Poseidon's Arrow dp-22 Read online

  “I’ve been thinking we should reexamine the possibility that the Adelaide traveled west.”

  As they walked to the street, they heard a car door shut, and Dirk noticed two men sitting in a white van a few spaces behind the Packard. Dirk fired up the Packard with the first press of the starter and flipped on the headlamps. While the Woodlites looked great by daylight, their nighttime performance didn’t match the rest of the car. Easing away from the curb, he drove slowly down the street, watching in the rearview mirror as the van’s lights flicked on when they reached the end of the street.

  Dirk turned right and mashed down the accelerator, speeding down a tree-lined street. A few seconds later, the van screeched around the same corner.

  Summer noticed Dirk’s focus on the mirror and glanced over her shoulder. “I don’t want to sound paranoid,” she said, “but that same van may have been parked in the NUMA lot when we left the building.”

  “One better,” Dirk said. “I think it was also parked next to Dad’s hangar this morning.” He meandered through the wealthy Georgetown neighborhood, turning down O Street and heading west. The van followed his every move, staying a dozen lengths behind.

  “Who would be following us?” Summer asked. “Someone related to the people in Madagascar?”

  “I can’t imagine. It might be someone interested in Dad. Maybe we should just ask them?”

  He slowed the car as they approached a cross street. Just beyond was a pillared and gated pedestrian entrance to Georgetown University. Portable barricades were normally in place to prevent vehicles from entering the gateway, but they had been removed for a delivery truck exiting the campus. As the truck pulled clear, Dirk hit the gas and skirted around it through the open gate.

  A security guard gaped as the antique Packard zipped by. A few seconds later, he had to jump back as the white van barreled through in pursuit. Dirk followed the road across the grounds a short distance to a circular drive. A statue of the university’s founder, John Carroll, sat at its center, facing the entrance gate. Footlights illumined the statue in a yellow haze, lending a lifelike aura to the long-dead bishop.

  Dirk wheeled the Packard around the back of the statue and slowed, double-clutching and dropping into first gear. He watched for the lights of the van as it hurried onto campus and turned onto the circular drive. Dirk turned off the Packard’s Woodlites and gunned the engine. The old car leaped forward as he turned the wheel hard, shifting into second while keeping the accelerator pinned to the floorboard.

  While the van was slowing, the roadster shot around the circle. Rather than exit back toward the gate, Dirk held the wheel tight, curving around the loop. The van’s taillights appeared in front of them, and Dirk had to brake to avoid rear-ending it. Summer reached over and turned the Woodlites back on, signaling to the pursuers that the game was up.

  The van’s driver hesitated, unsure what had happened until he recognized the pale yellow beams of the Packard behind him. Not prepared for a confrontation, he stomped on the gas. The van’s tires chirped as it shot forward, turning off the circular drive. He took the first road he could, a straight lane that ran behind a stately structure called Healy Hall and into the center of campus.

  “Go after him,” Summer said. “I didn’t get his plate number.”

  Dirk shoved the Packard into gear and took off. A fast car in its day, the Packard was powered by a straight-eight engine that boasted 150 horsepower. The van might have left the old car behind on an open highway but not in the tight confines of the college campus.

  The van sped past the large stone building. Only a few students were about, and those in the street quickly cleared way for the speeding van. The lane abruptly turned left into a side building complex, but it was blocked by a campus policeman in a patrol car who had stopped to chat with a student.

  Unable to turn, the van’s driver continued straight, bounding up and onto a concrete walkway that bisected a grass courtyard. A girl on a bicycle screamed as she narrowly missed getting flattened. The Packard followed a few yards behind, inciting an eruption of flashing lights from the patrol car.

  “I think we’re out of danger and into trouble,” Summer said, noting the lights behind.

  Dirk tightened his grip on the wheel as the roadster bounded over the uneven surface. He followed the van along the walkway until it dropped off a curb into the parking lot of a student dormitory. Just ahead, two freshmen were smuggling a beer keg into the building when the van charged at them. The students dove for safety as the van sped by, just clipping the keg.

  The aluminum keg skittered across the parking lot and bounced off a retaining wall. A short distance behind, Dirk braked hard but couldn’t avoid the keg. The front bumper caught it first, gouging a hole in the aluminum before the right fender knocked the keg aside. The shaken beer exploded in a foamy fountain that doused the side of the car—and Summer inside.

  “Dad’s not going to like that,” Dirk said.

  She wiped the suds from her face. “You’re right, he won’t. It’s light beer.”

  The van and the Packard accelerated through the parking lot, pushed faster by the pursuing patrol car. The van skidded out of the parking lot and onto a cross street. Unable to decide which way to turn, the driver went straight, bouncing onto a sloping gravel road that stretched ahead. The road dipped down a small hill and turned onto the university’s football field. In the middle of a practice, the men’s lacrosse team was forced to scatter as the van bounded across the artificial turf.

  Seeing the old Packard and the police in pursuit, several players fired lacrosse balls at the van, ringing its side with dents. A few took aim at the Packard until they were disarmed by a wave and smile from the beer-drenched Summer.

  The van opened a sizable gap on the Packard as it sped off the opposite side of the field and passed through an open gate. The driver turned left on the facing street, following a sign that directed them toward the university’s exit on Canal Road. “C’mon, we can lose them,” the van’s passenger said.

  Fifty yards behind, Dirk heard a similar appeal from Summer. “Don’t lose them, I still haven’t gotten the full plate number.”

  Dirk turned onto the road in pursuit, but had to slow for a trio of coeds crossing the street to a tennis court. Behind him, the campus police had nearly caught up.

  The road curved past another residence hall before descending a landscaped hill out of campus. Dirk saw the van accelerate sharply down the hill and he tried to keep pace. At the bottom of the hill, a stoplight marked the intersection with Canal Road, a busy thoroughfare that fed into suburban Maryland.

  The light was green, and Dirk feared it would change before he drew close. Then it flashed to yellow, and he knew the van would have to stop.

  Only it didn’t.

  With the van’s passenger urging him on, the driver floored the gas when the light turned yellow. The van was still fifty feet from the intersection when the light turned red. Remarkably, the stopped cross traffic hesitated, perhaps detecting the bouncing rays of the van’s headlights as it roared down the hill.

  Charging into the intersection at better than seventy miles an hour, the van crossed the near lanes of traffic and attempted to turn left into the far lanes. But its speed was far too great, and the panicked driver slammed on the brakes, sending the van into a skid. It slid across the asphalt until its right front tire kissed the curb. The tire burst, but the van kept moving, hopping the curb and plowing into a low retaining wall, the front fender buckling as the rear wheels bounded into and over the curb. The combined forces flipped the van onto its side atop the retaining wall. It slid a few feet, then tumbled over the wall, splashing roof first into the road’s namesake, the Chesapeake and Ohio Canal, flowing just beyond.

  Dirk skidded the Packard to a halt before the stoplight and raced across the street, with Summer running a step behind. They reached the retaining wall and peered over. The canal had swallowed most of the van, leaving only a portion of its still-spinn
ing tires protruding. A dull glow brightened the murky water at one end, where the van’s headlights had yet to short out.

  Dirk slipped off his jacket and kicked off his shoes. “I’ll try and get them out,” he said. “See if you can get the campus police to help.”

  He jumped into the canal and swam to the van, diving along the passenger door. The glowing headlights turned the water’s visibility from zero to next to nothing, and he had to find the open window frame by touch. The frame height was barely a foot high, telling him the roof had collapsed at impact. It didn’t bode well for the occupants.

  Reaching inside the open window, he felt a lifeless body strapped in the seat. Groping blindly, he found the buckle release and freed the seat belt. The body dropped loosely, and he pulled on the victim’s shoulders, dragging him through the narrow window.

  Dirk shot to the surface, gasping for air, as he pulled the head and torso free of the water. A bright flashlight beam, aimed by the campus policeman, shined on the victim, and Dirk knew he had wasted his time. The passenger’s head tilted at a grotesque angle, his neck broken.

  Dirk pulled the body to the bank and called up to the policeman. “Give me your light.”

  He passed Dirk the light as he reached out to help pull the body ashore. Dirk swam to the van’s other side and dove once more. With the flashlight, he could now see the driver was also dead, his torso pinned between the crushed roof and the steering wheel. Unlike his partner, he hadn’t been wearing a seat belt.

  Though running short of breath, Dirk shined the light past the driver and into the rear compartment. A row of electronic processing devices was mounted on a shelf. Sitting nearby was a large acrylic parabolic dish used for eavesdropping.

  Pushing off from the door, he swam to the back of the van and checked its license plate before popping to the surface. He stroked to the bank, where Summer helped him up the incline.

  “No luck with the other one?”

  “No, he’s dead, too.”

  “I’ve got paramedics on the way,” the policeman said. His inexperience with fatalities was betrayed by a pale face. He regained his composure but spoke with a forced tone of authority. “Who are those people? And why were you chasing them?”

  “I don’t know who they are, but they stole something from us.”

  “They get your money? Or was it jewelry or electronics?”

  “No,” Dirk replied, looking at the dead man. “It was our words.”

  55

  IT WAS AFTER MIDNIGHT WHEN DIRK AND SUMMER staggered back into the NUMA computer center. Gunn and Yaeger were still examining images on the large viewing screen.

  “I didn’t realize you were taking time for a seven-course meal,” Gunn said. Then he noticed their appearance. Dirk’s hair was disheveled and his clothes damp, while Summer’s outfit sported a large stain, and she reeked of stale beer. “What on earth happened to you two?”

  Summer related the series of events, including a two-hour interrogation by the District of Columbia police.

  “Any idea who would have tailed you?” Yaeger asked.

  “None,” Dirk said. “I suspect it may have something to do with Dad.”

  “Could be,” Gunn said, “especially if they saw you leave his hangar this morning. From a distance, there is a strong resemblance between the two of you.”

  Summer handed Yaeger a slip of paper. “Here’s the van’s license number. The police wouldn’t tell us, but maybe you can identify the owner.”

  “With ease,” Yaeger said.

  “How’re things progressing with the Adelaide?” Dirk asked.

  “Not well,” Gunn said. “We’ve been in contact with every major port authority along the coast of North, South, and Central America. No one has a record of the Adelaide making an appearance in the past week.”

  “Guess that leaves two options,” Dirk said. “They either off-loaded at a private facility or they headed in another direction.” He neglected to mention a third option, that the ship had sunk.

  “We’ve been talking about those scenarios,” Yaeger said, “and we don’t believe they headed west. First, it doesn’t make a lot of sense to hijack a ship out of Australia in the eastern Pacific if you plan to take the cargo someplace in the western Pacific. The second problem is fuel. Fully loaded, the Adelaide would be stretching it to make a double crossing of the Pacific without refueling.”

  “Makes sense. That only leaves about a thousand other places she could have ducked into along the coast.”

  Gunn and Yaeger nodded. They were searching for a transparent needle in a very large haystack. Gunn described the details of their port searches and the latest surveillance images while Yaeger grabbed the keyboard and began typing. A few minutes later, he called to the others.

  “Got something on your van,” he said, as a Virginia Department of Motor Vehicles registration form appeared on the screen. “The owner is SecureTek of Tysons Corner, Virginia.”

  Yaeger brought up another site on his screen. “The state corporate commission describes their business as providing data encryption links for closed network computer systems. They have eight employees, and their primary customer is the U.S. government.”

  “Doesn’t sound like the type of security company that would be eavesdropping on people,” Summer said.

  “Unless,” Dirk said, “their declared business is a front.”

  “It doesn’t appear to be,” Yaeger said after some additional research. “They have a number of valid contracts with the Army and Navy for data line installations.”

  Returning to the corporate commission’s site, he noted that SecureTek was a wholly owned subsidiary of Habsburg Industries. “It’s a privately held firm, so information is rather limited, but they’re based in Panama and have interests in mining and shipping.”

  Yaeger performed several searches but found only brief mention of the firm. A shipping periodical displayed a photo of one of the firm’s bulk carriers, the Graz, dockside in Singapore.

  Dirk glanced at the photo and sat up in his chair. “Hiram, can you enlarge that photo?”

  Yaeger nodded, blowing up the image until it filled the entire screen.

  “What is it?” Summer asked.

  “The logo on the funnel.”

  Everyone peered at the image of a white flower centered on the ship’s squat gold funnel.

  “I think that’s an edelweiss,” Summer said. “In keeping with the ship’s Austrian name, I imagine.”

  “I saw that same flower on the freighter docked in Madagascar,” Dirk said.

  The computer room fell silent. Then Gunn asked, “Hiram, can you determine what kind of mining this Habsburg Industries is actually involved in?”

  “They operate a small gold mine in Panama near the Colombian border. The firm also has an active brokerage business in specialty ores, including samarium, lanthanum, and dysprosium.”

  “Rare earth elements?” Summer asked.

  Gunn nodded. “Rare earth elements. Habsburg Industries suddenly looks very interesting.”

  “I’d wager the operation in Madagascar was stealing rare earth minerals,” Dirk said. “The reason they attacked our submersible was because we were working around the spot where they sank a hijacked ore ship.”

  “We found a pristine wreck in the area that had recently been sunk,” Summer said. “There was no apparent damage, and the ship’s name was intentionally obscured.”

  “Jack Dahlgren did some digging and thinks it was a bulk carrier called the Norseman,” Dirk said. “She was lost in the Indian Ocean four months ago, carrying bastnasite ore from Malaysia. In case you hadn’t guessed, bastnasite contains rare earth elements.”

  “Could the Habsburg ship in Madagascar have been hijacked, too?” Summer asked.

  Yaeger checked the Panamanian ship registry. “Habsburg owns four ships, all dry bulk carriers, named Graz, Innsbruck, Linz, and Salzburg.”

  “What’s the Austrian connection?” Dirk asked.

  “
The company is owned by Edward Bolcke, a mining engineer originally from Austria,” Yaeger said. “I can’t find mention of any of the four ships reported missing.”

  “Then that makes Habsburg a likely suspect in the disappearance of the Adelaide,” Summer said.

  “The key,” Gunn said, “will be their four ships.”

  Yaeger flexed his fingers over the keyboard. “Let’s see what we can find.”

  Summer found coffee for everyone while Yaeger taxed his mainframe’s circuitry, pursuing inquiries on the four ships and their recent whereabouts. It took the better part of an hour before he could narrow their locations. He displayed a map of the world on which a multitude of colored dots shone, signifying the ships’ recent ports of call.

  “The blue lights represent the Graz,” Yaeger said. “She is currently believed to be in or about Malaysia. Over the last three weeks, she was seen in Tianjin, Shanghai, and Hong Kong.”

  “So she’s not in play,” Gunn said.

  “The yellow lights represent the Innsbruck. She made a transit through the Panama Canal three weeks ago and was seen in Cape Town, South Africa, eight days ago.”

  “Dollars to donuts, that’s the ship I saw in Madagascar,” Dirk said.

  “Likely so. That leaves the Linz and Salzburg. The Linz was reported in a Jakarta dry dock ten days ago, and is believed to still be there for repairs.”

  “So the green lights are the Salzburg?” Summer asked.

  “Yes. She appeared in Manila a month ago, then in the Panama Canal, making a northerly crossing, four days ago. Homeland Security port surveillance indicates she was docked in New Orleans just yesterday.”

  Yaeger drew a line on the map across the Pacific from Manila to Panama. Then he inserted a red triangle at a spot in the eastern part of the ocean. “The red mark is our last known position of the Adelaide, about six days ago.”

  The track of the Salzburg passed within two hundred miles of the Adelaide’s mark.

  “Wouldn’t have needed much of a course deviation to cross paths,” Dirk said.

  “The timing is about right,” Gunn said. “The Salzburg would have been in that area five or six days before reaching the canal, which is when the Adelaide went quiet.”