Ghost Ship (NUMA Files 12)

“Kurt’s been contacting foreign sources. Wiring money to people who might work what we call the shady side of the street.”

This, Pitt didn’t know. “To what end?”

“Looking for any sign that Sienna Westgate might somehow be alive.”

Pitt’s eyebrows went up. “Are you sure?”

Sandecker nodded.

Pitt looked off into the hangar. That didn’t sound healthy. Nor, honestly, did it sound like Kurt. Kurt was pragmatic, not given to flights of fancy.

“Every man has his limits,” Pitt mused, considering Sandecker’s original question. “Even you and I have been close to ours a time or two. I suppose it’s possible Kurt’s reached his.”

“Possibly,” Sandecker said. “But in this case, there’s a twist. Trent MacDonald over at Central Intelligence handed me a file today. They’ve looked at the same photos Kurt received and they can’t rule out the chance that Kurt might be onto something.”

“‘Can’t rule out’? What does that mean?”

“It means they think he’s tilting at windmills, but they can’t prove it.” From his pocket, Sandecker produced a three-by-five glossy. It showed a woman who looked somewhat like Sienna Westgate getting in a car with a burly-looking bodyguard. “This was taken in Bandar Abbas.”

Dirk studied the image. It was a little grainy from being blown up. “Do they really think it’s her?”

“A one-in-five chance, I’m told. Not all that high. But the possibility of a missing American being chauffeured around Iran doesn’t make the government happy. Especially not when she was the guiding force behind Phalanx.”

“I can see why that would make people nervous,” Pitt said. “What do they plan on doing about it?”

“Well, there’s the rub,” Sandecker said. “Despite my efforts, the Agency is reluctant to do more than keep an eye on things. They see it as a catch-22. If that’s her—and the Iranians took her—that’s an act of war. And believe me, no one wants to open that can of worms. On the other hand, if it isn’t her, they risk exposing precious resources in the effort.”

Dirk understood the dilemma. He glanced back at the photo. The woman was made-up, her hair pulled back, her clothes conservative business style. Large sunglasses made it impossible to see her eyes or perform any type of facial recognition analysis. “She doesn’t appear to be under any duress.”

“That’s another concern.”

“Who’s the jughead next to her?”

“He’s a mystery,” Sandecker said. “He goes by the name of Acosta. He’s a minor player in the Middle East and Africa. Weapons mostly. We know he’s run guns and other contraband from time to time, but he’s not a big name.”

Dirk handed the photo back. “So what does this have to do with Kurt?”

“It’s been expressed to me that, should Kurt Austin be interested in poking around a little, no one in a position of power would be too upset about the matter. As long as he did it in the capacity of a private citizen.”

Pitt raised an eyebrow. “I see.”

“He already shook the tree,” Sandecker noted. “If he shakes a little harder, who knows what might fall out.”

Pitt wasn’t sure he liked the idea. “So they want to use Kurt to sound out the edges of this dark little cave. If he finds something, we’re a little wiser. And if he gets burned in the process, nothing strategic gets lost.”

“That’s life in the big leagues,” Sandecker said.

“I don’t have a problem with that,” Dirk replied. “But did anyone consider Kurt’s condition in all this? I’m not interested in sending a wounded man into the lion’s den.”

“Nor am I,” the VP said. “Which brings us back to my original question. In your opinion, is Kurt Austin fit for duty?”

The conversation had come full circle, and Pitt was left to consider the question on his own.

Sandecker pulled a thin black memory stick from his pocket. A tiny green LED on the end glowed dimly. “Encrypted files. To get Kurt on his way. But only if you think he’s up to it.”

Pitt took the memory stick from Sandecker without comment. As he did, the door to the upstairs apartment opened and Loren Smith stepped out. She was dressed in a golden-vanilla Ralph Lauren gown that hugged her body perfectly. Her auburn hair was swept off her face and draped softly over one shoulder.

“Congresswoman,” the Vice President said, “you look radiant. Beautiful enough to make up for the lunk you’ll be dragging around with you all night.”