"Jeez, Hannah. I can direct you to the license office, but-"

"It'll take forever that way. Just a few clicks on that keyboard in front of you will give me everything I need."

"Dammit, I'm the U.S. Coast Guard's legal counsel. It's part of my job to keep our people from doing what you've just asked me to do."

"Tell them to do as you say, not as you do."

"And what do I say when I'm called down on the carpet for giving out sensitive information?"

She hesitated. It had to be done. "Remind them who helped you get the job there. If I hadn't put in a word for you, your expertise in maritime law would probably still be helping the oil companies pollute the oceans."

He paused. "That's below the belt, Hannah."

"I agree, and I'd never do it if I wasn't desperate. Help me, Jack."

"You're a wicked woman, Hannah."

"Please, Jack. BDR 54992 B8 67."

Silence. Then she heard the clicking of a keyboard.

Success.

"Okay, I guess I'm not really giving you anything you couldn't have found out with some paperwork and a bit of time. The vessel belongs to a Captain Henry Danforth."

"Class?"

"Hmm. It's a fishing trawler, but it's licensed for personal/recreational use."

"That's unusual, isn't it?"

"Well, deep-sea fishermen retire, and sometimes they just want a boat they're comfortable with. The boat's hailing port isn't far from you: Gloucester, Massachusetts, probably inner harbor. Are you happy now?"

"Very. Thanks, Jack. I'll remember this."

"I'd just as soon you forget it. It will be safer for me."

"Whatever you say." She hung up and turned to Cathy. "We've got him. Gloucester."

Ninety minutes later, Hannah turned left off Route 128 to East Main Street, which would take her past the State Fish Pier and along the inner harbor. Cathy had wanted to come with her, but she'd had to pick up her kids. Hannah was just as happy to go alone. She didn't know what she'd find in Gloucester.

Her cell phone rang, and she glanced at the caller ID screen. Bradworth. She let it go to voice mail. It was the third call from him in the past two hours. He'd probably learned about the clip files she'd obtained from Congressman Preston. No doubt the bastard wanted to warn her off from what she was doing.

No way.

In less than a mile, she turned off East Main and drove toward the water. Gloucester was a charming fishing village that almost seemed at odds with its recent popularity as a tourist destination. The old-timers were resentful of the transition, but the tourist industry had helped take up the slack as the region's commercial fishing industry plummeted.

She drove to the pier, which was lined with scores of fishing boats and pleasure craft. Was the trawler even here now? She knew it could be anywhere on the Eastern Seaboard, and boat owners were notoriously uncooperative when it came to keeping current info on file with the licensing authorities. She parked her car on the street and walked toward the pier.

It was a cool, overcast afternoon, just the sort of day that kept tourists away in droves. She walked along the wharf area, occasionally raising her binoculars to examine the boats.

She stiffened. There it was!

She focused her binoculars on the ID number. Definitely the right one. The trawler was moored between two other fishing boats. Its maroon, barnacle-covered hull was in need of a resurfacing, and the windows were fogged by sea salt. She looked for a name on the stern, but there was none.

She watched the boat for a few minutes longer, looking for any signs of life inside. None visible.

She walked down to the pier and made her way to the trawler, slowing her pace as she drew closer. The wind kicked up, and cold sprinkles of rain pelted her face.

Lights off, hatches closed. It didn't look as if anyone was home.

"Hi." In the boat next to the trawler, a bearded man in his early twenties rolled up a ragged net and glanced up at Hannah. He gave a low appreciative whistle. "You're lost, right?"

She smiled. "Not exactly. I want to talk to the captain of this boat. Know when he'll be back?"

He shook his head. "Nope. If it's a charter you're looking for, I don't think he does that kind of thing."

"Not even for the right price?"

"I don't think so. I've never seen anybody on the boat but him." His gaze slowly studied her up and down. "You look like you're used to a nicer boat anyhow, like maybe a yacht."

"I'll take that as a compliment."

He smiled. "It was. I'm Josh Sarks."

"Hannah. Good to meet you." She stepped closer. "Maybe I'm confusing this man with someone else. What does he look like?"

"Tall, dark hair, late forties or maybe fifty. He talks with an accent."

"What kind of accent?"

"Irish or Scottish, I can never tell the difference."

"See him around here much?"

"Sometimes." Sarks jerked his thumb toward a bar next to the pier entrance. "And I've run into him at the Seagull Saloon. I was there with a girlfriend, and she went dippy over him. I don't know if it's the accent or what." He grimaced. "You wouldn't think a young chick like her would go for an old guy like that."

Forties was old? Christ, this kid was young. "He goes there to pick up women?"

"Nah. As far as I know, he always comes back here alone." He frowned. "You're asking a lot of questions. Are you his wife or something? Have I put my foot in it?"

She smiled. "Hardly. I promise you I've never met the man. I'm here on business, and I appreciate your help. So he lives here on the boat?"

"Yep."

"What does he do for a living?"

He shrugged. "Maybe nothing. He's sure not a fisherman. My dad and I have been moored here for the last three years, and I've never seen him bring in a catch. The boat comes and goes. It'll be here for a few weeks, then goes away."

"Goes where?"

"No idea. I don't think anyone around here knows him very well."

And neither did Josh Sarks. She'd probably found out all she was going to get from him. "Well, he doesn't sound like the man I was looking for. Thanks for your help."

"Maybe we could go up to the Seagull, and I could buy you a drink?" he called after her. "Someone there might be able to tell you something."

"I wish I could. I don't have the time right now." She smiled at him as she started up the pier. "Give me a rain check?"

Ten minutes later, Hannah sat at a window table of the Coffee Dunk 'n' Dine across the street from the Seagull Saloon. She flipped up the lid of her laptop and glanced outside. She could see the trawler, so if the vessel's owner returned, he'd be easy to spot.

She sipped her coffee. What would she do when she saw him? From what she'd learned from Sarks, it was doubtful if he was connected with the men who'd attacked the sub. He'd been living here on a beat-up trawler for three years. He hadn't just shown up on the radar when the sub appeared. Maybe he was a submarine groupie after all.

Or maybe he wasn't.

She'd make a decision and cross that bridge when she came to it. In the meantime, she could think of worse places to catch up on her work.

Her cell phone rang; she checked the caller ID screen. Bradworth again. She thought about answering, but decided against it. To hell with him.

She turned off the ringer.

Shit!" Bradworth slammed down the receiver and walked across his office. Next time he'd block his name and number, in case Hannah was intentionally deep-sixing him to the voice-mail graveyard.

The red flag had gone up when Congressman Preston's office requested the Silent Thunder media clippings, and a few discreet inquiries confirmed that Hannah and her sister-in-law were behind it.

Bradworth rubbed his temple. Things needed to be handled delicately, with finesse. He couldn't allow a couple of grief-stricken family members to unravel years of effort.