Op Center 10 – Sea Of Fire – Clancy, Tom

Chapter One.

The Celebes Sea Tuesday, 4:19 A.M.

There were three things that swarthy, dark-eyed Singaporean Lee Tong knew very well.

One of those was the sea. The lanky but muscular Lee was the son of the late Henry Tong, a hardworking mate on a timber carrier. The elder Tong’s vessel, the 100-ton capacity Lord of the Ocean, was a container ship. It took regular runs of hardwood cargo from their home port in Singapore to India. On the return trip it would carry teak logs that had been shipped from the Ivory Coast to Bombay. These were bound for Hong Kong and Tokyo. Lee’s mother had died of food poisoning when the boy was five. Rather than live with his grandparents in Keluang, on their inland farm, Lee often traveled with his father. By the time Lee was thirteen, he was working full time as a cabin boy for the first mate.

Traveling the timber route, Lee learned the different moods of the waters. The clean smell of the Andaman Sea was different than the tart, oily smell along the coast of the South China Sea. The currents of the East China Sea caused a sharper rocking than the heavier, lofting swells in the Pacific Ocean. The storms were different, too. Some were sudden and ferocious. Others came from afar with enough warning that the pilot could steer around them. Lee also learned about men on these odysseys. What pleased them, what bothered them, what bothered them enough to kill. He learned that money, undemanding women, cigarettes, drink and the camaraderie of drink, and the loyalty of friends were the only things that really mattered to him. By the time the elder Tong died of liver failure, Lee had only managed to get a lot of smoking and drinking done. He would never get much more as long as he worked on the Lord of the Ocean or a vessel like her, which was why Lee Tong took up the next profession he did.

When Lee was sixteen, several years into his own career on the timber ship, he met two other young sailors who did not want to end up like their own fathers. Who were unhappy working for three dollars a day, seven days a week. Eventually, in port, they sat down with other dissatisfied young men from other professions. That led Lee to the second thing he knew very well.

Piracy.

Lee was standing in the steep raised prow of the sampan. The vessel was not of Singaporean design. It was a squat Shanghai Harbor model, also known as a mu-chi or hen boat. The name was a result of the sampan’s resemblance to the bird. Built mostly of softwood, which aged well and was extremely light, the mu-chi was eighteen feet long with four compartments, including a galley. There was an engine for rapid travel and four yulohs–thirteen-foot-long oars–for silent travel. That was how the five sampan pirates were traveling now, with Lee’s crewmates rowing two men to a side. They had bought the sampan in China, legally, just over two years before. They had paid for it with cash, most of it borrowed from Lee’s grandparents. The loan was repaid within a year. Buying the sampan was the last lawful act the men had done.

Early in their career the men learned how to mingle with harbor traffic to select their prey, how to track them until dark, and how to come alongside swiftly and quietly. They learned how to prowl the shipping lanes with their backs to the setting sun so that they would not be seen. Former police sergeant Koh Yu kept both a 500-channel scanner and a world band receiver on board to monitor restricted police and military communications. He had stolen them before resigning from the Special Operations Command of the Singapore Police Force. After sampling all kinds of ships, they focused on yachts and fishing charters. The take was usually good, and resistance was limited to indignant words. Since most of those words were English, Lee didn’t understand what was being said. Among them, only the unflappable Koh spoke English. And Koh did not care what was being said. None of the men felt remorse about the work they did. On land, the large took advantage of the small. The fat had their way with the lean. At sea, the sharks ate the tuna. Lee Tong had tried both lives.

He preferred being a shark.

They began by waylaying small pleasure boats, tour ships, and party vessels out of Hong Kong and Taipei. The men didn’t even have to board the ships to rob them. They came alongside and pressed plastic explosives low on the hull. The soft, explosive patties were homemade from concussion-ignited mercuric fulminate–a mixture of mercury, alcohol, and nitric acid–paraffin, and linseed oil to keep the wax pliant. That was a contribution of eight-fingered Clark Shunga, a former demolitions man for the lumber industry. Trees that were too difficult to cut down were blasted down. When he lost two fingers to a faulty detonator cap, he was fired with meager compensation. The Woo See Lumber Company was afraid that he would kill someone by mishandling explosives. He showed them that he could still play the guitar, but they were unimpressed. Clark put all of his severance pay–fifty dollars–toward the sampan.

The pirates would carefully place the plastic explosives fore and aft, a few feet above the waterline. That would keep them dry. It would also make it difficult for anyone to try to dislodge them with a pole or net. They would have to stand there, on the rocking deck, while the pirates shot at them. After the explosives were placed, the sampan would withdraw to a safe distance of between fifteen and twenty feet. Using a megaphone, they would order that valuables, jewels, and occasionally a female hostage be sent over the side in a rowboat or dinghy. They would enjoy the woman’s company for a short while and then set her adrift. If the orders were not followed, they would turn on the laser sight and fire a bullet from one of the M8 pistols that each man carried. The shot would ignite the explosive. To date, the pirates had never found it necessary to destroy a ship.

The Celebes Sea was still relatively new territory to Lee and the others. They had been sailing this region of the Western Pacific for just two months, since the Singapore navy increased its patrols in the South China Sea. The shipping lanes were different, and the sea itself was different. The waters did not heave up and down or from side to side like other bodies of water. They pitched you back and then drew you forward, thanks to a very strong and constant undertow. It reminded Lee of something his father once said about life: that it lets you move one step ahead and then knocks you back two.

The sampan was traveling dark. The cabin lights were off, and even the phosphorescent compass was covered with a canvas cloth, so that it would not be seen when they came alongside. They were headed toward two beacons roughly a quarter mile away, the fore and aft running lights of a yacht. It was an eighty-foot two-masted sailing yacht they had spotted while heading to port the previous day. The men had tracked the low, sleek vessel as it headed southeast. It was on an easy course with just a few people on board. It was probably a weeklong charter that cost some fat Aussie or Malaysian about fifteen or twenty thousand dollars, American. It was the perfect prey. This was the third thing Lee Tong knew well: spotting perfect targets. Since organizing the others on that hot, humid, hard-drinking night in Hong Kong, Lee had never picked a loser.

Until tonight.

Chapter Two.

Washington, D.C. Monday, 7:45 P.M.

The Inn Cognito was located at 7101 Democracy Boulevard in Bethesda. Paul Hood had never been to the new hot spot, but Op-Center’s attorney, Lowell Coffey III, had given it an enthusiastic recommendation. Hood and his undemanding palate were happy with something less chichi. He could do without TV monitors showing tape of blinking eyeballs and snapping fingers. But he was not here alone. He was with Daphne Connors, founder of the cutting-edge Daph-Con advertising agency. The forty-one year-old divorcee had also gotten a thumbs-up from Coffey, who knew the family of her former husband, attorney Gregory Packing, Jr.

The name of Daphne’s firm appealed to Washingtonians. Especially to the military. The blond-haired Daphne also appealed to Beltway insiders. She had the stylish poise and intensity of a CNN anchorwoman. In addition to handling various Army accounts, she represented hotels and restaurants, including this one. That was how they managed to get a reservation.

Daphne was quite a contrast to Hood, whose job as the director of Op-Center demanded quiet, steady leadership. The husky-voiced woman was extremely high-energy. She reminded Hood of the late Martha Mackall, Op-Center’s go-get-’em political liaison. Martha had been confident, poised, and always stalking. He didn’t know what she was hunting or why. He was not sure she did, either. But she never stopped.

Maybe that’s what Martha was really searching for, Hood thought. Understanding.

Tragically, terrorist bullets ended the life of the forty-nine-year-old African-American woman. Hood was sorry he had not gotten to know her better. From a strictly managerial point of view, he also wished he could have learned how to harness her intensity.

Hood tried to keep up with the hard-driving Daphne as she described how she established her agency in college with commissions she earned from selling ad space in university newspapers. She told him how it had grown to a global organization that employed over 340 people in the United States alone. In ten minutes she must have used the words push and drive a dozen times each. Hood found himself wondering how their respective organizations would fare if they switched jobs. His guess was that Daph-Con would end up being sold to some insipid conglomerate and homogenized. Op-Center would probably swallow the NSA, the CIA, and possibly Interpol.

Well, it might not be that extreme, Hood thought. But he had served as mayor of Los Angeles. He had worked on Wall Street. And eight years ago he had returned to government. Hood was fascinated by the different management styles in the public and private sector. He enjoyed the give-and-take of a team, the challenge of reaching a consensus. The need for self-expression that drove someone like Daphne was foreign to him. It was also a little off-putting–not because he disapproved but because he felt intimidated. His former wife, Sharon, had been introspective and very satisfied to go with the family flow. Even the presidents and world leaders Hood had known found it necessary to be team players.

“Paul?” Daphne said over her ducksalad appetizer.

“Yes?”

“I’ve been to enough pitch meetings to know when someone’s brain is wandering,” she said.

“No, I’m here,” Hood replied with a smile.

She gave him a dubious look. It had playful corners around the eyes and mouth, but just barely.

“You were telling me about the pro bono work you do for the Native American Chumash in California, so that their sacred caves in the Santa Ynez range are protected.”

The woman relaxed slightly. “All right, you heard me. But that still doesn’t mean you were listening.”

“I assure you, I was,” he said. “That glazed, unfocused look you saw was the glazed, unfocused eyes of Paul Hood at the end of a long day of bureaucratic conflicts.”

“I see,” Daphne said. She smiled now. “I understand. Totally.”

Still, Hood knew that she was right. Years ago, an actor friend in Los Angeles had taught him a trick of the trade. It was called “floating” lines. It was done when performers did not have adequate rehearsal time. You let words into your short-term memory, where they could be accessed. That left the rest of the brain free to observe, muse, and–yes–wander. Hood used the technique to memorize speeches when he was mayor. Since coming to Washington, he had developed floating to an art by attending endless policy briefings that were anything but brief. He could listen, even take notes, while thinking about what he needed to do when he got back to Op-Center.

Daphne pushed her plate aside and leaned forward. “Paul, I have to confess something.”

“Why?”

She laughed. “Funny. Most people would have asked, ‘What?’ “

He thought about that. She was right. He did not know why he said that.

“I haven’t been on a date in seven years,” Daphne said, “and I’m afraid I’ve turned this into something of a dog and pony show.”

“If it helps, I’m enjoying what you have to say.”

“You’re sweet, but I don’t like it,” Daphne said. “I’m acting like I’m at a client pitch. I’m trying too hard to sell myself.”

“No–“

“Yes,” she insisted. “You’ve been very patient for the last half hour.”

“I told you, I’m interested,” he answered truthfully. “I don’t meet many people who run businesses.”

“No, you meet people who run countries,” Daphne said.

“Most of whom are not as interesting as you are,” Hood replied. “And that wasn’t a line,” he added.

That caught her with her guard down. “Talk to me about that.”

“Most of them had to sandblast their most distinguishing features, make everything smooth to get where they are,” Hood told her. “What’s left is guided by constitutions or surrounded by domestic and international watch-dogs, constituents, and special interests.”

“Is that a bad thing?” she asked.

“Not necessarily,” Hood replied. “It prevents dictatorships. But it also slows progress to a glacial pace. The individual leader can’t move without the entire system moving with him or her.”

“Still, what they do affects more than the bottom line of a very minor privately held company.” She sat back. “What about you?”

“What do you want to know?” he asked.

“How you do it,” she replied. “You don’t seem to be one of those bureaucrats who’s always on the make, looking for access.”

Hood selected a bread stick from the basket. He dabbed it in a dish of olive oil and took a bite. He was not good at this either. When Sharon used to ask him how his day went, he never said much. There was no point starting a lengthy conversation because there were always interruptions. The phone, the kids, something on the stove or in the oven.

“I’m interested in having the access it takes to do my job, not in collecting it,” Hood replied.

“An idealist.”

Hood shrugged a shoulder.

“Is that a yes?” Daphne pressed.

Hood looked at her. Daphne had a nice smile. It started at the eyes and made its way down. “Let’s say I try to do what’s right,” he replied. “When I screw up, it’s not out of malice.”

“So you don’t possess the revenge gene that most people in big government have,” she said.

“No,” he said. “Bastards invariably cause their own downfall.”

“And that really works for you?” she asked.

“It leaves me free to do more constructive things,” Hood said.

Daphne laughed. “Lord, we are very different people. I hate SOBs or discourtesy or people who beat me at anything.” She regarded him. “I still don’t believe you have absolutely no bloodlust. Tell me if I’m overstepping some kind of first-date rule with this, but I read about those men who took the children hostage in New York. The ones you and your team killed. Didn’t you hate them?”

“That’s a good question,” Hood replied.

Daphne was referring to the renegade United Nations peacekeepers who had seized the Security Council during a party. Several children, including Hood’s daughter Harleigh, were among the young musicians providing entertainment. Hood and his number-two man, General Mike Rodgers, entered the chamber and, in a bloody gun battle, freed the captives.

Daphne was regarding Hood intently.

“I certainly hated what they did,” he told her.

“But not them?” she asked.

“No,” he answered truthfully. “They lost. Victory cost us something. Life always does. But it cost them everything.”

“So you see it as a net gain for our side,” Daphne said.

“I’m not quite that dispassionate about it, but yes. More or less,” Hood told her.

“You’re more philosophical about confrontations than I am,” Daphne told him. The woman leaned forward again. “I hate my enemies, Paul. I despise them from my nose to my toes. And I track them. I follow their activities in the trade magazines and through the cocktail-party circuit. If they are executives in a public company, I check the stock several times a day. Each time it goes down, I’m a happy woman. I don’t miss an opportunity to cut their hamstrings. In fact, I go out of my way to get them.”

“Well, that’s business,” he said.

“No, Paul. It’s personal. I personalize it. I personalize everything. You don’t understand that, do you?”

“It seems a little obsessive to me,” he admitted. “Or maybe that should be for me.”

“It is obsessive!” Daphne agreed. “Who says that’s a bad thing?”

“Well, there will always be more enemies,” Hood replied. “You can’t vanquish all of them.”

“Probably not,” she said.

“So I don’t see what the benefit is to an ongoing high-intensity conflict,” Hood said.

“Living,” she said. “You feel passionate about something every second of every day.”

“The hate doesn’t eat you up?” Hood asked.

“That’s the point!” she said. “It only eats you up if it stays inside. I channel it, use it as fuel for other things.”

“I see,” Hood said.

Not only did Daphne remind Hood of Martha Mackall, but she would get along terrifically with Op-Center’s intelligence chief Bob Herbert. Herbert hated fast and deep and enthusiastically. Hood admired, respected, and trusted him. But if Herbert didn’t have someone to keep him in check, he would constantly struggle between what was right and what was satisfying.

Daphne sat back again. “So. Now that I’ve turned you off completely, talk to me about whatever you do that isn’t classified.”

“You didn’t turn me off,” Hood insisted.

“No?”

Hood shook his head as he took another bite of bread-stick. “Some of my best friends are sociopaths.”

The woman gave Hood a twisted little smile.

That’s promising, Hood thought. She can laugh at herself.

Hood answered Daphne’s question as she finished her appetizer. He explained that Op-Center was the epithet for the National Crisis Management Center. It was housed in a two-story building at Andrews Air Force Base. During the Cold War, the nondescript, ivory-colored structure was one of two staging areas for flight crews known as NuRRDs–nuclear rapid-response divisions. In the event of a nuclear attack on the nation’s capital, their job would have been to evacuate key officials to safe command centers outside of Washington, D.C. With the fall of the Soviet Union and the downsizing of the NuRRDs, emergency air operations were consolidated elsewhere. The newly evacuated building at Andrews was given over to the newly chartered NCMC.

Hood told Daphne no more or less than was described in Op-Center’s public charter.

“The NCMC has two primary functions,” Hood said quietly. Speaking in a loud whisper was a habit he had developed whenever he discussed even declassified Op-Center business in public. “One is preventative. We monitor intelligence reports as well as the mainstream press for possible ‘hot button’ incidents. These are seemingly isolated events that can trigger potential crises or terrorist activities at home and abroad.”

“Such as?” she asked.

“The failure of Third World governments to pay their troops, which can lead to revolution and attacks on American interests,” Hood said. “The seizure of a large cache of drugs, which can spur retaliation against law enforcement officers. We make sure local personnel are aware of potential dangers.”

“So there’s a lot of profiling, intelligent guesswork, that sort of thing,” Daphne said.

“Exactly,” Hood said. “The other function of Op-Center is to deal with situations that have already started to burn. I can’t go into details, but it’s along the lines of what we did at the United Nations.”

“Killing bad guys,” Daphne said.

“Only when necessary,” Hood replied. He said no more.

Until eight months ago, the crisis-management process relied heavily on the rapid-response military squad known as Striker. After Striker was decimated in Kashmir, Hood decided to rely instead on the surgical insertion of deterrent personnel. This allowed Op-Center to undermine enemies from the inside. It might take more time, but it risked fewer lives. If a military presence were required, Rodgers would call in an outside special ops unit.

The conversation turned to their private lives. Daphne told Hood about her ex-husband and how he was not ambitious enough to satisfy her.

“He was a partner in his father’s law firm, a very powerful and high-profile firm,” she said. “But he preferred riding horses to working with cases. I tried to get interested in that, but the smell and the empty shmoozing just drove me crazy. Especially since that was as high as he ever aimed.”

“Didn’t you know what kind of man he was when you married him?” Hood asked.

“I was twenty-two,” she said. “I didn’t know anything. I had spent my teenage years building my little advertising business. I thought it would be fun to hook up with a man who knew how to relax and had the means to do so. I didn’t count on losing respect for him.”

Hood laughed. “I had just the opposite problem,” he said. “My wife wasn’t happy with the way Op-Center monopolized my time. I actually quit for a few days, but I couldn’t stay away.”

“Did you know it was costing you your marriage?” Daphne asked.

“Not until the account was overdue,” Hood said. “I knew Sharon was unhappy, but I didn’t think she was that unhappy.”

“So she initiated it?”

Hood nodded.

“How do you get along now?” Daphne asked.

“Okay,” Hood said. “She’s flexible with visitation and all that. But we were never really best friends. I suppose that was a problem all along.”

“I agree,” Daphne said. “You have to like someone to be their friend. You don’t have to like them to be married to them. Actually, I’ve developed a simple test for that.”

“Have you?”

“Yes,” she said. “I call it the sandbox test. If you and your potential mate were dropped in a sandbox, could you have fun there for twenty-four hours? Could you build castles or have a little Zen garden or pretend you were on a beach? Could you improvise a game of Battleship or draw pictures? Could you do something other than have sex or wish you were somewhere else? If the answer is yes, then that’s a person you should consider being with.”

“Does it have to be a sandbox?” Hood asked. “Why not just a hotel room or some form of transportation?”

“You would have TV in a hotel room,” Daphne said. “Or magazines and food in an airplane or train. A sandbox demands imagination. You have to look at a mound of sand and see a dune or a mountain or a castle. It requires the ability to play well with others and to be a little silly. It requires the capacity to access the child inside you. Otherwise you can’t be in a sandbox at all. Or a fun relationship. You also need to be able to communicate. If you don’t have all of that, you’ll be incredibly bored. Or else you’ll end up bickering. Those same qualities are necessary for a successful relationship.”

“And how did you arrive at this concept?” Hood asked.

“When I was doing a national campaign for an insurance company,” the woman said. “It was set in a sandbox, with two people growing old together. It started me thinking.”

Now Hood thought, too. He could never have spent a day in a sandbox with Sharon. He could not imagine himself playing in a sandbox with former Op-Center press liaison Ann Farris. After his separation, he had a fling with her. But Hood could have spent a day in a sandbox with the woman he was dating before, Nancy Jo Bosworth. The love of his life. A woman who walked out on him and shattered his heart. Hood thought about the way Bob Herbert talked about his wife, a fellow CIA operative who was killed in the Beirut embassy blast in 1983. He could imagine them playing together in a sandbox. Hell, that was essentially what they were doing together in Lebanon when she died and Herbert lost the use of his legs.

“It works with most of the ladies I’ve known,” Hood told the woman. “But it sounds as if your former husband would have been a great one for playing in the sandbox.”

“He would have been,” Daphne agreed. “If it were a really big sandbox and he was with a Thoroughbred. Gregory would have felt self-conscious, uptight, and bored with just me. Like Lawrence of Arabia without a camel. That’s the key, Paul. Would you enjoy a silly experience like that together? Is the idea of being together more important than where you are?”

“I get it,” Hood said.

The sandbox test was an absolute. Daphne was obviously a woman of extremes, and life demanded more compromise than she seemed willing to allow. Yet it was sad to think that very few people Paul Hood knew could pass the test. Especially himself and Sharon.

Hood did not know whether he and Daphne Connors would enjoy a day in a sandbox. And it was much too early to worry about that. Still, they had spent an agreeable time having dinner and discussing very different philosophies of life.

They had not come to blows.

That was a good start.

Chapter Three.

The Celebes Sea Tuesday, 4:34 A.M.

The sampan rocked vigorously from side to side as it neared the yacht from the stern. Lee Tong had moved aft. Clark Shunga had passed out plastique to Lee and one of the other men. Koh Yu continued to monitor the radio while the men silently oared the sampan closer.

Lee was poised on the horseshoe-shaped aft section of the boat. His feet were bare, and his legs were spread wide to help him keep his balance. Two curved wooden arms rose three feet above a seat to which the keel was attached. Lee worked the long yuloh-shaped keel with his left hand. The water whispered across the paddle of the keel. The sound always calmed him, especially before an assault. In his right hand he held a fist-sized chunk of plastique. The explosive was sealed in a sheet of plastic food wrap. The covering prevented the sea spray and Lee’s perspiration from coating the plastique. The dampness would make it difficult for the waxy substance to adhere to the hull. The pirates had slung six large canvas sacks filled with sand over the port side of the sampan. This quieted the impact in case the vessels happened to bump one another.

Lee’s pistol was tucked in a worn leather holster attached to his belt. He wore the gun low on his right hip. Once the explosives had been placed and the sampan pulled away, Koh would come from below with a megaphone. He would call out to the passengers on the yacht. If necessary, Lee and Clark were the ones who would fire at the plastique.

The sampan was just a few meters from the yacht. The ship was not at anchor, and the sampan was rocking slightly in its wake. Lee skillfully maneuvered the keel while the other men oared forward. At the bow, Clark watched the yacht with night-vision glasses. Virtually every pleasure ship that sailed these waters had a deadman’s watch from dusk until dawn. Even so, a ship traveling dark and silent was virtually impossible to see or hear. Especially if it came from the bow or stern. Most sentries tended to stay in the midsection of the vessel and watch the horizon. That was especially true in this region. Most sailors did not yet consider the Celebes Sea to be dangerous.

The sampan eased ahead. The yacht was more than four times the length of the pirate vessel. They would sail alongside, close to the hull, and place the explosives in reverse order. Clark would attach his explosive to the rear of the vessel as they passed. Then the sampan would continue forward. If the pirates were spotted, Lee would be able to aim his weapon at the plastique Clark had placed. When they reached the bow, Lee would use a rag to wipe sea spray from the vessel. Then he would place his charge against the hull. Then the sampan would move off to the side.

Clark continued to scan the ship slowly from bow to stern. As far as Lee could tell, there was no one on deck. Suddenly, Clark stopped. He was looking at a spot low on the forward mast.

“Retreat!” Clark said in a strong whisper.

Lee turned the keel to the port side. The yuloh men immediately switched to backwater strokes. Lee bent at the knees to brace himself for the lurch he knew would follow. The sampan shook as it braked. The streamlined boat steadied quickly as the men began to row in reverse.

Lee opened his eyes very wide. He tried to see into the darkness. He searched the spot where Clark was still looking. He could not see anything.

“It’s tracking us,” Clark said. His voice was louder now.

“What is?” Lee asked.

“A security camera with a night-vision lens,” Clark said. “It’s three meters up on the mast.”

Lee looked up. He still did not see the surveillance camera. But there was no time to worry about it. Just as the sloping prow of the sampan cleared the stern of the yacht, several figures came on deck. They were about four meters up. Lee could not see them, but he could hear them. He could also hear the distinctive slap of clips being loaded into automatic weapons. An instant later, the soft, black night was pocked with yellow flashes, deadly stars on the deck of the ship. A sound like balloons popping rolled from the deck. And then there were screams. The screams of the men on the sampan.

Lee felt the backward movement slow. The yuloh men must have been hit. He did not dwell on that. He released the tiller and ran forward. Realizing that he was still holding the plastique, Lee tossed it overboard. He did not want to risk having a bullet strike the explosives by chance. His chances of surviving the attack were remote enough without the added risk.

As the wooden deck spat splinters of wood at him, Lee scurried on hands and knees to the middle of the vessel. The belowdecks compartments were covered by a long, inverted U-shaped shelter. This was made of Foochow pine covered with bamboo matting. The roofing would provide some protection as Lee made his way belowdecks. The pirate’s intention was to hide there and hope that the yachtsmen did not board the sampan. If they did, he still had his pistol. He would use it against them if he could. If not, he would turn it on himself. He did not intend to spend any time in a Singapore prison.

Lee screamed as a bullet hit his right ankle. The shot cut his Achilles tendon and caused his leg to straighten. He flopped flat on his belly as a hot, cramplike pain raced up his right side all the way to his neck. As he fell, a second bullet drilled into his left calf. That sent a wave of fire up the other side. Lee bit down hard to keep from screaming and giving his location away. Desperately, he tried to pull himself forward on his flat hands. Perspiration stung his eyes. He felt as though his body weight had tripled as he dragged himself ahead. He sucked air through his teeth and fought to keep his eyes open.

Suddenly, that effort was no longer necessary.

There was a sound from the bow like a rock going through glass. He knew that sound. It was plastique. Lee felt himself rising. The sound was followed by intense heat and white light, both of which hit Lee like a fist. He couldn’t hear, see, or feel anything but that for an endless moment.

And then he heard, saw, and felt nothing.

Chapter Four.

Sydney, Australia Thursday, 8:30 A.M.

Lowell Coffey liked a good intellectual fight. He loved joining them. He loved causing them. Typically, there were two ways they came about.

One way was by giving speeches. Communicating his strongly held ideas as concisely and effectively as possible. Being the attorney for Op-Center allowed him to do that from time to time. He spoke on issues of international rights and national security, of civil liberties and the loss of privacy. If the thirty-nine-year-old attorney had the thick skin required for politics, he would have run for office. But he had a stubborn, confrontational nature when anyone criticized his views. In politics, Coffey knew he would get it from both sides. The Southern California native believed in a very strong and aggressive military. That was his conservative side. He believed very deeply in human rights in all their forms and variations. That was his liberal side. He would never form any kind of coalition to get himself elected, which was unfortunate. Unlike many politicians, Lowell Coffey III had what he jokingly referred to as a “substance abuse” problem. He was addicted to issues that had meat on strong bones. His interest in substance was what drove him to international law. His father would have preferred that he join the successful entertainment law firm of Coffey and O’Hare, based in Beverly Hills. But while Coffey liked his Armani suits, Rolex watch, and Jaguar–which was in the shop more than it was out–he had needed substance as well. He found it first as an assistant to the California state attorney general, then as deputy assistant to the United States solicitor general. Since joining Op-Center six years ago, he was up to his cleft chin in substance. There was hardly a nation on earth or a division of the federal government Coffey had not dealt with since joining the National Crisis Management Center. Sometimes those dealings were adversarial, as when Striker was caught in the struggle between India and Pakistan, or when Paul Hood and Mike Rodgers shot up the United Nations to end the hostage standoff. Often he ended up learning on the job. But even international confrontations gave him satisfaction he would not have gotten from negotiating product placement in movies for deodorant or beverage brands. Coffey’s personal and professional integrity did not prevent his coworkers from referring to the sandy-haired Californian as Percy Richkid. It was a tease, and he rolled with it. Besides, Coffey could not help the financial stratum in which he was born. He took pride in the fact that he had never used family connections to get anything. Coffey had worked hard at every school he attended, and he had earned every position he held.

The second thing the tall, blue-eyed attorney enjoyed was travel. Unlike most travelers, however, seeing new sights was not what appealed most to Coffey. Back in the early 1980s, the attorney had attended Oxford for postgraduate studies in international law. Being on campus had exposed him to ideas that were not only contrary to his own but often anti-American. Coffey knew things to be true viscerally. He enjoyed having the opportunity to defend them intellectually. He discovered that classrooms, coffeehouses, even train stations and airport lounges gave him an opportunity to jump into conversations and state his views. After graduation, traveling around the world for the state of California and the federal government gave Coffey the chance to exercise his skills. Happily, every region was different. Coffey encountered debates in London that were unlike those he found in Montreal, Moscow, Tokyo, or Damascus.

And now, Sydney.

Coffey was standing outside the front door of the Park Hyatt Sydney on Hickson Road. He had arrived the night before and gone directly to bed. From his room at the rear of the hotel he could see across Sydney Cove to the spectacular Sydney Opera House. Standing here, along the broad avenue, he was able to look out at the wharves on Walsh Bay. Sydney was a clean, vibrant, spectacular city. Coffey was only scheduled to be here for three days. Most of that time would be taken up by the Conference on International Oceanic Sovereignty. Coffey hoped he would have time to see some of the city.

Even though Coffey had his sunglasses on, it was still a blindingly bright morning. The sun bounced off the water and the clouds. It was reflected from every silver tower and white structure in a city full of them. The sun and air felt different here than they did in the United States or Europe. Maybe the heat was softened by the constant sea breeze. Maybe the ocean kept the air clean as well. Whatever it was, Coffey found it invigorating.

Tourists came and went from the hotel as Coffey waited for his ride. Penny Masterson was chairperson of the Asian Rim Relocation Organization. Coffey had met the woman in Washington several years earlier at a seminar hosted by Amnesty International. ARRO was a not-for-profit group dedicated to assisting refugees from Indonesia, Malaysia, and other nations close to Australia. Many of those refugees ended up in Australia, most of them illegally. Those who were caught or subsequently identified were returned to their homelands. If there was anything worse than being an illegal immigrant deported from a nation, it was being an illegal emigre returned to one of those countries. Charges of treason, followed by lengthy prison sentences including hard labor were not uncommon.

The petite, strawberry-blond Penny was the perfect person for the job. The twenty-nine-year-old was sweet, she was bright, she was compassionate. She had grown up being teased about her maiden name, which was Penny Date. Boys would ask if that was how much she charged. As a result, Penny had the thickest skin of anyone Coffey had ever met. She could run for public office and win. But she wanted to help people and not, as she put it, “run a football team whose primary adversary is itself.”

Penny pulled up in her old red pickup. The doorman opened the battered door. It groaned.

“Sorry, Lowell,” Penny said as he climbed in. “It isn’t exactly the red-carpet treatment.”

“It’s charming,” Coffey replied diplomatically. The truth was, the truck smelled of fertilizer, and there were what Bob Herbert called HVICs on the windshield–high velocity insect casualties. The only thing charming about the vehicle was the driver. Penny’s accent had little silver bells in it. Her smile gleamed like those little silver bells. And her eyes were as brilliant as the sunshine. If she were not married, he would be engaged in a very serious long-distance courtship.

“The truck is functional,” Penny said. “Unfortunately, I hadn’t quite mastered some of the narrow turns when that happened,” she added, nodding to the dented door.

“But you have now?” Coffey asked anxiously as he buckled himself in.

Penny laughed. That was music, too. “I wouldn’t put Gaby in here if I hadn’t,” she replied as she pulled away from the hotel.

“Gabrielle must be what, now–a year old?” Coffey asked.

“Thirteen and a half months,” Penny said. “And she’s a peach.”

“I have no doubt,” Coffey replied. “What about your husband? How is he doing?”

“Charlie is doing great,” Penny said. “He quit the parks service seven months ago and became a self-employed gardener.”

“Which explains the truck instead of a minivan,” Coffey said.

“We’ve got a fleet of three!” Penny laughed. “Charlie just couldn’t take it anymore. He spent more time figuring out how to implement budget cuts in his field crew than he did actually landscaping. As he put it, ‘I was tired of trying to move heaven. I’d rather move earth.’ “

“We’ve got that same problem at Op-Center,” Coffey said. “Do you work with him at all?”

“On weekends I use this truck to help him transport trees, shrubs, and soil around the city and suburbs,” Penny said. “I have to say, I enjoy getting my hands dirty in a wholesome way.”

“It probably takes your mind off the more unpleasant things in life,” Coffey said.

“It does,” Penny agreed. “But I found that it also serves a purpose in my own work. When I drive up to meetings or detainment centers, people don’t automatically assume I’m a homemaker who is using ARRO as something to fill the daytime hours.”

Penny turned off Hickson Road. Tools rattled in the open back of the truck. Penny did not even seem to be aware of the sounds. There was something sweet about that, Coffey thought.

“How is the conference shaping up?” Coffey asked.

“It’s going to be the largest of the four we’ve held here,” Penny said. “Thirty-two nations, one hundred and eleven representatives. And the breakfast reception at the State Parliament House is going to be a first. They’re finally acknowledging that we’re a force to be counted. When that’s done, we’ll go over to the Sydney Convention Center. You’ll be speaking after dinner, which means that everyone will be well-fed and ready to sit back and listen.”

It also meant that Coffey would have time to mingle, eavesdrop, and find out what other people were thinking. He would have time to address up-to-the-moment issues in his speech.

“Will our nemesis Brian Ellsworth be there?” Coffey asked.

“He was invited, of course,” Penny said. “But he declined as usual.”

“I’d be honored to take it personally,” Coffey said.

“Your keynote speech in Brisbane last year was not in his nightstand reading stack, I’m sure,” Penny said. “But I do believe his disinterest is spread across the entire organization.”

Ellsworth was chief solicitor for the Australian Maritime Intelligence Centre. Based in Darwin, Northern Territory, the MIC was the first line of defense against illegal aliens trying to make their way into Australia. They maintained that nationals who desired amnesty typically defected to foreign embassies in their own countries. As far as Ellsworth was concerned, every boat, plane, or raft that came through the back door carried drugs, smugglers, or terrorists. According to ARRO’s research, just over 65 percent of those craft did. The other 35 percent transported people who were poor, terrified, and searching for a less oppressed life. The “Australia first” MIC had a great deal of influence in parliament. By law, illegal immigrants were typically returned to their point of origin within twenty-four hours. ARRO and the MIC were constantly fighting one another for a way to make the process more equitable.

As Penny spoke, her cell phone beeped. The young woman excused herself and answered it.

“It could be the baby-sitter,” she said apologetically. She punched the hands-free phone that was bracketed to the dashboard. “Hello?”

“Mrs. Masterson?” asked a man’s voice.

“This is she.”

“Mrs. Masterson, is Mr. Lowell Coffey with you?”

“I’m Lowell Coffey,” the attorney said. “Who is this?”

“Sir, this is Junior Seaman Brendan Murphy in the command of Warrant Officer George Jelbart, MIC,” the young man replied. “I have your name from Mr. Brian Ellsworth. Sir, Warrant Officer Jelbart was wondering if you might have some free time today.”

“I’m here for a conference,” Coffey replied.

“Yes, sir, we know.”

“What did Mr. Jelbart have in mind?” Coffey asked.

“A flight to Darwin,” Murphy replied.

“That’s clear across the continent!” Coffey declared. “Why does he need to see me?”

“We have a situation, sir,” the officer replied. “One that he needs to discuss with you face-to-face.”

“What kind of situation?” Coffey asked.

“A hot one, sir,” the caller replied gravely.

The way the MIC officer emphasized hot led Coffey to believe that he was not referring to the temperature or an imminent event. That left just one interpretation.

“There are some people I should talk to before I agree to anything,” Coffey said, glancing at Penny.

“We are a little squeezed for time,” Murphy said. “You are the first and hopefully only call I’m making about this.”

“If I decide to come, when can you arrange for transportation?”

“A P-3C patrol craft has been dispatched to Sydney Airport, Mr. Coffey,” the caller replied. “It will arrive within the hour. As I said, sir, the warrant officer would like to talk to you in person.”

Penny and Coffey exchanged looks. She tapped the Mute button.

“That doesn’t sound like an invitation,” she said.

“No,” Coffey agreed. It sounded like an order.

“What do you want to do?” she asked.

“That doesn’t seem to matter, does it?” he asked.

“Why not?” she asked. “You’re a civilian and an American. You can tell the junior seaman, ‘No thanks,’ and hang up.”

“Then I wouldn’t find out why Ellsworth recommended they call,” Coffey said. “I have a feeling the MIC is interested in talking to Op-Center, not just to Lowell Coffey.”

“What makes you say that?” Penny asked.

“I’d rather not say until I’m sure,” Coffey replied. It was not that he did not trust Penny. But he was an attorney. A cautious one. He did not like to say anything he did not believe or know to be true.

Coffey disengaged the Mute button.

“Where will the plane be waiting?” Coffey asked.

“If you go to the domestic cargo terminal, someone will meet you,” the caller said.

“All right,” Coffey said. “I’ll be there.”

“Thank you, sir,” the junior seaman said. “I’ll inform the warrant officer.”

And Coffey would inform Hood.

He apologized to Penny. She said that she understood completely. He said that he hoped he would be back soon.

In his heart, though, he sensed that would not be the case. Especially if “hot” meant what he thought it did.

Chapter Five.

Darwin, Australia Thursday, 8:42 A.M.

Fifty-two-year-old Warrant Officer George Wellington Jelbart had seen and experienced many extraordinary things in his thirty-two years of service in the Royal Australian Navy.

Jelbart spent his first twelve years of military service with the Hydrographic Force. Based in Wollongong, just south of Sydney, he and his team constantly updated charts of the 30,000 kilometers of Australia’s coastline as well as adjoining waters. He loved being out in ships and planes, producing maps that covered nearly one sixth of the world’s surface. Even when his team was caught in a tropical cyclone, a category five hurricane, or a tsunami, he relished the work he was doing. As his naval officer father once described it, “The Navy puts muscle in your back. Danger keeps it strong.”

The next nine years were radically different and much less muscular. Because Jelbart was so familiar with the geography surrounding Australia, Deputy Chief of Navy Jonathan Smith moved him to the Directorate of Naval Intelligence. That was during the 1980s, when the influx of Japanese businessmen and investors brought an influx of Japanese criminals. There, in a windowless office, Jelbart helped signal personnel pinpoint the direction and location of broadcasts coming from local waters and surrounding nations. He did that out of duty, not love. Finally, on his fortieth birthday, Jelbart requested a transfer. He needed to be back on the sea or at least in the sunlight. Smith agreed to a compromise. He gave Jelbart a promotion and shifted him to the Maritime Intelligence Centre. There, the newly minted warrant officer would be out-of-doors and dealing with a wider range of illegal activities than he had in his previous posts.

That was where Jelbart encountered the unexpected on a weekly basis. Some of it was heartbreaking. There were the Malaysian slavers who abducted Aborigine children via cargo plane. There were refugees from war-ravaged East Timor who were dropped offshore using World War II-surplus parachutes. Most of them were young. All of them were inexperienced jumpers. Fifty of the sixty-seven of them drowned. There were the Australian drug traffickers who used surfboards with high-tech listening devices to spy on MIC aircraft. Jelbart had even investigated sea-monster sightings in the Gulf of Carpentaria. Those turned out to be Chinese submarines conducting maneuvers.

But in all his years in the Royal Australian Navy, the sandy-haired, six-foot-four-inch Brisbane native had never heard anything like this. The implications were chilling.

Jelbart had arrived at his office in the Australian Central Credit Union Building, 36 Mitchell Street, at seven A.M. Throughout the early 1990s he had arrived early to hear phone messages and go through the mail. Since the late 1990s he had to come to the office early to slog through E-mails. If he could eliminate the E-mails from fellow officers who were compelled to forward bad jokes, he could do the job in an hour. Unfortunately, he had to open every correspondence on the off chance it had something to do with naval matters.

Shortly after Jelbart arrived, the phone beeped. His aide, Junior Seaman Brendan Murphy, answered. Murphy forwarded the call. It was from Captain Ronald Trainor of the Freemantle-class patrol boat Suffolk. They had found a man floating in the Banda Sea twelve miles east of Celebes.

“The fellow was barely conscious and clinging to a section of waterlogged pine,” Trainor reported. “He’s dehydrated and lost a lot of blood. He had been shot twice in the lower legs and managed to rig some crude bandages from his shirt. We assume he’s a pirate whose mission ended badly.”

“That’s a possibility,” Jelbart said.

Jelbart was confused. This was a routine rescue on international waters. It did not require the ship’s captain to report to him personally.

“But what drew us to him was extremely unusual,” the captain went on.

Jelbart grew concerned as Trainor explained. What they found was not only unusual, it was inexplicable. The warrant officer wanted a complete investigation. Trainor told him that they would search for the rest of the vessel and crew, as well as whoever attacked them. In the meantime, the injured man was going to be airlifted to the Royal Darwin Hospital along with the remnants of his vessel. Jelbart said that he would meet the helicopter there to take charge of the evidence and arrange for security. When he hung up, Jelbart realized that he would also have to notify Chief Solicitor Brian Ellsworth. Ostensibly, the Banda Sea castaway was being brought to Darwin for medical care. But Captain Trainor’s other discovery made that a secondary issue from the MIC’s point of view. The man had to be questioned. There were complex legal issues surrounding the interrogation of a foreign national recovered in international waters.

Ellsworth was in the shower when Jelbart called. The civilian official lived with his newscaster wife in the exclusive La Grande Residence on Knuckey Street.

At the warrant officer’s insistence, Mrs. Ellsworth summoned him to the phone. Jelbart explained the situation as it had been explained to him. The forty-three-year-old solicitor thought for a minute before replying.

“I will meet you at the hospital,” Ellsworth replied. “But there is someone else I would like you to call.”

“Who?”

“A gentleman named Lowell Coffey,” Ellsworth said. “He is in Sydney for a conference on international civil rights.”

“That’s the ARRO symposium?”

“Yes,” Ellsworth said. “Mr. Coffey works for the National Crisis Management Center in Washington.”

“Op-Center? Do we really want a foreign intelligence service involved in this?” Jelbart asked.

“We want the NCMC for three reasons,” Ellsworth told him. “First, we’ll want to get a very quick read on this situation. The NCMC can help us. Second, one of their best people is already in Australia. I don’t agree with his politics, but he is smart and well-informed. Finally, holding this shipwrecked alien could backfire. Especially if the explanation turns out to be something very innocent. If that happens, we have someone to share the blame.”

That last was not entirely honorable, Jelbart thought, but the solicitor did have a point.

Ellsworth had told Jelbart how to get in touch with Lowell Coffey. He was to call Penny Masterson, who was Mr. Coffey’s host for the ARRO conference. The warrant officer passed the information to Brendan Murphy. Jelbart also told Murphy to dispatch a plane to Sydney. If the American agreed to come, Jelbart did not want to waste any time.

While the junior seaman made the calls, Jelbart composed an E-mail explaining the situation. He sent the message coded Level Alpha to Rear Admiral Ian Carrick at Royal Australian Navy headquarters in Canberra. The Level Alpha clearance guaranteed that only the rear admiral would see it. When that was finished, Jelbart checked his computer to see what appointments he would have to cancel today. And possibly tomorrow. He hoped this took no longer.

If it did, what Jelbart hoped was just an incident could turn out to be a crisis.

Chapter Six.

Washington, D.C. Wednesday, 7:33 P.M.

“What do we know about the hair up Shigeo Fujima’s nose?” Paul Hood asked.

Hood, Bob Herbert, and Mike Rodgers were sitting in Hood’s office. It was the end of an uneventful day in the middle of an uneventful week. As much as Hood had often wished his plate were not so full, he felt restless when it was empty. Especially since he did not have a family to go home to. Ironically, it was his overpacked schedule that had cost him his family.

Paul Hood’s question hung in the air like a high, arching fly ball. Shigeo Fujima was the head of the Japanese Intelligence and Analysis Bureau at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. Fujima had helped Op-Center resolve a recent crisis in Botswana without explaining why he knew what he knew. Or why he was interested. That did not sit well with Hood. Especially since the young officer was not returning Hood’s calls.

“We know nothing,” Herbert replied, finally calling the catch.

“What have we done to find out?” Hood asked.

“Last time I checked, which was about two hours ago, everyone in the tech lab, including Matt Stoll, had been unable to get into the IAB computers,” Herbert went on. “Stoll says that all the files we want to look at are apparently in dedicated systems.”

“I’m not surprised,” Hood said. “The IAB does not play well with others.” Daphne Connors’s sandbox reference popped into his head. Maybe the woman had something there after all.

“Do we want to send someone to Tokyo?” Rodgers asked. “Check the files after hours?”

General Rodgers had recently established a human intelligence team at Op-Center. It consisted of international operatives who had worked with Op-Center in the past. Three of the members had distinguished themselves on the inaugural mission to Botswana.

“Who would you assign?” Hood asked.

“I’ve been talking to the guys we worked with during the Korean missile crisis,” Rodgers said. “They gave me the names of people they have used. I talked to several of them. One in particular seems a good candidate. Bibari Hirato. She’s based in Tokyo.”

“This makes me nervous. What’s she got against her own country?” Herbert asked.

“Japan isn’t her country,” Rodgers said.

“I see,” Herbert said.

“Bibari is the daughter of a Korean comfort woman. Her father is one of three or four hundred Japanese sol.diers who used her early in the war. Bibari’s mother gave her a Japanese name so she could go over if she chose to.”

“And mess with them,” Herbert said.

“In a word, yeah,” Rodgers said.

“Objection withdrawn,” Herbert said.

“Mike, why don’t we have Bob run a check on her?” Hood said. “If she’s clean from our point of view, let’s do it.”

“It was on the to-do list for tomorrow,” Rodgers said.

As the men were chatting, Hood’s phone beeped. Hood’s assistant, Bugs Benet, said Lowell Coffey was calling from Australia.

“Thanks,” Hood said.

“What time is it there?” Herbert asked.

“Late tomorrow morning,” Rodgers said.

“Too early for Lowell to have pissed off anyone at a breakfast meeting,” Herbert said.

Herbert fell silent as Hood took the call.

“Morning, Lowell,” Hood said. “How are things Down Under?”

“Surprising,” Lowell replied. “I’m on my way to the airport.”

“Why? What’s up?” Hood asked.

“I’m not entirely sure,” Coffey said.

“Lowell, Bob and Mike are here,” Hood said. “I’m putting you on speakerphone.”

“Good,” Coffey said. “I may need their help.”

Hood punched the button and sat back. “Go ahead, Lowell.”

“A few minutes ago, I got a call from an aide to a Warrant Officer George Jelbart of the Maritime Intelligence Centre,” Coffey said. “He told me they have a hot situation up in Darwin. From what I was able to get over an unsecure line, ‘hot’ probably means one thing.”

“Radioactive,” Hood said.

“Right,” Coffey replied.

Hood felt a chill in the small of his back. “Did he give you any context, a scenario of some kind?” Hood asked.

“Zero,” Coffey said. “But I was on a cell phone, and he obviously didn’t want to say very much. All I was told is that there’s an airplane waiting to take me to Darwin.”

Herbert had already swung up the laptop computer attached to his wheelchair. The intelligence chief had lost the use of his legs in the Beirut embassy blast that had killed his wife. He had wireless Internet on the laptop, as well as the ability to tap any of Op-Center’s computers using LEASH–Local Executive Access Secure Hookup. The technology only worked within a radius of 500 feet from the personal computer in his office. While Coffey was speaking, Herbert had gone to the Australian Department of Defence file. He found the dossier on Warrant Officer Jelbart and read it.

“What do you know about Jelbart?” Rodgers asked.

“He’s a heavyweight,” Herbert said. He spoke loud enough for Coffey to hear. “He’s fifty-two, a career officer, divorced twice, no kids. He runs the coastal intelligence network and has a background in mapping and signal recon. Commendations up to his eyeballs.”

“Bob, are there any nuclear submarines in the Darwin area?” Rodgers asked. “I’m wondering if there could be a leak.”

“I was not given that information.”

“It could also be a plutonium-powered satellite that fell to earth,” Hood suggested.

“I suppose,” Coffey agreed. “But why would Jelbart call me for either of those? My first thought was that there might be civilian casualties resulting from an accident of some kind–“

“Possibly American civilian casualties,” Rodgers pointed out.

“Right. But wouldn’t they go to an embassy first?” Coffey asked.

“Not necessarily,” Hood said. “If they were negligent in some way and wanted to cover their asses, having an internationally known human-rights attorney on site would be a nice cosmetic touch.”

“Gentlemen, before we go to war with Australia over this, I’d like to check both possibilities,” Herbert said.

The intelligence chief went to the United States Department of Defense secure file and accessed the naval intelligence Red List–an up-to-the-minute listing on the whereabouts and status of nuclear-capable craft. It was the list that gave the Pentagon the first warning that the Russian submarine Kursk had gone down in August 2000. The list also showed the status of the nine cruise missiles that had been removed from the submarine and taken to the top secret Nerpa shipyard located at the mouth of Olenya Guba Bay in Murmansk. The list included vessels with nuclear-powered engines and nuclear missiles. Herbert told the others that only the Chinese People’s Liberation Navy had a vessel operating in the region, a Xia-class ballistic missile submarine. There was no suggestion of any problems on board. Then he went to the National Reconnaissance Office site to check on nuclear-powered satellites and exploration craft. Herbert reported that the list of deorbiting hardware was free of alerts.

“I sure was hoping it was one of them,” Herbert said.

Hood did not have to ask why. Absent an accident, that left the probability of illegal nuclear activity, possibly the transportation of weapons or raw nuclear material.

“Lowell, are there any nuclear power plants in the Darwin region?” Rodgers asked.

“I already asked my host,” Coffey told him. “She said she does not believe there are.”

“I’m with you, Lowell,” Herbert said. “Nothing personal, but I’m bothered by the fact that they asked for you instead of an official representative of the federal government.”

“I am, too,” Coffey said.

“Do we know that they didn’t do that as well?” Hood asked.

“I was told that I was their one-and-only,” Coffey said.

“Jelbert’s aide may not have been in possession of that information,” Hood pointed out. “For all we know, the American embassy has been notified. We’re going to have to let this play out until we know more.”

“There obviously has to be a legal issue involved,” Herbert said. “Something that requires Lowell’s expertise in international affairs.”

“That does seem to make sense,” Hood said. “Lowell, how long until you reach the airport?”

“About fifteen minutes,” Coffey replied.

“Maybe we’ll know more by then,” Hood said. “Lowell, let us know what you find out as soon as you can.”

“Of course,” he said.

Hood wished him well and hung up. He looked at the others. “Bob, is there any history of nuclear trafficking in that region?”

“The answer is, ‘possibly,’ ” Herbert said.

“Jeez, I remember when intelligence agencies used to deal in probablies,” Rodgers said.

“When you were a greenhorn in ‘Nam, they did,” Herbert said. “We still had human intelligence resources in every backwater den you could imagine. Then the electronic intelligence guys came in and said there was no reason to risk lives anymore. They were wrong. Satellites can’t do belowdecks imaging in a freighter or oil tanker.”

“What about those possibilities, Bob?” Hood asked, getting them back on subject.

“We suspect that terrorists and rogue states in the Pacific Rim have used commercial ships and private vessels to transport nuclear weapons or components,” Herbert told him. “But we have no evidence of that. For the last few years a bunch of navies and air defense forces around the world, including Australia, have been placing radiation-detection equipment on their vessels. These gizmos measure gamma radiation or neutron fields, depending on whether they’re looking for raw radioactive material or weapons, respectively. But they haven’t found anything.”

“Which doesn’t mean much,” Rodgers said. “Adequate lead shielding will hide that.”

Herbert nodded. “That’s why we need more people watching potential traffickers on the shipping and receiving ends. The CIA and the FBI are working on that, but we’re nowhere near up to speed yet.”

“All right,” Hood said. “The system has a lot of holes. But you’re saying the Aussies have the capacity to pick up hot cargo?”

“That’s right,” Herbert said. “And if that’s what happened, there are a lot of reasons they might want someone like Lowell to have a look.”

Hood suggested that Herbert and Rodgers return to their offices to see if there was any other intelligence they could dig up. He would notify them as soon as Coffey called.

As they left, Hood looked at the photo of Harleigh and Alexander on his desk. He wished he could roll back the clock ten minutes. The responsibility of fighting nuclear terrorism was an unimaginable burden. The price of failure would be appalling.

Still, whether Hood wanted it or not, that responsibility might be his. Hopefully, this would prove to be something far less dire than he could imagine.

Chapter Seven.

Sydney, Australia Thursday, 10:01 A.M.

It was like talking to stone.

When Lowell Coffey did not get the service, respect, or answers he was looking for, his inclination was to stand and fight. Quietly, but with unshakable determination. Jaguar dealers or presidents, it did not matter.

This was a rare exception.

Coffey and Penny arrived at the domestic cargo terminal. It was a vast, low-lying building that looked as if it had been built in the 1960s. It was situated away from the main terminal area. Penny parked the pickup among rows of semis with container rigs. They walked to the front office, which sat just inside the main hangar. There they were met by a petty officer from the MIC. He was a fresh-faced kid whose name tag said Lady. That name must have got him teased a lot more than Date. Coffey judged him to be about twenty-five. The petty officer checked Coffey’s passport, thanked him for coming, and said he would show the attorney to the aircraft. He removed a small point-to-point radio from his belt. Lady was pleasant, efficient, and uninformative. Unacceptably so. Coffey refused to follow the young man into the hangar.

“Petty Officer Lady, before I board the aircraft, I would appreciate some information,” Coffey said. “Specifically, I’d like to know why I’m going with you.” He had to speak loudly to be heard over the forklifts that were moving barrels and containers.

“I’m sorry, sir,” the young man replied. “I can’t tell you that.”

“Then I can’t go with you,” Coffey insisted.

“No, sir. I mean I can’t tell you because I don’t know,” Lady said. “What I can do, sir, is put you in touch with my CO if you’d like. But I can assure you that he doesn’t know anything more than I do. This is a Level Alpha operation. Information is on a need-to-know basis.”

“Well, I need to know, and so do my superiors,” Coffey said. He held up his cell phone and wiggled it back and forth. “What do I tell them?”

“Sir, I wish I could help you. But that information is at the other end of a two-hour flight,” Lady said. He held up his own radio. “What shall I tell the pilot, sir? He is waiting to take off.”

If the kid had wiggled the radio, the attorney would have turned around and left. But he did not. He was respectful. And he had effectively called Coffey’s bluff.

The American turned to Penny.

“It looks like I’ll be taking a two-hour flight,” he said. “I’ll let you know as soon as I have some idea what’s going on.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Penny said.

“I do,” Coffey said. “I just hope this isn’t an elaborate Ellsworth plot to keep me from giving a speech.”

“He’s a duck-shover,” she said, “but if that turns out to be the case, just E-mail me the speech. I’ll read it for you.”

Coffey thanked her and indicated for Petty Officer Lady to lead him to the plane.

“Duck-shover?” he said, turning back to Penny.

“My dad drove a taxi,” the woman shouted ahead. “That’s what they used to call drivers who cut other taxis off or muscled them out of the way.”

“I love it!” Coffey called back, waving as he headed toward the back of the hangar and the door that led to the field.

The Lockheed P-3C was a big, gray, cigar-shaped four-engine prop plane. It was 116 feet in length with a wing-span of nearly 100 feet. Coffey had only been in a prop plane once before, when he traveled with the regional Op-Center mobile office to the Middle East. He had not liked the noise and vibration then. He did not think he would like it now.

Because this was a transport mission, not travel to a combat zone, the P-3C had gone out without a tactical coordinator. The TACCO’s station was located in the rear of the aircraft. After Petty Officer Lady turned Coffey over to the crew, the captain gave him the coordinator’s seat. According to the pilot, it was the warmest, most comfortable place in the plane. The plane was taxiing before Coffey had even buckled himself in to the threadbare red seat.

The attorney faced the port side as the aircraft rumbled its way into the air. He was sitting in a cubicle shaped like half a pentagon. The sun-faded blue metal walls were covered with displays, buttons, and old-fashioned switches and dials. Coffey sat with his back to the open window as the sun burned across his neck and the equipment. An hour ago, if Coffey had to guess all the places he could conceivably have found himself this morning, the rear end of a Royal Australian Navy patrol craft would have been nowhere on the list.

The strangeness of it all was outweighed by Coffey’s curiosity as to what he would find on the other end. The attorney was thrilled by the fact that he was in the right place to do something about whatever this was. He relished the opportunity and the challenge. It reinforced one of his strongest convictions: that an individual did not have to be in the big, bulging belly of politics to have a positive impact on society.

For the duration of the 116-minute flight, no one came back to check on the attorney or offer him coffee. Or a pillow. Nor was the flight all that comfortable. Coffey wondered if they had stuck him back there just so he would not bug anyone for answers. Sitting there, he found himself thinking about Paul Hood’s managerial style.

Hood did not always have information that people wanted to hear. But he never kept them out of the loop. Sometimes he was not at liberty to say what he did know. But he always told people that. Stonewalling was dehumanizing. Hood had his flaws, but he always treated people like people.

The plane landed at Darwin International Airport. The airport consisted of one large central structure that looked like a shopping mall in Anytown, U.S.A. The building was all white. Coffey wondered if everything in Australia was white. Located less than four miles outside the city, DIA was both a commercial airport and a Department of Defence airfield. It was used primarily by the Royal Australian Air Force. However, the MIC also flew reconnaissance missions from here.

Coffey was not taken to the terminal. The plane pulled off onto an apron where several F-18s were parked. The pilot walked him down the aft staircase to a waiting black sedan.

“Tell me, Captain,” Coffey said as they crossed the short, windy stretch of tarmac. “Did you folks strand me back there on purpose? An unadorned yes or no will suffice.”

“Yes, sir, we did,” the captain replied.

“Follow-up question,” Coffey said. “Why did you leave me alone?”

“Because we were told to, sir,” the pilot said.

Okay, Coffey thought. At least that was honest.

The pilot turned him over to the petty officer who stood beside the car. The men exchanged salutes, and then the pilot left. The petty officer opened the door, and Coffey got in. There was a glass partition between the front and back of the car. Obviously, they did not want him talking to the driver, either.

The car sped off, carrying Coffey past a forest of tall, colorful stone poles that stood in a small, green plot beside the building. Coffey recognized these from the tour book he had read during the flight to Australia. They were Tiwi Pukumani burial poles–a tribute to the Aboriginal peoples who dwelt in the Northern Territory. They were used as mourning totems during funeral ceremonies. Afterward, they remained standing above the grave as a memorial to the dead. These particular poles were carved to honor all native dead. Coffey thought about how moving it must be for a sculptor to work on interpretive likenesses of deceased individuals from his tribe or village. The process made more sense to Coffey than a marble worker impersonally hacking names into stone.

Also, the burial poles were not white. They were brightly painted, a celebration of life.

As the sedan headed toward downtown Darwin, Coffey looked out at the gleaming waters of the Timor Sea. He found it ironic that since leaving Sydney he had encountered a pilot, a driver, and a series of totems. All of them were mute, but only one of them had any eloquence.

The one that was made of stone.

Chapter Eight.

The Celebes Sea Thursday, 12:12 P.M.

If anyone had been watching the two vessels, it would have seemed like a chance encounter. A passing ship or plane, even a spy satellite, would see it as an offer by a decommissioned cutter to lend assistance to a yacht. The two ships stayed together briefly, less than fifteen minutes. Then the cutter pulled away, its captain waving grandly to a fellow seafarer.

In fact, the encounter was anything but innocent. Or accidental.

Forty-seven-year-old Peter Kannaday, owner and skipper of the Hosannah, was supposed to have made the rendezvous with the privately owned cutter when night was upon the sea, and no one could have seen them together. But the explosion on the sampan had opened a crack in his hull. Actually, it had blown an oar, pieces of hull, and the body of a pirate against the bulkhead of the yacht. They were what had caused the breach. The crack was less than a meter long and was well above the waterline. But where it had hit was very inconvenient for the captain. Inconvenient and extremely dangerous. They had to stop and repair it. Fortunately, there had been no other ships in the area. That was one of the reasons Kannaday had selected this route in the first place.

The Australian sea captain watched as the red-hulled cutter moved away slowly. The diesel-electric motors growled loudly as the 200-foot-long ship crawled forward under a perfect blue sky. The cutter was formerly owned by the Republic of Korea Navy, bought from the United States in 1950. Now it was the property of Mahathir bin Dahman of Malaysia, who used it as part of his global waste-disposal operation. The ship’s captain, Jaafar, had said that Dahman had been very concerned about the risks of a daylight pickup. Jaafar had assured him that it would be all right. Dahman decided to trust his man on the scene. Jaafar was right. Everything went well.

Kannaday did not think that his own boss would be as understanding. It bothered Kannaday that he had to worry about that. The ship had a security officer for this. One who had been appointed by the boss himself.

Kannaday turned from the deck and went below. He pulled a hand-rolled cigarette from his shirt pocket. He lit it and took a few quick drags. The five security officers had gone down ahead of him. They were in the process of returning their automatic weapons to the gun racks. They were always on high alert during a transfer.

The rest of the crew was going about their business of sailing the yacht back to Australia.

The yacht belonged to Kannaday, and some members of the crew had been with him for nearly seven years. They were loyal, though not necessarily to him. They liked the untaxed money they made and the job was easy. Most of the time the Hosannah pretended to be conducting coastline tours or fishing runs. They wanted to be seen in as many places as possible. Crew members posed as paying customers. Between those essentially idle cruises, the crew were veterans of countless independent smuggling operations. They had transported people and goods all across the southern hemisphere, from Australia to South America.

The security people did not work for him. They worked for John Hawke, who worked for Jervis Darling. A thick mist of distrust circulated between them and Kannaday’s veteran crew. Kannaday’s men had never had to defend their vessel and their cargo. But they could and would, if necessary. Hawke’s team had never sailed a yacht. Yet each team believed they could do the other’s job better. Seamen always felt that way. Unfortunately, what had happened the night before stoked the frustration in both camps. The seamen felt the security team should have seen the sampan coming before dark. They had radar and sonar, installed in the radio room by Darling’s technicians. Unfortunately, the sampan was so small it literally slipped under the radar. Kannaday’s crew felt that once the threat was identified, the security people should have anticipated that there might be explosives on board. They could have changed course to avoid the threat, as they always did before going to work exclusively for Darling. Unfortunately, the schedules of Darling and his partners did not allow time for flight. They were to load and off-load the materials as soon as possible.

The miserable irony was that except for the explosion, everything had gone perfectly. The security system and defensive response had worked. An hour before they were supposed to meet Jaafar, the sophisticated marine radar had picked up a blip. Darling’s nephew Marcus had reported it to Kannaday, who had watched the seven-inch color monitor in the communications room. They had observed the sampan’s approach on the night-vision security camera attached to the mainmast. They decided that the crew were pirates preparing to board. A security team went on deck and took them out. So as not to hit fuel supplies or stockpiled ammunition, they aimed at the men, not at the sampan. Though they took precautions, a replay of the security video showed what had happened. Bullets struck explosives one of the pirates had been carrying. Perhaps the pirates had intended to try to cripple the yacht and forestall pursuit. In any case, the handheld explosive had blown up and damaged the yacht. There was no way to have seen that. No way to have anticipated it. And, unfortunately, no way to protect against it.

The yacht was divided into ten rooms. Six of those were for the crew, one was for munitions, one was for Kannaday, and one was for communications. The tenth room, the room that was damaged, was for their cargo. Kannaday walked down the carpeted central corridor to the room where repairs were still ongoing. Fortunately, all of the internal walls had held secure. Kannaday stopped beside thirty-one-year-old John Hawke, his security officer.

Hawke was a contrast to the tall, prematurely silver-haired Kannaday. The sinewy, five-foot-nine-inch Hawke was what the people of his native Cootamundra, South Australia, used to call a Mong–a mongrel, the son of a Canadian father and an Aborigine mother. However, no one who knew Hawke used the disparaging term. The taciturn sailor wore a wommera tucked in his sash belt. The traditional Dharuk weapon was a hooked wooden stick used for hurling darts with force and accuracy. The dart was placed in a hollowed end and then flung, like a jai alai ball. Kannaday had seen Hawke use the weapon on sea birds for practice. Their eyes were his favorite target. Their squawks were like sylvan music to him, producing the only smile Kannaday ever saw.

Hawke’s own eyes were pale gray set in a face of dark rust. His hair was black and curly and worn in a shoulder-length ponytail. He moved with the steady, fluid grace of a man who had spent most of his life on a ship’s deck. The oddest thing about him was that he was almost always whistling. Except for when he was on deck at night, he would whistle native melodies. No one ever asked him why, and no one asked him to stop. Not only was he a formidable presence, but he had been handpicked by Darling.

Right now Hawke was standing outside the cargo door. He was wearing a radio headset. He was speaking with the three crew members who were inside the room. Kannaday offered Hawke a drag from his cigarette. Hawke declined with a single shake of his head.

“How is it going?” Kannaday asked.

“Mr. Gibbons says they’ll have the outer hull sufficiently repaired to get us safely to the cove,” Hawke told him.

“Good,” Kannaday replied. “Thank the lads for me. I’m going to report to the chief.”

Hawke did not respond. Kannaday had not expected him to. If something did not need to be said or indicated, Hawke did nothing.

Kannaday moved past him down the corridor. He shouldered by the security personnel who were returning from the munitions room to their cabin. The lab had been made from the forward port-side guest cabin. The radio room was assembled in the rear starboard guest cabin. In the center of the yacht was the saloon. Walls had been erected in the center of the dining area. The security team slept in hammocks slung in the port-side section. Kannaday’s crew slept in the starboard section. Kannaday’s own cabin was astern. Except for transfer times or emergencies, the security team remained below. To all outward appearances, the Hosannah was simply a pleasure yacht on charter.

Kannaday knocked on the door of the communications shack. Without waiting for a reply, he slipped his large frame through the small doorway of the windowless cabin. The rush of air from the belowdecks ventilation duct filled the room. The vent was located port side of a crawl space that ran the length of the yacht. That was where emergency supplies were kept. It was also where nonlethal contraband such as drugs or political refugees were kept.

The green-haired communications officer looked up from his cot. Marcus Darling was the chief’s twenty-five-year-old nephew. The heavyset young man had an advanced degree in electronics and the arrogance that comes from nepotism. Most of the time he lay here or on deck reading science fiction and fantasy novels or watching DVDs on his laptop. Occasionally, he took the flare guns from the compartment above his station and checked them. In case of an accident, he was in charge of all forms of rescue signaling. But what the kid really wanted to do was run one of the boss’s movie-special-effects facilities in Europe or the United States. Uncle Jervis told him that after he put in a year on the yacht, he would send Marcus wherever he wanted to go.

Marcus was the one who had built the Hosannah‘s secure radio system three years before. At the time, the young man was still in college, and Jervis Darling was just beginning to plan this operation. Marcus had hacked a classified NATO web site to get a list of components the organization used in their field-communications setup. The heart of the system was a digital encryption module that could be interfaced with analog radios. Run through a personal computer, the DM continually modulated the frequencies while communicating the changes to a computer on the receiving end. It was virtually impossible to decrypt the communication without the computer software.

Marcus set aside the science fiction novel he was reading. He rose from the cot as Kannaday shut the door. The radio operator was on call all day, every day, and this was where he slept. The room was a tight squeeze with the radar equipment where the porthole used to be and the radio gear on the wall across from the cot. Kannaday backed against the door while Marcus moved toward the desk. It was actually a wide shelf built directly into the wall. The desk ran the length of the cabin. The young man eased into the canvas director’s chair in front of the radio.

“I didn’t hear any shooting this time, Peter,” Marcus said.

“We get things right on occasion,” Kannaday replied. He had long ago given up explaining himself or trying to get the kid to refer to him as Captain Kannaday. Fortunately, Marcus did not do it when other crew members were around. This was just the young man’s private dig.

“Don’t be modest,” Marcus said. “You and your crew get things right most of the time.”

“There’s a ‘but’ in your voice,” Kannaday said.

“You’ve good ears,” Marcus said. “The ‘but’ you hear is that Uncle Salty likes things to be right all of the time. He doesn’t like movies that flop, magazines that don’t make a profit, and real estate that loses value.”

Salty was the Australian media’s nickname for Jervis Darling. It was inspired by the big, stealthy saltwater crocodile of the Northern Territory. Kannaday had no idea whether Darling liked the epithet or not.

“This is a different kind of business,” Kannaday said. “There has to be leeway for the unexpected.”

“I suppose that’s true,” Marcus said as he activated the system. He picked up the headset and hung the earpiece around his left ear. “Unfortunately, we can’t really afford that leeway, can we?”

“What do you mean?”

“Failure can result in more than a financial loss for everyone concerned,” Marcus said.

As much as Kannaday disliked giving Marcus his due, the kid was right. Failure in this enterprise could result in death or the kind of jail term that would make death the preferred option. On the other hand, like all the men on board, Kannaday obviously felt that the risk was worth it. Kannaday was earning 75,000 dollars a week. His men were taking in 6,000 each. Darling put the money in an escrow account in the Cayman Islands. At the end of each two-year stint, the money would be theirs. They had six months to go on this leg. And they did not have to do any other kind of smuggling for this employer. No drugs, no guns, no terrorists. They already knew the handful of players in this game, so there were rarely personnel changes and very few surprises. The only thing that made no sense to Kannaday was what was in this for Jervis Darling. The captain did not understand why a multibillionaire would be interested in taking a risk of this magnitude.

Marcus contacted Jervis’s personal secretary, Andrew Graham. Andrew was at the Darling compound in Cairns. The secretary said he would transfer the call to Jervis Darling’s private line. Marcus handed Kannaday the headset. Kannaday placed the entire unit over his head. Marcus did not get up, so Kannaday leaned on the metal desk. He looked at the thermometer-like spectrometer on the wall in front of him. One cable ran from the base of the unit to Marcus’s computer. Another ran to a battery pack on the desk. The device ate up a lot of electricity, but they could not afford to be without it. This room adjoined the laboratory. If there were a leak, software in Marcus’s computer would notice a photopeak on its internal graph. That would cause an alarm to sound.

The connection would take about five seconds. They were five very long seconds. Kannaday drew hard on the cigarette. Most of the time, the sixty-two-year-old Darling was a soft-spoken man. But that was misleading. The Australian native could communicate more with a delay or with silence than most people could with speech. Darling had been very quiet when he was told about the explosion. He had told Kannaday simply to “take care of it.” The captain had been chilled by Darling’s monotone, by the way he pronounced “take” and “care” as distinct words instead of running them together. Hopefully, word of a successful transfer from Dahman’s ship would mollify him.

“Go ahead,” Andrew said.

“Sir, the transfer has been completed,” Kannaday said. They never used Darling’s name over the air. Unlikely though it was, there was always a chance that the signal could be intercepted and interpreted.

“All right,” Darling replied. “We will talk about this when you arrive . . . Captain.”

There was a click. Kannaday felt as though he had been punched hard in the gut. Darling had hung up. Kannaday had not expected absolution, but he had been hoping for neutrality. He did not get that. There had been a pause between “arrive” and “Captain.” Kannaday did not know whether that meant It was your responsibility to protect the ship, or Enjoy the title while it’s still yours. Kannaday removed the headset.

“Did Uncle Salty take a bite?” Marcus asked.

“Without even opening his bloody mouth,” Kannaday replied. He opened the door.

“Don’t worry,” Marcus said. “Maybe my uncle will let it go at that. If you don’t catch the first wave, often you won’t catch it at all. When I was a kid, I saw him do that on one of his movies. His star was scratching away at a part like she was chipping for gold. Three days into the shoot, the director was already six days behind schedule. Uncle Salty couldn’t yell at his big-name star, so he went after one of her wardrobe mistresses. He showed up on the set one morning and chewed her out for being slow. Chucked a micky, big time. Uncle Salty’s star worked a lot faster after that.”

“I’ll make sure to warn my dresser,” Kannaday said. “This is not a motion picture. Your uncle cannot afford to let things slide. He cannot write off a failure on his taxes.”

“That’s true,” Marcus said as he returned to his cot. He shrugged. “I was just trying to give you some hope. Forget I said anything.” Marcus picked up his novel and resumed reading.

Kannaday left the communications room. He should have known better than to engage in any kind of dialogue with Marcus. Not only did the kid like to tweak him, but Kannaday believed that Marcus and Hawke had something going. It was nothing he could pin down. It might not be anything more than simpatico. But every time Kannaday came upon them together, it looked as though the two men had just finished setting a bear trap. Hawke was typically implacable, but Marcus was always watchful, cautious, guarded.

Kannaday went to his small cabin in the aftermost section of the yacht. The hardwood floorboard creaked slightly. He shut the door and stared out the tiny rear porthole. He did not see the sea or the sky or the glare of the sun on the bulletproof glass. He was only aware of one thing: How would Darling react when they were face-to-face?

Kannaday knew too much about this operation for the magnate simply to dismiss him without the rest of his pay. Besides, Darling would have to get himself another boat. If he tried to take this one, the new captain of the Hosannah would have to explain what happened to the old captain. There would be an inquiry. Anyway, Kannaday did not believe that Darling would kill him. There were rumors about past activities of that sort, but Kannaday’s crew was not stupid. If something happened to Kannaday, they would not wait around. They would take the yacht to sea and lose themselves at the first crowded port. Kannaday also did not think Darling would risk the setup he had.

Of course, there might be larger issues for Darling to consider. Issues that might override these other concerns. Darling might feel as if he needed to teach an object lesson to the men on this or other operations. That accidents could not be tolerated.

That possibility worried Kannaday. There was only one way he could be sure it did not happen.

That was to strike first.

And Kannaday had an idea just how to do it.

Chapter Nine.

The Celebes Sea Thursday, 12:33 P.M.

The cutter had proceeded northwest at seventeen knots. It reached the designated area quickly. Fortunately, the delay had not impacted Jaafar’s scheduled drop-off. International Spent Fuel Transport, a division of Dahman Waste Management, had clearance at the site for noon until three-thirty every two weeks. There were 112 visits to this site each year. The next ship would not visit here until the following morning. The International Nuclear Regulatory Commission assigned the slots so that each ship would have a comfortable window for getting in and out of the area. The time slots were created to minimize the chance of collisions. And if an accident occurred on one ship, it would not threaten the crew of another.

Jaafar watched from the bridge as his crew worked the winch on the forward section of the cutter. The eight crewmen all wore radiation suits. They worked slowly and carefully as the fifty-foot crane removed a concrete block from the forward hold.

The block weighed three tons and was roughly the size of a compact automobile. It was designed to contain just three ten-gallon drums of waste. Each radioactive rod was sealed inside a mixture of absorbent lithium chloride, potassium chloride, and alkali metal chloride salts. These were packaged inside cesium metal containers within reinforced ceramic and steel drums. Once the concrete block was in the water, it would be lowered slowly to a ledge feet below. A fiber-optic camera on the line would guide the winch operator. He would take care not to nick or damage any other block while placing his. Each week, the INRC sailed through this region to make certain none of the blocks were leaking.

This area of the Celebes Sea was one of twelve oceanic regions where the INRC permitted radioactive waste to be deposited. The seabed here was geologically stable, and fishermen did not regularly sail these waters. Any leaks would not have a high impact on any peoples or economy. Of course, security was a relative state of mind. The waste would be highly radioactive for ten thousand years. But it had to be disposed of and, for now, this was one of the best places for that. Especially since scientists were discovering that even the strongest containers buried on land were subject to erosion from microbacteria. Many of these organisms had been buried in volcanic flows millions of years ago and remained dormant inside the rocks. Just a whisper of radiation from materials such as cobalt 60 caused them to be revived and eat through rock and metal.

The olive-skinned, black-bearded Jaafar watched with pride as his men went about their task. The thirty-seven-year-old had worked closely with the physicists hired by Mahathir bin Dahman. They had designed a safe and efficient process for off-loading waste. The walls of the bridge were decorated with documents from the INRC commending the Dahman operation.

Jaafar remained at his post until the operation was completed. He radioed the home office in Kuala Lumpur to tell them that everything had been successful. Then he went below to thank the crew and have lunch.

And to enjoy, as always, one delicious snack.

The irony of those INRC citations.

Chapter Ten.

Darwin, Australia Thursday, 12:05 P.M.

Royal Darwin Hospital is one of the finest, most modern facilities in Australia. A ten-story white structure, it has a unique mission. Because the population it serves lives across a vast region, with varied racial backgrounds and difficult climatic conditions, the hospital must be ready to deal with almost any kind of illness or injury.

Medically, they were ready for Lee Tong. Psychologically, no one was ready for him. Or what he brought to Australia.

The staff car rolled up to the front entrance of the hospital. As it did, an officer stepped from the lobby. He was a big man with hair the color of straw. Coffey was not up on his Royal Australian Navy chevrons, but this man had the carriage of a high-ranking officer. The driver ran around and opened Coffey’s door. The petty officer saluted as the other man approached the car.

“Mr. Coffey, I’m George Jelbart,” the man said in a very thick Australian accent.

“Good afternoon, sir,” Coffey said.

“Thank you for coming,” Jelbart went on. “I hope the ride was not too uncomfortable.”

“It was fine, except for the curiosity burning a hole in my head,” Coffey replied.

“Please forgive the secrecy,” Jelbart said. “You’ll understand why that was necessary.”

“I’m sure,” Coffey said. “Thing is, I hate calling my boss and telling him that I don’t know why I’m going someplace. It looks bad, us being an intelligence agency and all.”

“I understand. Again, you’ll see why it was necessary.”

The men entered the hospital lobby. They walked past the casualty area toward the elevators, and went up to the fifth floor. There, toward the end of an L-shaped corridor, two leading seamen stood at ease on either side of a door. They each wore a sextant patch on their sleeve. When Coffey asked, Jelbart told him that the badge was from the navy’s hydrographic survey branch. Both men wore handguns and no-nonsense expressions.

Hydrographic survey and maritime intelligence, Coffey thought. Science and counterespionage were working together on this. That reinforced what he had been thinking all along. He only hoped that the situation was not as bad as he imagined.

The men saluted as Warrant Officer Jelbart arrived. He returned the salute as he opened the door. Directly inside was a lead screen made up of three vertical panels. It was similar to the ones Coffey had seen in X-ray laboratories. The screen did not surprise him, but it did sadden him. A human being was lying on the other side of the screen.

There was a small window in the center. Jelbart gestured for Coffey to look through. The attorney stepped up and studied the patient in the bed. He was a dark-skinned, muscular-looking man with an intravenous needle in his arm and an oxygen mask on the lower half of his face. There were bandages over his bare chest, shoulders, arms, and portions of his face and scalp. Several monitors were hooked to his arms and temples.

“We think he’s from Singapore,” Jelbart said.

“Why?” Coffey asked.

“It’s his general physiognomy,” Jelbart told him. “Also, he’s wearing clothes usually worn by dockworkers at Keppel Harbor. His shark and anchor tattoos look like the designs they do there as well. At least, the portions that weren’t burned away.”

“I see,” Coffey said. “How did he get here?”

“He was picked up by an RAN patrol boat,” Jelbart said. “They found him clinging to a few planks from what may have been a sampan. That’s what the wood and curve of the wood suggested. He had third-degree burns over twenty percent of his body and a bullet hole in each leg. Ironically, the burns cauterized the wounds. Otherwise, he would probably have bled to death. He was out there for eight or nine hours before they found him.”

“He’s lucky they found him at all,” Coffey said.

“Lucky is a relative term,” Jelbart said.

“How so?”

“Our patrol boats are equipped with radiation detectors,” Jelbart went on. “They watch for anyone who might be trying to smuggle nuclear weapons through the region. They got a reading from our friend.”

“From him or from the wreckage?” Coffey asked.

“Both,” Jelbart replied. “The doctors don’t think he received a lethal dosage. There are tests, of course, though I understand the best sign will be if he actually wakes up. I’m told you know Brian Ellsworth.”

“Yes.”

“He is downstairs in the morgue with some local security officials and the wreckage,” Jelbart told him. “We bathed the victim, but we don’t want to clean up the planks until they’ve been analyzed.”

“So you’re keeping it isolated,” Coffey said.

Jelbart nodded.

“Has anyone contacted the authorities in Singapore?” Coffey asked.

“Yes,” Jelbart replied. “We’re hoping they can help to identify this individual.”

“But he will be too sick to transport back to Singapore,” Coffey said knowingly.

“That happens to be true,” Jelbart told him. He faced Coffey. His voice was barely above a whisper now. “But you’re right, Mr. Coffey. We don’t want him leaving here just yet. If this man was involved in the transport of nuclear materials, we don’t know who else in Singapore might be involved. It could be members of the government, the military, or private industry. We don’t want anything to happen to him until we can question him.”

“You know that you can’t hold this man if he asks to be released,” Coffey said. “He was found in international waters and committed no crimes that you’re aware of. For all you know, he was a victim.”

“I understand that,” Jelbart said. “Now let’s talk about reality. This region is the world’s best-traveled route for nuclear traffic. Your government has been at war with potential nuclear terrorists here and in Africa and the Middle East. But it’s been on our shoulders to try to stop the goods in transit. That’s not easy. Without trace radiation or known perpetrators, we have no right to board ships in the open sea. The coastline is another problem. Watching that eats up a lot of time and resources. I don’t know what we’re going to find out about this man. Air and sea patrols are searching the region where he was found. They’re looking for more of the wreckage. So far, nothing has turned up. A few extra hours in the water may have diluted the radiation and the wreckage sufficiently to make detection difficult.”

“What about other vessels that may have been in the region?” Coffey asked.

“We’re checking charters, radio transmissions, even cellular phone calls that were made before dawn,” Jelbart said. “According to the doctor, the victim was injured about four or five A.M. Perhaps another vessel saw or heard something. But then, we assume they would have reported it.”

Coffey nodded. “Of course, if there was something illegal going on, this man’s shipmates would have steered away from other vessels,” he said.

“Most likely,” Jelbart agreed. “There’s one other scenario we have to consider. The accident occurred near the Ryder Ridge, a region for nuclear waste disposal. It’s remotely possible this man and his shipmates were trying to salvage some of that material.”

“In a sampan?” Coffey asked.

“I said ‘remotely possible,’ not ‘likely,’ ” Jelbart pointed out. “Which brings me back to what I believe is the case. That they were transporting nuclear material in some form and were attacked. Maybe it was a deal gone wrong. Maybe they pushed their engine and it overheated. But we need to find out more, which means holding this man until such time as he can speak to us.”

Coffey looked at the unconscious victim. “What are you asking me to do? Ignore his rights?”

“Involving you was Mr. Ellsworth’s idea,” Jelbart said. “I don’t know what he wants you to do. But I’m telling you, Mr. Coffey, this has me scared. We have in the past intercepted troublesome cargo. Components for nuclear weapons. Fake passports for the transit of rogue nuclear scientists. Plans of nuclear power plants here and abroad, including the routes they use for the transportation of spent fuel. But this is the first time we have encountered clear evidence of radioactive materials close to our shores.”

“The point is, you did find it,” Coffey said.

“By luck.”

“Nonetheless, you know where to look now,” Coffey said. “By examining the wreckage, you may even know what to look for. What kind of ship, where it came from. This man may not know anything. You can’t treat him as if he’s a terror mastermind.”

“Sir, we can’t afford to treat him as if he isn’t,” Jelbart replied. “Do you want to know what I’m asking you to do, Mr. Coffey? I am asking you to consider the rights of the twenty million people living in Australia and the countless millions living around the globe. I’m asking you to consider their right to live lives free of nuclear terrorism.”

“People should live free from any form of terrorism,” Coffey said. He nodded toward the man in the bed. “That includes state-sanctioned terrorism, physical or psychological.”

“No one is going to hurt him,” Jelbart said. “Which is something else you should consider. Whatever treatment this man receives while he is our guest will be preferable to what they would do to him in Singapore. If the government wants information, they will beat or drug him to get it. If someone wants to silence him, they will do that, too.” Jelbart looked at his watch. “I told Mr. Ellsworth I would bring you to him. I suggest we go downstairs now. The representative from Singapore is also due any moment.”

The men returned to the elevator.

Coffey was torn. In theory, he could disagree with nothing the warrant officer had said. In practice, he could not shake a quote by Calvin Coolidge that he had memorized. It was commemorated in a plaque in one of the lecture halls at the UCLA School of Law where Coffey had been a student. It said, “Men speak of natural rights, but I challenge anyone to show where in nature any rights existed or were recognized until there was established for their declaration and protection a duly promulgated body of corresponding laws.”

Jelbart was wrong. Bend the law, and the rights of all people suffered.

But then, Coffey was a good lawyer. As such, he could not help but wonder if there was a loophole in this instance. Nuclear terrorism, even the threat of it, removed part of what made him want to protect this man.

It took the word human from human rights.

Chapter Eleven.

Darwin, Australia Thursday, 12:17 P.M.

The RAN Iroquois helicopter carrying Female Naval Defence Technical Officer Monica Loh of COSCOM, the Coastal Command of the Republic of Singapore Navy, landed on the helipad at the Royal Darwin Hospital. The pad was typically used by the Rescue Birds–helicopters that brought patients from the regions surrounding Darwin. Formerly an officer with the Explosive Ordnance Disposal Group, the five-foot-seven-inch Loh walked several paces ahead of the two shorter male Naval Defence technicians who had accompanied her. The vessel to which Loh was attached, a 360-ton mine countermeasure vessel, was still at sea. Warrant Officer George Jelbart had dispatched the helicopter to get Major Loh to the Darwin hospital as quickly as possible.

Brian Ellsworth had sent a scanned photograph and fingerprints of an injured seaman to the Police Coast Guard at the Tanjong Pagar Complex in Singapore. Ellsworth had wanted any information the PCG might have on this individual. He was Lee Tong, a registered former seaman on the Lord of the Ocean container ship. The PCG wanted to know why Ellsworth needed this information. He told them, at the same time inviting someone from COSCOM to join the investigation. Since FNO Loh had experience in that area of the sea, as well as with explosive devices, she was sent to Darwin. The last time she had been involved with Australian officials was three years before. That was when the two nations had joined with Malaysian authorities to raid a warehouse on the Malaysian coast. They broke up a DVD pirating ring that the Australian Film and Video Security Office said was costing Hollywood producers over twenty-five million dollars a year in lost revenue.

Everyone wants to be in show business, she thought bitterly at the time. To carry out the raid, Loh’s superiors had pulled her off a coinvestigation with the Home Affairs Ministry involving Lebanon’s Hezbollah guerrilla group recruiting Singaporean Muslims. These individuals were being used to spy on the American and Israeli embassies in Singapore. Fortunately, the Singaporean Muslims decided the risk was not worth the rewards. They quit the Lebanese terror unit before carrying out their mission.

Loh and her two aides were met by a pair of RAN leading seamen and escorted to the back of the hospital. They were informed that a service elevator would take them to where the “items” were being stored.

It felt strange to be on land. Loh was used to the rocking of the MCMV, where she spent much of her time. Even the helicopter had felt more comfortable than solid, unmoving asphalt. It was also unusual for Loh to be in the sunshine. While the bulk of the twenty-eight-person crew searched for mines, she conducted signal intelligence operations in a segregated area of the ship. She listened for communiques that might suggest smuggling operations. If she detected anything unusual, the appropriate police or military unit was sent to investigate.

The fact that just the opposite was happening here did not surprise her. The thirty-four-year-old Loh did not share the viewpoint of many of her fellow female naval officers. They regarded the RSN nomenclature as dismissive, since male naval officers were simply referred to as naval officers. Loh did not agree. She sincerely believed that men had created the distinction for a reason. So that they would have somewhere to turn when things got difficult. Like now. Loh’s father, Vendesan, was an officer with Singapore’s Criminal Investigation Department. His specialty was gathering intelligence on the powerful secret societies that ran the nation’s gambling, prostitution, and drug rings. Her father was very smart. But whenever Vendesan was baffled, he discussed the situation with his wife. Monica would often lie in bed, listening to their conversations. Her mother, Nurdiyana, was a school-teacher. More often than not, the woman would have sensible solutions to her husband’s problems. It was the same with the FNOs. When roaring and mane shaking failed, the RSN lions sent in the smarter, cagier lionesses.

Not that Loh’s father was like that. He respected women. And he respected intellect. Chinese, Malay, Tamil, and English were all official languages in Singapore. He spoke them all. At his insistence, Loh had learned them in school. He himself had taught her Japanese.

“Arms can subdue, but often at great cost,” her father had once told her. “But languages can infiltrate and control. If used correctly, they give you power over groups and individuals.”

Her father had been proof of that. He had survived forty-five years with the CID before retiring.

The Singaporeans and their escorts entered the spacious elevator and rode down three floors. The doors opened on a metal desk with a security guard seated behind it. A senior member of the Darwin Police Force was standing beside him. The officer tipped his hat to Loh as she walked past. If she were out of uniform, she would have found that sweet. In uniform, it made her uncomfortable. She would have preferred a salute. They walked a few steps to the morgue. The hospital guard buzzed them in. The two leading seamen did not enter.

The morgue was about twenty by twenty feet. There were refrigerated cabinets with stainless steel doors on the left-hand side. On the right side were shelves with chemicals, tools, and electronic equipment. There were two doors in the rear. In the center of the room was a row of gurneys. Dark aprons covered several of them. Loh assumed that these were lead-lined and that the remains of the boat were beneath them.

There were four other people in the brightly lit room. One of them walked over briskly and introduced himself. He was Brian Ellsworth, a short, rotund, balding man. Dressed in a black three-piece suit, the pale official looked as though he were dressed for his own funeral. Ellsworth introduced Warrant Officer George Jelbart, attorney Lowell Coffey III of the National Crisis Management Center in Washington, D.C., and Dr. Maud Forvey, a physicist at the Northern Territory University.

Loh introduced herself and her two aides.

“I want to thank you all for coming,” Ellsworth said. “Frankly, we aren’t sure precisely what we’ve stumbled upon. We hope you can help.”

“You received the data from the Police Coast Guard,” Loh said.

“Yes. We did, just now, thank you,” Ellsworth said. “We have people checking to see if there is additional information about Mr. Tong.”

“I would like to visit him,” Loh said.

“We’ll take you to his room in a minute,” Ellsworth said. “First, if you don’t mind, we’d like to know if there is anything you can tell us about the wreckage. We understand you’ve been at sea for ten years.”

“That’s right,” she said.

“Mr. Jelbart believes it’s from a sampan, but we aren’t certain,” Ellsworth said. “By the way, Dr. Forvey has checked the flotsam for radioactivity. It is extremely low level, perfectly safe for a brief exposure. Just don’t handle any of the pieces without the proper attire.”

Loh walked over to the gurneys. Dr. Forvey put on thick yellow gloves. She raised the end of one of the lead covers. The Singaporean officer looked at the charred pieces of planking.

“That’s Foochow pine,” she said.

“Are you certain?” Ellsworth asked.

“Absolutely. The Chinese use it to make mu-chi sampans.”

“Do you ever see these in Singapore?” Warrant Officer Jelbart asked.

“Occasionally,” Loh said. “They’re mostly used for river travel.”

“Why is that?” Ellsworth asked.

“The mu-chi sampans have a very low profile and can pass easily under most bridges,” Loh informed him.

“Are they motorized?” Jelbart asked.

“They can be,” she replied.

“Obviously this one was,” Ellsworth said. “The question is, why take one of them to the middle of the Celebes Sea at night?”

“Piracy,” Loh replied. “That’s what sampans are used for in the South China Sea.”

“That would make sense,” Jelbart said. “The low profile would make it extremely difficult to spot on the horizon and difficult to pick up on radar. If they waited for night-fall, they could quietly oar their way to a ship.”

“That’s exactly what they do,” Loh told him.

“What about using the sampans for smuggling?” Ellsworth asked.

“That is uncommon,” Loh said. “There is not a lot of storage capability. They would not be very efficient when weighted down. Doctor, could you raise the apron a little higher?”

Dr. Forvey did so. Loh examined the wreckage for a long moment.

“There is something else,” Loh said. “I don’t believe that the explosion of a diesel engine caused this wreckage.”

“How can you tell?” Ellsworth asked.

“The engine would have been located in the rear,” she said. “The curve of these planks suggests they came from the front section. Something would have had to explode close to the planks to do this kind of damage. Also, the foxing along the sides of the wood is unusual. Petrol explosions produce sharp, splintering cracks. This wood was pulverized.”

“Suggesting what?” Jelbart asked.

“That a powerful explosive device was on board,” Loh said. “There have been reports over the last few years about a band of pirates who place explosives on the hulls of ships. The pirates threaten to destroy the vessels unless they turn over their cargo.”

“Do we know anything about these pirates?” Jelbart asked.

“No,” Loh replied. “They always attacked in the dark and stayed out of range when making their demands. Any hostages they took were hooded or killed. It is conceivable they could have used a sampan for these attacks.”

“How did they collect their plunder?” Jelbart asked.

“The cash and jewelry were put in a dinghy or sometimes a bag, which one of the pirates would swim over to collect,” Loh replied.

“That would not have been a convenient way to move nuclear materials around,” Dr. Forvey noted. Carefully, she lay the heavy apron back across the battered pieces of wood.

“That assumes this was the same group of pirates,” Coffey said.

“The only way we’re going to find that out is by talking to the survivor,” Loh said. “I would like to do that as soon as possible.”

“He’s unconscious,” Ellsworth told her.

“Then we’ll have to wake him,” Loh replied.

“Officer Loh, that’s something we will have to discuss with his doctors,” Ellsworth said.

Loh glared at him. “You can discuss it with his doctors,” she suggested firmly. “I am here to find out why a sampan and one of its operators were exposed to radiation.”

“We can try to do both,” Coffey suggested diplomatically.

Loh turned and walked toward the door. There was nothing to hunt down here.

The lioness was moving on.

Chapter Twelve.

The Celebes Sea Thursday, 1:08 P.M.

The yacht was about to cross south into the Molucca Sea when Captain Kannaday summoned John Hawke to his cabin. Fifteen minutes later, the security chief knocked and entered.

Kannaday was seated at a small rolltop desk against the port-side wall. It was an eighteenth-century piece. There were laminated charts marked with grease pencil and a laptop with nautical data. When Kannaday sat here, it made him feel like the captain of an old-time frigate or whaling ship. How many of those men also dealt in contraband? he often wondered. Back then it would have been slaves and arms and opium.

Hawke shut the narrow door behind him. The bright light from the porthole moved with the slow sway of the he pryacht. One moment the sun shone brightly on the officer’s long face. The next moment he was in sharp-edged darkness. Hawke did not blink in the direct light of the sun. He removed his headset and hung it over his shoulder.

There was a deck chair beside the bed. Kannaday did not invite him to sit. The captain swiveled his own chair toward the newcomer.

“You took your time getting here,” Kannaday said.

“I was busy with the repairs,” Hawke replied.

The man had a voice like sea spray. It was soft and feathery, a combination of his mother’s drawling Aborigine accent and his father’s lyrical Canadian inflection. Considering the setback they had suffered, it was also disturbingly confident and untroubled.

“What is the status of the lab?” Kannaday asked.

“The hole has been welded shut,” Hawke replied. “The area is free of leakage.”

“Leakage of seawater or radiation?” Kannaday asked.

“Both,” Hawke replied. “However, damage to the processing equipment has been extensive.”

“Are you saying the materials cannot be processed by the time we reach Cairns?” Kannaday said.

“That is correct,” Hawke informed him. He waited a moment, then asked, “Is there anything else?”

“Yes. You don’t seem very upset,” Kannaday said.

“I cannot change what is,” Hawke said.

“The chief did not want us ever coming into port with the cargo,” Kannaday reminded him.

“The only other option is to dump the drums,” Hawke said. “We have already radioed ahead for new equipment. It will be waiting at the compound when we arrive. We will sail in, collect the gear, then sail out.”

“Are you certain there are no other options?” Kannaday demanded. “Nothing we can jury-rig?”

“The destruction was extensive. You can get a radiation suit and go to the laboratory and look for yourself.” Hawke removed the headset from his shoulder. He held it forward. “Or you can ring Dr. Mett and ask him.”

“I’m asking you,” Kannaday said.

“Asking? It sounds as if you are accusing me,” Hawke said.

“Perhaps you’re feeling guilty,” Captain Kannaday said. “What is the problem, exactly?

Hawke’s unhappy gray eyes were fixed on the captain. He replaced the headset. “Even crude reprocessing requires nitric acid to dissolve the spent elements,” Hawke replied. “All of our containers were shattered in the explosion. We also need a functioning centrifuge to separate the remaining materials into daughter products. The blast dented the swing arms. They will not turn correctly. Our partner is expecting three pounds of enriched uranium in pellet form. Three hundred and fifty pellets, roughly. If we cannot distill the material, we cannot turn it over to our partner, nor he to his clients.” Hawke paused. He was beginning to seem restless, annoyed. “I feel obligated to add, Captain, that the crew feels we are lucky to still be afloat.”

“I agree, Mr. Hawke. And I don’t much care for luck,” Kannaday said.

“We took every reasonable precaution,” Hawke pointed out.

“Apparently not,” Kannaday said. “Our hull was breached.”

“Once again, did you order me here to take some of my skin off?” Hawke asked.

“No, Mr. Hawke,” Kannaday replied. “The truth is, I asked you here for something else. I’d like your resignation as head of security.”

The shifting light fell full upon Hawke’s face. After a few moments, his expression changed. He no longer appeared to be impatient. He seemed almost amused by Kannaday’s pronouncement.

“You expect me to fall on my sword for what happened?” Hawke asked.

“Those are your words, not mine,” Kannaday said.

“But that’s what you’re asking.”

“We were unprepared. The men who attacked us were not novices,” Kannaday said. “There must have been reports of previous raids.”

“Quite possibly,” Hawke agreed. The amusement vanished as swiftly as it had come. He was growing angry now. “But whenever our computer boys hack about for classified information, they risk leaving a trail. Every time we pay someone to look up police records on a particular sea lane or harbor, we bring someone else into our circle. It is more efficient and ultimately more secure to deal with a rogue or two if and when they show up.”

“That’s an excuse, not an answer,” Kannaday replied. “I want your resignation.”

“And if I choose not to give it?”

“Then you will be dismissed,” Kannaday said.

“With or without the chief’s approval?” Hawke asked.

“When we sail into the cove with those drums of raw nuclear waste on board, the chief will not dispute what I have done.”

“Are you so sure, Captain?” Hawke walked forward. “I work for him, not for you.”

“The chief dislikes failure,” Kannaday said. “He’ll back me.”

“Because you’re the captain?” Hawke pressed.

“Because I’m looking out for his interests,” Kannaday replied.

“I see. This decision has nothing to do with your being a full-blood?” Hawke demanded.

“That’s irrelevant,” Kannaday said.

“Because you say so?” Hawke asked.

“Because it’s true!” Kannaday replied. “I have never judged you by your background.”

“But when you have your audience with the chief, you will tell him that I was inattentive and uncooperative,” Hawke said. “White shorthand. Those are the usual charges against native Australians. You might even get him to believe you. He has never been a friend to Aboriginals or their issue.”

“Your background has nothing to do with my decision,” Kannaday insisted. “You failed in your responsibility. That is not something we can afford. You will be paid for the work you have done thus far. That’s a considerable sum, I should add. With a resignation, you can run security for another operation. This won’t affect your career.”

Hawke drew the wommera from his sash. The four-inch-long darts were in a closed canvas sack that hung beside it. Kannaday was not concerned. There was not enough room to use them in here. And the stick was neither solid nor thick enough to use as a club.

“I refuse to resign,” Hawke said. There was steel in his jawline, in his voice. “Now. How will you enforce your decision?”

“I have weapons, too,” Kannaday said. “And I have the men to use them. More men than you have.”

“You have sailors,” Hawke said. “I have killers.”

“Half of them are Aboriginal and half of them are white,” Kannaday said. “How do you know they won’t turn against each other in a showdown?”

“My people are loyal to me,” Hawke said.

“Your people? Your killers still work for the chief, and they will want to get paid,” Kannaday assured him. “Now get out. I have to inform the Indonesians that we will not be making the rendezvous in the morning. Then I’m going to turn over security operations to one of my people, Mr. Henrickson. You may have free run of the ship as long as you agree not to work any mischief.”

“I will not resign,” Hawke said.

“Then you are dismissed,” Kannaday said. He glanced at the wommera as he rose. “And if you’re thinking of taking me on personally, I’ve tangled with monkeys like you my whole life. Up and down the islands, in bars and down alleys, on and off board ship.”

“Monkeys,” Hawke said contemptuously.

“Yes,” Kannaday said. “Annoying little creatures. Now leave before I throw you out.”

“Like trash,” Hawke said.

Kannaday had had enough of this. Everyone felt oppressed these days. He reached for the security chief’s shoulders. As he did, Hawke jerked the wommera as though he were cocking a shotgun. The top quarter of the stick flew off. Beneath it was a scalpel-sharp five-inch steel blade. Hawke thrust the slender knife forward. He pressed it into the soft flesh just below Kannaday’s larynx. The blade was pointed up. Hawke forced Kannaday to the balls of his feet. Kannaday had not known the wommera had a concealed blade. He felt stupid. That was worse than feeling helpless.

“Don’t ever assault me,” Hawke said. “I’m not your dog . . . or monkey.”

Kannaday said nothing. At moments like these it was best to listen. That provided information as well as time.

“Maybe you’re telling the truth,” Hawke went on. “Maybe you hate me for myself, not for my background. Or maybe you were just protecting your ass like you’ve done before. For your information, I did conduct research before signing on. I looked up your personal history. I know about the lawsuit your former partner Mr. March filed when you stole this ship by changing national registries. He could not get you into court because he could not find you. I know about the counterfeiters you betrayed in Auckland to save yourself from a smuggling charge, and I know about the wife you abandoned in Sydney. The chief needed someone to run this route, and you were the perfect bastard. But I knew it would be wrong to trust you too far.”

Hawke leaned into the wommera. The captain felt a pinch at his throat. He backed against the rolltop desk. Hawke followed him. Thick drops of blood fell slowly onto Kannaday’s trousers. The captain had anticipated that Hawke might attack him. He kept a .45 in his desk drawer for protection. But he was up against the drawer and could not reach it.

“You asked why I was late just now,” Hawke said. “I was speaking with my men. They may be mixed, Mr. Kannaday, but they understand loyalty. They also understand necessity. If they cannot trust their fellows under fire, they will not survive. So here is my proposal. I will allow you to keep your ship and your command. If the chief dismisses you, we will refuse to sail with anyone else. He will not want to lose us both.” Hawke moved in closer. He did not press the blade further. “We can all ride out this unfortunate incident. The key to your personal survival, Captain, is not to find a goat. It is to be allied with a hawk. Someone who can watch over you.”

“You have a sword at my throat,” Kannaday rasped. “You haven’t left me any options.”

“Did you leave me any?” Hawke demanded. “How does it feel?”

The blood was running thicker now. Kannaday thought about trying to grab the shaft.

Hawke seemed to read the captain’s mind.

“Think this through,” Hawke warned. “No one needs to know about our exchange,” Hawke told the captain. “When you see the chief, you can tell him you were injured in battle. He may even respect you more for it. I will tell my men that you never threatened me. I will say that we simply agreed on what you would tell the chief. You can wear a turtleneck to conceal the wound.”

“I see. And we just go on as we were,” Kannaday said.

“We do,” Hawke replied. “You don’t have to like me or our arrangement. But this is what necessity demands. You will live with it.”

Hawke backed away. He relaxed the blade slightly. A moment later he removed it entirely. That was intended, no doubt, to be a show of trust. Or perhaps of confidence. The two were often related.

Kannaday removed a handkerchief from his pocket. He dabbed it against the shallow wound. He stepped away from the rolltop desk. The captain could reach the .45 now. Hawke had attacked him. Kannaday had the wound to prove it. And the weapon.

The sheath of the wommera was attached by a slender leather thong. Hawke replaced the cap and returned the weapon to his belt. Then he turned away and walked slowly toward the door.

Kannaday could easily reach the gun. Hawke obviously knew that, too. He had to suspect that the captain kept a weapon in his quarters. But to stop Hawke now would mean shooting him from behind. To kill him that way would probably cause even his own sailors to turn on him. They would understand discipline and self-defense but not cowardice.

Hawke paused by the door. He turned back and faced the captain full. “Is there anything further you wanted?”

“No,” Kannaday replied.

Hawke lingered a moment longer. Then he reached behind him, twisted the knob, and left the room.

Kannaday’s shoulders dropped. He had not realized how tense he was until they did. He checked the handkerchief and saw that it was thickly stained with blood. He pressed it back in place and went to get a first-aid kit. He kept one in the locker at the foot of his bed, along with his private store of scotch. As soon as he patched the cut, he would open the bottle.

Kannaday was shaken. The captain was also angry at himself for underestimating Hawke. The man had poise. And courage. And a purpose: To end this encounter leaving Kannaday feeling something less than a captain. And a man.

Kannaday sat on the bed to clean and bandage the wound. He gazed into the mirror on the inside of the lid. The gash was a quarter inch long and bleeding slower now. But it went deep. Right down to his dignity.

As Kannaday uncapped the antiseptic cream, he reasoned that he had not come from this empty-handed. If he had not confronted Hawke, there was no guarantee the man would have stood by him. Still, Kannaday promised himself this much. If John Hawke failed to back him up with Jervis Darling, honor and pride would not save him. Kannaday would take him down anywhere and any way he could.

Even if that meant shooting him in the back.

Chapter Thirteen.

Washington, D.C. Thursday, 11:09 P.M.

“I feel like I’m in Oz,” Coffey said into his cell phone.

“You are,” Hood reminded him.

“I mean the other one, the Emerald City one,” Coffey replied. “The one where an out-of-towner walks around with a strange collection of personalities, looking for something that’s really tough to find.”

Hood was alone in his office. Bob Herbert and Mike Rodgers had just gone home, but their teams were still looking for intelligence. They were seeking any leads about radioactive materials missing or currently being trafficked through the region. They had not yet turned up anything new or relevant. As Herbert had reported before leaving, governments or components thereof were often involved in this trade. Unlike individuals, nations like China and the Ukraine were very good at covering their activities.

“I’m standing down the hall from the pirate’s hospital room,” Coffey went on. “Three people just went inside. One was Brian Ellsworth. You can read about him in my files. The other two are Warrant Officer George Jelbart of the MIC and Female Naval Defence Technical Officer Monica Loh of the Singaporean Coastal Command.”

Hood entered the names on his computer as Coffey spelled them. He forwarded the information to Bob Herbert. Hood knew that the designation female had been part of the title in Singapore for decades. The military services were fully integrated, and discrimination was not permitted. Nonetheless, high command liked to keep their combat unit leaders weighted toward men. This was an easy way to keep track of the balance.

“Is the patient conscious?” Hood asked.

“No, which is why I didn’t go in with them,” Coffey said. “Ellsworth said they’d notify me if he came around. Meanwhile, I’m using the secure phone I borrowed from Jelbart. Switch to code DPR1P.”

“Hold on,” Hood said.

He entered the code for AMIC into his desk unit. Op-Center telephones were preprogrammed to decrypt calls from over two hundred allied intelligence services around the world. The Australian Maritime Intelligence Centre was one of these. The only thing required to secure the line was an access code for the individual AMIC phone.

“Done,” Hood said. “So what do you make of all this?”

“I honestly don’t know yet,” Coffey admitted. “The wreckage is definitely that of a sampan, and it is definitely radioactive. It was probably destroyed by explosions that occurred on the sampan itself. Apparently, pirates have been working the Celebes Sea sporadically for years. They use explosives to hold crews hostage while the vessels are robbed.”

“So this could have been a premature detonation,” Hood said.

“It’s possible,” Coffey agreed.

“But that doesn’t explain the radioactivity,” Hood added.

“Exactly. As far as anyone knows, these pirates have never dealt in nuclear material. That’s making everyone around here pretty jumpy.”

“Why?” Hood asked. “Nuclear trafficking has been going on for years in the region. The MIC knows that.”

“They also know that there isn’t much they can do about it,” Coffey said quietly. “If word gets out about this, there will be pressure to do something. Only no one knows what, exactly. It’s the same problem the United States has faced for years. How do you monitor every point of access? It’s tough enough catching drug shipments. Radioactive materials are even more difficult.”

Coffey was right. There was not much that anyone could do about it. A terrorist could use a lead-lined fountain pen or pocket watch or even a rabbit’s foot on a key chain to slip plutonium into a country. Just a few grams of weapons-grade material would be enough to kill thousands of people or contaminate tens of thousands of gallons of water.

“Has the press been all over this?” Hood asked.

“Not yet. The government is trying to keep this as quiet as possible,” Coffey said. “Patients and visitors are being kept away from the man’s room, but this is a big hospital. Someone is certain to hear that something unusual happened. The game plan is to deny that anything hot was involved.”

“Is there anything else we can do?” Hood asked.

“I’ll let you know,” Coffey replied. “Right now it looks as though someone’s motioning for me. I think they want me in the room. Paul, I’ll call you back when I can.”

“I’ll be here another hour or so,” Hood said. “Then you can get me on the cell or at the apartment.”

“Very good,” Coffey said and hung up.

Hood placed the phone in the cradle. He sat back and thought about what was happening on the other side of the world. It was strange how events like this caused the globe to shrink. Conceivably, what Coffey and the others were dealing with could impact the United States within hours. Nuclear material could be transported clandestinely by sea and then loaded onto an aircraft anywhere in the region. The plane could be flown to a small airfield in Washington or New York or Los Angeles. A small amount of nuclear material could be walked into the terminal and left in a waste can. Or dropped on the floor under a bench. The human toll would be extraordinary. A larger amount of nuclear matter could be attached to a makeshift explosive. Perhaps homemade plastique or cans of spray paint triggered by a car flare. The human toll of the dirty bomb would be unthinkable.

All of that could be in progress right now, Hood thought. The realization came with a keen sense of helplessness.

There were always crises. That was why Op-Center had been chartered. They were the National Crisis Management Center. But the personality of these disasters had changed over the years. The speed, the scope, and the frequency of them were terrifying. And though more resources were being applied to combat them, those resources targeted existing patterns and likely perpetrators. A methodology had not yet been created to anticipate what Bob Herbert called “kamikaze genocide”–the piecemeal extermination of Westerners by suicide attacks.

Several years ago, when Op-Center was combating neo-Nazis, Herbert said something that had stayed with Hood.

“When the brain doesn’t have enough information, only your gut can tell you what to do,” the intelligence chief said. “Fortunately, since some depraved sons of bitches blew up my wife and my legs, my gut has been able to digest some pretty sick thoughts.”

Hood suddenly felt energized. He and his team would figure this out. They would figure out everything that came along. Every deviant variation, every monster. They had to. It was necessity but also something more.

It was stubborn, blessed American pride.

Chapter Fourteen.

Darwin, Australia Friday, 12:47 P.M.

“Madam, we are not going to inject the patient with anything!”

The speaker was a man in a white tunic. Probably the attending physician. He was standing in a tight circle with Ellsworth, Loh, and Jelbart. Ellsworth was the one who had motioned Coffey over. The man’s strident voice was the first thing Lowell Coffey heard as he approached the closed door.

“Doctor,” said Loh, “we have a situation that needs to be resolved as swiftly as possible–“

“And I have a patient who needs rest,” he interrupted.

“You have one patient now,” she said. “How will you feel when this ward, including the hallways, is lined with beds?”

The doctor looked at Ellsworth. “Is she right about that? Is it possible?”

“Such a scenario does not appear imminent,” Ellsworth replied crossly. He was looking at Loh.

“There is radioactive material abroad,” Loh persisted. “We have to know whether this man was transporting it, receiving it, or merely stumbled upon it. We have to find out if there is radioactive material still at sea, poisoning the fish that may feed some of your patients. Or poisoning some of your future patients. Doctor, we need to know what happened.”

“If I do as you ask, you may kill him,” the doctor said, shaking his head. “Then you will never get your answer. And there is no guarantee that he will say much, or even anything, if we wake him.”

“That is a risk worth taking,” she replied.

“Easy for you to say,” the doctor said.

“Before we even consider whether to take this rather extreme step, let’s find out if we’re free to do so,” Ellsworth said. He turned to Coffey. Ellsworth was visibly upset. Coffey could not decide which was worse for the Australian official: the responsibility of having to make a controversial decision, or the fear of what they might discover. “Lowell, this is your bailiwick. What do you say, keeping in mind that we are not entirely certain of our guest’s nationality? Have we the right to do anything to him?”

“Apart from administering medical care,” the doctor added.

Coffey glanced at the physician’s name tag. “Dr. Lansing, if this man is a Christian Scientist or a Buddhist, even that could be considered a violation of his rights.”

“You’ve got bronze for brains!” the doctor exclaimed. “The patient was shot twice and had third-degree burns! He would have bled to death if we didn’t patch him up!”

“That may be,” Coffey said. “However, the International Resolution on Oceans and the Law of the Sea says that absent a victim’s ability to choose, the dispensation of care is a decision to be made by his family or by the ranking representative of his nation, in that order.”

“And if we don’t have those?” Jelbart asked.

“In that case, the host nation calls the shots, isn’t that true?” Ellsworth said.

Coffey nodded.

“That would be us,” Ellsworth said.

“Correct,” Coffey said. “But the host nation is also liable for citation in any civil-rights violations that may arise from the execution of that decision. And the host nation is required to exercise what is called ‘humanitarian caution’ in administering curative drugs or techniques.”

“Which means we don’t give him norepinephrine cocktails to try to wake him,” Dr. Lansing said with finality.

“Not necessarily,” Coffey said. “If this man is suspected of what is classified as a ‘high crime’ involving the international transport of drugs or other contraband, the questioning of him by responsible authorities is permitted.”

“Go question him!” Dr. Lansing said. “It appears I can’t stop that. Just don’t ask me to wake him!”

“I cannot believe you are debating this when there may be radioactive waste spilling into the sea,” Officer Loh said.

“And I can’t believe your nation canes people nearly to death for spray-painting graffiti, but there we have it,” Dr. Lansing charged.

“Doctor, the IROLS is rather specific on the question of interrogation,” Coffey said. “It doesn’t say ‘ask,’ it says ‘question.’ The regulations presume that the individual is awake.”

“If he is not?” Dr. Lansing asked.

“Then frankly, the peremptory issue is one of summum bonum, the supreme good,” Coffey said. “Will the public welfare benefit from taking reasonable security measures? The only guidelines that apply are whether there is just cause for the pursuit of the information and, if so, that the questioning be done in a humane manner, without coercion or threats.”

“I’d say a radioactive man is reason enough to infer the presence of dangerous nuclear material,” Jelbart said.

“And you do have the weight of at least one other nation behind your decision,” Coffey said, nodding toward Loh.

“Whoa. Just one?” Ellsworth asked him.

“Officially, yes,” Coffey said.

“Will the United States back whatever decision we make, emphasis on the we?” Ellsworth pressed.

“You’ve got sound legal grounds, and my office agrees that there are real security concerns,” Coffey said. “That’s as close to a yes as this attorney can give you right now.”

Dr. Lansing looked from Coffey to the others. He shook his head unhappily. “Attempting to wake this man may kill him. You understand that?”

“We do,” Loh said.

“I’m absolutely opposed to it,” Lansing said. “I want that known.”

“Noted,” Ellsworth said.

“I also want to tell you, not as a doctor but as an interested observer, that the one man to whom this matters most can’t say a bloody word! I don’t think that’s right.”

“Why do you assume he would be opposed?” Coffey asked.

“Good point!” Jelbart said. “Maybe he would want us to snatch whoever did this.”

Lansing looked from Ellsworth to Jelbart. “I have other patients. Which of you two is going to sign the consent form?”

There was a long moment of silence. Jelbart turned to Ellsworth. “Is this going to be a military or government matter?” the warrant officer asked.

That is a good question, Coffey thought. If this were classified as a military issue, the armed forces would have a legal leg up to launch a military response. The transport of nuclear material would automatically be classified as a security threat and not simply illegal traffic. If Ellsworth signed, Canberra would be obligated though not bound to pursue a diplomatic resolution.

Coffey was not surprised when Jelbart answered his own question a moment later.

“I’ll sign the form,” the warrant officer said. “Let’s see what our guest can tell us.”

Dr. Lansing summoned a nurse. He turned Jelbart over to her while he went to the medical supply closet on the opposite side of the corridor. Officer Loh went silently into the hospital room.

“Thank you, Lowell,” Ellsworth said.

“You’re welcome, Brian,” Coffey replied.

The government official looked pale. He went to the water cooler on the opposite wall.

“Would you like some?” Ellsworth asked as he filled a cup.

“No, thanks,” Coffey said.

Ellsworth drained the cup and refilled it. He drained that, too, then crumpled the paper cone and tossed it in the trash.

“Is there anything you haven’t told me?” Coffey pressed.

Ellsworth shook his head.

“Is there anything else I can do?” Coffey asked.

“Yes. Would you mind sticking around?” Ellsworth asked. “I know you have that convention in Sydney. But we really could use a third-party voice.”

“What would you have done if I had gone against you?” Coffey asked.

“I didn’t think you would have,” Ellsworth replied, sounding somewhat defensive. “I feel that we have the jurisdiction to do this.”

“You didn’t answer me. What would you have done?” Coffey asked.

“We would have done exactly what we are doing,” Ellsworth admitted. “We don’t have a choice. This is a scary business, Lowell. It has to be dealt with aggressively.” He looked at Coffey and smiled slightly. “But it’s good to have you on our side.”

Coffey smiled. It was strange to hear Ellsworth talk about dealing with things aggressively. Just a minute ago he had frozen when it came to taking responsibility for drugging their guest. What the chief solicitor meant, of course, was that he must aggressively authorize others to take action and responsibility. It was a strange new world for people like Brian Ellsworth. Men who enjoyed the perks of power without the shoulder-bending weight of liability.

In the meantime, though, Lowell Coffey found himself in agreement with Ellsworth on one point, at least.

This was a scary business. And he had a feeling it would get a lot more terrifying before it was through.

Chapter Fifteen.

Darwin, Australia Friday, 12:59 P.M.

FNO Loh stood between Warrant Officer Jelbart and Dr. Lansing. The three wore rubber gloves and surgical masks. The Singaporean naval officer watched dispassionately as the physician injected a clear solution into the patient’s intravenous needle. He had already turned off a valve to the drip in the patient’s thin but sinewy left arm. Brian Ellsworth and Lowell Coffey stood behind the lead-lined screen near the doorway.

The balding physician shook his head. “This poor chap is going to get a double dose of wake up,” Lansing said.

“How so?” Jelbart asked.

“I’ve had to shut off the flow of painkillers. Morphine inhibits the uptake of norepinephrine,” the doctor informed him. “In a perverse way, though, that may help to save him. I’m giving him a moderate dosage of levarterenol. I’m hoping that the combination of pain and stimulant will be enough to wake him without damaging him.”

“Why would he be damaged? What does this norepinephrine do?” Jelbart asked.

“It is an energizer,” Lansing told him. “This patient is suffering from hypotension.”

“Shock,” Jelbart said.

“That’s right,” Lansing replied. “The sudden jump from systemic underactivity to overactivity could easily drive him to cardiac arrest.”

“I see,” Jelbart said. “What about the radioactivity? How has that affected him?”

“It’s too early to say,” the doctor replied. “There would not be many symptoms this early, and we still don’t know what the original exposure levels were.”

“Then how can you treat him?” Jelbart asked.

“He’s still alive,” the doctor said dryly. “So we can infer that the dose was not lethal.”

“True,” Jelbart said.

“There are standard responses, regardless of the exposure,” Lansing went on. “I’ve given him Melbrosin pollen, a natural radiation-sickness therapy. We can treat the results, the nausea and weakness. But this boosts the capability of the bone marrow to produce red and white blood cells. It won’t affect the pharmacological treatments he’s receiving for his wounds. If there is good news in any of this, it is that the burns appear to have been caused in the explosion, not as a result of the radiation.”

“How can you tell?” Jelbart asked.

“The body responds differently,” the doctor replied. “You see a more extensive form of blistering with radioactive burns.”

“What about the levels of radiation the patient himself is generating?” Jelbart asked.

“They are extremely low,” Lansing assured him. “We won’t be contaminated in any way if we stay for less than a half hour or so. And we will be here for far less than that, I assure you. That lead screen is primarily for the nurses who walk by all day.”

The man in the bed began to moan as the drugs entered his system. FNO Loh leaned toward him.

“Don’t bother talking to him yet,” Lansing cautioned. “He won’t hear you. This is only the pain talking. You’ll know he’s conscious when you see his eyes begin to move under the lids.”

Loh stood up again. She tugged on the hem of her jacket and absently ran a hand down the front.

The room was warm, and there was the faint odor of antiseptic. It smelled sanitary rather than fresh. To FNO Loh, dirty mop water on the deck of a patrol ship smelled fresh. Salty sea air, rich with fuel from the engine room, smelled fresh. This smell was void of life, of character.

The young woman looked at the patient. He was starting to breathe more rapidly. She felt a pinch of sadness. It took suffering and horror to put him in what was probably the cleanest bed he had ever been in. Whatever his nationality, there were thousands of other young Asian men and women just like him. Maybe he was running from something. Maybe he did not want to be like his father. Perhaps he was running to something. Perhaps he had seen European or American movies or television shows and wanted to live like that.

The officer felt compassion for him, but she also felt contempt. It was not a crime to want to escape from terrible oppression and poverty. To desire money and freedom. Yet there were other ways to earn money. Legal, honorable ways. Service in the military was one. Working on a farm was another. Apprenticeship in a trade was yet another. People like him were devious rather than smart, indignant rather than industrious, violent rather than strong. They deserved the disaster they ultimately brought on themselves.

The patient’s eyes opened slightly. They crinkled with discomfort. His dry lips parted and moved wordlessly. He began to shift about, then started thrashing weakly as he moaned. Loh leaned close to his ear. She lightly touched his unbandaged cheek and forehead.

“Don’t move,” Loh said softly in Malay. She repeated it in Chinese and then in English.

“Who–?” he said in Malay.

“You are safe,” she said. “I am Monica. You are in a medical facility. Where are you from?”

The patient writhed and opened his mouth in silent pain.

“Where are you from?” Loh repeated.

“Singapore,” he said.

“What is your name?” she asked.

“Name,” he said drowsily. “Lee.”

“Lee what?” she pressed.

“Tong,” he replied.

“Lee Tong, what were you doing at sea?” she asked.

“It hurts,” the patient said. He closed his eyes. Tears fell from the sides. “My skin, my feet . . . on fire.”

“We will make the pain stop when you answer my questions,” Loh said. She was glad the doctor could not understand her. He would only waste time with misguided pity. “What were you doing at sea?”

“They fired at us,” he said.

“Who did?” Loh asked.

“They saw in the dark,” he went on.

“The boat you were attacking?” she asked.

“Yes,” he replied. “They hit . . . plastique.”

“Your plastique?” she asked. “You had plastic explosives on board?”

He nodded.

“Lee Tong, were you trying to take something from the other vessel?” Loh asked.

He began to pant.

“Did you attack another vessel?” Loh demanded.

“It hurts . . . help me!”

“Did you attack another vessel?” she shouted.

“Yes–“

Dr. Lansing was checking the heart monitor to the right of the bed. “Ms. Loh, his blood pressure is rising, two ten over sixty. His heart rate is two twenty.”

“Meaning what?” Jelbart asked.

“He’s approaching ventricular tachycardia,” the doctor said. “That can cause hemodynamic compromise–clots, air bubbles, death.”

“You’re saying you haven’t got much time,” Jelbart said.

“I’m saying he hasn’t got much time,” the doctor replied. “It’s time to stop this, Ms. Loh.”

Loh refused to move. “Lee Tong, what did you want from the vessel?” she demanded.

He did not answer. He simply moaned.

“Did you want to hijack it? Did you want to steal something?” the naval officer asked.

“Money,” he replied.

“You just wanted money?” she asked.

“Jewelry,” he said. “Goods.”

“What kind of goods?” she pressed.

“Electronic,” he replied.

“Nothing dangerous?” she asked. “No nuclear waste?”

He shook his head weakly.

They were just pirates, then, she told herself. Pirates who picked the wrong vessel to try to board.

Lee Tong began to cry. He struggled against the straps that held him to the bed. A nurse came over to help restrain him.

“Officer Loh, this has got to stop,” Dr. Lansing said. “Nurse, he needs a beta-blocker to stabilize. Push more propranolol IV. The rest of you–out.”

Loh ignored the physician. “Lee Tong, were you in the Celebes Sea when this happened?”

“Yes,” he replied.

“Can you describe the vessel you attacked?” she asked.

“Too dark,” he said. He began to shiver and become more active. His eyes opened suddenly. He forced out a raw, hoarse, inarticulate scream.

“That’s enough!” the physician said.

Dr. Lansing moved in front of the woman. He turned the morphine drip on again. Almost at once the patient began to calm.

Loh maneuvered around the doctor. “Can you describe the boat?” she asked. “Did it sink?”

“Did not sink,” the man said as he drifted off. “Explosion . . . kept going . . .”

Lee Tong relaxed and sank back into the bed.

“Why did you do that?” Loh asked the doctor.

“Because his heart rate was approaching two hundred and thirty-five beats a minute,” the doctor said. “In his weakened condition, we could lose him. Now step aside, Ms. Loh. Let me do my job.”

The naval officer moved back. As the physician moved in with his nurse, Jelbart took FNO Loh by the arm. He walked her around the lead screen and into the corridor. The other men gathered around her.

“What did he tell you?” Ellsworth asked.

Loh looked at the others. She took a short breath. “His name is Lee Tong, and he is Singaporean. He was at sea with other pirates, and they attempted to rob a vessel at night. They only wanted those goods they could spend or fence. That is typical of the breed. Judging from the radioactivity, it appears they happened upon a vessel that was carrying nuclear waste.”

“What kind of ship?” Jelbart asked.

“I don’t know,” she said. “But these people do not routinely attack the kind of vessels that would transport nuclear materials.”

“Legal nuclear materials,” Coffey pointed out.

“That is correct,” she said. “The pirates obviously tried to stop the ship and were repulsed by weapons fire, probably by a team with night-vision capability. Lee Tong said they were cut down in the dark.”

“By professionals,” Jelbart said.

“It appears so,” Loh agreed. “In the course of that exchange, the pirates’ own plastique was detonated. It must have punched a hole in the target vessel and sprayed the sampan with radiation. He said that the ship is still afloat. Perhaps it was crippled in the explosion and is at anchor not far from where it was attacked. I’m going to search for it.”

“Before you leave,” Coffey said to Loh, “I am obligated to point something out.”

“Yes?” she said.

“Whatever the patient told you cannot be used in fashioning a legal case against him,” Coffey told her. “Mr. Tong did not have an attorney present, and he was under the influence of medication.”

“He is also guilty of piracy,” Loh replied flatly.

“Perhaps,” Coffey admitted. “And if you are inclined to prove that, you will have to do it some other way.”

The woman’s aides were standing at the far end of the corridor. Unschooled and very young, they both knew virtue from criminal behavior better than these older, highly educated men beside her. Knowledge and liberality had crowded common sense from their brains.

“Gentlemen, I am returning to my patrol ship,” she said. “It is probably not a coincidence that this event occurred where it did.”

“What do you mean?” Ellsworth asked.

“You’re thinking about the 130-5 site, aren’t you Officer Loh?” Jelbart asked.

“I am,” Loh replied. “I would like to go there and look for evidence of a conflict or perhaps the target vessel itself.”

“Excuse me, but what’s the 130-5 site?” Coffey asked.

“It’s the point of intersection at one hundred and thirty degrees longitude, five degrees latitude,” Jelbart replied. “That’s where Japan and China are permitted to dump their nuclear waste.”

“But Officer Loh just said these pirates wouldn’t have attacked a vessel of that sort,” Ellsworth said.

“They would not have,” the Singaporean agreed. “What I’m afraid of is something else.”

“What?” Ellsworth asked.

“That they attacked a vessel that may have just done business with one of those vessels,” Loh replied.

Chapter Sixteen.

Washington, D.C. Thursday, 11:55 P.M.

Paul Hood was about to leave when the phone beeped. It had been nearly five hours since he turned over the running of Op-Center to the evening shift. That was the only time he got to catch up on E-mails, intelligence briefings, and personal matters.

He snatched it up and sat on the edge of the desk.

“Evening, Paul,” Coffey said.

“Good afternoon,” Hood replied. “So? Did your patient wake up?”

Coffey told him he had. Before the attorney briefed him, Hood conferenced in Mike Rodgers and Bob Herbert. Both men were at home. Rodgers was up watching old action movies, as usual. Usually John Wayne or Charlton Heston. Herbert was getting ready to turn in.

Nothing Coffey said surprised Hood.

“Do you have any information about the bullets they pulled from the pirate or the wreckage?” Rodgers asked.

“Yes, I wrote that down,” Coffey said. “Jelbart had one of his men come over and take a look at them. He just received word that they were from a .380 double-action semiautomatic. The initial forensics tests said that the bullets were remanufactured with a tungsten-polymer coating–“

“Which means that they’re doubly difficult to trace,” Rodgers said.

“How so?” Hood asked.

“Remanufactured, meaning that the shell and casing came from different places,” Rodgers said, “and designed so as not to retain evidence of the rifling from the barrel that shot them.”

“Bullets without fingerprints,” Herbert said.

“More or less,” Rodgers replied.

“Would it take considerable financial resources or a special laboratory to create ammunition like that?” Hood asked.

“Not necessarily,” Rodgers replied. “Depends on what scale they’re making these things. A few dozen, even a few hundred could be done in a shack with easily obtainable gear.”

“So that’s pretty much a dead end,” Hood said.

“There is one thing that we need to talk about,” Coffey said. “Brian Ellsworth, the chief solicitor for the Australian Maritime Intelligence Centre. He is very keen to have the United States as a part of this investigation.”

“Officially, you mean,” Rodgers said.

“That’s what I mean,” Coffey said. “I’m here as an independent adviser, not as a representative of Op-Center or the United States.”

“What is Mr. Ellsworth looking for?” Hood asked.

“A formal commitment that we are a part of this investigation,” Coffey told the others.

“Why should that matter?” Herbert asked. “There isn’t a convenience the Australians need or a challenge that scares them.”

“They could certainly do this by themselves,” Coffey agreed. “At the same time–“

“They would prefer not to go it alone,” Hood interrupted. “Especially if they need to put pressure on Singapore for access to intelligence or background information on this pirate.”

“On Singapore, Malaysia, China, anyone who could be involved in this,” Coffey replied.

“Frankly, I don’t think the pirate is going to matter much anymore,” Herbert said. “He and his guys were just unlucky.”

“Possibly,” Hood agreed. “I’m curious what they’ll do if they discover that any Australians are involved in this.”

“I’m sure that’s another reason Ellsworth wants us involved,” Coffey said. “If there is an Australian component to this, we can help pressure anyone in Canberra who might be in denial. That’s one thing they don’t do very well, Bob. Self-examination. There’s a very strong blue-wall component in their thinking. It’s them against the Rim, fighting for European values in an Asian world. They don’t like attacking their own.”

“Is anyone going out to the site of the attack?” Rodgers asked.

“Loh and Jelbart are both going on separate vessels,” Coffey said. “I’ll be joining the Australians.”

“Lowell, if these pirates had attacked a vessel involved in the legitimate transport of nuclear material, there would be a record of the transit. Isn’t that correct?” Hood asked.

“Yes,” Coffey said. “Also a report would have to have been filed about the attack. The International Nuclear Regulatory Commission demands that an accident or attack involving any nuclear vessel, military or civilian, must be reported to both the home and destination port. That hasn’t happened.”

“How do you know?” Rodgers asked.

“Because the INRC must put out a bulletin immediately, warning of potential dangers to shipping or possible radioactive contamination,” Herbert said. “The Australian Department of Defence, the Department of National Emergency Services, and the Communicable Disease and Public Health Center are among those institutions that would be notified.”

“And have not been,” Hood said.

“Right,” Coffey said.

“Are the public health people down there taking any special precautions?” Hood asked.

“They’re going to increase coastline patrols off the major cities,” Herbert said. “They’ll be looking for radioactivity, of course, as well as any ships that look as though they’ve been damaged.”

“Bob, is there anything the National Reconnaissance Office can do to help look for the mystery ship?” Hood asked.

The National Reconnaissance Office was the highly secretive government agency that controlled and processed satellite imagery as well as other electronic surveillance capabilities.

“We’re talking about a very large area with a great deal of shipping,” Herbert said. “We don’t know which way the other ship may have gone or exactly where the sampan was. I’d like to try to narrow the search area before we ask the NRO to tie up resources.”

“Isn’t this what those resources are for?” Coffey asked.

“Actually, no,” Herbert replied. “Those satellites are for watching Chinese naval maneuvers, missile tests, and picking out terrorist activity in the hills and jungles of Indonesia. All of that affects American military and foreign policy on a daily basis.”

“I see,” Coffey said.

“You don’t sound happy, Lowell,” Hood suggested.

“Well, I was hoping to give the Australians something,” Coffey said.

“Does it have to be practical or can it be political?” Herbert asked.

“I suppose both is out of the question?” Coffey said.

“Only since the days of Julius Caesar,” Herbert said. “Will Mr. Ellsworth accept a gesture of solidarity?”

“Most likely,” Coffey said. “What did you have in mind?”

“Going over there myself,” Herbert said. “It would be awkward sending Mike into a situation that is already bristling with soldiers.”

“And I’m not sure the Pentagon would approve,” Rodgers added.

Hood had to agree with that. Though Rodgers was second-in-command at Op-Center, he was still a soldier. The Australian press might assume that the unscheduled arrival of a military adviser was a prelude to a regional military buildup. Extreme ideas tended to grow in the fertile ground of unprecedented situations. They could not afford that kind of attention, not just from foreign governments but from the White House. Op-Center’s needs might conflict with the administrations short- and long-term plans in the region.

“Mike, what about some of your special ops people?” Hood asked.

“If I sent Maria off on another mission now, Darrell would start a war of his own,” Rodgers said.

Darrell McCaskey was Op-Center’s liaison with the FBI and various international law enforcement groups. He had recently married former Spanish Interpol agent Maria Corneja. Shortly thereafter, Rodgers offered her a spot on his new intelligence-gathering unit named Op-Center Reconnaissance, Intelligence On-Site. ORION had been assembled to put spies on the ground, where the crises were happening, instead of relying on electronic surveillance. Maria accepted the assignment and was immediately sent to Africa along with her new teammates David Battat and Aideen Marley. McCaskey had not been happy about that.

“The other operatives are out of town, tying up personal and professional matters before moving down here,” Rodgers said, “and I haven’t had any face time with my Asian intelligence man, Yuen Chow.”

“Where is he now?” Hood asked.

“At home in Hong Kong,” Rodgers said. “He’ll be here next week. We’re still running security on him. He spent seven years working in the movie business in Shanghai. It’s tough finding out which of these boys may have had ties with the Guoanbu in Beijing or the Triads in Hong Kong.”

“Or both,” Herbert said. “Frankly, I’d want some of that take-no-prisoners muscle in my corner.”

“So would I,” Rodgers said. “But I would hate having to hire a shadow to make sure my spies weren’t double-dealing.”

The Guoanbu was short for the Guojia Anquan Bu, the Chinese Ministry of State Security. They were a ruthless intelligence service with irrevocable ties to Chinese nationals around the world. The Guoanbu thought nothing about imprisoning people at home to gain the cooperation of family members abroad. The Triads were the equally amoral gangsters who had organized in Hong Kong over a century before. They took their name from a three-sided good luck symbol that stood for heaven, earth, and man.

“So that leaves us with me,” Herbert said. “I can go to Darwin and lend a hand collecting and crunching intel.”

“Lowell?” Hood asked.

“It sounds like a good idea to me,” Coffey said.

“Run it past Ellsworth,” Hood suggested. “In the meantime, Bob, why don’t you get ready–“

“I’ve been making the reservations on-line as we speak,” Herbert told him. “Air New Zealand to Darwin. I’ll be there Saturday morning.”

“By way of how many cities?” Rodgers asked.

“Five,” Herbert replied. “D.C. to New York to Los Angeles to Sydney to Darwin.”

“Screw that. I’ll call over to the travel office at the Pentagon,” Rodgers told him. “I’m sure we can hitch you a ride and get you there with less hassle.”

“What, on one of those butt-cold, avalanche-loud, flying metal rib cages that you guys call airplanes?” Herbert asked.

“Actually, I was going to requisition Air Force One,” Rodgers said. “But I don’t want you going soft.”

“Gentlemen, I’m going home,” Hood told them.

“And I’ve got to go hitch a ride with Jelbart as soon as he’s finished with Ellsworth and Officer Loh,” Coffey said.

“What are they talking about?” Hood asked.

“Whether we’re going to have two investigations or a coordinated operation when we get out to sea,” Coffey replied.

“Jeez,” Herbert sighed. “This is how the world will be lost. There will be a skirmish that bloodies someone’s nose followed by a world war that has nothing to do with that. We’ll kill each other debating how to find some son of a bitch instead of just laying waste to him and his kind.”

“You said it before,” Hood reminded him. “It’s either practical or political.”

“Well, let’s see if we can make it both,” Herbert said.

“How?” Hood asked.

“By understanding,” Herbert replied.

“That’s it?” Hood asked, amused.

“Yes,” Herbert said. “Understanding that the only way to get rid of me is by doing this thing right.”

Chapter Seventeen.

Cairns, Australia Friday, 7:00 P.M.

The tranquillity of the cove was just what Peter Kannaday needed. Like any long-time sailor, his emotional state was strongly affected by the sea.

The sun was going down as the Hosannah entered the mouth of the cove. The effect was like a candle on the sea. There was a long, rippling, waxy-yellow streak on the water. It ended in a burning yellow wick on the horizon. Kannaday watched it from the stern as they entered the cove. Directly above him the blue-green skies were already spotted with early stars.

To all other sides of him was Darling Cove. The inlet was located in the northern reaches of the Great Barrier Reef. Over 2,000 kilometers in length and up to 125 meters thick, the reef is separated from the mainland by a shallow lagoon. The massive structure was born at the end of the Ice Age when oceanic polyps began to thrive in the region. The polyps created protective multicolored shells that survived when the animals themselves perished. Coral built upon coral for over 10,000 years, providing a home for each new generation of tentacled creature. It also became a haven for countless species of fish, giant turtles, humpback whales, manta rays, dolphins, and dugongs–marine cousins to the elephant.

The helmsman steered the yacht into the calm, wide-mouthed inlet. Kannaday looked down at the stained-glass blue water. Then he walked forward as sweet, warm air washed over the deck. It carried the hint of grapes from the Darling vineyard located to the southwest. Immediately to the northwest was a limestone formation scooped from a hundred-meter-high cliff by ancient storms. The rock glowed rust orange in the twilight.

The high reef concealed the cove from the open sea. To access the inlet a sailor had to know to come around the reef well to the north. The mouth itself was less than a half kilometer across. It was just about 200 meters to the far shore. There was a long stone wharf ahead and deep stretches of tawny white sand on all sides. Two motorboats, a motor yacht, and a pair of sailboats were at anchor. Security cameras were concealed in the 200-foot-tall karri trees that ringed the cove. Kannaday knew that microphones were hidden in the trees as well. They rarely heard more than the wind, the soft breakers, or the cry of a lost dolphin. For boaters who happened by, there were signs at the entrance to the cove. The oak boards, floating on moored buoys and mounted to posts, announced that this was the private property of Darling Enterprises. There were no posted warnings, no threats. Anyone who knew of Mr. Darling knew to keep out. Those who did not were arrested within two minutes of entering the cove. Guards lived in a small cabin just beyond the beach. Most of the time they surfed the Internet or played tiddledywinks. Darling held twice-yearly competitions among the staff with a sizable purse.

It did not escape Kannaday that the object of that game was to gather all the different chips in one cup. A cup that was controlled by Jervis Darling.

Kannaday took another moment to watch the sun set. This was the ninth or tenth time he had sailed into this cove. The quiet, majestic beauty of this place thrilled Kannaday for a moment. It always did. But this time it also made him angry. He felt as though he should own the seas he had just traveled. Kannaday had a yacht, and he was on the way to having enough wealth to keep him comfortable for the rest of his life. Instead, all he could think about was the displeasure of Jervis Darling. A man whose name alone on a placard was enough to frighten would-be trespassers. Kannaday resented the man’s power and feared his disapproval. The captain also hated his own resentment and fear.

The yacht would be anchoring in a few moments. Kannaday would take a motorized dinghy. He would be met there by a Humvee. There was no need to radio ahead. The guards would have seen him. As the yacht slowed, Kannaday wondered if Jervis Darling feared anything. The billionaire probably feared failure. Also death, most likely. And almost certainly in that order. A man like Darling would only accept defeat at the hands of God himself.

If only I could have God as an ally, Kannaday thought bitterly. Instead, he had John Hawke.

The security officer was belowdecks with his men. They were probably watching action movies on DVD. That was all they ever did. There was no curiosity about the world, no desire for self-improvement. Perhaps that was why Kannaday had assumed Hawke would take his offer and go. It was easy.

Men like Hawke liked things easy.

Kannaday walked to the port-side winch that held the dinghy. He waited as one of the crewmen lowered it to clear water. The hum of the motor echoed through the cove. Kannaday’s stomach began to burn.

Even though John Hawke had physically threatened the captain, Kannaday did not fear him. Fear did not come from known threats. It did not come from fear for one’s physical well-being. For a man of the sea, the adrenaline kick that came with danger carried the captain through moments like those. Even when he had the knife at his throat he was not fearful. He had been focused on surviving, which was not the same thing.

Fear came from one thing above all. It came from the unknown. It grew from the anticipation of something debilitating. A loss of freedom. The inability to realize one’s vision.

Darling represented that kind of power. Kannaday was not looking forward to this meeting. He considered calling Hawke’s bluff. Would that little man have the courage to seize the yacht? And would Darling accept Hawke as commander if he did?

Sun-bronzed first mate Craig McEldowney ambled over. The big, thirty-nine-year-old New Zealander stopped beside Kannaday. The two had been together for two years. They had met in a bar in Surabaya, Java, where McEldowney was washing glasses. The former dock-worker had just served five years’ hard labor for stealing shipments of tobacco and selling it at a discount to the locals.

“It’s going to be all right,” McEldowney said. “The chief isn’t going to blame you for what happened.”

“Who will he blame?” Kannaday asked.

“Nobody,” McEldowney replied. “Captain, these things happen. Just like they did to me.”

Kannaday grinned. McEldowney was a decent but dullwitted man. That was why he had been caught.

Kannaday left his first mate in charge and swung down the aluminum ladder into the blue-gray dinghy. The rungs were damp with sea spray. He had to hold on tight to keep from slipping. He reached the sturdy little boat and sat on the aft bench. He released the winch cable, switched the engine on, and sped toward the wharf. The guards were already driving down the sloping, wooded path. The crunch of wood chips and the growl of the Humvee engine added to the noise.

This is how chaos is built, Kannaday thought. One noise at a time.

The question before Kannaday was simple. What was the best way to prevent his own situation from becoming more chaotic? Unfortunately, only one man had the answer.

And that answer was unknown.

Chapter Eighteen.

The Celebes Sea Friday, 7:33 P.M.

When Lowell Coffey was eight years old, something wonderful happened. His father took him to see the circus in Sherman Oaks. What was most memorable, however, was not the show itself. What Coffey remembered best was sticking around to see the circus being broken down. The deconstruction had been a mesmerizing sight, awe-some in its scope and complexity.

The departure of the Singaporean and Australian ships from Darwin reminded Coffey of that. Banners flying and large vessels setting out. Instead of roustabouts, sailors were putting the big machine in motion. Instead of elephants, there were helicopters and motorboats being moved into position. Instead of the smell of horses and sawdust, there were diesel fuel and ocean air. The scope and logistics of both were memorable. There were, however, two major differences. After the circus was packed and moving, the young Lowell Coffey had gone home with his father. The boy had felt sad and disconnected. This morning, the adult Lowell Coffey had gone with the seagoing convoy. He felt plugged into a great and powerful enterprise. It was invigorating.

For about three minutes.

Unfortunately, the adult Lowell Coffey was also desperately nauseated. He was sick from his high, hammering forehead down through his vacant gaze to his sloshing stomach. Even the joints of his knees felt as if they were rolling in their sockets. And the attorney was sitting down.

Coffey was on the small, claustrophobic bridge of the MIC corvette. George Jelbart was in command and seated in a swivel chair to his right. The medic had given Coffey two dimenhydrinate tablets, a generic form of Drama-mine. It did not make Coffey feel better, but at least he got no worse. There was only one exception. Whenever Warrant Officer Jelbart swiveled in his seat, Coffey tasted his own breakfast for a moment. There was something very disorienting about the officer’s side-to-side movement.

The swift, modern warship had departed Darwin minutes after Loh’s patrol boat had set out. Ellsworth did not join them. He had gone back to his office after intensive dockside discussions about how to manage this joint investigation. Since this was Loh’s plan, it was agreed that she and her crew would conduct the initial phase. Jelbart would lend whatever support was necessary in terms of equipment, manpower, or technical capabilities. Coffey had told them that Op-Center’s intelligence chief, Bob Herbert, was coming to Darwin. Herbert would be prepared to assist with analysis of whatever they did or did not find at sea. Ellsworth had been happy to hear about the NCMC’s involvement. He was grateful for the intelligence resources, of course. But Ellsworth was more interested in America’s support. This could turn out to be an isolated incident, in which case everyone would be relieved. If it were something else, though, the more weight Ellsworth had behind him, the happier he would be.

Jelbart removed the small, compact headset he was wearing. He hung it around his neck. “How are you doing there, Mr. Coffey?” he asked.

“The situation has stabilized somewhat,” he said with a weak smile. He looked down. Unlike the horizon, the floor of the bridge was not moving. Attorneys were meant to be in quiet wood-paneled offices where the only movement was the pendulum of a grandfather clock.

“You’ll get used to it,” Jelbart promised. “By the time we get back to Darwin, it will feel unnatural to be on ground that doesn’t move.”

Coffey had to take that on faith. Right now it did not seem plausible.

The radio operator leaned in. He was located in a cubicle just off the main control center.

“Sir?” he said. “Incoming from FNO Loh.”