The Solomon Effect Read Free Page B

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    No one in the Central Intelligence Agency wanted to be transferred to Division Thirteen. Any project or assignment with the potential to be either personally embarrassing or a career wrecker was handed down to the guys in the Division.
    There’d been a time when Jax had been considered one of the Agency’s hotshots. Then he’d lost his temper over American involvement with right-wing death squads in Colombia and slugged a United States ambassador in the middle of a diplomatic dinner party. Definitely not a good career move, although Jax might eventually have been able to live it down if the ambassador involved—Gordon Chandler—hadn’t been named the new Director of the CIA.
    “A phantom Nazi sub?” said Jax, staring at Matt von Moltke across the width of the basement cubbyhole that served as the Division’s offices. “Please tell me this is a joke.”
    “I’m afraid not,” said Matt, coming from behind a row offiling cabinets with a sheaf of printouts in his hands. He was a big guy, with a wild head of dark curly hair streaked with gray and a bushy beard that covered most of his face. He’d earned his transfer to Division Thirteen long ago, back in the eighties, when he’d objected to some of the dirty arrangements that became known as the Iran-contra affair.
    “U–114. We located it back in 2003, lying in about three hundred feet of water off the east coast of Denmark. A British destroyer sank it with depth charges just days before the Nazis surrendered.” Matt paused. “I’m told it’s what they call a Type XB.”
    Jax leaned against the doorjamb, his hands on his hips. “That’s significant?”
    “Very.” Matt limped over to start assembling the books and papers scattered across the battered chrome-and-Formica table that took up most of the floor space in his office. The table looked like something out of the fifties, and the folder he was shoving the papers into probably hailed from the same era. “The XBs were the biggest subs used by the Kriegsmarine in World War II. Originally they were designed as mine layers, but because of their size they were eventually converted into transports. They hauled all kinds of shit to the Japanese in the Pacific, and brought back raw materials to Germany.”
    “What was this U–114 carrying?” said Jax, pushing away from the door frame.
    Matt held out a black-and-white photo of a long, slim submarine lying on a sandy seabed. “They think it was gold.”
    “Nazi gold?” Jax took the photo. “Sounds like somebody’s been reading too many paperback thrillers.”
    Matt didn’t even crack a smile. “It’s no joke. The Nazis were sending all kinds of shit out of Germany near the end of the war. Some of it was war material and research to help the Japanese. But some of it was just loot.”
    Jax came to perch on the edge of the sturdy old table. “So why is the CIA interested?”
    “You’ve heard about the NSA intercept?”
    “The latest terrorist threat? Are you kidding? Who hasn’t?” The administration had deliberately leaked information on the intercept to the press. Terrorist threats were always good for the President’s popularity ratings, and at the moment President Randolph needed all the help he could get.
    “What isn’t so well known,” said Matt, “is that the bad guys made a passing reference to some old World War II U-boat. It didn’t make any sense until the Navy checked on U-114 and realized it’s gone.”
    Jax stared down at the grainy photo in his hand. He was no longer laughing. “What do you mean, ‘gone’?”
    “Just that. Gone.” Matt handed Jax another photo. This one showed the same stretch of seabed, empty now except for a long depression in the sand and what looked like a few broken cables and chunks of rusting metal. “That image was shot this morning. Ever since we located the sub, we’ve been keeping an eye on it. Given its cargo, our government wanted to raise it, but the Germans refused. A lot of men