The Trojan Sea (37 page)

“It had the potential to be dangerous,” Hank replied.

The lawyer studied his notes for a moment. “Thank you, Mr. Langston. That’s all I have.”

Stuart stood up for redirect. He had worked hard to represent himself, but so far he was striking out. He couldn’t quit now, though. Not with Eric’s future on the line. He framed a question in the best legalese he could muster. An inner voice that sounded like Jane told him just to be himself. “Mr. Langston, would you have let your grandson go on that flight with Wing Commander Seagrave?” The lawyer objected to the question. “Your Honor,” Stuart argued, “if Mr. Langston is qualified to determine if the flight was dangerous, he’s qualified to determine if it was safe enough for his own grandson to go for a ride.”

Calhoun studied Stuart for a moment. Did he see a twinkle in those startling blue eyes? “I’ll allow it. You may answer Mr. Langston.” Stuart couldn’t believe it. He had won a point!

“Yes, I would,” Hank answered.

“Knowing what you know now,” Stuart said, “would you go for a ride in the Lightning?”

“In a heartbeat,” Hank replied.

“One last question: Why didn’t the TV station air the tape shown to this court?”

“When I pointed out all the errors to the producers, they canceled it.”

“Thank you,” Stuart said. “That’s all I have.” He glanced at the lawyer.

Barbara Raye whispered furiously in his ear. “Tear him apart,” she ordered sotto voce.

The lawyer nodded and stood up. Calhoun actually smiled in anticipation. The lawyer sat down as Barbara Raye glared at him. “We’ll reconvene in chambers to interview Eric. My clerk will show you in when I’m ready.” The judge stood and left.

Calhoun’s chambers were not what Stuart expected when he ushered his mother in. Barbara Raye’s head snapped up at the sight of Martha Stuart, and she spoke fiercely to her lawyer, demanding, “I want her out of here.” The lawyer whispered something and shook his head.

“Is this your mother?” Calhoun asked. Stuart introduced them, and the judge spoke to her clerk. Stuart looked around. The room was utilitarian to a fault, and hanging on the wall, amid a constellation of degrees in jurisprudence, honorable doctorates, citations from three presidents, and civic awards, was a simple plaque.

Most of my clients are in jail or going there.

—Samuel B. Broad

 

Calhoun caught Stuart reading the plaque, and her eyes sparkled with mischief. She waited until he looked at her. “At one time I was an assistant district attorney. Mr. Broad and I clashed on many occasions.”

Stuart fought an urge to escape.
What did Broad say about Calhoun?
He couldn’t remember. Then it came to him: She didn’t like lawyers. In the middle of the room Calhoun’s clerk placed six chairs in a semicircle facing two chairs. The judge sat in one of the two empty center chairs. “Well,” Calhoun said, “shall we get started?” She pointed to one side of the semicircle. “Colonel Stuart, would you and your mother sit there and leave an open chair between you. Mrs. Stuart, would you and your mother do the same on this side?” She looked at Barbara Raye’s lawyer. “You may sit against the back wall with the court reporter. But while Eric is in the room, you will remain absolutely silent. Any questions you have will be answered when we reconvene in open court. If you say a single word, you’ll be held in contempt and you will spend the night in the county jail.”

You’ll love that,
Stuart thought.

Calhoun hit the intercom and told another clerk to bring in Eric. The door opened, and the clerk motioned Eric to enter. “You may sit wherever you want,” Calhoun told him.

“Come here,” Barbara Raye said, patting the chair between her and Jenny.

Eric hurried to the open chair between Stuart and Martha. He sat down and held his grandmother’s hand. He had made his choice, and Calhoun’s eyes sparkled. Stuart’s spirits soared. He’d won! Barbara Raye realized what had happened, and her jaw clenched. She twisted around in her chair and glared at the lawyer.

“Your Honor,” the lawyer said, “I object strenuously.”

“I hope you brought your toothbrush,” Calhoun said.

The lawyer breathed in relief. “Thank you, your Honor.”

Stuart’s mouth fell open.
He’d rather go to jail than face the wrath of Barbara Raye. What the hell goes on in that household?
He listened as Calhoun asked Eric a few questions. It was obvious she liked him and the way he conducted himself.

Finally she was done. “I would prefer to finish this in here,” she said. “Eric, you may stay if you wish and hear what I have to say.”

“I’d like to stay, ma’am.”

Calhoun smiled, and Stuart saw the beauty underneath. “Colonel Stuart, I am concerned about your problems with the police.” She paused, waiting for him to reply.

“Your Honor, my lawyer thinks the district attorney will drop the charges—”

“We’ll see about that,” Barbara Raye snapped.

“Would you care to join your lawyer tonight?” Calhoun asked. Barbara Raye threw Calhoun a hard look but rapidly wilted and looked away as Calhoun stared her into submission.

“As I was saying,” Stuart continued, “my lawyer thinks the charges will be dropped or a judge will dismiss them if we are forced to go to trial.” He looked at Calhoun, all his worry and love for his son written plainly on his face. “Your Honor, what harm will be done by leaving the current custody agreement in effect until my case is resolved? If I
am
tried and found guilty, then it should be changed. But not until then.”

Calhoun spoke to Eric. “Where would you prefer to go to school?”

“At Grandma Martha’s,” he said. “But, but—”

“You like being with your mother?” Calhoun said, finishing his thought.

“Well, most of the time. But I don’t like the arguments and all the shouting.”

“Between your mother and Mrs. Wilson?” Calhoun asked.

Eric nodded unhappily.

“I’m ready to rule,” Calhoun said.

Stuart floated out of the judge’s chambers with his mother, still not believing what had happened. It was a slam-dunk! Calhoun had simply left the current custody agreement in place pending the outcome of Stuart’s trial. Then she had cautioned Jenny to keep all contact between Barbara Raye and Eric to a minimum, and even then only after Stuart had agreed. Barbara Raye rushed past on her way out. “You’re dog meat!” she shouted.

“Woof, woof,” Stuart said. She spun around and glared at him. For a moment their eyes locked, hers filled with pure hate, his with a determination he had never felt before. She broke contact and stormed away. “Have a nice day,” he said to her back.

“You sound like your father,” Martha said.

“Is that bad?”

She thought for a moment. “No, it’s not bad, just a different side of you.”

Eric wandered up while Jenny followed a few steps back. “Eric,” Jenny said, “why don’t you wait for me in the car?” Eric scampered off, like the kid he really was.

“I really didn’t want to be here today,” Stuart said by way of a peace offering.

Jenny nodded in acceptance. “Are you going to let Barbara Raye see Eric?”

Stuart considered it for a moment. “Yeah, but only at your place and as long as you two don’t argue when he’s around.”

“I’ll try,” Jenny said. “I love my mother, you know. I want us to see a counselor, and she’s agreed.”

Stuart was pleased. “Sounds like a plan. There may be hope for us all yet.”

Jenny extended her hand in friendship. “Thanks. I’ll make it work.” She hurried after her son.

“She’s finally growing up,” Martha allowed.

“You’ve raised a fine son,” Calhoun said from behind them.

“Thank you,” Stuart said, wondering how long she’d been watching them.

She laughed. “There are two things you need to know. Sam gave you excellent advice, and I don’t hate men. I just haven’t trusted anyone in years. Now, go fix your other problem so you can focus on that wonderful son.”

“You can count on it,” he said, never so sure of anything in his entire life.

Dallas

Shugy Jenkins was worried. L.J. had been in a deep depression for over a week, and the buoyant, eager attitude that had made RayTex such a successful company and a happy place to work was gone. Everyone was slinking around the corridors, and most office doors were slammed shut as the staff ran for cover in their confusion. For Shugy it was one of life’s lessons as she personally experienced how one person made all the difference. She did her best, mollifying the staff in the hope L.J. would snap out of it. But, if anything, L.J. became more withdrawn. Finally Shugy decided she had to act. She prepared a tea cart, wheeled it resolutely to L.J.’s office, and knocked. No answer. She pushed the door open and saw L.J. curled up in one corner of the couch. “Tea?” Again only silence. “Is it Mr. Marsten?” A little nod from L.J. “I know you haven’t heard from him for a week, but he’ll be okay.”

“I wish I had your faith,” L.J. replied. A long pause. “I did a very stupid thing.”

Shugy assumed she meant sending Marsten to Cuba. “We all make mistakes. Pray for forgiveness.”

“I may have put everyone’s job at risk,” L.J. said.

Shugy was shocked but quickly recovered. She had come to accept L.J. for what she was, faults and all. “Well, if you did, you didn’t mean to.

Do what you must. I know you’ll do the right thing.”

L.J. shook her head. “I wish I had your confidence.”

“We trust you,” Shugy said. L.J.’s head came up, and she saw tears on Shugy’s cheeks. Then it hit her. Regardless of what she had done, they still needed her. And knowing that was exactly what
she
needed. “Thank you. I appreciate that more than you know.” She stood up. “I’m going home to wash my hair and change. Schedule a staff meeting for two o’clock this afternoon. It’s time we got back to work.”

Shugy returned to her desk and made the necessary phone calls.

The feds arrived exactly forty-three minutes later.

Shugy first saw the men on the security monitor when they filed onto the elevator on the ground floor. They were all wearing blue windbreakers with yellow lettering on the back she couldn’t read and carrying a variety of cases and boxes. At first she thought they were a team of cleaners that had come during normal working hours and not at night. She didn’t know how right she was. Then the elevator doors opened, and the first of fifteen men trooped off. That was when she could finally read the yellow letters that said “FBI.” The team leader handed her a search warrant and presented his identification. He dropped a list of the team members’ names on her desk with a curt “I can vouch for them.”

“One moment, please,” Shugy said, her voice cool and calm. She buzzed the legal office and left a message that the FBI was in the office with a search warrant. Then she called L.J. at home with the same news. Finally she turned to the team leader. “
You
may be able to vouch for your team, but
I
can’t. Please have them each show their identification.” It was Shugy’s version of the slow roll. One by one the team filed by her desk, presenting their identification cards. She carefully studied each one. “I’m sorry,” she said, “this man has a beard on his identification card, and he’s clean-shaven.”

“As I said before, I can vouch for him.”

“Of course,” she replied. “But please note it on your list here.” She pointed to the offending name. The team leader grabbed a pen and did as she requested. “Now, how may I help you?” she asked.

“Please stay out of our way,” the man said.

Shugy watched as the team went to work. They were like a giant vacuum cleaner, sucking records and documents out of the offices and carting them down the elevator. Not once did she hear a snide remark, and they were very businesslike and polite—which made it worse. A search warrant was not meant to be punitive, but it was a catastrophic blow to RayTex and would effectively put them out of business.

The team leader stopped by her desk and handed her the first inventory sheet. “May I get you some coffee or tea?” she asked. The team leader shook his head. “Perhaps I can direct your search,” she said.

He was interested. Often a disgruntled employee led them to exactly what they were looking for. “We’re looking for anything to do with ARA—Action Research Associates.”

“Ah, yes. That was Mr. Marsten.” She typed a command into her computer. “Here’s what you’re looking for.” She swiveled the monitor toward the agent. He read the list of Marsten’s phone calls to ARA. “Of course, I don’t know what they discussed.” She typed another command. “Here’s his appointment schedule for the last twelve months, but I don’t see any reference to ARA.” Her fingers flew over the keyboard. “There’s nothing in the correspondence file. I don’t have access to accounting, but they would have any record of billing.”

“And Miss Ellis?” he asked.

“Oh, she had nothing to do with ARA,” Shugy said. “That was Mr. Marsten’s area of responsibility.”

“We’ll have to take your computer and all your backup disks,” the agent said.

“Of course,” she said.

The agent sensed an opportunity. “What exactly was Mr. Marsten’s relationship with ARA?”

“I believe it had to do with security.”

“And Miss Ellis had nothing to do with security?”

“No. Other than normal business, she concerns herself with health care, the children’s day care center on the floor below, and that type of thing. In fact, she even discussed our day care program with the president. But you probably all ready know that.”

The agent scribbled in his notebook. “Where is Mr. Marsten?”

“In Cuba.”

“Really?” the agent said, even more interested. “Do you know why?”

“I have absolutely no idea.”

Washington, D.C.

Stuart circled the big apartment complex on North Sixteenth Street looking for a parking place. On the third circuit he managed to squeeze in between two cars. He got out and buttoned the coat to his uniform, surprised by how loosely it fit. He was definitely losing weight. A cold wind whistled down the street, and he pulled on his overcoat for the long walk to the apartment building. A pretty woman walking by stopped to ask if she could help him. He smiled and said, “No thank you.”
That hasn’t happened in a long time,
he thought.

He reached the entrance as snow started to fall. He buzzed the number, and a woman’s voice answered. “I’m Lieutenant Colonel Stuart. I called earlier.” He looked up at the monitor camera so she could see his face. The door clicked open, and he walked inside. He took off his overcoat as he waited for the elevator. The same woman he’d passed outside joined him in the elevator.

She smiled at him and shook her hair free prettily. “Hello again. No human should be out on a night like this.”

He returned her smile. “That’s the truth.” It was all he could think of to say.

“Well, if your car gets snowed in, you can use my phone.” She handed him a card with her address and telephone number.

He glanced at the card before pocketing it. “Thank you,” he said, not sure what to make of the offer. The elevator stopped at his floor, and he got off. Jean McCormick’s door was six steps away, and she answered on the first knock. He handed her his military ID card. “Thank you for seeing me,” he said. She smiled and asked him to come inside. Jean McCormick was a middle-aged woman about his height and on the slender side. She had a pleasant smile and beautiful hazel eyes. Her hair was cut short, and the way she moved reminded him of a runner. The trophies on the mantel confirmed the impression. “I see you run,” he said, making small talk.

“The triathlon, actually. You look quite fit. Are you a runner?”

“I sail whenever I get the chance.”

“Can I get you some coffee or tea?”

“Tea would be wonderful,” he replied. “It is freezing out there and starting to snow.”

“Well, if you get stuck, don’t hesitate to use my phone.”

What’s with all the phones?
he wondered. She stepped into the kitchenette and put the water on to boil. “I don’t want to take too much of your time.”

“Oh, it’s no problem.”

Stuart blinked, finally realizing what was happening. Women were taking an interest in him. “It seems we have a mugger in common, and I was wondering if there might be some connection.”

“I don’t really think so. But who knows?”

There was little doubt that she wanted to explore backgrounds. “I’m assigned to the Pentagon,” he said, “and work in logistics. I’m what they call a ground-pounder in the Air Force.”

She smiled at him. “That’s good. I was married to an Air Force pilot. What a jerk.” She hesitated for a moment. “Are you married?”

“Divorced. One kid. A twelve-year-old boy.” He took in the room while she made tea. Books were piled in the corners, and she had made a coffee table by stacking big picture books as a pedestal and setting a sheet of glass on top. He looked at the dust jacket of the top book through the glass. The title
Exploring Our World
was printed across the photo of a ship. Jean carried the tray in and sat down next to him. Her leg brushed against his. “I like what you did with the books,” he said, “using them for a coffee table.”

“We get a lot of books like that at work. No one seems to want them, so I try to find a way to use them.”

“May I ask what you do?”

She poured him a cup of tea. “I work for the Department of Energy. My specialty is environmental pollution. But it seems like I do everything but that.”

“It’s the same with me. In fact, lately I was serving on a committee with DOE. We were working on the Strategic Oil Reserve.”

She shook her head. “That’s way above my pay grade.” They chatted for a few moments, but it was obvious the only thing they had in common was a random mugging. They laughed about that, and Stuart stood to leave.

“Thanks for seeing me,” he said.

She handed him his overcoat. “It’s too miserable out there to drive.”

Stuart ignored the offer to stay. “Well, I’ve got to get going.” They shook hands, and he left. Once he was outside, he regretted not staying.
Get a grip,
he told himself.
You don’t need to get involved.
He reached his car and fumbled with the keys. But before he could get the door open, a man stepped out of the shadows and barreled into him, smashing him against the car.

“Gimme the fuckin’ keys,” he growled.

“Oh, shit!” Stuart moaned. “Not again!” The man drove his fist into Stuart’s stomach. But there was no strength behind the blow, and Stuart’s heavy overcoat helped protect him.

“Don’t fuck wid me!” his assailant shouted. “I cut you fucking throat.” He reached into his pocket.

Stuart’s basic instincts took over, and he stomped on the man’s foot. The man grunted. Stuart stepped back and kicked him in the knee as hard as he could. The man collapsed to the sidewalk in pain as he jerked his hand out of his pocket. He was holding a switchblade knife. The click of the blade opening was like a cannon shot. But he fumbled in the bitter cold, and the knife fell to the ground. He scrambled to pick it up. Stuart stomped on the man’s hand. He felt the bones give as the man screamed. Then he kicked the knife into the gutter. “Big mistake,” he muttered. He climbed into his car and started the motor. Should he call the police? “Freeze, asshole,” he said. He pulled away from the curb.

The same brief feeling of elation he felt when he’d made safe harbor in Cuba captured him. But this time it stayed.

The revelation hit him like a bolt of lightning, jangling his nerves and setting him on fire. He slammed on the brakes and skidded to a halt. He shook his head. It couldn’t be. He found another parking space and ran for Jean McCormick’s apartment entrance. She answered on the first buzz and let him in. The elevator door was open, and he raced for it. It seemed as if it took an eternity for the elevator to reach her floor. When the doors opened, she was waiting for him. “I’m glad you came back,” she murmured.

“Your coffee table, the book—” He fumbled for the right words.

She looked confused and led him inside. Stuart shed his overcoat in an easy motion and reached under the glass top of the coffee table. He carefully extracted the top book from the pedestal. “You got this at work?”

“Companies send them out.”

He quickly thumbed through the book, finding the pages he wanted. It was the same ship as on the cover. “Do you know what kind of ship this is?”

“It’s a special-built ship used for offshore oil exploration. It has to be very wide because it trails as many as twelve streamers of geophones in the water. Each streamer can be up to eight thousand meters long.”

“The geophones—seismic reflection?”

“That’s correct.”

For a moment he was speechless. A name flashed in front of him. “Dr. Emil Steiner?”

“That’s classified information and I can’t talk about it.”

“That’s okay. One more thing: In your work, do you deal with oil companies?”

“All the time.”

He felt like kissing her. He closed the book. “Can I keep this?” She nodded. “Thanks. I can’t tell you what this means.”

A tentative smile. “Maybe you can try.”

“I’ll call you. Dinner?”

“I’d like that.” They said good-bye and he ran for his car.

I’m not paranoid!
he shouted to himself.

Lieutenant General Franklin Bernard Butler thumbed through the book. “So you’re telling me that this is the ship you saw in Cuba.”

“The same, or one like it,” Stuart said.

“And there’s a connection between this survey ship, Steiner’s Seismic Double Reflection, and the mugger who attacked you and Mrs. McCormick?”

“Correct,” Stuart replied. “And when he failed, they sabotaged the brakes on my car. But there’s a kicker: Seismic Double Reflection is a fraud, a total con. When I first looked at it, all I saw was the elegance of the mathematical logic behind it. But on examination it’s totally fallacious. Here, let me show you.” He jotted down the critical part of Steiner’s matrix and started to work the problem.