Top Hook. Gordon Kent

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       5

      Washington.

      Mike Dukas got the message to call the Jefferson in the office of his boss’s boss at the Naval Criminal Investigative Service at the Navy yard. But, because his boss’s boss was flattering him and almost begging him to stay at NCIS and not transfer permanently to the War Crimes Tribunal at The Hague, and because Dukas was trying to parlay that request into a temporary position where he could help Rose, he didn’t make the telephone call right away. In fact, it was another hour before he called the Jefferson, and only then, when he was talking to the NCIS agent on board the carrier, did he understand that he was really calling Alan Craik. It was damned confusing: three days before, he had been in Sarajevo, this morning in Holland, and why was he calling the husband of the woman he had come to Washington to help?

      “Hey—” he started to say.

      “Mike, Al Craik. Jesus, you’re hard to find! I’ve got to talk to you—”

      “And I gotta talk to you! Have you heard—?”

      “Mike, I had to file a—”

      “—about Rose?”

      “—contact report—What about Rose?”

      “What contact report?”

      They shouted at each other for several seconds and then both shut up at the same time, and it was Dukas, wide awake now, who took charge and said, “Rose first,” and told Alan Craik about his wife’s loss of her astronaut’s place. Then he told him about the suspicions that were flooding through the Navy about both of them, and about Peretz’s discovery that CIA Internal Investigations was behind Rose’s fall.

      “That doesn’t make any sense!” Alan shouted.

      “Tell me about it. Don’t bother sputtering, Al; we’ve all said the same thing, and it’s a waste of breath. Get hold of yourself—Rose is in deep shit and so are you, by association.”

      “Jesus, poor Rose! And I’ve been feeling sorry for myself—”

      “This is serious shit, Al. Now what’s this contact report?”

      Alan had to say “Poor Rose” again, and only then did he get to the contact report and the woman in Trieste who had said “Bonner.” He ran through it all quickly—the Serbo-Croat, the shootings, the police, the JAG officer—almost mumbling, as if it had suddenly become almost unimportant.

      But it was not unimportant to Dukas. “And you’re sure she said ‘Bonner’?”

      “Absolutely. Otherwise, I’d have—”

      “Jesus, old investigations never die! Holy shit, Bonner. Bonner works for Efremov out of Iran; we bust him and send him to prison; now some babe has people shooting at her and she says, ‘Bonner,’ and you’re supposed to snap to, right?”

      “She wants me to meet her in Naples—next liberty port.”

      Dukas could think fast when he had to. He had heard a rumor two days before that Efremov, the Russian/Iranian mercenary, was dead. After only a moment’s silence, he said, “Do it.”

      “Mike, I’m in trouble with my admiral and the JAG guy as it is!”

      “I’ll give you NCIS cover and clear it with both of them; for now, you tell them it’s classified and all will be revealed in the Lord’s good time. Then you go to Naples as my agent; I’m your control. You capisce?”

      “I’m not trained for that stuff.”

      “Yeah, well, you weren’t trained for half the shit I know you’ve got yourself into, and you came out smelling like a rose. Look, Al, I want you to do it: if she’s got real dope on Bonner, I want it!”

      “She didn’t say she had stuff on Bonner; she just said his name.”

      “Oh, as a way of passing the time? Come on—she sets up a meeting with you by posing as your wife, then she says a notorious spy’s name, and we’re supposed to think she’s just, what? making a pass? selling Mary Kay cosmetics the European way? Get real—she’s got something to sell.”

      Dukas heard Alan sigh. He sympathized. But, as he had told Rose, life wasn’t fair. “You gotta do it, Al.”

      “Okay. But put it in writing, for God’s sake!”

      Dukas explained to him that there would be a case number and a file and a classified memo naming Alan Craik as an agent of the NCIS.

      “Can you talk to the JAG guy here as soon as I’m done? They think I’m a spy or something, Mike—the shooting stuff has really freaked them—”

      “Yeah, yeah, I’ll talk to the guy. Jesus, how do you get into these things? She really pretended to be Rose so she could say ‘Bonner’ to you? Weird, man. Yeah, we gotta go for it.”

      “Mike, I’m up to my ass with this detachment thing. I don’t want to be your agent!”

      “One meeting, Al. I promise you. Meet with her once, find out what she’s got, that’s it.”

      Dukas heard the hissing silence of the STU as Al Craik thought it over. Finally, he said, “Where’s Rose now?”

      “Somewhere here in DC. I’m supposed to hear from Abe Peretz in an hour or so.”

      “Okay—you give me Rose’s phone number in an hour, I’ll be your agent once.”

      Dukas smiled into the telephone. “That’s my boy. Put on your JAG guy. And stop worrying!”

      Dukas stroked the JAG officer and, after he hung up, sat staring at an unfamiliar wall, concerned now that he had two cases, not one. Just when he had meant for his life to get simpler, it had got all twisted.

      College Park, Maryland.

      Rose came to rest in a motel in College Park, recommended by Peretz because it was cheap and it was handy to the District. The hangover still rumbled; the feeling of helplessness kept her in a rage.

      The telephone rang. She had to search for it, knocked it off its cradle, fumbled, stammered, “Siciliano!”

      “Hey, babe, you sober?” It was Mike Dukas, whom she had last talked to from Utica.

      “Mike! How’d you find me?”

      “Peretz. I’m in Washington.”

      “Your guy in Sarajevo said you were in Holland.”

      “Yeah, СКАЧАТЬ