David Hosp - Dark Harbor

AUTHORS NOTE: The initial drafts of this novel were completed late in 2003. No material changes have been made to the prologue since that time. Any similarity between events in this novel and recent events in Europe (or elsewhere) is purely coincidental. I extend my deepest sympathies to the victims of terrorist attacks and their families throughout the world.

The events and characters in this book are fictitious. Certain real locations and public figures are mentioned, but all other characters and events described in the book are totally imaginary.

Copyright 2005 by Richard David Hosp

All rights reserved.

Warner Books

Hachette Book Group

237 Park Avenue, New York, NY 10017

Visit our Web site at www.HachetteBookGroup.com.

First eBook Edition: June 2005

ISBN: 978-0-446-54981-3

The Warner Books name and logo are trademarks of Hachette Book Group, Inc.

Contents

For Joanie, Reid, and Samantha

With Love

The following people have provided invaluable advice, support, and substantive comments without which this novel would never have been possible: Joanie Hosp, Richard Hosp, Martha Hosp, Joan McCormick, Gary Mitchell, Ted Hosp, Betsy Hosp, Jeff Atwood, Jen Atwood, Breck Masterson, Elizabeth Masterson, Gus Coldebella, Tony Feeherry, John Englander, and Lynne Sollis.

I would also like to thank:

My partners and colleagues at Goodwin Procter, LLP, who, over the past nine years, have made me a better writer, a better lawyer, and a better person;

Frances Jalet-Miller, whose insight and editorial skill was invaluable in preparing the initial draft of this novel;

Larry, Jamie, Jimmy, Michele, and the entire Warner Books family, whose support I will always appreciate;

Rick Horgan, who did such an exceptional job of editing the near-final draft of the manuscript; much of any success I have with this book can be credited to him;

Lisa Vance, my agent (and the rest of the outstanding crew at the Aaron Priest Literary Agency), whose patience, perseverance, good humor, and hard work have already brought more success than I ever could have hoped for;

Maureen Egen, who took a chance on an unknown lawyer-turned-first-time-novelist and has been a great supporter, friend, and final editor; I am honored to have the opportunity to work with her; and finally,

Aaron Priest, who was the first person in the business to read the initial manuscript and agreed to represent me; without his belief and encouragement, none of this would have been possible.

Monday, September 12, 2005

E D T ANNERYLEANED BACK into the vinyl seat as the commuter train pulled out of the station. He couldnt remember ever having been so tired.

Hows the baby? Harry Makin asked. The two of them had been riding the train together for three years. They were similar cogs in the great economic engine of corporate America: white, male, early thirties, married, blue suit, white shirt, red tiejust two among more than a thousand hardworking souls on the 7:34 a.m. train winding its way through the suburban sprawl west of Boston.

Shes great, Tannery replied. I just wish she was sleeping better.

Yeah, well, get used to it, buddy. If you had any illusions about getting a good nights sleep anytime in the next three months, you may as well abandon them.

Tannery smiled. Its worth it, though.

Harry laughed. Tell me that when shes sixteen and shes not coming home at night anymore because shes dating someone like you.

No problem. Ive already applied for a gun license.

Harry laughed again and closed his eyes, turning his head toward the window, away from Tannery. Tannery enjoyed riding to work with Harry. He understood that silence could be a commuters best friend, and recognized the difference between light banter and incessant chatter.

The two men sat quietly next to each other as the train gathered speed. That particular day, a respectful silence seemed appropriate. It had been exactly four years and a day since the world had changed so drastically.

Theyd both known several people who perished in the attack on the World Trade Center. The financial community was small and inbred, and the ripples that spread across their industry in the wake of the loss were still deeply felt.

I thought you were going to take the day off, Harry commented after a while, his eyes still closed. Tannerys company allowed its employees to take September 11 as a floating holiday in memory of the great tragedy. Because the eleventh fell on Sunday, they had been given the option of taking the Monday off in remembrance of the dark anniversary.

Nah, Ive got too much going on. I couldnt. That wasnt exactly true. The baby was only two weeks old, and Tannery hadnt logged any vacation time yet. He could have skipped work that day. But the markets were down, and he was young and ambitious; he was unwilling to give ground to his competitors. Besides, Amy seemed to be doing great with the baby, and he was planning on taking a week off in the beginning of Octoberthe most beautiful time of year in New England. Go , Amy had told him, and then you can really relax when were on vacation. So hed gone.

Harry grunted his understanding and sank deeper into his seat, desperate to augment what little sleep he got at home contending with two children of his own. There just never seemed to be enough time in the day.

Sitting on the train, a part of Ed Tannery knew hed made a mistake. The baby would never be this young again, and he would never get this time back. At the same time, he had responsibilities now. He had to make sure he provided for his young family.

He took a photograph out of his jacket pocket and held it up. Amy stared out at him from the delivery room, sweaty and tired, but radiant. In her arms lay their newborn baby, only minutes old, still sticky and red and grumpy. Tannery put the picture back into his breast pocket and patted his chest. He closed his eyes as a tired smile spread across his face. Hed have a lifetime with them, he thought.

Three rows ahead of Ed Tannery, Alhari Al Sadria sat with his eyes glued to the window, following the trains path parallel to the highway.

He had short, neatly trimmed black hair, a thin mustache, and an olive complexion. Most people assumed he was Spanish, or perhaps Greek. In fact, Sadria had been born and raised in Tunisia on the shores near the ancient city of Carthage. As a boy, hed played in the turquoise waters of the Mediterranean and watched the barbarians from Italy, France, and America claim the small African nation street by street, building by building, and family by family. It was there that he came under the influence of Nisar Ben Mohammad Namur, an outspoken mullah who shared Sadrias contempt for Westerners. The great teacher had taken Sadrias adolescent disenchantment and molded it with care into a hatred that burned with blind passion.

In 1996, Sadria had arrived in the United States as a twenty-year-old college student, ready to study computer science at Boston University. He graduated near the top of his class and earned a spot in a masters program at MIT. Upon receiving his degree, he turned down doctoral program offers from several top universities, choosing instead to enter the private sector. A large consulting company hired him and expedited the visa paperwork so he could stay in the country. In the two years since, hed ridden this same train every morning. Never again, he knew.

The call had come two weeks before. To anyone eavesdropping, the conversation with his old friend in Tunisia would have sounded innocent enough. They spoke of Sadrias family and the goings-on in his old seaside town on the Mediterranean. They talked about the top African and European football stars and the latest matches. They laughed about the times theyd enjoyed when they were boys, and about the future. The conversation was so relaxed and natural that Sadria almost missed the signal.