The Gamma Option (20 page)

“A young pilot flying a Ventura caught sight of them on routine patrol and called for a rescue effort without going through channels.”

“Bold young man.”

“He was praised for it, but it’s my guess he had the boys in Washington seething. Only three hundred of the twelve hundred crew members survived, but a day or two more would have claimed them as well.”

“Seems to me, Hank, that our government was determined to make sure no trace of the
Indianapolis
ever made it back, crew included. That Japanese sub that sank her did Uncle Sam and Harry Truman a whopping big favor.”

“That’s a ludicrous proposition. No one even thought to consider it.”

“Until now,” McCracken told him.

To Evira the fresh air and sunlight had never felt more welcome on her face. After four days of being confined to Kourosh’s small room, she at last felt well enough to venture outside. Kourosh had learned that the general was hosting a gala dinner party for the highest ranking Iranian officials in his continued attempt to reunify the country. The dinner was scheduled for tomorrow, which meant Evira had only today to acclimate herself to the setting and prepare a plan. With the maid’s uniform the boy had stolen from a laundry, she could get inside through the servants’ entrance and blend with others on duty. She would have to go in weaponless, though, because a thorough search of anyone entering the palace grounds seemed a certainty. But finding a weapon did not concern her as much as the chance that one of the supervisors might realize she didn’t belong. She would have to hope the hectic pace of such a huge event would be sufficient cover.

That morning Kourosh had supplied her with heavy, drab clothes, including the typical shawl and veil of an impoverished Iranian woman. Many such women lingered outside the walls of Hassani’s palace these days. It caused more trouble to shoo the people away, so the Revolutionary Guardsmen let them stay most of the time.

The hardest task before them was getting there. The Niavarin district was three hours from Naziabad under present conditions. Kourosh led her on a long walk to the nearest bus stop, where her heart sank at the sight of the dozens in line ahead of them.

“Make believe you’re blind,” he instructed her.

“Blind?”

“Do it! Hurry! Before we’re noticed!”

Evira did her best. The boy pretended to be her son, and because of her handicap even the poor of Tehran let them go to the front of the line. Furthermore, once on board the jam-packed bus, they were given seats. Four more bus changes followed with long walks in between. Finding herself utterly exhausted, Evira could do nothing but rely on already depleted reserves of energy; she began to fear she would not have the strength to complete her mission.

Secretly she was hoping she and Kourosh would run into one of the “students” who had taught the boy English and given him those comic books. In the back of her mind the anomalous presence of significant numbers of Israelis in the city continued to nag at her. Who were they? What were they there for? Her sources in Mossad knew of no operation, and she was unable to imagine what a small complement of Israelis could accomplish anyway.

“Here we are,” Kourosh told her. “You can look up now. Nobody’s watching.”

Evira turned her eyes slowly upward toward the main entrance of the royal palace. From this far away, the fifteen-foot security wall obscured much of the white-stone structure. But the distance could not hide the fact that Kourosh’s drawings had not done justice to the scope of the complex. Her heart sank at the huge amount of territory, gardens and greenery, that lay between the wall and the palace itself. Already she was rethinking her plans. Making use of the servant’s uniform remained critical, but clearly she needed a new scheme to gain access.

What would Blaine McCracken do?

Take matters one step at a time, to begin with. He would think only as far ahead as the next corner. Alternatives always presented themselves. The key was to keep the mind open enough to seize the proper one.

“You said there were tunnels running beneath the palace,” she said to Kourosh. “What if you found me an entrance to them? Could I get into the palace that way?”

The boy shrugged. “If you didn’t get lost. The chances you would are too great. And even if you succeeded—”

“Here now,” a husky voice said from behind them, “what have we here?”

Evira went back into her blind woman act and grasped Kourosh’s shoulder.

“This blind hag your mother, young one?” a second man asked, this one bearded and smelly, bigger than the first.

“Lucky to be blind, too, she is, so she can’t see how ugly you are,” Kourosh responded.

The first one laughed and then the bigger one joined in.

“You’ve got lots of spunk, don’t you, young one? Need some discipline, though, you do.” He winked to his fellow. “And then we’ll see about your mother.”

His hand lashed out at Kourosh, knuckles whipping toward the boy’s cheek. At the last, the very last, Evira moved her fingers from Kourosh’s shoulder and grabbed the hand in midair. She twisted the captured wrist violently and the bone cracked in an instant, drawing a howl of agony from the big man. The smaller one lunged at her and Evira countered with a foot that lodged squarely and expertly in his groin, doubling him over.

“You shouldn’t have made her mad,” Kourosh yelled after them, already leading his blind mother down the street again.

Chapter 17

BART JOYCE’S ESTABLISHMENT,
the Cityside Deli and Restaurant, was located in the Quincy Market–Faneuil Hall complex of outdoor shops on Boston’s south side. The cab left McCracken off on Congress Street and he stepped out into an unseasonably warm May day. The area was packed with people, and Blaine noticed several milling about behind him near the monster truck
Godzilla
,
which was displayed on a brick island to advertise the upcoming car show at the Boston Garden.

McCracken tempted fate with a daring dash in front of speeding vehicles and approached the statue of Samuel Adams that eternally greeted visitors at the entrance to the complex. It seemed to him that Adams’s granite eyes were leering at
Godzilla
across the street, as if resenting the monster truck for infringing on his territory. Blaine tapped the statue’s base tenderly to reassure it before heading for the cobblestone walk that would take him to the Cityside.

Faneuil Hall had become a model for other developments like it all across the country, combining strong historic elements with modern shopping convenience. The colonial buildings, restored to their original beauty, housed a variety of shops ranging from food and clothing to electronics and tourist knickknacks. Though Faneuil Hall is the title normally attributed to the entire complex, it actually makes up only a single large building just beyond Congress Street. Blaine passed it as he moved into the more expansive Quincy Market, formed by three parallel buildings separated by twin three-hundred-yard cobblestone walkways, each about thirty yards wide.

People moved in all directions around him, strolling, window shopping, emerging from stores with bags in hand, or relaxing on benches eating cookies or ice cream. Blaine continued to ease by them until a sign finally alerted him to the Cityside Deli and Restaurant over to his left in the center building. A large canopy stretched over a host of outdoor tables that looked across at the stores forming the South Market. Even at this midafternoon hour few vacancies could be found, and waitresses shuffled agilely in the aisles balancing trays of drinks and sandwiches.

McCracken moved up to the cash register and waited for a couple to pay their check before leaning over toward the hostess behind the counter.

“Is Bart Joyce around?”

“I think he’s in the office. Who should I say is here?”

“He won’t know me. Tell him it’s a personal matter and that it’s important.”

The hostess agreeably picked up a telephone, hit two numbers, and spoke briefly into the receiver.

“He’ll be right up,” she said, looking back at McCracken.

It was two minutes later when Blaine heard a voice at his side say, “Hi, I’m Bart Joyce. What can I do for you?”

Joyce might have traveled the world as a twenty-two-year-old bos’n’s mate, but today he was all Boston. His pronunciation of “Bart” sounded more like “Baaaaaht,” and he looked the part as well—big and stocky with a belly draped over his belt and the start of a seasonal New England tan showing on his bald dome and oversized jowls.

Blaine showed him the ID Hank Belgrade had furnished him to make such encounters simpler. “Can we talk somewhere, Mr. Joyce?”

Joyce inspected the ID and stiffened suspiciously. “There’s a table open over there by the chain.”

“Somewhere more private would be my choice.”

“This’ll do.”

Blaine followed Bart Joyce to the table squeezed between other patrons on one side and strollers down the South Market on the other.

“You got no business with me anymore,” Joyce snapped harshly when they were seated.

“Something changed.”

“Oh yeah? What’s that?”

“Why don’t you tell me about loading the
Indianapolis
in San Francisco prior to her departure for Tinian.”

Bart Joyce squeezed his features into a mean stare. “Wait a minute, what’s this all about?”

“It’s about exactly what I just asked you.”

He shook his head. “You’re no spook, least not in the traditional sense, but even if you were, you wouldn’t give two shits about something I did over forty years ago.”

“So what am I?”

“Some reporter or something digging for yet another story on the late, great
Indianapolis
.
I eat assholes like you for breakfast. I’m gonna do you a favor and let you leave now on your own.”

Joyce might have been about to stand up. Instead of waiting to find out, McCracken jammed a hand across the table and pinned his forearm in place. What surprised Joyce more than the move itself was the fact that his arm was already starting to go numb from the pressure the man was giving it.

“Now why don’t you stay awhile? See, you were on the right track before. I am a spook, just not in the traditional sense.”

“What sense, then?”

“I work for myself. I normally only take on assignments I believe in. This time it was different. This time I was forced into helping some people I don’t particularly like, which tends to put me in a very bad mood.” Blaine’s eyes narrowed like a Doberman ready to attack and he gave Joyce just a little extra pressure on the arm. “You wanna know something, Mr. Joyce? You can kill a man in under two seconds with your hands if you know the right ways, and there are plenty of them. I could reach across the table, prove it to you, and be gone from here without anyone raising an eyebrow from their chicken soup. That’s not what I have in mind, though. I just want you to understand that I’m plenty pissed off already. People talking tough when I want to talk serious piss me off even more. But what gets me the most pissed off of all is innocent people dying for no reason, which is just what’s going to happen unless you and I have a heart-to-heart right now.”

Joyce threw the arm that was still his up in a gesture of conciliation. “Look, buddy, I got a past I’d rather forget and I get kind of ornery when strangers make me remember. Let’s start over fresh, okay?”

“Let’s start with the
Indianapolis
,”
Blaine said, and let go of his arm.

Joyce shook the limb to bring the circulation back. “What do you want to know?”

“You were on the loading crew, correct?”

“Absolutely. Never been more fucking frightened in my whole life. I mean that was a hell of a thing we were loading, right? Fucking atomic bombs. Nobody knew what they were back then. Be like fucking death rays are now. We didn’t load the bombs themselves; lots of people think we did but we didn’t. All it was were the unassembled parts, most of them crated up real tight.” Joyce leaned a little forward, defenses lowering. “Now look, I know you’re probably here because somewhere along the line somebody told you there were more than two bombs on board the
Indy
.
But trust me, there weren’t. And even if there were, they’re buried with her.”

“Somebody found her.”

Joyce’s face seemed to droop. “What?”

“Why the concern? Why worry if two bombs were all you loaded? History can certainly account for both of them.”

“Don’t play games with me, okay, mister? Lay it out plain and simple.”

“Fair enough. I know something else was loaded onto the
Indianapolis
besides those unassembled atomic bombs. I know because whatever it was was salvaged from the wreck about a year ago.”

“My God …”

“Plain and simple, here’s the story. There’s a madman in Israel named Rasin who’s got it in for all Arabs; good, bad, doesn’t matter a damn to him. He’s going to kill them all without harming a hair on his country’s chinny chin chin with that other weapon you loaded onto the
Indianapolis
.”

“I didn’t load it!” Joyce blared loud enough to draw attention from nearby tables. “Hey, you want to go somewhere more private?”

“This is doing just fine. Keep talking.”

“I helped load the bombs, I’ll admit that, but that’s all I loaded. The bunch of us felt like part of history, so it was only right we go out and celebrate ’fore we set out the next morning. Night falls and five of us get lucky and find broads. War freaks these women turn out to be. Figured we could be sure of an easy fuck if we took them to see the ship carrying
the
atomic bombs.”

“Word treason mean anything to you then?”

“Mister, only word in my vocab that night was horny. What was the harm in it anyway? The women were too smashed to remember a damn thing besides me slamming ’em hot and heavy.”

“Get back to the ship.”

“Yeah, that’s just what we did. Middle of the night, we brought them to the dock. The
Indy
wasn’t due to set off until dawn. Trouble was, the dock was swarming with people, lots of whom I didn’t recognize and a few others I didn’t want to.”

“Why?”

“Get to that later. Anyway, what I saw was a bunch of guys loading something else on board the ship.”