of electrical agony from her twisting nerves and burning skin.

Suddenly Frick released her and she heard an animal groan. Haley flipped to the side and saw Sam with his right hand like a claw burrowing into Frick's shoulder at the base of his neck. Frick contorted his face, unable to make a sound now, merely gasping as Sam pinned his gun in its holster with his left hand. Frick managed to take a swing and connect with Sam's jaw, prompting Sam to pull Frick's gun.

"I'm gonna have to ask you to stop that," Crew said, back in the room, his gun aimed at Sam.

"Sure." Sam stood down while Frick, looking crippled in the right arm, began swearing in long strings and massaging his clavicle area.

"You're under arrest for assault," Frick said through gritted teeth. "Both of you."

Haley scrambled to her feet, her arm still in pain.

"Your fellow officer is abusing Haley," Sam said to Crew. "He's violating her rights and hurting her. What are you going to do about it?"

"Stay right here," Crew said, sounding determined.

"I will resume my questioning." Frick began trying to speak through the pain as if nothing had happened. "Take Mr. Chase here to the car. He's under arrest."

"I'm not saying a word," Haley said.

Crew lowered his gun. "I believe that ends the questioning."

B
en rode on the flybridge of the
Alice B.
with his hands cuffed behind his back. Farley, the bigger fellow, and Morrison wore equally grim expressions, saying nothing.

Although this was a drab morning that had brought dire circumstances, the small islands in this inland sea had not lost their unending charm. They had an aura of the wild and the naturally beautiful; the churning, flowing blue salt water running with the tides; the sheer, angled rocks plunging nearly vertically into the sea; the gnarled, old Rocky Mountain junipers and tall stately firs; the incomparable wildflowers and marvelous creatures both in the sea and out; all of it magnificent for Ben.

With the ease of a practiced mariner, Farley activated the next waypoint on a route that would take them past the Wasp Islands. In the distance the isles looked like a flotilla of dark boats on opening day of yachting season.

If he kept them on this route, they would travel on the inside of Jones Island and in about thirty-five minutes arrive in President Channel. Their apparent knowledge of Ben's secret world was eerie, and Ben had no explanation for it.

Ditto his dealings with the government. He wondered what else these men knew, and who might have told them.

After a moment's private discussion they turned to him.

"We want you to tell us two things: First, exactly where is the gathering place? Second, where are the ARCLES files, including the formulas for the Arc regimen?"

It shook him to the core that they even knew enough to ask the second question. These were no more government men than Frick was an archangel. Ben wondered why they'd even bothered with the lie.

"I'm not going to answer," Ben said. "Question one or two."

Morrison turned around, muttered something, and pulled out a semiautomatic pistol.

With matter-of-fact assurance he put the cold steel barrel to Ben's forehead.

"If you don't answer the question, you're of no use to us."

Ben closed his eyes and pondered the implications of any disclosure. They could actually be agents—agents of a foreign government. More likely they were with Sanker.

Or, God help him, American Bayou Technologies. Or they could represent someone else altogether.

"Shoot me."

Crew escorted Sam and Haley to the patrol car.

"I have to put handcuffs on you," Crew said, "and to advise you of your rights. But I promise I won't leave you alone until we find the undersheriff."

"Get real," Haley said, as if she were chiding a brother.

"Do you really think Haley conspired to kill Ben Anderson?" Sam asked.

"I don't have a choice," Crew said. "I'm doing what Sergeant Frick ordered."

"You might ask him what his probable cause is," Sam responded. "And then you might ask him about the crime he's here to commit."

Crew sighed. "Here's how I'm trying to think about it: I'm asking for your cooperation to assist us in an investigation."

Neither Sam nor Haley bothered to respond.

Crew fingered the cuffs. "Let me try the undersheriff again."

Sam heard something behind them. He turned and saw Frick walking up the path. Sam supposed he'd never been far behind. Frick had his own pistol holstered and Sam's gun in his hand.

"This is not a tea party, Deputy. Cuff them."

"That's not a good idea," Sam said. "It's an illegal arrest."

"It's a simple job," Frick said quickly. "Taking the suspects to the station. Can you handle that job, Crew?"

Crew looked ready to cry. "I was wondering about probable cause, because-—"