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“Okay,” Rodgers said, “they’ll check.”
The men continued walking down the hill and reached the dock. They walked out on the planks then turned and headed down another dock that abutted the first at a right angle. Three men were visible on the Larissa’s deck. You could be sure more were below.
“We’ve searched every inch,” Rodgers said. “Nothing. The logs are falsified, but by interviewing the crew we learned that the cargo was picked up near Odesa in the Ukraine, and they steamed here without stopping.”
“Was the crew aware of what they were transporting?” Seng asked.
“No,” Rodgers said. “The rumor was that it was stolen artwork.”
“They were just the delivery men,” Seng said.
Meadows was staring back down the dock at the catamaran.
“Do you men want to go aboard?” Rodgers asked.
“Did anyone see the man leave the pub after he met with the captain?” Meadows asked.
“No,” Rodgers answered, “and that’s the problem. We don’t know who he was or where he went.”
“But the captain didn’t take the bomb with him to the pub,” Meadows wondered aloud, “so either someone on the crew made the switch, or it was stolen off this ship.”
“No one saw the bomb at the pub,” Rodgers said, “and the captain died there.”
“And you’ve grilled his crew?” Seng said.
“What I’m about to tell you is classified,” Rodgers said.
Seng and Meadows nodded.
“What we did to the crew is illegal by world convention—they told us everything they know,” Rodgers said quietly.
The British were not playing around—the Greeks had been tortured or doped or both.
“And no one in the crew made the switch?” Meadows said.
“No,” Rodgers said. “Whoever that man was at the pub, he had accomplices.”
“Eddie,” Meadows said, “why don’t you board the Larissa and check it out? I’m going to wander over there and talk to the guy on the catamaran.”
“We’ve already questioned him,” Rodgers said. “He’s a little odd, but harmless.”
“I’ll be right back,” Meadows said, walking down the dock.
Seng motioned to Rodgers and followed him on board the Larissa.
“SIR, WE NEED to call it,” Stone said, “Atlantic or North Sea?”
Hanley stared at the moving map on the monitor. He had no idea which way Cabrillo was headed, but the time to decide was upon them.
“Where’s the amphibious plane?”
“There,” Stone said, pointing to a blip on the map that showed the plane over Manchester and flying north.
“North Sea, then,” Hanley ordered. “London is the target. Order the amphibious plane to Glasgow to support Cabrillo.”
“Got it,” Stone said, reaching for the microphone.
“Hali,” Hanley said over his shoulder to Kasim, who was sitting at a table behind the control chair, “what’s the situation on the fuel for Adams?”
