Big Three-Thriller Bundle Box Collection (58 page)

STEAMING TO AFRICA

May 8, 1400 - USS Atchison

IT WOULD BE more than three and a half days before they dropped anchor in Bizerte, Tunisia. Spurs spent most of that time becoming familiar with the Command and Control Center. The rest of the time, she nosed around questioning crewmembers. By now, she figured most of the crew either was sure she was NCIS like Ingrassias said or at least suspected it. She wouldn’t become lax in covering it up, regardless. She continued to observe the ship and all the crewmembers as clandestinely as possible. No one volunteered any information. If something didn’t break soon, she felt she’d have to be taken off of the case, thinking she might have lost the effectiveness of being undercover.

A question gnawed at her ever since being pulled out of the ocean after being thrown overboard; who was it if it wasn’t Franken that she’d met that night of the squall on the signal deck?

She stayed clear of Reeves, bumping into him only twice, each time just long enough to exchange a few token words. The last time she did, she let him in on what Ingrassias had told her. She questioned if NCIS had used good judgment in recruiting Reeves. It didn’t appear he was doing much investigating. Of course, he had to keep a low profile, and running the ship in place of the migraine-hampered captain did require a lot of time.

On the bridge, she decided to speak with Lieutenant Commander Reeves semi-privately while he was away from the helmsman and the rest of the crew was busy at their jobs.

“Commander, may I see the ship’s liberty log?” she asked.

He glanced around to ensure no one was watching or listening in.

“What for?”

“I’d like to prove to myself that it wasn’t Chief Franken I saw the night of the helo crash.”

“Suit yourself,” he said, and walked to a cabinet, opened it and brought out a three-ringed binder. “This is it. We use a clipboard to sign in on, and then the sheets are punched and put in here.” He handed it to her.

She opened it and leafed back to the first of May. She saw where the OOD at the time, Lieutenant North, had her sign in when she reported on board.

There were many signatures from 0010 up until two hours before they shoved off at 1500. She turned the page to look at the next sheet. It was dated three days later and said “Liberty—Barcelona” at the top. From the indentations, it was apparent that page had been under the previous one on the clipboard when the crew signed aboard in Rota. She could even read several of the harder pressed signatures on the Barcelona page from the Rota one.

Then she noticed something strange about the first line on the Barcelona page. The signature was that of Corporal Sanders. Nothing strange about that. Botts had signed in back in Rota on the first line and the indentation of his signature superimposed onto Sanders’. But the indentation seemed to be too long.

She flipped the page back and saw where Botts had signed in, then went back to Sanders’ signature. She took a pencil from her pocket and tried the old detective trick of lightly shading over the indentions to read what had been written on the previous page. It worked. Botts had signed in, but superimposed in that same space was SCPO Gus Franken’s signature at 1440, only minutes after she had. The OOD must have had him sign on a new page when he came back from liberty, then thrown it away and started yet another page for the rest of the crew. Franken had been aboard ship that night.

She looked to see what officer had signed the sheet as the OOD for that time, remembering that North had been in their stateroom about then. It was signed
Capt. R. D. Chardoff
.

Spurs stepped over to Reeves who was studying a nautical chart. She shoved the clipboard to him.

“I did see Franken,” she said.

He looked at it as she turned and walked off of the bridge.

She heard him following. He caught up to her as she descended the steps of the port bridge ladder.

“I’m sorry I didn’t believe you.”

“I’m getting used to it, sir.”

“I’d like to make it up to you. I’d like to make Barcelona up to you, too.”

Spurs paused on the steps and shrugged, still not looking to him. “Haven’t we got more important things to concern ourselves with, sir? I mean
besides
you attempting to murder me?”

“God, Spurs, no! I’m telling you, I don’t know what got into me. It was crazy. I’ve never felt so strange—never done anything like that. Maybe it
was something in the drink. A mickey. Please, please forgive me. Come on. This is important, too. Meet me at the Tunis Hotel in Bizerte the first night on liberty. We’ll have a couple of drinks and talk things out.”

DESERT SANDS

May 9
- Bizerte, Tunisia

SPURS WAITED FOR Lieutenant Commander Reeves in the bar at the Tunis Hotel just outside of Bizerte. He was late, it was already 1945, and he’d said he would meet her there by 1900 for drinks. She had pulled out all the stops this time and didn’t really know why.

She remembered the last time they shared drinks and later a room. It had been nothing but a terrifying experience. As she recalled that night, she slipped the black, high-heel pumps back on that she’d picked up in London while awaiting her connecting flight to Rota the week before. She’d had too much to drink that evening in Barcelona—or had she? She remembered the brutal headache she had afterwards. Such a hangover after less than a glass and a half of wine? And to come on so soon. Maybe someone
did
slip her a Mickey—drugged her, as Reeves had said—for who knows what purpose.

Perhaps to kill her—get her out of the way. Perhaps to seduce her. Maybe it’d been Reeves. But maybe Reeves
had
been drugged, also. Now she was thankful for her clumsiness—glad she’d spilled the second drink after only a couple of sips.

Spurs looked to the bald bartender polishing shot glasses behind the bar, and he glanced across the empty room to her. She raised her glass and swirled the last inch of her second whiskey sour and shrunken ice chips.

“Slow night, huh?” she asked.

He lifted his bushy eyebrows and wiggled his brush-like, black mustache as if he was nibbling on something, but he didn’t speak. She knew he wouldn’t answer. It had taken her two minutes of hand and arm signals just to tell the man what she wanted to drink.

She knocked the drink back, catching the ice with her teeth, sucked it dry and then sat the glass on the small table in front of her. What in the hell was she trying to do? Meeting Reeves would just be leading him on. Besides, what if he hadn’t been drugged and
was
trying to kill her. She needed Reeves as an ally in the investigation, but she certainly didn’t need another man, for God’s sake. She needed to get this case solved, then get back stateside. Maybe she wasn’t cut out for this Navy bullshit. Maybe she should try the FBI or some form of local law enforcement. Never totally understanding her father, she didn’t know if that would piss the Admiral off or make him happy.

Spurs scooted her chair back from the table and stood up, grabbed her small clutch purse and began walking toward the door. She pulled out ten paper
dinars
and slapped them on the bar in front of the wide-eyed proprietor as she passed.

With a broad smile she said, “Thanks for a shitty evening Akmed. The drinks tasted like goat pee, the bar smells like camel pucky and you look like a dick with ears.”

The man smiled back, muttering in Arabic gibberish.

Through the door, she noticed the telephones in the lobby and thought of calling her uncle, Deputy Assistant Director Paul Royse. But for what purpose? She had very little new information that she hadn’t given Reeves and he was sure to be contacting her uncle Paul in this port if he hadn’t already. The most calling him now would do is piss Reeves off for her going around him unnecessarily. It could get her yanked from the case like her uncle Paul had tried to do in Barcelona.

Outside, Spurs stood on the steps and leaned against one of the large stone columns in front of the hotel. On the way out, she’d asked the desk attendant to call a cab. It was hot and dry, but an occasional cool sea breeze meandered in from ten miles across the desolate sand in front of her. It rustled the palm fronds on the sparse trees around the front of the building. Five miles to the north, the lights from Bizerte made a glowing dome along the horizon. A beautiful evening. One that would not be shared.

Taking in a deep breath of desert air, she looked down at her slick black dress, cut just below the knees with a slit up the right side. She hung her head and smoothed the black fabric on her thigh with her hand. A tear seeped down her cheek as she slumped down to sit on the step. Her hand balled to a fist and she struck her leg. She felt so confused. Confused about men, about the Navy, about the investigation, about life.

When she looked up, she saw a small headlight through her tears. It came vibrating up the road. Too soon for a cab. She wiped her eyes and sat down on the cool steps. A plump moon was rising over the snow-like sand to the east. It made her think of Christmas in Quantico last winter. The snow covered evening that Doug had proposed. She shook her head and looked back at the approaching light. It was something small. A motorcycle. No, one of those Mopeds.

“God, I hope that’s not the only taxi this time of night,” she quipped aloud.

Watching the little cycle, she tried to take her mind off of the rest of the world. She wondered what kind of person would drive such a vehicle up to a luxurious hotel this late in the evening. Perhaps a messenger. Resting her chin on her hand, she gazed out as the motorized bike pulled up. It was a man wearing an oversized, dark blue T-shirt, sneakers and blue jeans. It was a
Go Navy
T-shirt. A nice looking man.

“Oh God,” Spurs said aloud and hid her eyes with her left hand when she realized who it was.

Too late.

North trotted up the steps, grinning. “Hey, sad lady, your camel die?”

Spurs twisted away as North stopped beside her. “Why me? I don’t need this right now.”

“How’re the drinks?” he asked, motioning toward the hotel door.

“I’d suggest a bottled European beer.”

“That bad, huh. Oh well, I didn’t come here for the alcohol.”

Spurs still didn’t look to him. “What did you come for then?”

“You.”

“Me?” she said frowning to him. “What do you mean, me?”

He smiled back, those beautiful eyes sparkling. Had he gone nuts? Had he changed sexual preference? She saw the light blue bruise across the bridge of his nose from the head butt she’d given him in the water. It had given
her
some satisfaction then, and even some now, noticing it. Then she thought of another reason he might be there—to kill her.

She scooted away a couple feet nervously and said, “Aren’t you barking up the wrong tree here, Fido?”

“I don’t think you understand,” he said.

“I think you think right. Please go away.”

“Okay, I’ll go away.” He glanced around warily, then lowered his voice. “But first listen to what I have to say, Special Agent Janelle B. Sperling.”

Spurs looked up gaping. He was telling her he knew. Why would he do that, unless he was going to kill her? Murder her here in front of the desk clerk.

She snapped her head back at the open door of the hotel, pointing to the small man watching from the desk inside.

“Don’t try anything,” she said glaring at North as she stood. “There’s a witness.”

“Good God, Spurs, you still think I’m the bad guy. I don’t suppose you’ll believe me if I tell you I’m your contact.”

Believe him? Hell no, she wouldn’t believe him. Reeves said he might try this. She wasn’t sure that North was really involved in this Jap Rap scheme, and had actually hoped he wasn’t, wanting to believe his story about trying to save her when they went overboard. There was something inside this man she liked. Deep inside, past the attractive exterior, deeper than his homosexuality. A passion he controlled that she knew he had, beyond his pretentious neatness, his proper behavior and his sarcastic humor. She’d seen it on the ship. But now, she felt that she’d been fooled. The Chameleon was changing colors.

North frowned and rolled his eyes.

“Okay, what can I do to prove it?”

“Nothing, I believe you,” she said, backing up the steps toward the door.

“Your boss, Director Burgess is like a father to me. We go back a long way. We’re old fishing buddies.”

Spurs stopped on the steps. She remembered the photo on Burgess’ desk. The other man in the picture—that’s where she’d seen North—it was him.

“All right, how about this; Assistant Director Royse is your uncle.”

She knew that anyone involved in treason this deep could have found that out.

“I believe you,” she said still backing away.

North stepped up, following her.

“While he was away in the Middle East, Admiral Burgess assigned you on this mission, right?”

“You asking or telling?” she said still backing cautiously.

“Royse’s first name is Paul, his wife’s name is Katherine and—he
also
calls you Spurs. Remember, I called you by your nickname without you telling me what it was the day you first came aboard?”

She slowed, but still backed away. She remembered. He was right. He was trying to make contact that first day, but she’d ignored the obvious attempt.

He continued, “You called Royse in Barcelona, but were interrupted before he could tell you I was your contact.”

Spurs stopped within arm’s reach of the door and stared into North’s eyes considering what he was saying. If what he said was true, then was Reeves a third agent? Not likely. No, if it was, Reeves was more likely one of the bad guys. But how else could North know unless he’d talked to Royse himself—or maybe intercepted a message intended for Reeves? Maybe Chardoff had told him, but she was sure the Marine captain hadn’t been standing next to her during her entire conversation with Royse in Barcelona.

“Okay,” he said, “now let’s get down to business. We’ve a lot to talk about. Let’s go for a ride.” He motioned to the Moped.

“Wait a minute,” Spurs said. “What about Commander Reeves?”

“What about Commander Reeves?”

“He was going to meet me here—an hour ago.”

“Must have gotten sidetracked,” he said curling the side of his mouth.

She stared at him. The curl came out and he frowned back. He said what she was thinking.

“Now wait a minute. You don’t think I did something to Reeves, do you? And that’s how I know what Royse said to you? I tortured Reeves and got it out of him, right?” He shook his head. “Jeez, Sperling, I don’t know where he is. Honest.”

She still eyed him skeptically.

“Come on,” North said, turning his back. He went down several steps toward the waiting Moped then stopped midway and looked back. “Quit being so suspicious. I know it comes with the job, but this is ridiculous. I’ll take you back to the ship. Your precious little boyfriend, Reeves is okay. I’ll show you.”

“He isn’t my boyfriend,” she scolded.

There went that sideways grin and roll of the eyes again. God, she hated it when he did that.

“Okay, I’ll tell you what. Have you got a weapon, something sharp—that fingernail file you used to cut me free of that harness?”

Spurs watched him. What was he up to now?

“Well, still have it?”

She’d put a nice sharp edge on that fingernail file to make her more comfortable when she walked alone at night, not to cut webbing to save a man who had been trying to kill her. This current situation more suited its purpose. She reached in her purse and pulled it out, holding it at the ready.

“Good, good,” he said. “Now, you hold that to my throat while we drive back to town and I’ll tell you all about the investigations.”

“Maybe I know all I need to know about Jap Rap.”

“Jap Rap? That’s all bull manure. You don’t know that by now?”

“What investigations are you talking about then?”

“The one you were assigned to—Nader. And the one I’ve been following for the past two months— Chameleon. Jap Rap sounds like some kind of an oriental boy band. It doesn’t exist. Just a red herring to throw us off.”

Who could she believe? If she went with North now, she would have a better chance of finding out who was telling the truth. Or he might kill her. She’d have the fingernail file—at his throat.

She stepped toward him, bringing the file to her side.

“Proceed, Mister North,” she said formally.

“That’s more like it,” he said grinning again. “Hey, did you know you had coon eyes?”

“What?”

“Raccoon eyes. You know, the smeared mascara. It does that when you cry.”

He should know, she thought. He probably wears it in drag. She looked back to the desk clerk to make sure he still watched then let down her guard and took a hanky from her purse and wiped her face.

“Does this meet your approval, sir?” she asked.

North’s smile was wide now. He looked into her eyes, then stepped back and scanned her up and down.

“Just what are you looking at?”

“If we hit a bump and you accidentally slit my throat with that homemade pig sticker of yours, I guess it won’t be so bad. I always wanted to die in the arms of a beautiful woman. I had wished it’d be in the heat of passion, though.”

Spurs wrinkled her nose.

“What are you talking about? You’re gay.”

He hiked his leg over the Moped.

“No, I’m not.”

She pulled her skirt up halfway and slipped onto the seat behind him.