Chapter 2
Kurt Austin stood in the Blue Room of the White House thinking he’d been tricked.
A grand state dinner had been planned. Dignitaries and celebrities were expected to attend.
Ambassadors and staff from two dozen countries would be there to mix and mingle.
A fine time was to be had by all. So said the headlines.
As part of this dinner, agencies around Washington had been directed to send important representatives.
The National Underwater and Marine Agency was no exception.
Only, the director of the agency, Mr. Dirk Pitt, was on an expedition that had taken him into the jungles of South America and couldn’t be reached, even by satellite phone, which seemed rather suspicious.
With Dirk off the grid, NUMA’s assistant director, Rudi Gunn, had been next up to attend.
But at the last minute he’d been called out to the West Coast, where some vague and mysterious ecological disaster was allegedly unfolding.
Based on Rudi’s GPS coordinates, that disaster was happening at a winery in Napa Valley.
All of which left Kurt to carry the banner as the honored guest, or sacrificial lamb.
As he smiled benignly and made endless small talk, it dawned on Kurt why both Dirk and Rudi had suddenly been needed elsewhere. After what seemed like fifty insipid conversations of little consequence, he was certain he would soon lose his mind.
Refreshing his drink, he retreated to an alcove where he’d be less likely to be spotted.
Scanning the room from this spot, he finally noticed someone he hoped to talk with on a more personal level.
The beautiful blond woman was standing alone and smiling at him.
She was perhaps thirty, dressed like a model, and sipping a drink that left her pink lips glistening.
Kurt offered a slight nod of recognition.
His senses came alive once again and he started toward her.
He was wearing a fitted tuxedo and a French cuffed shirt held together with studs made of cobalt that had been mined from the bottom of the sea.
His shoes were polished, and his notoriously unruly hair had been tamed nicely.
He figured he was dressed to get a date.
He’d made three steps in her direction when a strong hand landed on his shoulder. “Don’t bother,” a stern voice warned him. “She doesn’t speak a word of English.”
Kurt turned to see the Vice President of the United States, James Sandecker, standing right behind him. The men shook hands heartily.
Sandecker was a man of endless energy and vigor.
He’d founded NUMA and built the agency up over a period of decades, guiding it to a position of prominence if not outright fame among those in the know in Washington.
A few years back, he’d accepted the President’s request to join the administration as the Vice President.
Not a large man, Sandecker was bristly and intense, and he stood out with wiry red hair and a well-trimmed Van Dyke beard, which many people mistakenly called a goatee.
He reminded some of a bulldog, others considered him like the honey badger, a small but fearless animal known to be relentless at getting what it wanted.
In conversations, Sandecker liked to present his thoughts first and then challenge others to change his opinion—if they dared. It was a quality that irritated many, but endeared him to the President, who appreciated a man who spoke his mind regardless of the consequences.
Kurt considered Sandecker a friend and a mentor. He’d thanked him on more than one occasion for personally recruiting him off a CIA salvage unit and bringing him over to NUMA. And as friends they could talk plainly.
“Are all these parties so boring?” Kurt asked.
“Almost all of them,” Sandecker admitted. “But eighty years ago, in this very room, a giant chandelier almost fell on Bess Truman and the Daughters of the American Revolution.”
“Any chance something like that will happen tonight?”
“Not likely,” Sandecker said. “Harry had the entire White House rebuilt afterward.”
Kurt figured that was probably a good thing. He glanced back at the blond woman, who was still watching him. “You obviously know her. At least tell me her name and where she’s from.”
“Her name is Katja,” Sandecker obliged. “She’s from a small town, in a mountainous part of Sweden. Near the ski slopes, I think. Her accent is so thick, my interpreter could barely understand what she was telling us.”
Kurt found himself imagining a chalet in the frozen hills, with cords of wood stacked up beside an outdoor hot tub, which the two of them could share while the snow drifted down and the drinks flowed. He didn’t see the need for much in the way of conversation.
“Why would the Swedes send someone to Washington who can’t speak English?”
“I’m not sure,” Sandecker admitted. “We send you all over the world and you don’t speak anything but.”
“Good point,” Kurt said. “I’m going to remedy that and start learning the world’s great languages immediately.”
“Swedish first?”
“Have to start somewhere,” Kurt replied.
The two men laughed, and the conversation turned to other matters, nothing political, just old friends catching up. It came to an abrupt halt when several members of the President’s staff rushed into the room in a way that attracted significant attention.
They moved quickly through the crowd, checking with each other and whispering into small radios that were all but concealed in their hands.
Sandecker saw them pick out the Secretary of Defense and then the Secretary of State, quite a pair. “I’d better go see what this is all about.”
The Vice President left, and to Kurt’s surprise, the Swedish woman came over to take his place.
She moved into the alcove beside Kurt and took another sip from the champagne glass without ever taking her eyes off him.
All of which had Kurt wondering how fast one could actually learn a foreign language.
“Hello,” he said. Then, pointing to himself, “I’m Kurt.”
She smiled coyly and nodded.
“To international relations,” he added, raising his glass. Everyone, he thought, knew a toast when they saw it.
She raised her glass and clinked it softly against his. Another sip. Another smile. Before Kurt could come up with anything else to do or say, she spoke.
“I’ve been wondering,” she began in accented but perfectly understandable English, “why do you stand over here in the corner? Are you a spy? Or perhaps a detective, watching someone and waiting for them to steal the silverware?”
Kurt laughed softly and shook his head. First Pitt and Gunn had gotten him, and now Sandecker. These scores would have to be settled, Kurt thought. And soon. But first to say something to the beautiful blond woman, who’d been brave enough to make the first move.
Before he could think of anything witty, the buzz kicked up in the room again. The President was leaving without explanation. Several members of the cabinet were following. Sandecker came striding back over to Kurt with a scowl on his face.
“Bad news?” Kurt asked.
“Did anyone ever leave a party because they got good news?” Sandecker said. He exhaled sharply. “You’d better come with me,” he added. “I have a feeling we might need you on this.”
Kurt turned to the woman, intending to tell her duty calls or something similar and then offering to meet her later, but Sandecker preempted him once again, this time addressing the woman.
“Don’t waste your time on this one,” he told her. “He’s been married to Thalassa for years, and she’ll never let him go.”
The woman’s eyes widened almost as far as Kurt’s did. She offered a withering look, glancing at his unadorned ring finger.
Kurt looked at Sandecker as if to say, What are you doing? He started to protest, but words failed him. At this point, what was the use? He turned back to the woman and shrugged as she scowled and walked away. Another Washington cad crossed off her list.
“Thalassa?” Kurt asked, focusing on Sandecker. “Really? What kind of name is that?”
“Goddess of the sea,” Sandecker replied. “I thought you might appreciate my poetry.”
Kurt could do nothing but shake his head. “You’re literally the worst wingman of all time.”
“Maybe, but we’re trying to close a deal with her boss,” Sandecker told him. “Who also happens to be her father. I don’t need you mucking it up by causing an international and highly emotional incident. Regardless, we have more important matters to attend to.”
He turned for the exit, Kurt followed.
“What’s going on?” Kurt asked, his attention fully on the here and now.
Sandecker spoke the same way he walked: briskly. “The Air Force lost a couple of planes over the Arctic. One of them is a billion-dollar prototype that shouldn’t be allowed to fall into enemy hands.”
“If it crashed into the sea, there won’t be much left of it,” Kurt said.
“If,” Sandecker agreed. “From the sound of it, hitting the ocean would be the best-case scenario at this point.”