Conner sniffed as he followed her down the hatch. "Diesel fumes."

"What did you expect?" Hannah asked as she glanced around the dimly lit engineering deck. "You know that when the nuclear reactor isn't functioning it's common to run the auxiliary diesel engines. I can tell from the design diagrams that the Oscar IIs don't ventilate the exhaust very well."

"I thought this sub was towed across the Atlantic."

"It was, but they piloted it here into its slip under its own power." She turned to the lieutenant. "The captain's quarters?"

He nodded. "This way."

A few minutes later Lieutenant Cox threw open the door of the stateroom. "Not exactly palatial but very comfortable compared to the rest of the officers' cabins."

"It looks pretty sparse to me." Hannah followed him into the cabin and glanced around. The compartment was approximately six by eight feet, featuring the same low ceilings, and dim, recessed lighting as the other living quarters she'd seen on the way. "But no more austere than others I've seen." She glanced in surprise at the shelves over the bed. "Books? Don't tell me the museum has already started to try to add atmosphere to their exhibit?"

"No, these were here when we took it over from the Finns." He wrinkled his nose. "I'm afraid you won't find much to help you in them. The Russians charged in like gangbusters and took all the journals and logs. They wanted to take everything, but the captain got tough. Our deal with Putin was that we got the sub as it was, and they had no right to confiscate anything. Captain Samuel told them the museum might want them to authenticate the exhibit, so they left those books." He turned to Conner. "The control room next? Ready?"

Conner nodded. "I should get started. I have a boss who's demanding as hell." He turned to Hannah. "See you at lunch?"

"Sure," she said absently as she moved toward the shelves. She'd always had a passion for books, and she was curious to see what this Russian captain had found interesting or entertaining. The cabin was so stark and impersonal that the introduction of such a personal note was almost shocking.

"I'll call you when I come to a good stopping place," Conner said. "Then you can come and help me. It shouldn't take you any time at all to document and certify this cabin as safe."

"Yeah," she murmured, her gaze never leaving the books. "No time at all."

Conner chuckled. "Come on, Lieutenant. You'll have to forgive my sister. She's been having an unusual bout of sensitivity since she came in contact with this sub. Maybe it's a hormonal issue."

"Bite me." She took a slender blue volume from the shelf. "Get out of here, Conner."

"Yes, ma'am." He was still chuckling as he followed Cox from the cabin.

"Now let's see who you are, Vladzar." She flipped open the book. Russian. She wasn't going to find out much about the captain from this book, she thought ruefully. It appeared to be a textbook or navigational aid, but she couldn't understand either the language or the weird symbols or equations that appeared fairly frequently. She put the book back on the shelf and reached for a thicker volume next to it. That's better. English. The World According to Garp. Not what she would have expected from a good Communist like the man Bradworth had described. Nor was the next volume she picked up. English again. This time three plays by Shakespeare. Romeo and Juliet, A Midsummer Night's Dream, Julius Caesar. She sat down on the bunk and opened the book. The pages were well thumbed, and it felt strangely intimate as she tentatively touched one worn corner. The captain had spent hours in this cabin, reading this book and then rereading it. It was almost like touching him…

Christ, what was wrong with her? She snapped the book shut and shoved it back on the shelf. She'd never felt like this when she'd handled the Titanic artifacts. Conner had claimed that he had felt a kinship with the victims of that disaster, but she had felt only sadness and anger at a useless tragedy. It was bizarre she was having this response to the possessions of a Russian captain who had not even died on this ship.

It must be the memory of the Kursk that was triggering all this fascination and emotion. A clear case of substitution. So forget that old man who had died in his bed two years ago far from the glory of his military days. Get to work unscrewing the back of the desk across the room and check it out. Then move on to the head in the adjoining bathroom.

She bent down, opened her tool chest, and stopped. Why should she stop glancing through the books when that was what she wanted to do? They might even tell her something she should know about the sub. It would only take a little while to go through them.

An excuse?

Maybe. The Russians had probably taken everything that would be useful. But she knew she was going to take that time anyway, and she didn't need an excuse. She could do whatever she wanted with this sub, dammit.

She slammed the tool chest shut, stood up, and crossed the cabin again to stand before the shelves. She could feel a tingle of eagerness as she reached for the next book on the shelf. "Okay, Captain, you've got me. Now tell me something that will keep Conner from claiming I'm becoming a nutcase about your damn sub."

Out," Conner said firmly. "I've called you twice for lunch. Get your booty out of this cabin and out on the pier. It's almost four. We'll eat out there. You need to get a breath of air that's not stale and reeking of the great Soviet past."

"Is it?" She shut the book and scrambled to her feet. "I didn't think it was that late. I guess I was busy." She laid the book carefully on the bed. "How are you coming in the control room?"

"Better than you are here. I've got three panels off and photographed." He glanced around the cabin. "While you appear to have been slacking."

"I'll catch up." She passed him and went toward the stairs. "I'm almost finished going through his books. There's nothing that can help us."

"I don't know why you bothered. Cox told you that they took all the journals and logs. You couldn't expect to find anything."

"I guess not." She glanced at him over her shoulder. "So stop saying I told you so."

"No way. I don't get the chance that often." He grinned as he helped her out of the sub and onto the pier. "I want to rub your nose in it."

"Actually, I did find something in that Shakespearean anthology." She sat down on the pier and took the piece of chicken he handed her. "A photo."

"And?"

"Not helpful. It was a young woman. Blond, very pretty. Probably the captain's daughter."

"Unless he was a sailor who had a woman in every port."

"I don't think so." She made a face. "I guess I don't want to think so. I like to believe anyone entrusted with enough firepower to destroy Washington, D.C., was more stable than that."

"He was a man, Hannah. He was fifty-six, in the prime of life, when he commanded this vessel. Maybe he compartmentalized the different facets of his life. It very well could be the photo of a mistress."

"And it could very well be that he wanted to keep a picture of his daughter close to him."

"Lord, you're stubborn." Conner smiled as he leaned back against a post. "By all means, think the best of him. It's healthy for you."

"Healthy?"

"At least, it hints at emotional involvement. Better an obsession with a dead man than a nuclear reactor."

"I'm not obsessed with him." She took a drink of coffee. "I'm… interested. And you're talking as if my sex life was nonexistent."

"How many relationships have you had since you gave Ken his walking papers?"

She was silent. "A few."

"A few rolls in the hay maybe."

"And I didn't give Ken his walking papers. He found someone else."