The ship was quiet. There were no U.S. submarines this far south, the French underwater boats were in their huge base at Brest on the Brittany coast, and the Russians right now had nothing beyond the confines of the Baltic. Everyone knew there was nothing around, and nothing was expected.

However, at four minutes past four o’clock, a short, sharp exclamation was uttered by one of the young sonar operators; uttered almost in disbelief, in language not normally associated with the formal idiom of a submarine on patrol.

“What the bloody hell’s that?” snapped Able Seaman Jeff Cooper, staring at his screen. “I’m getting something, a rise, could be engine lines. I’d say it’s a submarine.”

A supervisor walked over and said, “Let me take a look.”

AB Cooper just had time to say “Right here, sir,” before the contact disappeared. And it did not return any time in the next five minutes. But then it did, and this time it was clearer, perhaps closer. Jeff Cooper coordinated the data quickly.

“Level of certainty they were engine lines?”

“One hundred percent, sir.”

“You thought it was a submarine?”

“I’m sure it was.”

“Well, that’s very peculiar. We have no notification that there is any submarine within two hundred miles of our track. What does the computer conclude?”

“Single shaft. Five blades. Compressed cavitation. Fits Russian diesel-electric Kilo-class boat.”

Five minutes later, the commanding officer was informed. Immediately, he ordered Artful to periscope depth and sent a signal to the satellite.

Lt. Commander Jimmy Ramshawe stared at the signal in front of him, which had arrived direct from Naval Intelligence. It was not couched in alarming tones, nor was it regarded as urgent. It just stated: RN HMS Artful 51.15N 08.29W picked up short transient contact on very quiet vessel at 161604JULY12. Insufficient hard copy for firm classification-aural, compressed cavitation, one shaft, five blades, probably non-nuclear. No information on friendly transits relates.

“That, old mate,” said Jimmy decisively, to the entirely empty room, “is a bloke who was bloody sure he just heard a submarine.”

He pulled up his computer chart for the northeastern Atlantic and checked the precise whereabouts of Artful when the transient contact was detected. About twenty-four miles south of Kinsale in County Cork… now, what in the name of Christ is an unknown submarine doing there? Unless the crew wants a decent round of golf-my dad played Old Head, Kinsale, last year-shot a 98!

He hit the secure link to COMSUBLANT and spoke to a lieutenant he knew well, questioning the likelihood of a submarine patrolling the coast of Ireland.

“Jack, I think it might have been Russian,” he said. “Five blades, that’s Russian for sure, and non-nuclear. The Brits obviously think it’s a Kilo, but they haven’t said so in as many words.”

Jim, we do have something on the boards. Only one, an Iranian Kilo, recently out of refit in the Baltic. We were tracking it in the western end of the Med, then tracked it north maybe a week ago. That’s probably her.

“Well, the Brits are damn reliable and wouldn’t make a mistake like this. Were you guys tracking it subsurface?”

Sure. We had Cheyenne in there.

Jimmy closed down the link and phoned the Big Man, who was, for once in his life, not betraying outright impatience.

“Listen, kid. You are sure the only submarine that has gone off the boards is that Iranian Kilo, right?”

“I am sure. COMSUBLANT has every other underwater boat on earth under observation.”

“And now a submarine, which fits the pattern, is located by the Brits twenty-four miles south of Kinsale in Ireland, right? Maybe 1,500 miles from its last known.”

“Correct.”

“Well, that Kilo can probably cover three hundred miles in a day, snorkeling. I guess that’s gotta be it. Hull 901 on the loose, way south in the Irish Sea.”

“That’s how I figured it, boss.”

“And what do you want me to do about it? Fire a torpedo?”

“Nossir. But I just had a few thoughts.”

“Don’t tell me. You think the Kilo is being driven by a barmaid from Brockhurst?”

“Close. I’ll talk to you later.”

As he said good-bye, the lieutenant commander could hear Arnold Morgan chuckling… heh-heh-heh, the knowing laugh of an ex-nuclear submarine commander who still thinks he’s one jump ahead.

Which was precisely the opposite of what Jimmy Ramshawe thought. For the first time in his life, he considered the Big Man to be several steps behind. And if he didn’t shape up, he’d be several steps dead. And now Jim pulled his biggest computerized chart into zoom-out mode, showing the ocean from Gibraltar to Kinsale.

He studied it, measured it, and deduced that the distance was almost 1,500 miles-that was five days, maybe less if she was in a major hurry. And since there was no likelihood that it was proposing to open fire on someone, Jimmy considered it most likely that the submarine was either picking someone up or depositing a person or persons on the shores of Ireland. Probably yesterday.

Intelligence officers of his caliber often act on a hunch. And right now Jimmy did so. He called a regular contact at the FBI and asked him to check whether anyone, repeat anyone, had purchased an unbooked ticket, either first-class or business-class, on a flight to Shannon or Dublin on the morning of July 3. “Almost certainly Aer Lingus,” he added. “They have a virtual monopoly on flights into southern Ireland from the USA. Try Washington, New York, and Boston.”

One hour later, he had an answer. A Miss Maureen Carson of an address in Michigan had purchased a first-class ticket from Boston to Dublin on the Aer Lingus flight that left at 10:30 A.M. on Tuesday, July 3. “Better yet, Jimmy. Aer Lingus booked her into the Shelbourne Hotel in Dublin that night.”

“Have we checked that out?”

“Sure. She was there for three days, then checked out, paying with her American Express card.”

“Did you check that out?”

“Sure. It was originally issued to the Jordanian embassy in Paris. Miss Carson is an extra signatory.”

Jimmy’s heart stopped beating. In his mind, he’d just found Carla Martin. And he’d made the Islamic connection. She was a Middle Eastern agent. And she’d gone to Brockhurst to check out when Arnold and Kathy were leaving the country. She’d killed big stupid Matt Barker, driven to Boston, and bought a ticket to Dublin.

And, if he was not absolutely mistaken, she’d just been joined by at least one other Middle Eastern agent who’d been landed on the Irish coast by Kilo Hull 901. Carla was either Syrian or Jordanian. The new one was an Iranian.

No one could string together a long group of unconnected facts like Jimmy. And now he was off and running, his mind in a turmoil. First he called back his pal, Lieutenant Jack Williams at COMSUBLANT, and advised him to keep a watch on the Gibraltar Strait for the return of the Kilo.

“She left through there, and she’ll return through there,” he said. “Either to restation off Lebanon, like she was before, or to go through the Suez Canal and then home to the Gulf.”

Jack wanted to know what the Kilo was doing skulking around the Irish coast. Jimmy filled him in. “She dropped someone off, someone who was up to no bloody good whatsoever.”

Then he called the FBI back and asked if they could make some kind of a search on Maureen Carson, either in Ireland or in Great Britain, where he believed she was headed. This was not going to be a problem, and they would also instigate a check on the Maureen Carson passport.

Jimmy called the Big Man, yet again. And he was not as cooperative as COMSUBLANT or the FBI. He listened carefully, and then said, rather coldly, “Kid, you have no goddamn idea what the submarine was doing off the coast of Ireland. She could have been on a training exercise. You need better facts. Your imagination will lead you nowhere.”