Closer Encounters. Merline Lovelace

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СКАЧАТЬ had just been activated.

      Andrew McDowell—code name Riever—sat at the briefing table in the high-tech control center on the top floor of the town house. Shielded from penetration by every electronic eavesdropping device known to man, the control center hummed with the pulse of OMEGA’s heartbeat.

      Frowning, Drew skimmed the data projected onto the screen taking up almost the whole north wall. There wasn’t much to skim. Just a list of Internet queries seeking information on the USS Kallister. Several of the queries cited a sailing date of 15 November and requested information on the ship’s course and cargo. The problem was, that course was classified. So was the cargo in the hold of the refurbished WWII-era ship.

      The rust bucket that had hauled explosives across the Pacific during the war had been torpedoed and almost sunk. Mothballed after the war, it had been refitted and recommissioned in the late ’60s to meet the escalating demands of the Vietnam conflict. Now it carried a secret cargo—so secret, every circuit at the White House situation room had popped when the vigilant watchdogs at NSA plucked this string of queries out of the billions their computers screened every day.

      “What do you think, Riever?”

      Drew had derived his code name from the fierce raiders who wreaked such havoc on the Anglo-Scottish border in past centuries. Like his long-ago ancestors, he was hawk-eyed and broad-shouldered enough to swing a claymore. He felt the urge to swing one now.

      He’d served a hitch in the navy before being recruited by OMEGA. That was almost eight years ago, but there was enough of the sailor left in him to generate a cold, deadly fury at the possibility someone might deliberately put a U.S. vessel at risk.

      “I think,” he said to his boss, “I’d better haul my ass out to the west coast and check out the female who generated these queries. What have we got on her so far?”

      “Not much,” Nick Jensen replied. Tall, tanned and tawny-haired, the one-time agent with the code name Lightning nodded to the console operator. A click of a mouse brought up the digitized image of a Washington state driver’s license.

      According to the DMV, Tracy Brandt was twenty-eight years old, stood five-six and weighed a respectable one hundred and thirty-two pounds. No anorexic toothpick there.

      The camera must have caught Brandt by surprise. Her picture showed a brunette with startled green eyes and a light dusting of freckles across the bridge of her nose.

      “Ms. Brandt worked as a budget analyst at the Puget Sound shipyards until two weeks ago,” Lightning advised Drew. “Her supervisor says he fired her because of repeated absences from work. He also says she told him he’d be sorry for letting her go.”

      Uh-oh. A defensive employee fired for cause. Talk about your basic formula for disaster.

      “What about her security clearances?”

      “She crunched payroll numbers. Nothing that required a top-secret clearance. Certainly nothing that would give her access to the cargo packed in the hold of the Kallister.”

      Lightning drummed his fingers on the table. He knew what the Kallister was hauling. He was one of a very small, very select circle who did.

      “Brandt’s address checks to an apartment complex in Puget Sound, but the electronic queries emanated from Southern California. An Internet café on Catalina Island, to be specific.”

      “What’s she doing there?”

      “That’s what you’re going to find out. She used her Visa to check into the Bella Vista Inn. We got the manager to move out the folks in the room next to hers. He’s holding it for you.”

      A thin smile stretched Drew’s lips. With the array of electronic gadgetry available to OMEGA agents, Ms. Brandt had better watch what she said or did, even in the privacy of her bedroom.

      “We’re sending a team to Puget Sound to talk to her former coworkers,” Lightning advised. “We’ll let you know what, if anything, they turn up.”

      “Roger that.”

      Lightning’s nod encompassed the blonde on the other side of the table. “Denise will act as your controller here at headquarters.”

      A former Secret Service agent, Denise Kowalski had pumped a bullet into the man she believed was attacking the vice president. The veep had actually been another OMEGA agent in disguise, but Denise’s cool head had so impressed everyone involved that the director at the time had requested she be transferred to OMEGA. Drew couldn’t think of anyone he’d rather have as his controller.

      “Let us know when you make contact with the target,” Lightning instructed. “I need to advise the president.”

      “Will do.”

      Shoving back his chair, Drew took the stairs to the field dress unit. The wizards in FDU fitted him with an array of sophisticated communications devices and a .45-caliber Glock they’d regripped especially for his hand. After a final session with Denise to work out a reporting schedule, he departed the town house via a hidden back exit. A half hour later he was on his way to sun-drenched Southern California.

      Given the time change, it was barely noon when he landed at LAX, rented a car and drove south to Dana Point. From there it was a forty-minute hydrofoil trip to Catalina, some twenty-six miles off the coast.

      The hydrofoil docked in the town of Avalon. Surrounded by steep mountains, the tiny resort snuggled up to a crescent-shaped harbor crowded with fishing boats, cabin cruisers and sleek sailboats. A tall round building with a red roof stood on a spit of rock at the north end of the harbor. Drew’s tourist map identified it as the Avalon Casino, the ’30s-era movie theater and ballroom that constituted the island’s premier tourist attraction.

      He’d already been warned that vehicle traffic was restricted on Catalina. Residents depended mainly on golf carts as the primary mode of transportation. Several carts were waiting at the dock to perform taxi service, but Drew opted to heft his carryall and follow a paved walkway to the center of town. A zigzagging side street led up a steep hill to the Bella Vista Inn.

      It was a Victorian whimsy set high above the bay. The wraparound porch gave a sweeping view of the hills, the harbor and the casino. Riever accepted an old-fashioned iron key and climbed a winding staircase to the second floor room labeled “Seagull Suite.”

      The reason for the label became apparent the moment he stepped out onto the suite’s minuscule balcony. Gulls squawked and circled overhead. One particularly intrepid creature swooped onto the wooden railing and hopped to within a foot of Drew.

      “Sorry, pal. I don’t have anything for you.”

      The gull ruffled his feathers and danced another inch or two, head cocked expectantly. Like most sailors, Drew wasn’t particularly fond of gulls and the messes they deposited on gleaming steel decks. This one was nothing if not persistent, however.

      “Okay, okay. Let me check out the minibar.”

      He was tossing honey-roasted cashews to the gull when he spotted his target. She came out the front door of the inn and paused on the porch to zip up a pea-green windbreaker before starting down toward town. Riever smothered an oath, chucked the last of the cashews to the gull and went after her.

      Tracy had no idea why СКАЧАТЬ