Page 70 of Clive Cussler The Iron Storm
“But the President said that the United States will never enter the war in Europe.”
“Depending on what Karl Rath does, he might not have a choice.” Now for the hard sell, Archie thought, the make-or-break moment. “Balka is likely part of that plan, Hanna. From what you’ve told me, your brother is, too. I need to stop them before they hurt anyone, themselves included. The police are now looking for Balka, but theydon’t know the kind of man he is. He’d rather die than get captured. He’d likely get your brother killed, too.”
Hanna sat very still on that park bench, her delicate hands in her lap, fingers interlaced, like the knots in her mind that she needed to tease apart to discover what was right.
“I need to find Balka before it’s too late, before Karl arrives and they unleash whatever hell they have planned for New York.”
She remained silent for a minute, wrestling with her clan loyalty, her love for her brother, her newfound hatred of Balka. Archie saw a strength in her that was well beyond her years. That meant there was another element swirling in her mind. She was brave and independent, but had been marginalized her whole life by her gender. He was giving her a chance at her own agency and she was wondering if she had the will to take it.
She gave an unconscious little nod when she’d made up her mind. “If I knew, I think I would tell you. You have kind eyes and are very, ah, earnest, but I do not know where they are. I haven’t seen Hanzi or Balka in a week, maybe ten days. I’ve asked around. No one knows where they are or what they are doing.”
Archie believed her. That made his disappointment all the worse. He’d gotten through to her, but she had nothing to offer. A guy like Balka Rath would be a ghost. Al Tanner and his boys at the First Precinct would never find him, and now it looked like neither would he.
“My brother has a truck,” Hanna said after a few moments. “I think whatever they are doing will involve it.”
“Can you describe it?”
“It’s a truck. Old. I don’t know, but I would recognize it if I saw it.”
Archie thought about the nearly five hundred miles of roads onManhattan Island and the odds of coming across one particular vehicle. About as high as winning a lottery on the same day you find a four-leaf clover and get struck by lightning. Still, it was an offer to help, and keeping her close would also keep her safe.
“I think that might be helpful,” he said, slapping his knee as if it were the best idea in the world. “I’m sure we can come up with some ideas on how to narrow the search. I have no doubt you’ve learned things you don’t even realize you know. That’s where I come in. A good detective has instincts about which are the right questions to ask. In the meantime I’m going to introduce you to my wife, and she’ll get you settled.”
“In your home?”
He looked her square in the eye. “You’ve placed your trust in me, Hanna. It would be dishonorable of me not to afford you the same courtesy.”
“But…you’re a gentleman. I’m nothing. A nobody.”
“And that is the last time you will ever think of yourself like that.” He stood, extending a hand. “Come on.”
Hanna looked up at this tall, attractive stranger who made her feel comfortable despite not knowing anything about him. He had charm, but it was no grift. He really was a gentleman. She held up her hand and he helped her to her feet. “Okay.”
36
The fishing boat tied tothe pier amid dozens of other craft was larger than the one that had ferried Bell from France to the Netherlands, but not much. She was a ketch-rigged motor sailer, meaning she had a main mast amidships, and a shorter mizzenmast toward her blunt stern, as well as a gasoline-fueled engine for when the wind was lacking. She was older, but appeared in good order, a working boat rather than a rich man’s toy. What had grabbed Bell’s attention was the Stars and Stripes hanging from her jack staff. As far as he could tell, she was the only American boat in Ponta Delgada.
A man in a black watch cap and farmer-style overalls over a wool shirt was seated near the transom repairing a section of netting. His hands were blunt, but quick.
“Ahoy,” Bell called to get the sailor’s attention.
The man looked up and squinted. The sun was directly behind Bell. He moved to his right so as not to blind the man.
“What can I do you for?”
“Gloucester?” Bell thought he recognized the man’s accent.
“Close. Ipswich.”
“Boston. Isaac Bell.”
“Beacon Hill?”
“I won’t deny it.”
“And I won’t hold it against you. Vernon Grimm.”
“Any chance you’re returning to the States soon?”
