Medusa (NUMA Files 8)

“It took a while before we figured out the lab was gone and got acoustical sensors down,” he said. “We’ve got three antisub submarines equipped with electronic ears so sensitive they can hear a fish sneeze out patrolling the perimeters of the triangle.”

“You might want to tell your subs to use their acoustical detectors to listen for the sound signature of a Russian Typhoon-class submarine. The Typhoons run quiet, but maybe you’ll pick something up.”

Dixon gave Zavala an odd look.

“You think the Russians are involved in this?”

“No,” Zavala said, “but one of their old subs might be. Looks like you’ve got all bases covered. I’d like to go back to square one. I’ll contact the NUMA ship to see if I can borrow a submersible so I can get a look firsthand at the site.”

“I’ll give them a call,” Captain Dixon said, then added, “I’m running out of ideas. You got any suggestions?”

Zavala stared at the vast area represented by the satellite image. The Navy faced a daunting, almost impossible task. The Federated States of Micronesia consisted of more than six hundred islands scattered across a million and a half square miles of the Pacific. Actual land covered an area smaller than the state of Rhode Island, but, factoring in the ocean, the FSM was two-thirds the size of the United States.

“The good news is, your search plan is terrific, Captain. Given enough time, I don’t doubt you would find the lab.”

“Thanks.” The captain narrowed his eyes, and said, “What’s the bad news?”

Zavala gave him a sad smile.

“We don’t have time.”

CHAPTER 38

PAUL TROUT DROVE THE RENTED SUV INTO THE DESERTED back lot of a four-story mill that had been abandoned decades before when New Bedford’s textile business pulled out of the city. Silhouetted against the night sky, the granite building could have been a relic from a bygone civilization if not for the banner-sized sign advertising DISCOUNT FURNITURE. A security light over the front door illuminated a small wooden plaque: BRIMMER’S ANTIQUITIES, 4TH FLOOR.

The mill was otherwise dark, except for the night lights in the showroom and a yellow glow in a fourth-floor window.

“Look familiar?” Gamay asked.

“Yes,” Paul said. “It’s the old Dobbs mill, the place Rachael showed us in that print back at the mansion.”

Gamay pointed to the top floor.

“Either Brimmer is up there,” she said, “or the ghost of Captain Dobbs is putting in overtime.”

Paul reached for his cell phone and called Brimmer’s number.

“Strange,” Paul said. “Light’s on but Brimmer’s not answering. Not even a recording. Are your antennae picking up the same something’s-not-right vibes that I’m getting?”

Gamay wrinkled her nose.

“More like a bad smell,” she said.

Ticking the points off on her fingers, she said, “Brimmer tells us the logbook is a goner, then calls to say he knows where it is. Then he asks us to meet him at this overgrown haunted house instead of at his shop, or even a public place. Why all the secrecy?”

“I’m getting a picture in my mind of a mousetrap,” Paul said. “Only instead of cheese, an old book is the bait. And we’re the mice.”

“Maybe this creepy old building is making us paranoid,” Gamay said. “Brimmer isn’t the violent type. What do you want to do?”

“I don’t know if the information in the Dobbs logbook will help Kurt and Joe find the missing lab,” he said. “But, with lives involved, I say we go for it.”

“Looking at this from a cost-benefit point of view, I’d have to agree with you. Let’s cut the risk fac

tor, though, and scout things out.”

Paul parked the SUV in the shadows, and they cautiously approached the main entrance.

“Unlocked,” Paul said. “Nothing suspicious there. Brimmer is expecting us.”