DECEIT AND CONFLICT

J.R. FINN SAILING MYSTERY THRILLERS

BOOK 13

CLR DOUGHERTY

Copyright © 2024 by C.L.R. Dougherty

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

DECEIT AND CONFLICT

The J.R. Finn Sailing Mystery Series

Book 13

PROVERBS 6:14-19 (NIV)

"Who plots evil with deceit in his heart — he always stirs up conflict. Therefore disaster will overtake him in an instant; he will suddenly be destroyed—without remedy."

1

"I'm not ordering you to kill Mary," Mike said. "Not yet. Before I make that decision, we need to know why she bailed out on us."

I swallowed hard and held Mike Killington's gaze across the table, watching as he took a sip of his iced tea. We were having a late lunch Tuesday in the dining room of the hotel where I was staying in Gainesville, Florida. After what happened yesterday, Mike's comment wasn't unexpected.

"Bob and I have condoned the personal connection that developed between you and Mary," Mike said. "We're not second-guessing our decision or finding fault with either of you for that. It's worked out well for all of us."

"Yes, sir. It has," I said, after a few seconds.

His eyes narrowed briefly as he studied my face. "Bob's prepared to accept her termination if it comes to that. Are you?"

I was stunned. Bob Lawson is Mary's uncle. He and Mike co-founded our business. Was I missing something?

"We're not there yet, are we?" I asked, stalling as I tried to comprehend Bob's concurrence.

"No, but I still have to ask you," Mike said. "If she's beyond rehabilitation, can you terminate her?" Mike's steely blue eyes were boring into mine with such intensity that I couldn't even blink.

"If it has to be done, I wouldn't want anyone else to do it."

"I understand that, Finn, but I need a straight answer. If it has to be done, will you do it? Yes or no."

"Yes. If it comes to that, I'm your man." I kept my reservations to myself.

Mike nodded and started to eat his lunch. With little appetite, I pushed the food around on my plate.

Typical of Mike, once he achieved his goal, he wolfed down his food and left as abruptly as he had come. His parting comments assured me that our organization would focus all its resources on finding Mary and determining what was behind her disappearance. I had no doubt about that.

"Aaron's expecting you at The Lodge this evening. He'll fill you in on his efforts to find her."

"Yes, I know. We spoke several times last night. I'm already packed and ready to go."

Mike nodded as he got up from the table. "Keep the faith, Finn."

As I watched Mike walk away, I yawned and waved at the waitress, signaling for a check. I was beat; I didn't get much sleep last night, and now I had a 7 or 8-hour drive to the Lodge ahead of me.

The Lodge is our refuge. Deep in the Everglades, it's an old hunting lodge that's been in Mike's family for several generations. It's been converted to the nerve center of Phorcys, the black ops organization that Mike Killington and Bob Lawson founded after they retired from the Army. Aaron Sanchez's analysts provide intelligence support for Mary and me in our field operations for Phorcys. Mary was too skilled to leave much of a trail, but if anyone could track her down, it would be Aaron's team.

2

"How was your trip?" Aaron asked, as I entered the Lodge's dining room. "When did you get in last night?"

"About three this morning, actually," I said.

"Damn. You must be beat. Get yourself some breakfast and sit down." He nodded at the breakfast bar against the wall. "What took you so long?"

I shrugged and went to find something to eat. "I had a late lunch with Mike before I got on the road. Looks like you're already in the middle of something." I nodded at the laptop that was squarely in front of him, the remains of his breakfast pushed to the side.

"Yeah," he said, glancing up from the keyboard for a split second. "Lots happening."

I helped myself to a couple of hard-boiled eggs and some microwaved oatmeal. Setting my plate on the table across from him, I went back to the sideboard and put two slices of bread in the toaster. While I waited for them, I drew a mug of black coffee and took a sip. The toast popped up, and I smeared it with butter, taking it back to the table and putting it beside my plate. Aaron was still typing.

He looked up at me as I pulled out a chair and sat down. "Did you hear anything more from Mary?"

I shook my head and swallowed a bite of an egg. "Nope. Any news from your end?" I shoveled some oatmeal into my mouth.

"Not much new on the Mary problem, no."

While I chewed my food, I puzzled over his reference to the "Mary problem." He continued to work on the laptop.

"You mean lots besides Mary's disappearance?" I asked, swallowing my first sip of coffee.

"Yeah. Give me a few seconds to finish this and then I'll pull up the file on Mary," he said, tapping on the trackpad of his computer.

My mind was racing. What could be more important than finding Mary? As I waited for Aaron to bring up the file, I ran through the sequence of events since Mary went missing.

Early Monday morning, the day before yesterday, I dropped her off at the Jacksonville airport. She was planning to pick up a rental car, attend the closing for a condo in Jacksonville that she was selling, and then drive to Gainesville in the afternoon. She was going to have dinner Monday night with me and my daughter, Abby, who's in grad school at the University of Florida. I had already arrived in Gainesville and was having lunch with Abby when Mary called.

"Sorry to screw up our plans," she had said. "The closing's postponed until Tuesday morning. I'll spend tonight in Jacksonville and drive to Gainesville after the closing. We'll have our dinner on Tuesday night, okay?"

Monday night, I tried to call Mary. She didn't answer her personal cellphone, so I tried her encrypted satellite phone, the one issued by our employer, Phorcys. We each have one of the special phones, and we were committed to answer them 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, unless mission-critical activity prevented taking a call. We weren't on a mission, so I was alarmed that I couldn't reach her.

I called Aaron and asked him to find her by tracking the encrypted phone. While I was on the line with him Monday night, Aaron verified that Mary's encrypted phone was no longer working. "When did you last hear from her?" he had asked.

I told him about Mary's lunchtime call and her change of plans. "But we were using our personal cellphones then," I said.

"Wait one. Let me get somebody to check the carrier's billing database."

He had put me on hold for a couple of minutes. When Aaron picked up again, he told me Mary was at the Miami airport when she called me at lunchtime on Monday. That sent a chill down my spine. Something was wrong. Aaron agreed and sent an alert to Mike and Bob. That's where we left things Monday night.

Still waiting for Aaron to pull up Mary's file, I sipped my coffee and rehashed the events since my Monday night call with him. His people worked through Monday night trying to track Mary down. Tuesday morning, Mike called me. That was only 24 hours ago, but it seemed like an eternity. In my mind, I replayed my short conversation with Mike.

"Finn?"

"Yes, sir?"

"I'll be there for lunch at your hotel at 2:30 this afternoon," Mike said. "Time's tight; I have to run. We'll talk when I see you."

That lunch was when things turned ugly. Given my conversation with Mike Tuesday afternoon, I figured Mary's disappearance was the highest priority for Phorcys, so I wondered about Aaron's offhand reference to "the Mary problem." What did Aaron think I meant when I asked if he had any news? He clearly had something else on his mind besides Mary.

"Yeah, besides Mary," Aaron said, interrupting my rumination. "Thanks for waiting while I got to a stopping place. Let's talk about Mary; I've got her file front and center. We did finally get a facial recognition match on her a couple of hours ago. About thirty minutes after she called you on Monday, she cleared security in the Miami airport. Given the time you dropped her off in Jacksonville and the time of her call to you, she must have caught a flight to Miami. So far, we haven't found any trace of that flight, but we did pick her up on surveillance video as she cleared security to leave Miami."

Aaron paused, looking up at me and raising his eyebrows. I nodded, and he turned his attention back to the screen.

"She entered terminal D after she cleared security. We got a match with 95 percent confidence from the entrance to the terminal, but we lost her when she headed down the concourse to the gates. We couldn't tell which flight she boarded, but we found a few potential matches. None were strong enough to be sure it was her, though. The women that we tagged were all headed for different islands. We're still working on that, hacking into the security systems at the destination airports for all those women. The other thing you should know is that we couldn't find a condo in the Jacksonville area that was titled in any of her aliases. At least not the ones we know about. That's where we are as of right now."

"Not much progress, then," I said, frowning.

"No. Not on Mary." Aaron was focused on his laptop again, scrolling and tapping on the trackpad.

"What else has got your attention?" I asked. "Besides Mary?"

"You know about Bob's new boat?" His fingers froze on the computer, and he gave me a brief look.

I frowned and shook my head. "New boat?"

"Yeah." Aaron was tapping at the trackpad again, his eyes on the computer screen. "It's what they call an 'expedition yacht.' Hundred-twenty feet, looks like a research vessel of some kind. A serious long-range, ocean-going vessel."

"When did he get that?" And why, I wondered, is it important?

"He ordered it a while back. Launched a couple or three weeks ago," Aaron said. "He was at the shipyard in Maine for the launch, but he's been too tied up in Washington since then to mess with it."

"Okay, but why's that on your mind right now?"

Aaron pushed his chair back from the table and turned to face me. "Bob called last night. His crew took the boat down to Paradise Island, in the Bahamas. He's on his way there this morning from D.C. for sea trials. He hasn't mentioned it to you?"

"No," I said, still wondering why Aaron was distracted by Bob's new boat when Mary had gone missing.

Aaron shrugged. "No surprise, I guess. It wasn't important until just now."

I frowned and shook my head.

Aaron nodded. "Last night, the skipper called Bob. The engineer found explosives attached to the fuel tank. No clue how they got there or when, but they weren't there when they left the States. The skipper and the engineer both went over the boat with a fine-toothed comb before they took it offshore."

"Did they call somebody to defuse them?" Mary was missing, and somebody wanted Bob dead. Or at least off balance.

"No. The engineer's a retired SEAL. He defused the explosives and left them in place for now. It's a shape charge of C4 configured to rupture the tank. Lighting off several thousand gallons of diesel fuel in the bilge would have destroyed the boat and probably several others in the marina. Besides looking for Mary, we've been busy trying to figure out who might be behind that."

"I see. What kind of trigger did it have?"

"Remote. UHF radio with a digital access code," Aaron said.

"I would have guessed a boat like that would have a steel hull," I said. "Or aluminum. If the tanks are in the bilge, UHF wouldn't penetrate the hull reliably."

"Yeah. Whoever planted the explosives thought of that." Aaron reached for the computer and turned it so I could see the screen. It showed a closeup photo of a smooth white surface with a finger pointing at a slight bulge.

I studied the photo for a second. The bulge was oval-shaped, its longer dimension a little shorter than the finger. "What am I looking at?"

"That's the top surface of a fiberglass sunshade over the forward window of the wheelhouse. The bulge is a patch antenna topside, concealed with fiberglass, so it wouldn't be shielded by the hull plating. It's wired to the trigger device down by the fuel tank."

"Not a slap-dash job, then," I said.

Aaron shook his head and pushed the computer away. "Definitely not. Whoever placed the explosives was a pro. The C4 was packed in the joint where the aft end of the tank meets the inside of the hull. It was fiberglassed over and painted to match."

Aaron stood and picked up his coffee mug. "Refill?" he asked.

"Please."

He picked up my mug and stepped over to the breakfast bar.

"How did the engineer spot the explosives?" I asked.

"He noticed that the radius of the fillet weld where the aft end of the tank met the hull was a lot bigger than the one at the forward end."

Aaron set my coffee in front of me and returned to his chair, taking a sip from his mug before he set it down.

"Somebody spent time planting that," I said.

"Yeah."

"Has the boat been unattended since it left the States?"

Aaron nodded and gave me a tight smile. "Yeah, for a couple of days. After they arrived in Nassau, the crew flew back to Miami for some R&R. They got back yesterday."

"How big's the crew?" I asked.

"Five. Captain, engineer, chef, and two deckhands. The engineer doubles as the first mate. We're still verifying their travel arrangements while they were on break, plus double-checking their backgrounds."

I frowned. "Bob wouldn't have hired them without making sure they were clean."

"You're right." Aaron picked up his coffee. "But we're still double-checking everything."

"What about canvassing the staff at the marina? The local police could do that."

Aaron took a sip from his mug and then shook his head. "Come on, Finn. It's the Bahamas, remember?"

"You think they could have paid off the cops?" I asked.

"Not worth taking a chance on, given how much trouble they went to with the explosives."

"Good point. So what's next, then?"

"Bob wants you to meet him in Nassau as soon as you can get there," Aaron said. "He's en route now, so he asked me to let you know and book a flight for you. He was planning to catch up with you here today to discuss the situation with Mary, but that was before he learned about the bomb. Now he wants you on hand to help figure out who planted it. And to touch base on what's going on with Mary."

"He doesn't think there's some connection between her and the bomb, does he?"

Aaron shrugged. "You know Bob. He's in data acquisition mode right now. If he has any preliminary conclusions, he hasn't shared them. But I suspect he wants to talk to you on a more personal level about her."

"Right. I'd like that, too. I was planning to call him about her anyway. When's my flight?"

"You're confirmed on a 12:25 out of Miami this afternoon. If you're ready to hit the road, there are a couple of earlier ones you can probably make. Call me and let me know, and I'll pass your arrival details on to Bob or the skipper. Somebody will meet your flight. You need anything else?" Aaron pulled his chair around and returned his attention to the laptop.

"No. I never even unpacked. I'm out of here soon as I finish eating."

"Good. Talk to you later," Aaron said. "I gotta get back to the lab. Good to see you."

"Likewise."

Aaron was right. I got to Miami in time to catch a flight that arrived in Nassau two hours earlier than the one he booked for me. I sent him a text from the airport as I was boarding, and he arranged for the skipper of Bob's boat to meet me at Nassau's Lynden Pindling International Airport.

My flight was crowded, as was the airport in Nassau. Once I got off the plane, I followed the signs through the concourse to the escalator that led up to Bahamas Immigration and Passport control. Halfway up the escalator, sandwiched between a crowd of rowdy college students and a group of geriatric tourists, I glanced back over my shoulder at the concourse below. That's when I saw a familiar figure. It took me a second, but then it clicked. The blond, heavily made-up woman was Mary.

I recognized the way she was weaving through the crowd and the way she moved; I knew her stride all too well. I whipped my head around for a second look, but by then she was no longer in view.

My instinct was to run back down to the concourse and confront her. I pivoted on the balls of my feet before I realized the futility of trying to catch up with her. She was not only moving faster than the crowd in the concourse, but the escalator was packed with people all the way back to the ground floor.

It was unlikely that I could catch her, and even if I did, I suspected she'd pretend she didn't know me from Adam. There would be no way for me to stop her without creating a disturbance that would be risky for both of us. She was headed for the special terminal set aside for departures to the U.S. By the time I put it all together, I was stepping off the escalator.

I paused and sent Aaron a text, describing Mary's disguise and my guess that she was headed for the States from Nassau in the next few minutes. As I moved through the queue toward the Immigration checkpoint, my phone pinged with Aaron's acknowledgement. Hoping the lab could get a fix on which flight she was boarding, I put my phone in my pocket. I took out my passport, double-checking it to make sure I knew who I was pretending to be today.

The immigration officer glanced at the U.S. passport in my hand and gave me a big smile. "Welcome to the Bahamas," she said, waving me through without further ado. "Enjoy your stay."

I thanked her and took the down escalator to baggage claim, where I spotted a fit young man in white Bermuda shorts and a white polo shirt. He held a cardboard sign with 'Finnerty' written in block letters. As I got closer to him, I saw the embroidered logo on his shirt — a line drawing of a motor yacht in profile with the name Ceto underneath.

"Captain Reynolds?" I asked, when I was a few feet from him.

"Yes. Mr. Finnerty?"

"Just call me Finn," I said.

"Yes, sir. Welcome, Finn. I'm Terry. Have a good flight?"

"Yes, thanks."

"Glad to hear it." He explained that Bob's airline connections had gone awry, and he wouldn't be arriving for a couple of hours yet. "Let's get you settled on Ceto. The chef's putting together lunch. Should be ready by the time we get your luggage and get back to the marina."

"This is it," I said, tugging on the shoulder strap of my small duffle bag.

"Good enough. I've got a taxi waiting."

Once we were in the taxi, Reynolds gave me a quick rundown on Ceto.

"Hundred-twenty feet overall, 400 tons displacement, range of 5,000 miles at a cruising speed of about 12 knots. Top speed of 15 knots. I hear from Mr. Sanchez that you're a sailor."

"True, but only small boats. No experience with big motor yachts."

"I like sailing myself," he said. "But it's easier to make good money running stinkpots. Not that I have anything against 'em, mind you. Ceto's a good 'un. Named after some goddess from Greek mythology."

I grunted an acknowledgment and tuned out his mindless chatter, half listening and giving monosyllabic responses to avoid being rude. 'Some Greek goddess, indeed.' Ceto was the wife of Phorcys and the mother of Medusa, the one with snakes for hair.

Anyway, I did wonder why Bob named his new yacht Ceto. The obvious link to Phorcys — my secretive employer, not the deity — seemed risky. I resolved to ask him about that when I saw him.

I tuned back in to Terry Reynolds' monologue when he mentioned having served under Bob. "General Lawson," Terry called him. Reynolds looked to be in his early thirties, and Bob retired from the Army several years ago.

"How long ago was that?" I asked.

"Seven years ago. Not long before he retired. I was a brand-new intelligence officer, way down the chain of command. But he tried to get to know as many of the people in his organization as he could."

I nodded. That was Bob's style. "Well, Terry, you and I have something in common. I served under him as a first lieutenant back when he was still wearing his first star."

Twenty-odd years ago, Bob recruited me into an off-the-books organization within the DOD that was referred to as The Department by the few who knew of its existence. The Department was established by Mike Killington, then a senior general, to whom Bob once reported. The Department's mission was to provide permanent solutions to problems that the government couldn't deal with openly. I was their first field operative.

"Wow. You don't look that old."

I chuckled at the frown that formed on his face as he realized he might have offended me. "Thanks, I guess."

He was saved from trying to talk his way out of that when the taxi pulled to a stop in the marina parking lot. I got out and retrieved my duffle bag while Reynolds settled with the driver.

"How about introducing me to this Greek goddess you hang out with?" I asked, as he stepped out of the taxi.

"You bet," he said. "Right this way."

We walked up to a gate with a sign that read, "Crew and Guests only beyond this point." Entering a numerical access code into the gate's keypad, he escorted me down the dock to the T-head, where Ceto took up the whole face of the T.

3

After a quick tour of Ceto's living spaces, Reynolds left me in one of the five guest staterooms. In contrast to the vessel's utilitarian exterior, the interior rivaled that of any luxury yacht.

"Lunch will be ready in about 10 minutes in the dining room," he said, pausing in the doorway. "Don't bring up the explosives in the presence of the rest of the crew; I'll explain later."

"Sure," I said.

Once I was alone, I dropped my duffle bag on the bed and retrieved my phone. I wanted to inspect the explosive device and explore all the yacht's working spaces, but first I needed to check in with Aaron and see if the lab picked up Mary's trail. Between the trip from the airport and my tour of Ceto, it had been almost an hour since I spotted her.

While I waited for Aaron to answer, I took a moment to appreciate my luxurious accommodations. My stateroom was on a par with the other living spaces I'd seen on my quick tour. As in the rest of Ceto's interior, the freestanding furnishings looked like antiques, secured with nearly invisible fastenings against any violent motion brought on by heavy seas.

The bulkheads were paneled with hand-rubbed, oiled teak. The deck was teak with light-colored holly inlays between the planks, varnished with a satin finish to make it less skid-prone. Oriental-patterned area rugs added color. According to Reynolds, they were rolled and stowed when the vessel was under way to avoid their becoming tripping hazards.

Just as I thought my call was going to voice mail, Aaron answered. "No luck yet," he said in response to my query about Mary. "We found a couple of seconds of video that could have been the woman you described. Caught her as she went into one of the ladies' restrooms, but she never came out. Nobody who even slightly resembled her, either."

"Good chance it was Mary, then," I said. "She probably swapped wigs and outer garments. Padded her cheeks or something."

"Based on the woman's behavior and Mary's skill at quickly changing her appearance, I agree that it could have been her. But we didn't get a good enough picture of her or any of the women who exited the restroom to run facial recognition. Shitty camera angle."

"Yeah," I said. "Okay."

"You had a chance to look at the bomb yet?"

"No. I just got here. I wanted to follow up on Mary, and we're about to eat lunch. Then I'll give Ceto a good going over. Figured at the moment, Mary was the more urgent problem. The bomb's inert and it's not going anywhere."

"Yeah," Aaron said. "Can't argue with that. Assuming that was Mary, it's interesting that she's leaving there the morning after they found the explosives."

"You suggesting she had something to do with that?"

"Not saying she did. But we've got no idea why she took off to begin with, either. It would be a big fat coincidence if she was in Nassau at the time the bomb was planted. You gotta admit that."

"But we can't even say for sure that she was here," I said.

"No, but you're the one who thinks he saw her. Don't go getting defensive on me."

"That's not what I meant. I was talking about the timing. Unless we can get a positive ID and figure out what identity she used, we won't know if she was here early enough to play a part in planting the explosives."

"True. You met any of the crew besides the skipper?" Aaron asked.

"Not yet. He told me he served in Bob's command about seven years ago."

"Yeah, we just spotted that, going over their records. Might be worth checking with Bob on Reynolds' service. I'm sure he's aware of it, but it would be interesting to know if he actually remembers Reynolds. And if so, why. All the crew members look clean. All ex-military, but except for the retired SEAL and Reynolds, they served relatively short hitches. Reynolds looks to be the only one that served under Bob."

"I'll ask Bob about that when I get a chance," I said. "His flights are screwed up. He's not due to arrive for about another hour."

"Right. Go eat your lunch. I'll call if anything pops up on Mary. Or the explosives. We finally got into the marina's security system. There's video, but it's not great."

"All right. Talk later."

I put my phone in my pocket and headed for the dining room, where I found Reynolds and the rest of the crew hovering around the table where our food was waiting. After a quick round of introductions, we sat down and ate.

The chef and the deckhands didn't have much to say, but Reynolds kept up a constant stream of idle chatter, with occasional contributions from George Davis, the engineer. After we finished eating, Davis and Reynolds lingered at the table after the other three went back to work.

"Terry said you wanted to see the explosives," Davis said, once the three of us were alone.

I nodded, curious about why the two of them waited to raise the subject of the explosives. Were they hiding that from the other three crewmen? I would ask him once I had him by himself. "I want to go over Ceto, stem to stern. The explosives are as good a place to start as any."

"All right," Davis said. "You ready to get after it?"

"Let's go."

"I'll leave you to it," Reynolds said. "Time for me to go meet the boss's flight."

Davis started my orientation with a visit to the engine room. Accustomed to the way auxiliary engines were shoehorned into small sailboats, I was overwhelmed by the sense of space in Ceto's engine room. The clearance to the overhead deck was eight feet, give or take, and there was room to walk around the engines.

"We have to pass through here to get to the fuel tanks," Davis said, pausing next to one of the big diesels. "May as well tell you about these babies while we're here."

On our way below deck, he had answered my unasked question, explaining that he and Reynolds had thought it best not to discuss the explosives with the other crew members.

"Not that we think they had anything to do with it," he said. "But until we can talk to General Lawson, we figured it was best to keep it quiet. Terry said the general agreed, and he didn't want us to involve the local police, either. I reckon that's why you're here, to scope things out while the Phorcys security people check out everybody's whereabouts for the last few days."

"You and Terry made a good call," I said, not offering any further comment.

Davis may have been just making conversation, but he might have also been fishing. I didn't know how much the crew members knew about me or Phorcys, so until Aaron's team finished running their checks, I would avoid getting drawn into any discussions that might feed gossip among the crew.

Given that Davis had discovered and disarmed the explosives, it was unlikely that he was involved in planting them. Still, I didn't want to provide grist for the rumor mill. I made appreciative noises as he droned on about the two big diesels. The engine room was spotlessly clean and uncluttered; he was a man who took pride in his work.

I'd been around enough big motor vessels to know that Davis would have spent a day or more putting everything back in order at the end of a two-thousand-mile passage, especially since it was Ceto's maiden voyage. That's the time when things shake loose, leak, and settle in, but there wasn't a stray drop of oil to be seen. The absorbent mats in the sumps under the engines were pristine, and all the tools, spare parts, and supplies were neatly stowed.

Davis talked about how well the machinery fared on their first trip. He was like a proud parent relating the outcome of his offspring's first parent-teacher conference. Once he'd shown me everything in the engine room, he opened a watertight door in the aft bulkhead and led the way into the space that housed the tankage and its associated plumbing.

Most of the compartment was taken up by two massive diesel fuel tanks, each holding 8,000 gallons. There was an aisle between them down the vessel's centerline, where Davis paused. We stood on a grating that spanned the width of the space between the tanks, which were mirror images of each other. Davis shined a flashlight down through the grating, giving me a view of the inside of the bilge and the hull's bottom a few feet below us.

"Three-eighth-inch steel plate," he said, describing the bottom of the hull. "Heavy duty."

I nodded. "Sure is."

The height of the tanks filled almost the entire space from the bottom of the hull up to the deck overhead. The forward ends of the tanks came to within a foot of the bulkhead we'd just come through. Davis shined his flashlight into the space between the front end of the port tank and the bulkhead.

"Notice the size of that fillet weld where the end of the tank meets the hull," he said.

"Maybe a quarter-inch, three-eighth-inch radius," I said, raising my eyebrows.

"Right." He nodded. "Hold that thought." He switched off the flashlight and walked aft along the grating. "Water tanks and holding tanks for waste are aft, along with the desalination system," he said. "We'll pass the explosives on our way back there."

Pausing between the aft ends of the fuel tanks, he shined his light at the joint where the aft end of the port tank met the inner surface of the hull.

"Whoa!" I said, noticing how much bigger the fillet weld was than the one at the forward end. "That's nuts. Are the tanks steel?"

"Yeah, like the hull plating, but maybe a little lighter weight. The welds at the front are about normal. The aft ones have a two-and-a-half-inch radius." He traced the length of the fillet with the flashlight beam as it followed the curve of the hull from below the grate up to the deck above our heads. "Don't know why it didn't catch my eye right away; I must have figured they faired the tanks in with filler just to make things look good."

"That's a lot of plastique," I said.

"Yep, and that's only half of it."

"Really?" Aaron had given me the impression that only one tank had been tampered with.

"Really," Davis said, swinging his light around to illuminate the fillet on the starboard tank.

"I see. Is it C4 or something else?"

He shrugged. "Without having it tested, I don't know for sure, but it looks like C4."

Switching off the flashlight, he stuck it in his hip pocket and reached into the right side-pocket of his white Bermuda shorts. He retrieved a small plastic bag with a marble-sized ball of what appeared to be light-brown modeling clay.

"Ever messed with this stuff?" he asked, handing me the bag.

"Used to heat my rations with it, back in the day," I said.

He grinned. "Stick that to the bottom of a can and light it with a match, right? My grandpa told me about doing that with C-rations, back before they replaced 'em with MREs."

"Yeah. You got it. We had aluminum canteen cups in my day. That's how we used to warm up the MREs."

"Meals Ready to Eat," he said. "Some of 'em are pretty damn good. Must have been a real step up from C-rations."

I shrugged. "C-rations were before my day, too." I returned the bag to him. "How'd you get the sample?"

Pocketing the plastic bag, he took out his flashlight again and swept the fillet on the port side with it. "See the dark spots?"

He moved the light slowly along the fillet, and I picked out a series of spots about a quarter of an inch in diameter. They were spaced about a foot apart along the length of the fillet. "Once I got suspicious about those oversized fillets and found the wiring for the trigger, I drilled into it just to be sure. The stuff in the bag came from the drill bit."

"I gather you're well acquainted with demolitions. I heard you're a SEAL."

He grinned again. "Yes, sir. I know this stuff right well."

"What's your guess about the amount of damage this charge would do to Ceto?"

"Given where it's placed and shaped, it would break her back; cut the hull damn near in half. Not to mention lighting off the diesel fuel. Toss-up in my mind whether she'd sink before she burned down to the waterline. Guess it would depend on the sea state, and how strong the superstructure is."

"Tell me about the trigger," I said.

"There were two initiators in each charge. M100 electric detonators. Both planted at the top end of the fillet, one pair on each fillet. The wire ran across the top of each tank and into a raceway. The wires from each side met in one of the access boxes where the raceway goes through the bulkhead to the engine room. From the engine room, there was a pair of wires that were pulled through the same conduit as the engine instrument wiring that runs up to the bridge. They picked up power from the instrument panel and ran two pairs outside to a UHF receiver with a patch antenna that was fiberglassed into the top of the sun-shade over the bridge deck. If somebody sent a signal to the receiver with the right access code, it would energize the M100s, and that would have been all she wrote."

"Yeah, it sure would," I said, committing what he told me to memory. "Professional job, sounds like."

"Yep. Couldn't have done better myself."

"How did you go about disarming it?"

"Once I found the M100s, I pulled 'em out of the C4 and cut their wires. Then I cut the other end of the wiring loose under the instrument panel. I connected the leads from the UHF receiver to an unused visual and audible alarm in the panel. That way, if somebody tries to trigger the explosives, we'll know about it. Range on that radio's probably a mile or two over open water, so we might even be able to spot whoever did it."

"You do good work."

"If somebody blows up Ceto, my ass goes in the water with everybody else's. Hell of an incentive to catch the bastards who wired us up."

As we finished my tour and returned to the lounge on the main deck, Bob and Reynolds arrived from the airport. After quick greetings all around, Bob asked me to join him in the owners' suite.

4

As I tagged along with Bob, we made small talk about Ceto.

"Quite a ship you've got here," I said. "Planning a cruise to the far reaches of the earth?"

"She's capable of going just about anywhere, under any conditions," he said. "But I didn't have her built for pleasure. My taste runs to sail, just like yours and Mike's. One of these days…"

"So Ceto's a working vessel," I said.

He nodded. "Once we get through shaking her down, we'll use her as a support vessel for Phorcys operations."

He opened a sturdy teak door with heavy bronze fittings and gestured for me to go through. We entered a large compartment with a sitting area and a dining area. Although luxurious in its furnishings, it was clearly a working space, with one bulkhead of the dining area given over to a large whiteboard surrounded by office equipment and three computer workstations.

"Make yourself comfortable while I get out of my monkey suit. I came straight from a meeting with the client; no time to change. Mix yourself a drink if you want." He gestured at a wet bar nestled in a corner of the dining area. "Feel free to look around and get acquainted with the layout."

"Thanks," I said. "I will. Take your time."

He gave me a nod and opened a door, leaving the lounge area. He closed the door behind him. Looking around, I saw another door on the other side of the room. Curious, I knocked on it once and opened it to find myself in a sizable, unoccupied sleeping cabin. It adjoined another, smaller cabin with a computer desk and an en-suite head. I went back out to the main lounge and sat down on a leather upholstered couch.

No sooner was I seated than Bob came out of the other cabin. He was wearing a polo shirt like the ones the crew wore, khaki shorts, and boat shoes with no socks.

"This is more like it," he said. "This area is our command center, masquerading as a luxury suite. Did you check out the other cabin?" He inclined his head toward the door I had opened moments before.

"I did."

"It's identical to the one I'm using. I would have told Terry to put you in there, but I thought it might make you a little more approachable for the crew if you were in one of the regular guest cabins."

"No complaints from me."

Bob nodded. "Thanks for coming down on short notice. About the crew: apart from what you may have told them, all they know about you is that you work for Phorcys and that you're a member of senior management. They don't have detailed knowledge of what we do. At some point, we'll bring 'em up to speed. Not yet, though. All they've been told for now is that we're a security contractor for the U.S. government and selected allies, and that our work is classified. They're all ex-military and have held top secret clearances, but we haven't vetted them ourselves yet. That's in process."

"I got that much from Aaron. I haven't shared anything about myself. Reynolds and Davis seem to share information between themselves that they keep from the others."

"Right," Bob said, sitting down in an armchair across the coffee table from me. "I'm aware of that, and it's fine for the moment. They were both commissioned officers; the others were enlisted. When Davis found the explosives, he and Reynolds told me they didn't let the others know. Wanted to wait 'til we figured out what's going on. I told 'em to keep it that way for now."

"Reynolds told me that," I said.

Bob got up and walked over to a small wet bar. "Drink?" he asked.

"No, thanks."

He nodded and opened a small bottle of water, taking a sip.

"Now, about the explosives," Bob said, returning to his chair. "Have you had a chance to check them out?"

"Yes, sir. Davis gave me a tour of the working spaces, with emphasis on the explosives. We had just wrapped up when you got here."

"Good. What else did he and Reynolds tell you?"

"Reynolds hasn't given me much of substance," I said. "Beyond getting acquainted and hearing from him that he served in your command as a junior intelligence officer, I don't know much about him. He's smooth. Nice guy. Seems comfortable and competent, but I haven't had enough interaction with him to say more."

Bob nodded, taking another swallow of water. "And what about Davis?"

"I got to see him in his element. Judging from the way he keeps the mechanical spaces, he's on top of his job. Solid guy, no bullshit. And he knows his way around explosives. No surprise, given his background."

"Reynolds wasn't there when you saw the explosives?" Bob raised his eyebrows.

"No. He had to leave to meet your flight, so it was Davis who filled me in on the details."

"All right. Tell me what he said."

I recounted Davis' description of the explosives. Bob's eyes never left mine, his head nodding as he digested the information. He was filing away all the salient data; he wouldn't miss a word that I said. I was sure he'd already gotten a similar report from Davis and Reynolds over the phone, so I was careful to stick to the facts as Davis presented them. Bob would want my opinion, but he wouldn't want me to commingle it with Davis' and Reynolds' views.

"That matches what they told me," he said, when I finished. "Not that I expected otherwise. You agree with what Davis had to say about the explosives?"

"Yes, sir. He knows his stuff. I didn't crawl through the wiring, but I'm sure that if I did, I wouldn't find anything different from what he described."

"So you trust him?" Bob asked.

"That's a different question. I have no reason not to trust him, but I'm quite sure that if I traced the wiring, it would be as he described it. If he tampered with it, I have no doubt he did an impeccable job of covering his tracks."

Bob laughed. "Okay. I wasn't trying to trap you with my question about trusting him, but I take your point. Aaron's running his own background checks on the whole crew, just in case. We'll see where that leads us. One more thing about the explosives before we talk about Mary, okay?"

"Okay."

Bob finished his water and set the bottle on the coffee table between us. Clearing his throat, he asked, "Why do you think somebody planted them? What was their motive? Give me your gut reactions, wild ideas, whatever comes to mind. No matter how off the wall they seem."

"Well, my first thought when Aaron told me about them was that somebody was targeting you personally. I didn't know about Ceto then, and the way Aaron referred to her led me to believe she was your personal yacht."

"Okay," Bob said. "Keep going."

"What we know so far's still consistent with that idea. The use of a remote control trigger argues against simple sabotage. Whoever's behind this wanted to control the circumstances in which the explosives were triggered. They intended to blow up Ceto at a certain time, or in a certain place, or with certain people aboard. Or some combination of those factors. Otherwise, a time-delay trigger or one wired to a sensor of some sort would have done the job."

"Good," Bob said. "You said that was your first thought. You have a different idea now?"

"That depends on who knew or could ferret out your intentions for deploying Ceto as an asset of Phorcys."

"That would be Mike. And you, as of just now. I see where you're going, but I was careful to the point of using personal funds to pay for her design and construction. Neither Mike nor I told anyone else about her — not even Aaron, although I'll bring him into the loop as soon as we finish up here. Other thoughts?"

I nodded and shifted my position, pulling my left ankle up and resting it on my right knee. "The connection between the names Ceto and Phorcys worries me. It could be a red flag for anyone who's up on their Greek mythology."

Bob smiled. "Well, maybe. Mike and I came up with the name when we were kicking this around early on. Seemed like a good project name to use between the two of us. We had that same worry about the connection, but Mike pointed out that the name of our organization is only known to a select few people. Still, we did some checking. Turns out there are quite a few documented vessels from different countries that share the name Ceto. Besides Phorcys's wife/sister Ceto, there was another minor sea goddess with the same name. It comes from a root word meaning 'sea monster' in ancient Greek, so it's more common than you might expect, especially in the Mediterranean countries. If somebody runs down her registry, they'll have to pick through quite a list. And besides, she's owned by a string of LLCs that spans several countries."

"I should have known you'd be sensitive to that," I said.

"Don't worry. I'm not offended. It was a good question. What else?"

"That's about it, but what you just told me pushes me farther in the direction of you personally being the target."

"Yes, I can see why it would, but keep an open mind," he said. "Ready to talk about Mary?"

"Sure," I said. "But before we dive into that, have you spoken with Aaron in the last couple of hours?"

"No. Why?"

I brought Bob up to speed on my potential sighting at the airport this morning. He absorbed that with no comment. We decided to call Aaron and see if there was new information.

"Besides, we should include him in this discussion," Bob said. "He needs to be in the loop on Mary and Ceto. But first, I want to make it clear that my personal connection to Mary has no bearing on how we should handle this."

Bob and I talked through that. I told him Mike and I had already discussed the possibility of my terminating her, should our findings call for that.

"Personal feelings aside," I said, "I'm fine with that if it has to be done."

"Mike told me. Still, I'm sorry we've put you in this position. I've felt good about how much Mary has healed from her past since the two of you got together. And I'm praying for a happy outcome, but we all need to accept that it could be otherwise."

"Right. Thanks."

He clenched his teeth for a second as he nodded. "Let's get Aaron on the horn."

"We've made a little progress on Mary," Aaron said. "Once you told us you might have seen her in Nassau, the lab narrowed the search. They ditched the possible facial recognition matches in Miami from the other day, except for the ones boarding flights to Nassau. Then they hacked the security videos from the airport down there and looked for corresponding arrivals. They got good enough shots of two possibles to eliminate them. That left us with one, and we got a good shot of her clearing in at immigration and passport control. Unfortunately, we couldn't get eyes on a copy of her inbound immigration form or the scan of her passport, so we don't know who she claimed to be. And we still only got an 80% match on facial recognition. But it gets better. The timing matches, plus the later behavior of the woman matches the way Mary might act."

"Tell us," Bob said.

"Well, people returning from Nassau to the U.S. clear in with U.S. Customs and Immigration while they're still on the ground in Nassau, right?" Aaron asked.

"Yes," I said. "In the U.S. Departures terminal."

"Yeah." Aaron explained that the lab hacked into the automated passport scanning system in the U.S. Departures terminal. "We got a better facial recognition match; we're pretty sure it's Mary. She flew back to Miami, using the name Marjorie Janet Richardson. Have you ever known her to use that identity before?"

Bob and I looked at each other. He shook his head.

"No," I said. "Neither of us."

"Okay," Aaron said. "We got the details on her rental car, and the rental company's got trackers in their cars. We locked onto the car. Once she drove out of the airport, we were able to pick up a cellphone that was in the car with her."

"That's great," I said, rising to my feet. "Stay on her trail; I'll catch the next flight."

"Don't waste your time. She dropped the car in Fort Lauderdale at the airport."

I sighed and resumed my seat on the couch.

"Did she get on a plane?" Bob asked.

"We don't know. No sign of her on the security videos in the terminal. We tracked the phone for a few miles up I-95 headed north from the airport in Lauderdale, but it went dark about an hour ago."

"That sounds like Mary. She could be anywhere by now," I said.

Aaron agreed, suggesting that she could have planted the phone in another vehicle to lay a false trail, then wiped it remotely using the phone's lockdown mode. "We'll keep after her," he said. "We got the passport details. It could be stolen or forged, but we may still be able to track it down. What's the story on the explosives?"

Bob and I shared our ideas with Aaron. I described how George Davis had wired up an alarm to alert us if someone tried to trigger the explosives, and we discussed Davis' notion that we should be able to spot the person who triggered it. Bob brought Aaron up to speed on our theory that whoever planted the bomb probably intended it to kill Bob. Aaron agreed with our logic.

"Who knew you were planning to join Ceto in the Bahamas?" he asked.

"You and Mike," Bob said. "But it was no big secret that we were planning a shakedown cruise down-island. Anybody working at the yard where she was built could have picked that up."

"Okay," Aaron said. "But what about the stop in the Bahamas?"

"The yard knew the crew was making a run offshore to Nassau, straight south from Maine, unless something went wrong," Bob said. "Terry Reynolds checked in with the project manager periodically while they were at sea to let them know things were going smoothly. And before you ask, I just remembered. I got a call from him, the project manager. He was just following up after Terry told him they made Nassau without a hitch. He wondered if I was planning to join them somewhere. I told him I was, schedule permitting; that I wanted to do a little island hopping. So…"

"Yeah," Aaron said. "All it would take is for the bad guys to have somebody with the remote trigger in Nassau watching Ceto. Good thing Davis disarmed the device."

"Since it's disarmed, maybe we should move to less populated waters and see if we can provoke them to trigger it," I said.

"I like that idea," Bob said.

"Why wouldn't they trigger it now?" Aaron said. "Why wait for you to move Ceto?"

"Our odds of surviving would be a lot lower if we were well offshore," I said. "If I had planted it, I'd make sure no help was close by when I set it off. And for us, being out by ourselves means it'll be easier to spot whoever triggered it."

"Right," Aaron said. "I shoulda thought of that."

Bob nodded. "Good point, Finn. What would you think of a run out the Northeast Providence channel? Once we're offshore, we could hang a right and head for St. Thomas."

I thought about that for a moment, doing some rough calculations in my head. That was a trip of between 800 and 1,000 miles, at ten knots.

"Four days, give or take," I said. "And not a lot of help along the way. Not until we get close to Puerto Rico, anyhow."

"Sounds about right," Bob said.

"Assuming they press the button on us, I'd like to catch the bad guys," I said. "They'll probably be aboard a faster vessel than Ceto. Can we pick up a go-fast boat to tow? Or carry on deck?"

Bob grinned. "You didn't finish your orientation tour."

"What did I miss?"

"Our primary tender. Ten-meter RIB with three 450-horse outboards. It's under a tarp on deck. Hundred-twenty knots plus, 150-mile range. And the tubes are foam-filled, so a stray round or several won't let the air out and slow us down."

"Speaking of stray rounds, what about weapons?" I asked.

Bob chuckled. "Thought you'd never ask. How about a .50 caliber Barrett and half a dozen M4s in a concealed compartment in my cabin? Plus a couple of M32A1s, if you want to lay down a barrage of 40 mm grenades. And a few sidearms, of course."

"How soon can we get under way?" I asked.

"Let me give Terry a heads-up; he can go get us cleared out."

We wrapped up the conversation with Aaron. He agreed to keep us apprised of any news from his end and asked that we let him know if the bad guys showed up.

5

We were three days out of Nassau, about 200 miles from St. Thomas, eating lunch in the main dining area when the alarm sounded over the ship's PA system. One deckhand was standing watch on the bridge. We all scrambled to join him, and when we appeared, he silenced the alarm.

"Pop the smoke," Bob ordered.

"Roger that," George Davis said, flipping a switch on the main instrument panel.

Before we left Bahamian waters, Davis rigged pyrotechnics to simulate an explosion. By his reckoning, an explosion below the waterline wouldn't have been immediately noticeable to a distant observer except for the initial noise and shockwave. As the fuel caught fire, smoke would begin to emerge from the hull. Firing off a couple of remotely triggered flash-bang grenades fastened on the sides of the hull followed by releasing clouds of black smoke from signaling canisters gave a credible representation.

Our position was about 150 miles north of the Mona Passage, in the middle of the 30,000-foot-deep Puerto Rico Trench. I admired the bastards' choice of location; it was a great spot to sink a sizable vessel without a trace. It was also beyond easy reach of help. The closest land was around 150 miles away, either the Dominican Republic or Puerto Rico. If the explosives had done their job, we would have vanished before anybody ashore knew what happened.

A quick visual sweep of the horizon revealed one vessel north of us, barely visible to the naked eye as it rose to the top of the 3-meter, long-period swell rolling in from the northeast. Reynolds, studying the radar scope, announced that it was the only vessel nearby.

Bob, a pair of binoculars glued to his eyes, said, "Looks like a go-fast boat rigged with outriggers for trolling. They're faking a fishing expedition. Can't make out the people aboard." He cleared his throat and issued rapid fire orders. "Helmsman, take Ceto out of gear now and let her coast to a stop. Hold your position here. Terry, get the tender in the water on the starboard side, ASAP. Let's saddle up, Finn."

As Reynolds organized the launching of the tender, Bob and I went to the owners' suite and picked up the two duffle bags holding our weapons. He wanted to keep them out of sight of the crew.

"Better to let 'em wonder what we did after the fact than give 'em anything to feed their imaginations," he said.

Earlier, we decided to handle the capture and interrogation of any potential attackers between the two of us, as Aaron was still checking out the crew members' backgrounds. We made our way back through the main cabin to the midship deck, where Reynolds, Davis, and one deckhand were about to lower the tender into the water. They paused, holding it in midair, its tubes level with the deck. Bob and I stepped over Ceto's starboard rail to climb into the tender and ride it down.

Ceto had lost way and was drifting as the RIB hit the water. Bob fired up the big outboards as I unhooked the three-point harness from the RIB's lift points. As soon as I gave the all-clear, Bob pulled away from Ceto in a wide half-circle, cutting behind Ceto's stern.

Before he opened the throttles, he handed me an intercom headset with soundproof earmuffs. He put one on as well, so we could converse over the sound of the three big engines. Once we tested the intercom, Bob shoved the throttles forward. The acceleration was dramatic, pressing us back into our contoured seats.

Sitting beside Bob, I powered up the RIB's radar and tweaked it until I spotted our target. About the time I gave Bob the course, the go-fast boat took off.

"He's spotted us," I said. "He's making about 60 knots on a north-northeasterly course. Nobody else around except us."

"Good. We should be well out of sight of Ceto by the time we catch him." Bob eased off the throttles. "We'll let him get over the horizon from them before we intercept. No witnesses. We'll just tell the crew he got away."

"They're still going to wonder," I said.

"Let 'em," Bob said. "It'll be a good test of whether they're cut out for this kind of work. I'm not worried about Reynolds and Davis, but school's still out on the others."

"Did you know Reynolds when he was in your outfit?"

"Well enough. Aaron won't find any surprises in his background. Davis' either. He served under a couple of my good friends on some hairy missions."

I nodded. In our business, you didn't ask for extraneous details about your co-workers. Bob's seal of approval was good enough for me. Our target was in easy sight, now, and Ceto was a speck on the horizon behind us.

"Wonder where they think they're going?" Bob asked.

"Running scared," I said. "We got any glasses? I might be able to pick out how many people are aboard, at least."

Bob opened a small locker on his side of the console and handed me a pair of 10×50 binoculars. I put a foot against the console and forced myself back into the seat cushions as I powered on the binoculars' stabilizer and raised them to my eyes.

"Three of them," I said. "One's faced aft so he can watch us, one's steering, and the third one's futzing around with a rifle. Could be an AK-47, but I can't quite make out that much detail."

"Good. Wouldn't want to kill 'em if they're unarmed."

"Speak for yourself, boss. They were going to blow us to kingdom come; I count that as sufficient provocation, myself."

"Just messing with you, Finn. You got any suggestions on how we approach?"

"Yes. The one with the rifle's on the starboard side. How about if you pull up about a hundred yards off their starboard bow and try to hold a parallel course? That should keep us out of range of their weapons and give me a decent shot at the guy with the rifle. Steer to make 'em think we're going to come alongside by angling in and slowing down. If you can get us in that position and slow down for just a few seconds so we're not skipping across the swell, it'll give me enough stability for a few shots with the Barrett. I'll take out the rifleman and put several rounds of tracer through their engine box."

"You're thinking that'll set them on fire?" Bob asked.

"Yes. They'll be less of a challenge to deal with if they're swimming."

"I like it. Tell me when you're ready."

"I already loaded a magazine with three jacketed hollow-point rounds and the rest tracers," I said, unzipping my duffle bag and extracting the Barrett .50 caliber sniper rifle. "I'm ready. Take us in."

While Bob jockeyed the tender into position a little ahead of and to the right of our quarry, I made a final adjustment to the Barrett's sling, looping it around my left arm to steady my aim. When we were a hundred yards off the go-fast boat's starboard bow, Bob slowed down so that our tender settled in the water, and I stood, bracing myself against the steering console. I brought the crosshairs of the Barrett's scope to bear on the rifleman's center of mass. As I was about to squeeze the trigger, he fired a burst on full auto that churned the water two-thirds of the way between us. Whatever he was shooting couldn't match the range of my .50 caliber Barrett.

The Barrett kicked hard against my shoulder a moment before the go-fast boat swerved to their port side, but they were too late with their evasive maneuver. As I settled back from the recoil, the rifleman went flying over the port side of their boat. I drew a bead on the housing for their inboard engine and fired four rounds as quickly as I could bring the crosshairs to bear. I could see the pieces of fiberglass flying from the impact of my bullets, and the go-fast boat's bow dropped as it lost propulsion. Bob slowed the tender so that we were in the same position relative to our quarry, and I shifted my aim to the man steering. Smoke poured out of the remains of their engine box.

"Gotta be a diesel," I said. "Gasoline would have exploded."

"Keep 'em covered," Bob said, closing in on them as he retrieved a handheld loud-hailer from brackets on the steering console. Raising it to his lips, he switched it on and said, "Get your hands on top of your heads and stand up. If you move, we'll shoot to wound. We're coming alongside."

The two remaining men complied. Bob steered us closer to them and swapped the loud-hailer for a Glock 40. "When we get there, I'll cover them and you toss the grappling hooks," he said.

"Roger that."

Several seconds later, we bumped alongside. What was left of their engine box was in flames. Bob stood at our steering console, holding his Glock in a two-handed grip pointed midway between the two men. I tossed a grappling hook to catch their bow rail and snugged up the line, moving aft and repeating the process with the second grappling hook closer to their stern.

"All right," Bob said. "You with the blond hair, you're going to come aboard first. If either of you makes a fast move, the one still in your boat gets shot in the kneecap. Blondie, now's your time. Move it."

"Can I use my hands to climb over?" the man asked.

"Yeah," I said, holding my own Glock in one hand and several Flexicuffs in the other. "Just move slowly and don't be stupid. Get over here, now."

He clambered across the narrow gap between the boats as I backed away, giving him room. He ended up standing a couple of feet in front of me, facing away, with his hands resting on the tender's tube.

"Good. Now keep your hands where they are and lower yourself to your knees. Put your ankles together."

He knelt, and I secured his ankles with a set of the Flexicuffs.

"Now cross your wrists behind your back."

Once I secured his wrists with another Flexicuff, I rolled him onto his side and dragged him out of the way. "You're next," I said to the other man, pointing my pistol at him. "Move back here and climb over. Same drill."

When the second man was secured and stretched out beside his partner, I retrieved the grappling hooks and shoved us away from their boat. Bob, back at the controls, wasted no time opening up some distance between the two vessels. When forty to fifty yards of open water separated us from the burning boat, I reached into my duffle bag and retrieved an M32A1 grenade launcher. Bob moved us a little farther away and gave me a thumbs-up. I fired two high-explosive grenades into the burning boat in rapid succession. We watched as the pieces of wreckage slipped from view beneath the clear blue water. In a minute or two, there was nothing left of the go-fast boat except an oil slick with a few cushions and scraps of upholstery.

"Time to welcome our guests aboard," Bob said, shutting off the outboards.

The sudden silence was eerie after the gunfire and explosions of the grenades.

6

Bob joined me and our two prisoners in the aft part of the tender.

"You boys ready for a little chat?" he asked, nudging first one and then the other with his foot.

"We got nothin' to say," the blond one said.

"You sound like an American," Bob said.

"No comment."

Bob crouched next to the other one and grabbed his tangled mop of black hair, lifting his head and turning it so that he faced us. "How about you?"

Two bloodshot eyes stared at us from above several days' growth of beard. The swarthy man looked from Bob to me. "Nada. No speak English."

"No?" Bob said. "Guess we might as well just shoot this one and be done with him, huh, Finn?"

"Might as well."

Bob put the muzzle of his pistol against the man's head. The man's eyes went round as his eyebrows climbed up his forehead.

"No! Espere, Señor! Por favor, wait. I try, okay?"

Bob shrugged. "Lying bastard. I thought so. What do you think, Finn?"

"We can wait. Let's start with blondie here. He acts like the boss, anyway."

"Si! Es verdad. Él es el jefe. He the bossman, yeah!"

"You're wastin' your time," the blond guy said. "I know you're gonna kill us anyway. No reason for me to tell you shit. And Hector don't know nothin' anyhow."

"Sounds like you've got a death wish," I said. "What makes you think we're going to kill you?"

"You done already killed Berto and blew up their boat. No way you're goin' to let us live."

"Their boat?" Bob asked. "Who's they?"

"Me and Berto," Hector said. "Fue nuestra barca. Our boat. Berto es mi hermano."

"Shut up, Hector," the blond man said.

"No puedes hacerme, Lucas."

"Lucas, I think Hector's got a point," Bob said. "He can talk if he wants to."

"Yeah, but he don't know anything."

"And you do," I said. "Let's start with your last name."

"Why would I talk? Let's just get this over with."

"You might be right, Lucas," I said. "Maybe we are going to waste you. But you could be wrong. If you tell us what you know and we decide you can't do us any harm, we might just give you a ride to St. Thomas and turn you and your buddy Hector loose. Right, Bob?"

"It could happen," Bob said. "But only if he's got something worthwhile to share. I'm getting bored with this. How about it, Lucas?"

"I'm gonna die anyway."

"Lucas, I didn't want it to come to this, but you're not leaving me much choice," I said. "You just tried to kill us. I'm going to find out who you're working for."

"I'm not telling' you shit, asshole. You're gonna kill me no matter what I say."

"Yeah," I said. "You're most likely right. But there are all kinds of ways to die, and I'm pretty good at making them happen. I have lots of experience in this game. You wanted to kill us, so I'm probably going to kill you. But first, I promise you'll answer our questions. Normally, I would do this the humane way, with drugs. Unfortunately for you, I don't have my chemical interrogation kit with me, so I'll have to do it the old-fashioned way."

Without saying anything further, I rolled Lucas onto his belly and grasped his left wrist in my left hand. I took his left little finger in my right fist and wrenched it sideways to a ninety-degree angle. I gave him a couple of seconds to stop screaming, and then I twisted the finger and released it. He screamed a little longer the second time.

"You get the message yet, Lucas? You have nine more fingers after I wear that one out. Plus your eyeballs, and your ears. You ever had a ruptured eardrum? And then there are toes. And teeth. I don't have my drug supply, but I do have a multitool with a file and pliers. I can file your teeth down one at a time before I pull 'em. You think about how that's going to feel while I amputate that finger. It's not good for much now, anyway."

I grabbed his pinky again and he yelled, "Wait!"

I gave it a little twist, and he screamed again. "I'm still waiting. You'd better start talking." I flipped open a folding combat knife and waved it under his nose as I kept a hold on his damaged finger.

"What do you want to know?"

Bob pulled his phone out of his pocket and set it to record. "Start with your full name and date and place of birth," he said.

"Lucas Alan Weatherford." He craned his neck to look over at Bob and gave us his personal details.

"Military service?" Bob asked. "And your service number."

"Army," he said, and rattled off his service number.

"Ever been convicted of a crime?"

"No."

Bob asked him a whole litany of questions, in rapid sequence. Even if some of his answers were false, we would have enough data so that Aaron could separate fact from fiction. When we had enough vital statistics on him to allow us to track down the rest of his history, Bob nodded at me.

"All right," I said. "Now tell us who you're working for."

Still resting on his stomach, Weatherford rolled slightly to face me. "Natalie Benton."

"And who's Natalie Benton? How did you come to be working for her?"

"There's a guy who hooks me up with people who want to hire me. He's like a recruiter."

"Tell me how that works," Bob said. "He recruited you to work for this Benton woman?"

Weatherford looked at Bob and said, "No. You gotta be set up with this guy by somebody he trusts. Then he reaches out to you kinda blind, like, by email. He don't use any names, but you get an email with a dark-web link in it. You click the link and you fill out like a form, sayin' what kinda skills you got. He checks you out some way. Probably starts with whoever set you up with him. Then when somebody comes along lookin' for a person to do the kind of stuff you do, he hooks you up. Calls himself a broker."

"How does he hook you up?" I asked.

Stretching his neck for a moment, Weatherford rested his cheek on the deck and cut his eyes to look up at me. "Gives you both a link to somethin' like a mail drop on the dark web where you can leave messages for each other. And he monitors the drop, too, but only for that job. You cut a deal with the person and do your job. They pay the broker whatever amount you agreed to, and he takes his cut and forwards the rest to a numbered account you set up. So you don't ever have to meet the person you're workin' for, or even know their name. Or the broker's. Like I said, no names."

"Then why do you know Natalie Benton's name?" Bob asked.

Weatherford tried to roll onto his side to face Bob, but couldn't manage it. Twisting his head around, he said, "She set up a face-to-face meet in Nassau to give me the trigger box to blow up your boat. But it didn't blow. I done been screwed. I shoulda known better than to trust somebody else to rig the explosives."

Bob raised his eyebrows. "So you didn't plant the C4?"

"No. Reckon she got somebody else to do it. Or maybe done it her own self. I don't know. She your ex, or somethin'?"

Bob looked at me, shaking his head. I nodded, agreeing that he should press on. We didn't need to go down the rabbit hole Lucas was offering us.

"What did she look like?" Bob asked, ignoring Lucas's question.

"Blond. Built pretty good. Nice body, but, like, with muscles. Maybe a dancer. Dressed nice, too. A real looker."

"And she told you her name?" Bob asked.

"Yeah. I never even asked. Last emails we traded, she told me to meet her in the bar at her hotel and call her room when I got there. That's when she gave me her name. But I figure it was probably bogus anyhow."

"What makes you think that?"

"The broker wouldn't be dealin' with anybody dumb enough to use their real name."

"Good point," I said. "Did you ever meet him?"

Weatherford turned his head to look at me, grimacing at the strain from arching his back to hold his head up. "The broker? Nah. It was all done by email in them blind drops. He was like a damn ghost, or somethin'. But it all worked out, and it kept everybody safe."

"Uh-huh," I said. "Back to Natalie now. Where was she staying?"

"On Paradise Island, but not that big resort. Small, local-type place. I can't remember the exact name. Somethin' like Paradise Guest House, maybe."

"Did you know Hector and Berto before this job?" Bob asked.

"No. A guy I worked with sometimes in Miami told me about 'em. They've hauled drugs for him from the D.R. to Puerto Rico."

"So the three of you didn't follow us from Nassau, then?" I asked.

"Nah. I flew into San Juan and met 'em in Puerto Rico."

"How did you know where we were going?" Bob asked.

"I got a contact in Bahamas customs. My deal with Natalie was to set off the explosives when you were in international waters. She told me Ceto would head down island once the owner came aboard. Reckon that's one of you."

"So you waited in Nassau until we left?"

"Yeah. When my customs contact told me you cleared out for St. Thomas, I got Hector and Berto to meet me in Mayagüez, on the west end of Puerto Rico. I was trackin' you on AIS, and I figured this would be a good spot to ambush you. Couple of hours' run north from Mayagüez for us."

Weatherford sighed, easing his cheek down to rest on the deck. I looked at Bob. He clenched his jaw and nodded, no doubt remembering our earlier conversation about AIS.

AIS is an acronym for 'Automatic Identification System.' It's a satellite tracking system that's mandatory on ships of over 300 gross tons that travel internationally. While AIS is intended as a collision avoidance system, there are services that make AIS data viewable over the internet with no sophisticated equipment. The system provides vessel name, location, speed, and heading, making it perfect for someone like Lucas. An individual vessel may disable its AIS for security reasons, for example, in areas where piracy is a problem. Bob and I had recognized that AIS was a liability, but we opted to keep the system running in the hope that it would draw out our pursuers.

"Do you have a way to get in touch with Natalie Benton?" Bob asked.

Weatherford didn't lift his head this time, just cutting his eyes to look at Bob. "I had the link to our dark-web mail drop on my phone, but it's gone now. It was in my backpack on the boat y'all done sunk."

"Were you supposed to send her a message when you set the explosives off?"

"Yeah, but she said she'd know anyhow. She was probably trackin' you, too. She's the one told me about AIS. Or maybe she had another way to know. Coulda been somethin' wired into the trigger, maybe."

Bob and I traded glances. He was frowning, and I shook my head. We both recognized how unlikely that was, given the short range of the UHF radio system used in the trigger circuitry.

"You got anything else, Finn?" Bob asked.

I shook my head.

"Let's get this over with, then."

"That broker Lucas told us about sounded a lot like the one Mary used back when she was freelancing," Bob said.

We were on our way back to Ceto, having disposed of our would-be killers and sent them to join their friend Berto at the bottom of the Puerto Rico Trench.

"Except her broker was a woman," I said.

"Maybe. As far as I know, Mary never met her face-to-face. Did she ever tell you otherwise?"

I drew my lower lip between my teeth, wracking my brain to remember the conversations I'd had with Mary about her broker. "No, I don't think she did."

"And Lucas said he never met the guy who hooked him up with Natalie," Bob said. "All done online, so his broker could have been a woman. A macho man like him would assume the broker was male."

I sensed where Bob might be headed with this, and I didn't want to go there. I was already wondering if Natalie Benton was Mary. Though a little vague, the description that Lucas gave us could have described the way Mary looked when I saw her at the airport in Nassau. And the timing was in the ballpark.

"I guess that could be," I said. "But there's probably more than one person brokering contract hits. And I don't recall Mary ever mentioning the dark web. Just those shared email accounts like the ones we've used as blind drops ourselves."

Bob cut his eyes toward me for a quick look as he steered the RIB across the tops of the waves. "It's been several years since Mary was in that business," he said. "Could be the broker's gotten a little more savvy about security."

"I don't doubt that," I said. "I'm curious to see what Aaron can do with this Natalie Benton lead. The lab's already got passenger lists and security videos for the flights in and out of Nassau."

The puzzle pieces we had might fit together. But not smoothly. There would be gaps. And besides, I was having trouble getting my head around the idea that Mary was behind what was clearly an attempt on Bob's life.

"We'll call him once we get back to Ceto," Bob said. "And we need him to accelerate his vetting of the crew. They're going to be curious as hell about our little outing."

I was still wrestling with the idea of Mary's involvement. She didn't have a motive, at least not one that I could come up with. Still, I had to keep an open mind. I did wonder if Bob had any reason to think Mary might be behind this. Some personal thing maybe, just between the two of them. I wasn't ready to raise what might be a sore subject, though. That discussion could wait until we had more facts.

"No doubt about them being curious," I said, relieved that Bob had moved on from the similarities between Mary and Natalie Benton to talk about the crew. "Think any of them will be brash enough to ask about what we found?"

"I'll be disappointed if they do. That would be a sure sign they weren't cut out for this. The sea state's changed; it's gotten bouncy." Bob eased back on the throttles, trying to match our speed to the period of the wind waves.

I was pondering Bob's interpretation of the potential reactions of the crew. He tweaked the throttles again, and the big RIB's motion eased. I looked over at Bob, and he broke the silence.

"I can vouch for Terry Reynolds and George Davis," he said. "They get the whole 'need to know' concept. But they picked the rest of their team, so this is a test of sorts. We'll see how good they are at judging character. I don't have any insight into how much experience they have in that area."

I was a little surprised at Bob's remarks. "And you still let them pick their team?"

He cut his eyes at me again, just for a moment. "I didn't expect that their judgment would be put to the test so soon. Once Aaron puts together background on the other three, I plan to sit down with Reynolds and Davis and review their choices, for better or worse."

"Like you said, then, it's a test."

"Well, as it turns out, yes," Bob said. "I intended it as a learning experience for the two of them until this happened. I wanted it to be more than just an evaluation of their staffing skills. But now it's a little more urgent."

We rode along in silence, smoothly cresting the long period swell. The sea state had moderated. It's always fascinated me that out in the middle of the ocean, hundreds of miles from land, there are local variations in wave height and wave period. Logically, I understand that the shape of the ocean's bottom and the presence or absence of eddy currents that oppose the prevailing wind cause these local effects. Still, the ocean bottom is thousands of feet below us, and the currents are invisible.

I glanced over at Bob. He was scanning the horizon, occasionally shifting his attention to a few seagulls gliding back and forth off our starboard side. Since he'd been talking about Reynolds and Davis choosing Ceto's crew, I decided to pursue my lingering curiosity about the way those two interacted with each other.

"Speaking of Reynolds and Davis, I'm curious about something."

"What's that?" Bob asked.

"How does a Navy SEAL end up second in command to a former Army intelligence officer when they're running a ship? Seems to me that might rankle Davis a little."

That earned me a sideways glance. I had expected that it would, but I had my reasons for asking.

"Have you seen any signs of friction there?" Bob asked.

"No. That's why I asked. Is there some reason Davis is okay with that? That makes me suspicious of him."

"You think he's got an ulterior motive for playing second fiddle to a former infantry officer with special ops and intel experience?" Bob turned to look at me, his eyebrows raised.

"I've known a lot of SEALS, and a lot of Army special ops types over the years," I said. "Davis strikes me as typical of his breed, but Reynolds isn't. Not sure a guy like Davis would have a lot of respect for Reynolds."

"That's a fair enough observation." Even in profile, I could see a hint of a smile on Bob's face. "Keep an eye on them and let me know what you think as this plays out."

"I'll do that."

"Good," Bob said, leaving me to wonder what he was holding back. "Back to Natalie Benton."

I bit my tongue, wondering if he was about to advance the theory that Natalie was Mary. We'd eventually have to discuss that, unless Aaron came up with something that precluded it.

"What about her?" I turned my attention to another flock of seagulls, working over a shoal of baitfish off our port bow.

"You think there was anything to Weatherford's idea that she had a way to monitor the explosives?" Bob asked. "Or is she waiting for his message to show up in that dark-net email drop?"

"I can't think of a simple, reliable way they could monitor the explosives remotely, given what Davis told us about the triggering mechanism. If Ceto sunk, we'd disappear from AIS. But we'd also disappear if we just turned off AIS. So she must have had another way to know. Maybe a satellite tracker, but that's no more sure than AIS."

"I wonder why they didn't use sat com for the trigger," Bob said.

"Using Weatherford meant they had eyeball verification that there were no vessels nearby to render assistance," I said. "And with him watching us, he could be sure you were aboard, assuming you're their target. If they had given him a sat com trigger, he could have gotten lazy and set it off any old time. Any more thoughts on who might want you dead, by the way?"

Bob shook his head. "Nobody specific comes to mind. But you know I could be a target for any number of reasons. People with the resources to bring off this kind of attack have long memories. It could go back to my active duty days, or it could be connected to one of our recent operations. We can't even say whether it's a private party or a foreign government."

"True," I said. "And it could still be that Phorcys was the target, rather than you personally. Maybe Aaron's come up with some clue as to how the explosives were planted by now."

"I've been wondering about that," Bob said. "When the explosives were planted, I mean. We were all quick to assume that happened in Nassau, but it could have been done in the yard when Ceto was still under construction."

"But Aaron said Davis and Reynolds checked her over thoroughly before they left the States," I said. "Nassau was the only place she's been left unattended since then."

"Yes, but now that I've seen the way the C4 was planted, I've started wondering if they missed it. I'm not trying to find fault with them, but whoever planted that C4 concealed it well."

"They certainly did," I said, thinking back over what Davis had shown me.

It wasn't like those fillet welds were side by side, begging to be compared. Although the aft welds were in pain view, the ones at the forward ends of the tanks were hidden in the narrow space between the tanks and the bulkhead. Besides, I couldn't think of a reason for Davis to compare them.

"You may be on to something," I said. "We're lucky that Davis noticed the difference in the size of the welds, but now I'm wondering how he happened to pick up on it."

"Yes," Bob said. "That's bothering me, too. I think we need to talk to Davis and Reynolds about it."

"Davis drilled into the aft fillet to see how much C4 was there," I said. "But maybe we should tear out a foot or two of it for closer examination."

"Do you have something specific in mind?" Bob asked. "Or are you just fishing?"

"Both. We might discover something we haven't thought of, but mostly I'd like to see the welds that are concealed under the C4."

"Why's that?"

"To see if they were painted over before the explosives were glassed in place on top of them," I said.

Bob looked over at me, chewing on his lower lip. After a moment, he nodded.

"Definitely worth knowing," he said.

There wasn't enough time for us to get into another topic, as we were closing on Ceto rapidly. Bob handed me the VHF microphone and asked me to co-ordinate our arrival. After Reynolds and I had a couple of brief exchanges, Bob maneuvered the RIB into position under the hoist on Ceto's starboard side. I secured the snap-shackles of the dangling harness to the RIB's lift points, and Bob and I were soon on deck. While Reynolds and his crew secured the RIB in its chocks, we went to the owner's suite to call Aaron.

7

Bob and I were in his suite, about to place a call to Aaron, when the intercom chimed. "General Lawson, it's Reynolds. Excuse the interruption, but we're ready to resume our course and speed to St. Thomas."

"Yes, thanks, Terry. That's fine. Anything else?"

"No, sir. That's it."

"Good. Carry on."

I established an encrypted connection with Aaron and switched the call to the speaker on the conference table. Bob and I related the details of our recent encounter with Lucas Weatherford and his flunkies.

"All right," Aaron said, when we finished. "Send me the recording, Bob. I'll put the lab to work on it right now."

"It's already on the way," Bob said. "I attached a good, clear photo of his face, too. Thought that might help you verify what he told us."

"Great," Aaron said. "Too bad we don't have a better description of Natalie Benton."

"I was hoping she might turn up in the data you collected on flights to Nassau," I said. "The timing's about right."

"Yeah, I noticed. Maybe she will. That description could be Mary. Or not. There were several 'almost' matches for the facial recognition. Could be that one of them is Benton. I'll get the lab to go back and see if they find the name Natalie Benton on any of the recent flights in and out of Nassau. Did Lucas Weatherford mention where she came from? Or where she was staying?"

"Not where she came from," I said. "But he met her in the bar at her hotel on Paradise Island. Not the big resort, but he was a little vague on the name. He thought it was something like Paradise Guest House."

"All right. That should get us started, anyhow. We're still looking for Mary, and the background checks on the crew are still in process. I'll call when I have updates. Anything else on your end?"

I caught Bob's eye and shook my head. We said our goodbyes, and he disconnected the call.

"I'm going to round up Davis and take a closer look at the explosives," I said. "You want in on that?"

"No, thanks," Bob said. "Not sure I could add anything. While you're doing that, I'm going to call Harry Blakely about the fuel tank installation."

"Harry Blakely?"

"He's the president of the shipyard."

"Got it," I said.

Bob was placing his call when I left his stateroom and went up to the bridge. I found one of the deckhands at the helm.

"They're in the skipper's cabin," he said, when I asked about Davis and Reynolds.

"Thanks." I walked through the crew lounge aft of the bridge and knocked on the door to Reynolds' cabin.

He opened it, raising his eyebrows when he saw me. "What's up, Finn?"

"Looking for George."

"Come on in. We were going over recordings from our long-range radar to see if we could figure out where that go-fast boat came from before we spotted him. It's pretty ragged, though. He didn't have much of a radar signature."

"What can I do for you?" Davis asked, looking up from the screen of a built-in workstation in the cabin's sitting area.

"I was hoping to get a better look at the explosives," I said.

"Sure. This isn't getting us anywhere. Want me to leave it on, Terry?"

"Nah, shut it down. I need to go update the logbook, anyway."

"Catch you later, then," Davis said, standing up. "Want to do that now, Finn?"

"Yes, if that suits you."

"Let's do it," he said, gesturing for me to precede him through the door.

He led the way down a set of no-frills stairs that connected the crew lounge with the lower decks. We left the stairwell and entered a narrow corridor with a few numbered doors along each side.

"This is where the working people live," he said.

"You, too?"

"Yeah. There's another stateroom aft of the bridge like Terry's. He wanted to put me in it, but I nixed that. I like to be close to the heart of things. I got good quarters down here. No complaints on that score. So what exactly are you looking for?"

I told him about the idea Bob and I had kicked around. "That's not to suggest you and Terry weren't careful when you checked her over before you left the States, but — "

"No need to apologize. Terry and I already talked about it. Neither of us is ready to swear we didn't miss those too-fat fillets. Everything was new to us, and there was nothing to make us suspicious back then."

It took a second for me to parse what he'd said. "Back then?" I asked. "Did something make you suspicious since then?"

"Yeah. We took a few days off when we got to Nassau. I came back a day early to go over the machinery and get the tanks topped off so I could check the calibration of the fuel flow sensors and such. That's when I found the C4."

"What tipped you off?"

"The electronic fuel level gauge up on the bridge didn't match the level from the bubble pipe down here. I pulled the transducer and it tested okay, so I was tracing the wiring. It runs from the corner of the tank against the hull near the fat fillet. While I was up there with a headlamp on, I spotted a really skinny ribbon cable that came out of the top end of the fillet. It was stuck to the overhead with adhesive backing and painted over. You had to be right on top of it to see it. It ran from the top of the fillet to the same junction box as the wiring for the fuel level sensor. I dug into the paint on the fillet and found fiberglass where there should have been a weld bead. So I dug a little deeper and found the C4."

"Good thing for us the fuel gauge malfunctioned," I said.

"No shit. So is there something specific you're looking for?"

I told him about my idea that the explosives might have been planted during construction.

"Damn," Davis said. "Didn't occur to me to check for paint under the C4."

"Me either, at first. But the more I thought about how much work it took to conceal that much C4 so well, the less likely it seemed that it could have been done in the short time Ceto was unattended in Nassau."

"Yeah, that's been bugging me. I should have cut into that once I saw it was fiberglass."

"Hindsight's twenty-twenty. Let it go," I said. "Do you have a way to cut out a foot or two of the glass?"

"Oh, yeah. An oscillating saw will make short work of that."

Davis was right. He unlimbered his little saw and leaned a ladder against the end of the port tank. In less than five minutes, he handed me a one-foot-long section of the fiberglass fillet with a triangular cross-section of C4 adhering to its back side.

He pointed a bright flashlight at the gap in the fillet, and the shiny, unpainted weld was visible.

"Good for you, Finn. Not much doubt about where it was planted. Had to be before everything was painted, back in the shipyard. We've been riding a bomb since day one."

"And good for you, for finding it to begin with. Let's go tell Bob and Terry."

George Davis and I knocked on the door of Bob's suite, but when he didn't answer, we went on up to the bridge. We found Bob and Terry Reynolds in the crew lounge.

"We were about to join you below deck," Bob said. "What did you discover?"

"No paint on the welds," Davis said. "The bead was clean and shiny once we peeled off the C4."

"It's a sure bet the explosives were placed before that area was painted," I said. "They had to be planted at the shipyard. What did you learn from Harry Blakely?"

"When I told him about the explosives, he added the project manager on the call. That's Jim Grant." Bob looked at me for a moment.

I nodded.

"Grant told us he'd gone over every step of the job, personally," Bob said. "He checked all welds before they were painted. The welds on the front ends and back ends of the tanks were the same size, according to him. He remembered looking at the fuel tanks in particular, because it was so hard to get a good look at the welds on the forward ends. Grant thought maybe the painters faired the aft welds for cosmetic reasons. He put me and Blakely on hold and checked with the foreman of the paint shop, a man named Greg Harrison."

Bob paused and cleared his throat.

"Did Grant bring that up? The cosmetics?" I asked.

Bob nodded. "Yes, he did. And when he came back on the line, he said Harrison reminded him their paint crews were booked up and working two shifts when it was time to paint Ceto's mechanical spaces. To stay on schedule, Harrison brought in a subcontractor they've used before. One of Harrison's two lead painters worked a third shift with the subcontractor to do the work. The lead man is Anton Zinkovitch, and the subcontractor is Alex Lešković. Lešković owns an auto body shop in Brooklyn. Grant said they often used him for cosmetic work. I was just about to call Aaron and ask him to check out Grant and the others."

"What kind of security do they have at the yard?" I asked.

"Pretty good," Bob said. "They've done government contract work from time to time, but they're focused on commercial work these days. From what I've seen on my visits, they're more worried about theft prevention than keeping out saboteurs, though."

"What's your gut reaction to Jim Grant at this point?" I asked.

"I don't see him being part of planting the explosives. He's worked there a long time. It's a family business, and he's one of the family."

"I agree," Reynolds said, volunteering the comment without being asked.

"You know him?" I turned to look at Reynolds.

"Yeah. I spent a good bit of time with him during the last couple of weeks they were working on Ceto. But I don't remember Harrison or Zinkovitch."

"Terry camped out up there," Bob said, looking at me. "I wanted him to have some hands-on time before the launch."

"Fair enough," I said.

Bob nodded. "Where should we go from here? Ideas? Anybody?"

"Yes, sir," Davis said.

"Go ahead, George."

"Unless somebody thinks I shouldn't, I'd like to strip the C4 out of those fillets and paint the welds. Might as well clean it all up, unless you're trying to preserve the evidence or something."

"Makes sense to me. No reason I can see to leave it in place. We're going to deal with this ourselves, not bring in law enforcement. Terry? Finn?"

"I agree with George," Reynolds said.

"Me, too," I said. "Go for it. Maybe we'll find a use for the C4 down the road a way."

George Davis excused himself to go below. Terry Reynolds, wanting a look at the C4 as George cut into it, went with him.

"Let's go to my cabin and check in with Aaron," Bob said.

8

"I was about to call you," Aaron said. "The lab's made a little progress on Natalie Benton."

Bob raised his eyebrows. "Tell us."

"She was on that flight that left Miami for Nassau. We got a match on the name, but there's no way to put a face to it. That's the flight we thought Mary might have taken. Remember, we had an 80 percent facial recognition match that we figured was probably Mary?"

Bob was frowning now. "Yes?"

"And we nailed Mary leaving Nassau the day you two got there," Aaron said. "She was using the name Marjorie Richardson. Based on that, we figured she was the 80 percent match on that Miami to Nassau flight."

"Right," I said.

Bob had added pursed lips to his frown. He was leaning forward in his chair, elbows on the table, fidgeting with a pencil. Before Aaron could continue, Bob cut in. "I'm not sure where this is going. Too many moving parts. Can you cut to the chase?"

"Okay. Sorry to drag it out. I know it's hard to follow, but here's the punch line. Marjorie Richardson wasn't on that flight from Miami to Nassau. So if we think that 80 percent match was Mary, she was using a different name."

Still frowning, Bob asked, "Are you suggesting that Natalie Benton was Mary?"

"It's a possibility," Aaron said.

Bob broke the pencil in two. "It's a long shot, Aaron. How many women were on that flight?"

"Forty-three, total. And when we last talked, we all thought Lucas Weatherford's description of Natalie Benton could have matched the disguise Mary was wearing when Finn spotted her leaving Nassau."

"That's a stretch," Bob said, scowling.

"It's only a possibility at this stage," Aaron said.

"And not much of one, either," Bob said. "You need to get the lab in gear and find Natalie Benton, Aaron."

"We're working on it," Aaron said. "The lab's looking for a photo ID of Benton. Driver's license, passport, anything that would let us either confirm or rule out a match."

"Well, let me know when you have something besides a facile assumption. That's not why we called, anyway."

Aaron didn't respond, and the silence gave me time to ponder Bob's ill temper. His defense of Mary surprised me. All I knew about their relationship was what I learned from Mary. When her mother died, Mary was an angry, neglected, abused child in her early teens. She tried to reach Bob, seeking his help, but at that time he was deployed on a two-year-long, classified mission. She was turned away without explanation by the only contact person she could find in her mother's notes.

Now that Mary knew about his deployment, on a rational level she understood why he couldn't be reached back then. But that wounded child still lived deep down in her psyche. She hid her lingering resentment, but I knew it was there. I read Bob's reaction as a sign that he was still trying to make up for what he saw as a failure on his part.

"Yes, sir," Aaron said, after several seconds. "Will do. You said you didn't call about her anyway. What's up on your end?"

Bob took several deep breaths before he said, "Sorry, Aaron. No excuse for me to be upset with you. It's my frustration showing."

"Understood. Did you uncover something new on the explosives?"

"Yes, the explosives." Bob filled Aaron in on his call to Harold Blakely at the shipyard.

I was only half listening to Bob, still taken aback by his display of emotion. In the almost thirty years that I had known him, I'd never seen him snap at anyone, let alone someone who worked for him.

And that sent my mind off and running in the same direction as Bob's. I hoped he was right; I didn't want Mary to be Natalie Benton any more than Bob did. Lost in thought, I almost missed my cue.

I heard Bob say, "That's right. We're certain they were planted at the yard."

"Just because of the short time Ceto was unattended in the marina?" Aaron asked. "Or is there more to it?"

They were still talking about the explosives now, but what had I missed?

"Finn, tell him what you and George Davis found," Bob said, catching my eye.

I cleared my throat, trying to guess how much Bob might have already told Aaron while I was tuned out.

"Finn?" Aaron asked. "You playing with demolitions again?"

I put aside my own feelings about Mary and forced my thoughts back to the present.

"Yes. Davis cut away the fiberglass that concealed the C4 so we could get a look at the weld underneath," I said.

Bob smiled and nodded, and Aaron said, "Good idea. And what did you find?"

I gave him the whole story, wrapping up with, "We all agreed that Davis might as well strip out the C4 and prime and paint the welds. I don't see that there's much chance of finding any further evidence, like fingerprints. If there were any on the bare metal, the C4 would have smudged 'em beyond use."

"Yeah," Aaron said. "I agree. Bob, I'll get somebody working on Grant, Harrison, Zinkovitch, and Lešković. We may as well dig into the shipyard's phones and email server while we're at it. We can focus that on the period of Ceto's construction, at least to start. I'll call as soon as we have anything new."

Once we signed off with Aaron, Bob said, "Sun's over the yardarm. I could use a stiff drink. Will you join me?"

"Aye aye, captain."

We were expecting to arrive in St. Thomas by midday tomorrow. Everyone was tired from the day's excitement, so we opted for an early dinner. For our last night at sea, the chef served fresh-caught mahi-mahi filet, sautéed in butter and seasoned with garlic and ginger. A medley of stir-fried vegetables over a bed of rice accompanied the fish, along with several bottles of Sancerre.

Even with such a fine meal, our dinner was a subdued affair. After our call earlier with Aaron, Bob and I discussed whether we should share the latest information with the crew. He was reluctant, given that Aaron's people hadn't finished their background checks yet. Aaron was apologetic about the delay, but he explained on our earlier call that he put the entire team to work on finding Mary and tracking down how the explosives came to be aboard Ceto.

"You're stuck with the crew for the moment, anyhow," Aaron said. "And based on what we found so far, I doubt there are any surprises there."

Bob agreed, and I had nothing to add on that front. Besides, as Bob pointed out during our private cocktail hour in his cabin before dinner, the crew didn't know who Mary was, and there was no reason to tell them about her at the moment.

When everyone finished the main course, the chef offered dessert and after-dinner drinks. Davis declined, excusing himself to relieve the man on the bridge for an hour so that he could eat dinner. Bob and I both begged off and headed for our cabins, leaving Reynolds with the chef and the off-watch crewman to enjoy themselves.

After spending the last several hours together, Bob and I didn't have much left to discuss. We went our separate ways, agreeing to meet for breakfast at eight in the morning.

Back in my cabin, I took a hot shower and crashed. Thanks to two stiff drinks with Bob before dinner and two or three glasses of wine with the mahi-mahi, I was asleep when my head hit the pillow.

Also thanks to the alcohol in my system, I found myself wide awake, my mind racing, after about three hours of sleep. It was not quite midnight. From bitter experience, I knew it would be a few hours before my body rid itself of the excess sugar and let me rest again. I remember back in the day…

Nothing was to be gained by wishing I was still in my twenties. I reined in those thoughts. I turned on a light and found a notepad and a pen in the nightstand drawer. Moving to the sitting area, I parked my carcass in an armchair and set out to organize my thoughts. I might as well make the most of my self-inflicted insomnia.

Bob's vehement reaction to Aaron's suggestion that Mary could be using the name Natalie Benton was still on my mind. I couldn't fault Aaron's logic, although as he admitted himself, it wasn't conclusive. I also understood where Bob was coming from. Given the romantic element in my relationship with Mary, I was biased in her favor myself.

Mary and I were far from a typical couple. Our road to bliss had been a rough one, considering how many secrets we each had. It wasn't made easier by the shared knowledge that we could never be entirely open with each other.

All the information about her recent actions was consistent with her playing the Benton role, but I was troubled by Mary's lack of motive. Was there something lurking in her background that would cause her to turn on Bob? I couldn't know, so I put the question of motive aside and moved on.

This wasn't the first time that Phorcys had put me on notice that Mary might be my next target. The previous situations had been resolved before she and I found ourselves in a contest of skill, to our great mutual relief. Neither of us was sure which of us would have survived, had it come down to that.

Like this one, those cases resulted from surprise disappearances by Mary. The emotions that drove her decisions then were complex: anger, shame, and a need to prove to herself one more time that she could deal with her own problems. And those were just the motives she could describe well enough to share with me. Why she didn't come clean before she set out to right wrongs inflicted upon her years earlier is a question that even Mary still can't answer.

But in those cases, nothing she did conflicted with her duty to Phorcys, except her failure to tell us she was taking time off. That doesn't begin to rise to the magnitude of attempting to kill Bob.

While Mary might still harbor resentment toward Bob because he couldn't take her under his wing when her mother died, I'm sure that her understanding of his constraints back then would rule out her seeking revenge. And Aaron knows that as well. He was just presenting the facts the lab has uncovered so far.

Though Bob's reaction was a surprise, in my mind, it weighed in favor of Mary's innocence. He and Mary have explored their ancient history together, and she has shared some of their discussions with me. Even so, I suspect she'd be surprised at the apparent depth of Bob's feelings for her. I still am. Bob's not much for displaying emotion.

All of which reassures me a bit about my own objectivity when I ruled out a personal motive for Mary to have played the part of Natalie Benton. That leaves greed or extortion as the potential reasons for Mary to attack Bob.

Thanks to her own hard work, Mary's a wealthy woman. She wants for nothing, financially, and she loves her life as it is. She has no aspirations that would drive her to seek more money. Extortion is unlikely, too. Mary is a private person; she has none of the vulnerabilities that blackmailers use to manipulate their victims.

Still, disappearing and then reappearing in Nassau when she did added up to a powerful coincidence. Even if she wasn't using the name Natalie Benton, what could explain her behavior?

That left me shaking my head. I couldn't answer those questions. My years of working with Aaron gave me confidence that he would ask those same questions, along with some that hadn't occurred to me. And he has a team of people who can find the answers. All I can do is keep the faith and wait, at least until I can talk to Mary.

As I stifled a yawn, I realized I was about to drop off to sleep. My sugar high from metabolizing the alcohol was fading. I dragged myself back to the bed and turned off the light.

9

Bob and I ran into each other on our way to the dining area for breakfast. We found Reynolds and Davis there with one of the deckhands, finishing their own breakfasts as we walked in. Reynolds confirmed to Bob that our ETA into Charlotte Amalie would be at about 12:30 this afternoon.

Davis scarfed down the rest of his food and excused himself to get back to work painting the welds, taking the off-watch deckhand with him. Reynolds left with them, saying he would relieve the other deckhand, who was standing watch on the bridge.

"I'll send him down to help you guys," Reynolds said, as Davis and the deckhand left.

Once we served ourselves from the breakfast buffet and sat down, Bob asked if I had rested well.

"Well enough, considering," I said. "You?" I picked up my coffee, eager for my first sip.

Bob shook his head. "I can't make sense of this whole mess. There's no way Mary's behind the explosives, but what the hell is she doing?"

I paused with my coffee cup in midair. "I wish I knew, but I'm as puzzled as you are."

"You know her better than anybody, Finn. She told me once that you're the first person she's ever trusted without reservation. To me, that means you're the only person she trusts, period, given what I know about her. You sure she didn't give you a clue?"

"She set me up on that bogus Jacksonville real estate deal without giving any sign that it was all bullshit. And then to add insult to injury, she strung me along with that fairy tale phone call about the closing being delayed. I've been asking myself why she even bothered with that call. She was already gone at that point. I've been trying to read something into it. Maybe some hidden message in the call. But there's not one. Not that I can see, anyhow. She manipulated me as smoothly as if I'd been a complete stranger."

"Don't let yourself be swayed by Aaron's theory. He doesn't really believe she tried to kill us. But he has to accept that possibility before he can credibly rule it out."

I nodded. "I get that. And I don't think for a minute that she and Natalie Benton are the same person. That doesn't make me feel any better about her deception, though."

"She wouldn't have done that to you without a compelling reason, and given how she feels about you, my bet is that she was trying to protect you somehow."

I took a sip of coffee while I thought about that. "Okay. I'll accept that for the sake of argument. But what did she think she was protecting me from? If it hadn't been for George Davis, we'd all be dead."

"If Mary had known about the explosives, don't you think she would have told you somehow? Or at least tried to?"

"I'd like to think so. But…"

"Come on, Finn. Suck it up. We're going to sort this out."

"Yes, sir." I put my poker face on; Bob had just switched from being my mentor to his General Lawson mode. "No doubt about that."

"That's better. Keep your spirits up. Now, I got a message from Aaron overnight. The lab's been poking around in the shipyard's servers. They found some references to a refurbishment contract on another yacht that caused a scheduling conflict with the paint crew doing the work on Ceto. That may corroborate the story we got from Grant."

"All right," I said.

"Eat up and let's go call Aaron."

We finished our breakfast and went to Bob's suite.

"Finn and I are guessing that the scheduling conflict the lab picked up from the shipyard's email server had to do with painting the tanks," Bob said, wrapping up our report to Aaron.

"Yeah, it did. There was a thread of emails between Zinkovitch and the paint shop foreman about the schedule conflict."

Aaron told us that Zinkovitch had emailed the foreman, Harrison, asking his permission to bring in a contractor to paint the tanks. Zinkovitch explained that with the foreman taking the other paint crew on the road, the painting work on Ceto and the other vessels in the yard was backed up.

The emails also revealed that Zinkovitch also wanted to smooth and fair the welds, since they were visible. He suggested a larger radius would look better and be easier to keep clean, so there was more work than just priming and painting. They were already working two shifts just to keep up, so they would have to pay double time for a third shift to smooth the welds and paint. Using a contractor would avoid paying their regular employees for premium overtime, and the shipyard would save a significant amount in labor.

In one of the emails, Harrison mentioned that with the shipwrights installing the engines, the painting contractor's people would be too crowded to work efficiently. He approved Zinkovitch's request to work a third shift to supervise the contractor's work after the shipyard's second shift finished. That would keep the painters from interfering with the shipwrights' work. Zinkovitch said he was planning to use Lešković and that he had already discussed the contract with Lešković. Harrison approved all that in the last email of the thread.

"Blakely and Grant didn't mention any of that?" Aaron asked, after walking us through the emails.

I looked at Bob and raised my eyebrows, frowning.

Bob nodded at me, remembering that I wasn't on that call. "Not a word," he said. "But we have the advantage of hindsight. There's probably no reason Grant and Blakely would recall that kind of detail. In fairness to them, that all sounds like routine work until you throw the explosives into the mix. And just by the way, I'll bet that Grant didn't tell the foreman about the C4 when he was following up on my question. I don't know that for sure, but it just makes sense, given that Grant's part of the family that owns the place. He and Blakely are pretty shaken up by this, I imagine."

"Yeah, okay," Aaron said. "I'm gonna sic the lab on Zinkovitch and the foreman. Take a look at their finances and their police records if they have any. And we'll check out the contractor, too. I'll let you know what we find. Shouldn't be too long; the lab's got a head start, already."

"Thanks, Aaron," Bob said. "Let us know what you find."

"I will, but before you go, I have some news on Natalie Benton. She turned up on the southwestern outskirts of Miami."

"What's she doing there?" Bob asked. "Should Finn get on a plane?"

"No need. She's not going anywhere. They found her late yesterday. She's been dead for at least a day."

"Tell us the rest," I said.

"Some kids scavenging for aluminum cans found her body on the edge of a rest area off the Tamiami Trail and called the cops. She wasn't too long dead when they found her, or the gators would have dragged her away."

"How did they identify her?" I asked.

Aaron explained that a passport in the name of Natalie Benton was found in her effects. She had returned to Miami on Friday, the day before yesterday, after a two-day stay in Nassau, based on passport records. The lab had hacked into local law enforcement files. They discovered that Benton was found with her wrists and ankles bound with cable ties and drawn together behind her back, leaving little doubt that she was a murder victim. The cause of death was an overdose of thiopental sodium.

"Truth serum," I said. "She was interrogated. That has all the earmarks of Mary's work. I've seen her put 'em away like that after she's questioned them. Any sign of her in the vicinity?"

"We're working that angle," Aaron said. "It did look like the kind of thing Mary would do, but we don't have anything yet. We're waiting for law enforcement to figure out where Benton was when the killer abducted her. Once we have a location, we'll try for security camera videos and stills and run facial recognition to see if we can spot Mary. If that was Mary you saw leaving Nassau on Wednesday, she could have killed Benton. The timing works. Meanwhile, law enforcement has run Benton's prints. They found several hits, but no ID. They came back as belonging to an unknown person."

"Let me guess," I said. "Latent prints from crime scenes?"

"Yeah. All over the damn country. Homicides, every one. And most of them with no prints except hers and the victim's."

"Sounds like she was in the same line of work as Mary and me. But sloppy. Can't believe a pro would leave prints. Once in a while, maybe. Accidents happen. But prints at multiple hits? No way. Amateur."

"Maybe," Aaron said. "Or maybe she just didn't give a shit. Deadly, all the same. And dead."

"So where's law enforcement on their investigation?"

"We don't know, but we're running with it now. The lab's working to identify as many of Benton's victims as they can. We're gonna try to figure out if the victims are connected to one another, hoping we might puzzle out who she worked for. I'll let you know as soon as anything breaks."

"Thanks, Aaron," Bob said.

"You must be getting close to St. Thomas."

"Our ETA's 12:30 pm, local."

"Safe travels," Aaron said, disconnecting.

"If you'll excuse me, I need to cover some unrelated business with Mike," Bob said.

"See you in St. Thomas, then." I went back to my cabin, thinking a nap sounded like a good idea.

10

By early afternoon, Ceto was made fast to the face dock in an upscale marina in the eastern part of Charlotte Amalie's harbor. Bob and I were standing outside on the starboard wing of the bridge deck, chatting with Terry Reynolds. We were watching the crowds of cruise-ship tourists milling around the shops at the open-air mall a hundred yards to the east. Beyond the mall, a series of tall pylons supported heavy cables that carried gondolas loaded with sightseers up the hillside to the top of Paradise Point, almost a thousand feet above sea level.

We'd arrived at the time Reynolds predicted. He had just returned from handling our clearance with U.S. Customs and Immigration. We were discussing whether we would have lunch aboard or go ashore and stretch our legs while we found a restaurant that appealed to us.

There was a loud, ripping sound as Bob staggered back, falling away from the bridge deck's rail. His face going pale, he kept his footing and clutched his left shoulder with his right hand.

Reynolds wrapped Bob in a bear hug to drag him inside the wheelhouse. Several seconds passed as Reynolds struggled to get Bob to safety. Just as they got inside, there was a repeat of the sound. I had instinctively dropped to a crouch behind the solid, waist-high railing that enclosed the bridge deck. My eyes were drawn to the source of the noise, which had come from behind us and to our left.

Several feet back, I saw two splintered furrows cut into the teak deck. They were each several inches long and were separated by about a foot of undamaged teak decking. Two bullets had torn into the deck, but there had been no sound of a shot.

Ten seconds passed in silence. Deciding to risk it, I raised my head for a split second. There was no response to my brief exposure, so I shifted my position to peer over the rail, giving me a line of sight over the buildings in the mall to the hillside behind it. The ground rose sharply just to the other side of the mall, and my eyes were drawn to the cleared right of way where the cables for the gondolas ran overhead. The hillside was heavily wooded to either side of the cleared strip.

After a couple of seconds, I lowered my head. Staying below the top of the rail, I duck-walked inside, where I found Bob sitting in the helmsman's seat. His left shirtsleeve had been ripped aside, and Reynolds was applying pressure to a blood-soaked gauze pad on Bob's exposed left shoulder.

"Sniper," Bob said. "Damn near missed me completely."

"You were lucky," Reynolds said.

"What's the damage?" I asked. "Through and through?"

Reynolds shook his head. "Not even. It's a deep grazing wound, more like a wide cut. Should we call the cops?"

"No point," Bob said. "He's flown the coop by now."

"Looks like things are under control here," I said. "I'll be right back."

I went down to Bob's stateroom and took two Kevlar vests and a folding combat knife from his hidden armory. The knife was sturdy enough to dig the slugs out of the deck. I slipped it into my pocket and closed the concealed locker. By the time I got back to the bridge, Reynolds was securing a bandage over Bob's wound.

"Need stitches?" I asked.

"Wouldn't hurt," Reynolds said. "Davis will handle that shortly. I just called him to come up here. He's a qualified combat medic."

I looked at Bob. "No emergency room visit for you?"

He shook his head. "Gunshot wounds raise too many questions. What's with the vests?"

"We have two slugs in the deck. Before I recover them, I'd like to run a sightline up that hillside and get an idea of where the shooter was."

"Good idea," Reynolds said. "Then Davis and I can scout the location."

"Great minds think alike," I said. "That's my next step, but first I need to borrow you for a minute or two."

"Sure," Reynolds said. "Davis will be here in a second with his suture kit. What do you need?"

I handed him one of the Kevlar vests. "Put this on and come outside with me. I think our man's cleared out by now, but there's no point in taking more risk than we have to."

Davis arrived and went to work on Bob's shoulder as Reynolds and I put on the vests. Reynolds picked up a pair of binoculars from the chart table, and we stepped outside. For a moment, we stared up at the wooded hillside beyond the mall.

"If you don't mind, stand where Bob was," I said. "You're about his height."

Reynolds nodded and moved into position. I went over to the spot where the two bullets tore into the decking. Dropping into a prone position, I turned my face to the side so that I could see past Reynolds' left shoulder and up the hillside.

I guessed at the angles. Keeping my cheek down on the deck, I pictured an imaginary bullet passing through the bridge of my nose to exit from my head into the furrows in the deck. Satisfied that my eyes were in about the right spot, I studied the hillside just to the left of Reynolds' shoulder, picking out landmarks that would let us find the shooter's position.

"How's it look?" Reynolds asked.

"I have a pretty good fix," I said, rising to my feet. "He was off to the right of that cleared strip under the aerial cables, on the south side of the road. He wouldn't have been too far from where the road crosses the right of way. There's a straight stretch of road going up the hill that's close to the sightline. Can I use the glasses?"

He nodded and handed me the binoculars. I scanned the hillside, picking up the road. It took a gradual curve away from the sightline, heading toward a cluster of buildings that roughly fixed the distance to the sniper's position. As it was passing the buildings, the road made a hairpin turn to the right. After the hairpin turn, our view of the road was blocked by the trees until it crossed the right of way and turned to run parallel to it. My sightline ended in a clump of trees and undergrowth part-way up the hillside, just south of where the road crossed the right of way.

"Got it," I said. "Thanks." I gave the binoculars back to Reynolds and talked him through how to find the spot.

"Yeah, okay," he said. "I make that about 400 meters. Not a tough shot for somebody who knew his business. And he must have had a suppressor on his weapon. From here, that looks like a good hide, but there are quite a few buildings close by. Without a suppressor, the noise from the shots would have given him away to his neighbors."

"That's my guess, too," I said.

"I'll round up Davis and go check it out up close," Reynolds said.

"I'm going up there," I said, shaking my head. "One of you can come if you like, but three's a crowd. The shooter's most likely gone, but we don't want to draw too much attention to ourselves. Like you said, there are a lot of people around."

"Fair enough. I'll go with you, then. Wish we had some weapons."

"We'll cope," I said, not wanting to mention Bob's armory. "If he's still there, I'll handle him quietly."

Reynolds locked eyes with me for several seconds; his brow wrinkled. Finally, he nodded. "If you say so."

"We should put loose shirts over the vests," I said. "We need to look like tourists. I don't have anything that'll do. How about you?"

"Yeah, no sweat. I have several of those ventilated light-weight fishing shirts. We're about the same size. I'll fix you up. Let's step back into my cabin for a second."

"Perfect," I said. "Let's get moving."

Reynolds and I ambled through the crowds of tourists at the mall, acting casual to avoid drawing attention to ourselves. Once we crossed Long Bay Road, the crowd thinned out. We cut through a parking lot between a tattoo parlor and an office building. Exiting the parking lot onto Paradise Point Drive, we walked along the road, which ran up the hillside. We followed the road, strolling along the shoulder and pretending to make pictures of the birds and the iguanas with our cellphones.

A few hundred feet south of the spot where the road crossed the beginning of the cleared right of way, we paused, sipping bottled water. Waiting until there were no cars in sight, we left the road and headed east into the trees and brush that covered the hillside. When we'd gone far enough to be hidden by the vegetation, we altered course to approach the right of way.

Wanting to stay out of sight of the tourists overhead in the gondolas on their way to and from Paradise Point, we paralleled the path of the right of way up the hill. We stayed 50 to 100 meters inside the tree line, and when we heard a gondola coming, we crouched down in the brush until it passed. As we got closer to where we thought the sniper had been, we began to zigzag our way up the hill so that we wouldn't miss spotting any telltale signs.

We needn't have worried about that. We were approaching the area I'd pinpointed from Ceto's bridge deck, pausing every few steps to look back toward the marina. When we were up high enough to see over the mall's roofs to the marina, I stopped and raised the binoculars, studying Ceto and picturing Bob standing on the deck talking to Reynolds and me.

Just as I satisfied myself that we were close to the right spot, Reynolds gave the back of my vest a hard yank, almost pulling me off balance. I dropped into a crouch and turned to look at him. Already hunkered down, he put a finger across his lips and pointed farther up the hill. About twenty meters up the hillside and a little to our right, I spotted the glint of the afternoon sun on glass. Raising the binoculars for a better look, I saw the business end of a scope mounted on a camouflaged rifle poking through a screen of undergrowth.

Alarmed at the prospect that the sniper was still in position, I wondered how he had failed to spot us. We should have been sitting ducks. Berating myself for my rash assumption that he left after he shot Bob, I leaned close and cupped my hand around Reynolds' ear.

"He had to see us," I whispered.

Reynolds shook his head. Shifting to whisper in my ear, he said, "Target fixation, maybe. Zeroed in on Ceto. Not alert to his surroundings. No movement of the scope or the weapon in the last thirty seconds. If he knew we were here, he'd be looking at us, tracking us."

I nodded. Reynolds surprised me with his grasp of the ways a sniper might get in trouble. Filing that away for future consideration, I nodded and cupped his ear again, whispering that I would go left and he should go right. "When we're twenty to thirty meters apart, let's turn and work our way up the hill until we've got him on a line between us. We'll close in until we have a clear view of him. When I shriek like a seagull, you make a racket in the brush, and I'll rush him and take him out." I took the folding combat knife from my pocket and locked the blade open, showing him that I was armed.

Reynolds nodded his agreement, and we started creeping away from each other. Moving through the scrub palmetto in the undergrowth without making noise was slow going. It took us almost three minutes to get up to the sniper's level on the hillside. I turned and began to close in on him. I was pressed flat to the ground, slithering along in his direction, when I caught a glimpse of him through the brush.

He was on his side, facing me, with his head pointed downhill. His position was odd; he looked to be napping. The rifle was a few feet from him, propped on a bipod, aimed downhill. I did my best seagull imitation and was answered by a series of loud grunts and the sounds of a heavy body crashing through the undergrowth. As I lunged to my feet and charged the sniper, I couldn't help thinking Reynolds sounded like a wild boar on a rampage. The sniper didn't move.

In a few more feet, I could see that he was hog-tied, his wrists and ankles cinched together behind his back. I shifted direction and picked up his unattended rifle, an M40A5. I worked the bolt to make sure there was a round in the chamber and verified that the safety was off as I scanned our surroundings in case the sniper wasn't working solo. Reynolds joined me in the small clearing where the man lay, still unmoving.

"Cover us in case there's someone else around," I said, handing the weapon to Reynolds.

I squatted next to the bound man and put two fingers on his throat, feeling for a pulse. "Dead," I said, looking up at Reynolds. "But not for long."

I was about to get up when I noticed the dead man's left pants leg had been slit, exposing the inside of his thigh. I pulled the fabric aside and found an IV needle taped in place with its tip in his femoral artery. A clear vinyl tube ran from the needle to a syringe that had fallen inside the split-open pants leg.

"I don't think there's anybody around to bother us," I said. It was obvious to me that in the time that elapsed since he took his shots at Bob, someone had interrogated the sniper and then dispatched him with an overdose, probably using sodium thiopental. And I had a pretty good idea as to who might have done it. "You can relax," I said.

Reynolds frowned for a moment. "Why do you say that?"

"See the syringe?"

Reynolds nodded, his eyes still in motion, scanning our surroundings despite my reassurance that we were safe. "What about it?"

"Somebody was sure enough that he was alone that they took time to interrogate him before they killed him. If he had a partner, there'll be another body out here somewhere."

"How do you know that?" Reynolds asked, still on full alert.

"I recognize his killer's signature. It's not my first encounter with the person who did this. But I'm surprised the syringe was left behind. Must have been in a hurry."

Reynolds looked at me, frowning. After studying me for a few seconds, he nodded. "Okay. I'll see if there's any ID on him."

"All right." I turned my attention to the weapon Reynolds had laid on the ground between us.

Removing the ten-round box magazine, I found eight rounds of 7.62×51-millimeter ammunition. The rifle was fitted with a Surefire muzzle brake and sound suppressor. The scope was a Schmidt and Bender 12×50. I looked up to find Reynolds watching my examination of the rifle.

"You know that piece?" he asked.

I nodded.

"That's a Marine Corps variant," he said. "The whole works. The M40, the suppressor, and the scope."

I nodded again, curious about why he knew that. He was well-informed on some arcane subjects to have been just a junior Army infantry officer. "Yes. Find anything in his pockets?"

"Nothing. Now what?"

"See if you can find the spent brass over there where he shot from. I'll wipe down the rifle," I said. "We'll leave it for the cops to find; that should keep them busy for a while. Did you touch anything else that might hold prints?"

"Nope. We calling the police?" Reynolds dropped to his hands and knees, combing the grass where the spent shells would have fallen.

"No. We're going to haul ass back to Ceto, in case somebody else already called 'em."

"No brass. The killer must have taken it," Reynolds said. "We should go back the same way we came," he said. "Don't want anybody to spot us in the area."

"You got that right," I said. "One more thing I need to do."

I took my cellphone from my pocket and took a picture of the dead man's face. Then I wiped the phone's screen with the tail of my shirt. Moving behind the body, I pressed all eight of the victim's fingertips and both thumbs to the screen. I took out a clean handkerchief and wrapped the phone to protect the fingerprints.

"Clever," Reynolds said.

"The fruit of experience. Let's go."

11

When Reynolds and I were back aboard Ceto, I returned the shirt he loaned me and collected the Kevlar vest he wore. He went to see how Davis was progressing with the removal of the C4, and I went down to Bob's suite to return the vests.

Given Bob's wound, I expected he would be resting. He seemed no worse for the stitches in his shoulder, though. I found him sitting at the conference table, tapping on the keyboard of a notebook computer.

He looked up as I entered. "Well?"

"Mary's been here," I said, opening the hidden locker and stowing the vests.

"What?!"

I closed the locker and sat down across the table from Bob. "Reynolds and I went to a lot of effort to sneak up the hillside to where we thought the sniper's hide was." I told Bob about Reynolds spotting the scoped rifle and described how we circled through the undergrowth to surprise the sniper. "And when we got to him, we were too late."

Bob frowned. "Too late?"

"He was hog-tied. Wrists and ankles behind his back. And freshly dead."

The furrow between Bob's eyebrows deepened. "Dead how?"

"My best guess is from an OD of sodium thiopental. Just like Natalie Benton." I told Bob about the IV and the syringe. "I'm guessing about the drug, based on Benton's cause of death."

"And about Mary, too," Bob said. "But the M.O. sure sounds familiar. If it was Mary, where the hell is she now?"

"I wish I knew. We couldn't have missed her by much."

"No? I confess I've lost track of time. How long's it been since he shot at us?"

"About two, two and a half hours. It had been about an hour and a half by the time we found him. I figure she jumped him right after he fired. Maybe even kept him from taking a third shot. Tied him up and questioned him." I told Bob about the rifle. "And we couldn't find any brass. She must have picked it up, but I'm not sure why."

Bob shrugged. "Hoping to get his prints from it, maybe? You seem awfully sure it was Mary who killed him."

"I have an open mind, but she's my best guess right now. And she wouldn't have needed prints; she already knew enough about him to follow him up there."

"Could be. Did you check the area to make sure he was working solo?"

"We did a quick scan from his hiding place. We didn't want to stay there any longer than we had to. But if he had a helper, I'm sure she got him before she jumped the sniper. Otherwise, she wouldn't have been able to question him."

"Makes sense," Bob said. "Did you find anything else?"

"I've got a mug shot, plus his prints on the screen of my phone. Soon as I have a chance to dust it and lift 'em, I'll send it all to Aaron. That's about it."

Bob nodded.

"Speaking of Aaron, did you tell him about getting shot?" I asked.

"Yes. I was trying to decide whether to call him or wait until you and Terry got back, but Aaron called not long after you left. He had fresh info on Zinkovitch and the contractor."

"What's that?" I asked.

"The feds have had both of them under surveillance for months. They're building a case for drug smuggling and money laundering. Both of them are connected to the Bratva, the Russian mob. That auto body shop the contractor owns is a chop shop, dealing in stolen late-model luxury cars, but that's just the tip of the iceberg. They're building secret compartments into vehicles that the Russian mob uses for smuggling drugs and weapons. And cash, too."

Bob explained that the lab discovered that Zinkovitch and the contractor had a side hustle doing similar modifications on boats. "They use some of the people who work in the body shop."

"Interesting," I said. "And what about Grant?"

"He's clean, as best the lab can tell. He's not on law enforcement's radar, and there's nothing suspicious about his personal finances. Divorced, single, living alone. No children. His ex lives in Texas with her new husband."

"Okay. Anything else from Aaron?" I asked.

Bob shook his head. "Not about our problems. But they've finished vetting our crew. All's well there. Nothing for us to worry about."

"Glad to hear that."

"How did you find working with Terry Reynolds?" Bob asked, closing the lid of his laptop and leaning back in his chair. "Speaking of the crew."

"Good. He's an easy dog to hunt with. I like him."

Bob smiled. "I thought you would."

"He seemed right at home creeping through the underbrush."

"He would."

I looked Bob in the eye and leaned back in my chair, crossing my legs. "And he knew all about the rifle that guy was using. Even tagged it as the Marine Corps version of the M40. Surprised me a little, for an Army infantry officer. What's his background, anyway? You've never said."

"He's one of us, Finn. I held off telling you about him to see if you two could work together. You comfortable with him?"

"Yes, but how much does he know about what we do?"

"Not too much yet. I want to read him in, but I've been waiting for the lab to finish their background checks."

"I'm surprised you bothered to have Aaron check Reynolds, based on what you just told me," I said.

"He and Davis recommended the other three men, and I didn't know them or Davis at all. Besides, it never hurts to double and triple check."

"Will you fill Reynolds in now?"

"Soon," Bob said. "I wanted your reaction first. And Mary's, but…"

I frowned. "If you trust him with our secrets, that's your call. And Mike's, obviously."

I got up and went to the wet bar, helping myself to a chilled bottle of water from the refrigerator. I looked over my shoulder, catching Bob's eye. "Get you something?"

He shook his head. "No, thanks. I'm going to tell you about Reynolds' background. This is on a strict need to know basis. It's still classified at the highest level, but I want your thoughts and your full concurrence before we open up completely with new people."

Bob paused, locking eyes with me as I sat down again.

"Tell me about him," I said.

"You'll have a little time to get to know them better. Until we resolve the question of Mary, you and Reynolds may have to work as partners, although Mike and I planned for him and Davis to work together as a separate team. I trust Reynolds, but I don't know what he's like to work with as a partner in the trenches. Your insight is important."

"Okay. If it's a go, what do you expect Reynolds and Davis to be doing?" I asked.

"To be determined. Let me tell you about them; you were already a little surprised by the chemistry between them, based on your question about why a former SEAL would play second fiddle to a former Army officer."

I nodded. "I'm all ears."

"All right. Don't share this with anybody. Mary will be an exception to that, assuming we get her back in the fold, but otherwise, don't mention it to anyone — even Reynolds."

"I understand. I won't say a word." Taken aback, I had some reservations. But I resolved to trust Bob, at least for now.

Bob cleared his throat. "Okay. First, this is why Davis is willing to work for him. Terry Reynolds is the second person ever to be awarded the Congressional Medal of Honor in secret. You know the story of the one Eisenhower arranged, right? From the Korean conflict?"

Shocked, I nodded.

"I see a question on your face, Finn. Ask it."

"If it was secret, how do you know? And Davis?"

"Terry was serving in my command when I nominated him for it. I'm not going to tell you where he was. It doesn't matter. You were in deep shit once yourself, before Mike tapped you for the Department. You of all people will understand that Terry doesn't like to revisit what happened. And as for George Davis, he was the only surviving member of a team that got caught in the same kind of situation you and Aaron did. George took his team into one of those places… On one of those assignments…" Bob looked me in the eye and paused, waiting for my agreement.

"Got it," I said.

"Reynolds wasn't your ordinary junior intel officer. He was one of my troubleshooters. When I learned through channels that Davis was alive and in captivity, I sent Reynolds in with his three subordinates on an extraction mission. His top priority was to bring Davis back before his captors could interrogate him. Failing that, his orders were to liquidate Davis. It cost Reynolds the lives of his team, and damn near his own, but he brought Davis out. Not only did he accomplish his primary mission, but he wiped out a platoon-sized guard detail that was securing the facility where Davis was held. And before he left, he interrogated the officer in charge and brought back intelligence that literally changed the course of U.S. foreign policy. That's all I can tell you, except that Reynolds was okay with my filling you in on his background. I'll let him know I've done it, but you shouldn't mention it to him unless he brings it up. He doesn't like to talk about it."

"Okay, but I have one question."

Bob raised his eyebrows and nodded. "Ask."

"Just a moment ago, you said you didn't know Davis."

"I don't. Not very well. I only met him briefly before I hired him. But I know the admiral he was working for when he got in trouble. He's an old friend. He called me and asked for help to extract Davis. That's when I sent Reynolds in."

"Thanks for clearing that up," I said. "I understand about those two now."

"Good. I knew you would. Davis looks up to Reynolds for the same reason Aaron looks up to you. Now, let's call Aaron and bring him up to speed on what you and Reynolds learned."

"I have to admit, that does sound like Mary's work," Aaron said, after I told him about finding the sniper's body. "I'll get somebody to look at flights in and out of St. Thomas. See if we can spot her. And we'll run the mug shot and those prints you collected from the shooter. I'll get back to you on both things ASAP. Bob?"

"Yes?"

"Nothing to add?"

"No. Finn's the one with all the info. My only contribution was to get shot."

"Okay. On a different subject, we've finished digging into Grant's background, and we still haven't turned up anything suspicious. The foreman could go either way, and Zinkovitch and Lešković are definitely dirty, but we're still uncovering more details on them. I should have a better picture in the morning. How about touching base around lunchtime tomorrow?"

"Good," Bob said. "Thanks, Aaron. We'll call you then."

"Right. Have a good evening." Aaron disconnected.

"Anything else we need to cover?" I asked.

"Not that I can think of."

"I could really use a shower after crawling through the undergrowth."

"Go for it," Bob said. "See you for cocktails in the dining area soon."

"All right," I said, and headed back to my cabin.

12

Awakened by the first rays of sunlight coming through the port-light in my cabin, I changed into a pair of cutoffs and a faded T-shirt advertising a yachtie bar in Jost van Dyke. I laced up a pair of running shoes and went ashore. Not that I planned to run, but my legs were stiff from slithering through the brush yesterday. I desperately needed to stretch them.

It was still too early for many people to be out. The shops on the marina grounds weren't open yet, nor were the ones in the big mall across the street to the east. Only locals, boaters, and runners were likely to be out and about this early.

Leaving the marina's parking lot, I turned left, walking west along Veterans Drive toward Fort Christian and downtown Charlotte Amalie. Iguanas and seagulls were the only company I had for the first half mile or so. As I got closer to the public dinghy dock on the west side of Frederiksberg Point, I began to see a few people with dark tans dressed like me — fellow boaters ashore to run errands before the crowds of cruise-ship tourists took over.

As I approached the dinghy dock, I felt my encrypted satellite phone vibrate. Slipping it out of the holster on my belt, I found a text from Aaron. I tapped the icon to open it. Call me as soon as you have a few minutes to yourself. It's personal. That was unusual enough to rattle me. There were two benches set back a bit from the seawall, both unoccupied. I parked myself on the end of one and called Aaron.

"You where you can talk in private?" he asked, picking up the call.

"Yes. What's up?"

"Abby left a voicemail on that emergency line you set up for her."

"Shit! How long ago?"

Aaron and I set up that voice mailbox a few years ago when Abby became a part of my life. Until she was in college, she thought I was dead. Abby was raised by my ex-wife and her now-deceased husband, but that's a story for another time. She didn't know what I did for a living. Aware that Mary worked with me and that our jobs were classified, she knew that in most respects, I was my own boss and had some flexibility in my schedule.

Abby understood that while my work sometimes made me unavailable, I was never completely out of touch. I had assured her that if she ever needed to reach me, she could leave a voicemail at the special number I gave her. Cautioning her that all she should say was that she needed me with no further explanation, I told her I would respond as quickly as I could.

"She hung up a minute or two before I sent the text," Aaron said.

"She give any details?"

"Nope. She takes after you. Tradecraft's gotta be in her genes. Not even her name or phone number. She just said, 'Call me.'"

"Can you set up a secure connection right now?"

"Yep. You ready?"

"Yes," I said.

"Okay. Just so you know, she'll see caller ID from the dean's office at the university. She may sound confused when she hears your voice."

Abby picked up after two rings, answering with a rising inflection. "Hello?"

"You asked me to call. Are you okay?"

"Yes. I wasn't expecting you so soon. I didn't mean to alarm you, but she said it was important that you get the message she left."

"She?" I asked.

"You told me if I ever used this number not to use any names."

"Good for you. How did you get the message, and how do you know who it's from?"

"Under my door sometime during the early morning hours after we got home. It's in her handwriting."

"Okay. And what does it say?"

"Urgent. Tell him to drop everything and check in the same old place."

"Great. Thanks; you handled this exactly the right way. I'll be here if you need me again. Otherwise, we can talk later. Be safe."

"You, too." And she was gone.

Aaron came back on the line. "That was quick."

"Did you listen?"

"Of course not; the system just flipped you back to me when the call dropped. It was an end-to-end encrypted path. No way I could have listened even if I wanted to. Is she all right?"

"Yes. Mary stuck a note under her door in the wee hours. Abby recognized her handwriting. And Abby was perfect; didn't give away a damn thing, no names, nothing. She didn't even slip in an accidental 'Dad.'"

"You could have been open with her," Aaron said. "That's why we used an encrypted connection."

"I didn't want to encourage her to let her guard down. We may not always have the luxury of end-to-end encryption. Anyway, Mary wants me to check our blind email drop."

"I didn't know you had one active," Aaron said.

"We never shut down the last one we used, I guess. She used the keyword, 'drop,' and said to check in the same old place."

"It must have been idle for what? A couple of years?" Aaron asked. "I'm surprised the provider hasn't deleted it by now, unless it was being used."

"Could be. Maybe it did get wiped and she just replicated it. I need to get back to Ceto so I'll have secure internet access. I'll let you know what's happening. Meanwhile, keep this to yourself until you hear from me, okay?"

"You bet. Bye." Aaron disconnected.

13

The walk had limbered up my legs, so I ran back to the marina at a fast pace. Once in my cabin, I opened my laptop and plugged it into Ceto's ethernet connection. Navigating to the email address Mary and I had last used as a blind drop, I logged in, hoping I remembered the password correctly. To my immense relief, my memory didn't fail me. I checked the account's "drafts" folder. Sure enough, there was a message from Mary, time-stamped late last night.

Hey, Sailor.

Sorry to bail out like I did, but it was in the best interests of us and Phorcys. I'm pretty sure you saw me at the airport in Nassau a few days ago. I wanted to connect right after that, but things were moving too fast. My sources tell me the lab's been hot on my trail, so you may know some of this already. Or at least suspect it. More later on how I know about the lab. For now, I'll start at the beginning.

The night before we left Georgia, I got a message from my old broker. Thankfully, she still feels compelled to look out for me. Or she's remembering the commissions she earned on my work and hopes to lure me back into her fold. No matter which. She picked up word through her contacts that there was a hit planned on Bob. She knew about our family connection when she recruited me way back when. Not sure how, but it doesn't matter, except that's why she sent me the message. She doesn't know who put out the contract. It didn't go through her. She referred to him as the customer.

The contract was picked up by a woman who called herself Natalie Benton. I'll skip the details. They've been overtaken by events, anyway. The broker reconnected me with the intel operators I used back when I was freelancing. Bunch of top flight hackers. They're not as good as the lab, but they're good enough, and I've bought their goodwill with plenty of cash over the years. They're doing well at helping me track down the players, and they're the ones who discovered that someone's on my trail. I'm guessing it's the lab — the hackers couldn't tell who it was.

Here's the quick version of what Benton did. Her client, the customer, told her that Bob was building that expedition yacht, Ceto. The customer had explosives planted aboard during Ceto's construction. Benton's job was to set them off while Bob was aboard.

She found out from the customer that Bob was going to meet Ceto in Nassau for the rest of her sea trials. Benton hired a guy named Lucas Weatherford from Miami, who did odd jobs for the cartels in the islands. Paid him to follow Ceto until they were in a good spot for him to set off the explosives.

I caught up with Benton after she met Weatherford in Nassau to get him started. Then I followed her back to Miami, where I made her acquaintance. She told me as much as she knew. That's where I got the info above, but she didn't know who was paying her. Benton didn't survive our meeting, but Aaron probably knows that by now.

Benton's customer isn't happy. Gossip is making the rounds that the guy she hired in Nassau — that would be Weatherford — took off with his down payment and disappeared without setting off the explosives. Or maybe you got him and they know it. Either way, the customer's pissed off.

Somebody — you? Bob? Aaron? — was asking questions at the shipyard that built Ceto. Word got back to whoever planted the explosives through a contact at the shipyard.

The shipyard's project manager was trying to find answers to your questions. The customer had him killed, along with at least one of his immediate subordinates. The shipyard employee who helped plant the explosives has disappeared. Maybe they got him, too.

Because of the questions being asked at the shipyard, Benton said the customer guessed the explosives had failed or had been discovered. The customer hired a sniper to take out Bob in St. Thomas, but you know all about that.

You and I missed meeting on the hillside below Paradise Point Overlook by only a few minutes. I watched you and that handsome kid climbing up to the sniper's nest. Sorry I couldn't stick around, but I had to get back to the States to keep chasing leads on who's behind this.

Did you find the sniper's spotter? Her body was about 30 yards farther up the hill. I took her down first and was about to question her when the shooter started firing. His first round changed my priorities. I killed the spotter so I could stop him. As it was, he fired a second round before I got to him. I hope he didn't hit anybody. The spotter must have been the brains of their operation. The shooter didn't know anything worthwhile.

He claimed to have been a Marine, and he said his name was Richard Ellis. Neither he nor the spotter had any ID. Let me know if that name matches up with what you get back from the mugshot and fingerprints you took from his corpse. Clever using your phone to capture his prints.

That's all I know so far. Sorry I didn't get in touch sooner, but I've been on airplanes most of the time since you dropped me in Jacksonville. I apologize for the misleading story about the condo, but I just didn't have time to explain. It was way too complicated. At that point, I was working against the clock, plus there's one more little problem I'm about to get to.

Leave me an answer to let me know you got this, at least. If you respond via this drop, I'll keep you in the loop this way. If you know more than I've mentioned, pass it on to me. I'm still on the team.

One last thing. Based on what my hacker sources have learned, there has to be a leak in Phorcys. You'd better keep my participation quiet except from Bob and Aaron. But tell Aaron to keep trying to track me. It's good for my cover, because the other side knows Phorcys is looking for me, according to my intel sources.

Later, Sailor.

I took screenshots of the draft email and deleted it without ever having removed it from the drafts folder of the email account. Downloading it or manipulating it online would have transmitted it over the web, increasing the risk of a hacker seeing it. I left a quick answer for Mary in the drafts folder, thanking her and promising to check back every four hours. I suggested she should do the same until we had a better way to communicate.

Having done that, I moved the screenshots to my encrypted phone and went in search of Bob to fill him in. It wasn't yet time for breakfast, so I tapped on the door of his suite. He opened it and raised his eyebrows when he saw me.

"Sorry to disturb you, but I've just heard from Mary."

His eyes narrowed to slits and his face flushed. "I'm on a call with Mike. We're wrapping up. Come in and have a seat. I'll join you in a minute." He went into his bedroom and closed the door.

I parked myself at the desk in the corner of the dining area, trying to make sense of my mixed feelings about Mary's message. The LED on the desk telephone stopped flashing and glowed red when Bob picked up the call on the extension in his bedroom. Now that I was in waiting mode, a snarl of conflicting emotions began to unravel from the tight bundle I squeezed them into when I first glimpsed that draft email.

Hurt, relieved, angry, worried — but mostly stunned. My feelings ran the gamut in the few seconds after I read Mary's opening paragraph. I rolled them all into a crude bundle like a basket of snakes and pushed it out of my mind. Years of living on the edge had conditioned me to deal with mission-critical matters before indulging in the luxury of reacting on a personal level. But now that I was momentarily idle…

Bob's sudden, "What the hell, Finn?" snapped me back to the present.

I lurched to my feet and showed Bob the screenshots of Mary's message. His face was still flushed and getting darker the more he read. In a couple of seconds, the hue passed through the spectrum from pink to a deep red, almost maroon.

He shook his head and looked up at me. "Does Aaron know about this?"

"Only that I got a message from her. Nothing about the contents." I explained that Abby called the emergency contact number Aaron maintained for her exclusive use. "He called me and patched me through to Abby on an encrypted line, but he didn't listen in. After I talked to Abby, I told him that Mary slipped a note under Abby's door. We disconnected and I came back here to read Mary's message online."

Bob nodded. "Under Abby's door, you said. But not this message? Right?"

"No, not this message," I said. I described Mary's cryptic note to Abby. "Mary knows about the emergency number we set up for Abby. By the way, that puts Mary in Gainesville after midnight, based on Abby's estimation. Aaron's working on that, but he doesn't know what Mary wanted yet."

Bob nodded, frowning. "A leak," he muttered, shaking his head. "Unbelievable. Exactly how did you get this message in the screenshot?"

I told him how Mary and I connected.

"A blind email drop," Bob said. "Okay." He re-read the Mary's message. "At least she's still on our side. Seems to be, anyhow. But I don't see why she took off on her own."

"She's done it before," I said. "She had her reasons then. Maybe she does now."

Bob looked me in the eye, holding my gaze for several seconds. "I know she doesn't share our background, but…" He shook his head. "Damnit. This isn't the time, but when the dust clears, we need to make her understand that this kind of behavior isn't acceptable. She's not freelancing any longer. She's part of a team now that she's with Phorcys, and she has to learn to work in our environment. We'll deal with it once we complete the mission."

"She has a different perspective from us old soldiers, Bob. Her ideas were valuable the other times she went solo."

He held my eye for a moment longer, then nodded and looked down at the screenshots. Handing my phone back to me, he said, "You send these to Aaron while I get him on the horn."

By the time I sent the screenshots to Aaron using our encrypted email server, Bob was at the conference table, talking to him on an encrypted line.

"Finn's here with me, Aaron," Bob said, gesturing for me to sit. "Do you have that copy of Mary's message?"

"Yes." Aaron's voice came from the speaker on the table. "I'm skimming it as I — Shit! A leak? How? Where?"

"That's your department," Bob said. "Find it. Make it your highest priority."

"I'm on it as soon as we're off the phone. We started looking for any trace of Mary around Gainesville last night when Finn told me about the message she left under Abby's door. Nothing yet, but we're still working on it."

"Any news yet on her being in St. Thomas yesterday?" I asked.

"Maybe," Aaron said. "We've got some possibles from security videos, but we haven't confirmed anything yet. If it was her we spotted, she would have gotten back here in plenty of time to leave the note for Abby, if that's what's worrying you."

"I was going to — " Bob cut me off with a wave of his hand.

"Never mind that," he said. "Finding her isn't as important as finding the leak now that we know she hasn't switched sides. Call me back in an hour and brief us on how you plan to stop the leak. And don't assume that it's in the lab. It could be anywhere — our cars, houses, aircraft, cellphones — nobody and nowhere is above suspicion. Meanwhile, I need to let Mike know about this. Questions?"

"No, sir, but one quick update on the shipyard. Jim Grant's dead."

"Damn," Bob said. "How?"

"We don't know yet. He didn't show up for their staff meeting this morning and wasn't answering his phone. Somebody from the shipyard went to check on him and found the body. We picked that up from monitoring local law enforcement activity in Maine. They suspect foul play, but that's all we know. I'll talk to you in an hour."

"Good. We'll get to the bottom of this. For now, keep it among the four of us: you, me, Mike and Finn."

"Yes, sir. Got it."

"All right. Talk to you soon. Goodbye for now."

Bob ended the call. "Stick around, Finn. I want to call with Mike about this. You keep me on track. Send a copy of Mary's message to him while I set up the call, please."

I nodded. As Bob placed the call, I sent Mike a copy of my earlier email to Aaron with the screenshots.

When Mike answered, Bob gave him a brief update, letting him know to check for my email. After listening to Mike privately for a few seconds, Bob said, "Finn's here. I'm going to put you on the speaker now."

"Hello, Finn. Any thoughts on this leak?"

"Good morning, Mike. I haven't worked my way through the possibilities yet, but I have to wonder about the shipyard."

"But Bob said Mary pointed the finger at Phorcys," Mike said. "And I'm looking at her closing comments as I speak."

Bob told Mike about our upcoming briefing with Aaron. "You know as much as we do right now. Should we patch you in on that?"

"Yes. But first, let's explore Finn's shipyard idea."

Bob looked at me and nodded. "Finn?"

"Independent of Mary's comments about the info from Benton, Aaron uncovered a connection between the lead man on the shipyard's paint crew and a known member of the Russian mob. They're the two we suspect of planting the explosives on Ceto."

"Yes," Mike said. "Bob told me about that earlier. That meshes pretty well with what Mary said. On a different topic, do you have any idea why she suggested there's a leak in Phorcys?"

"No, sir. But Aaron's got more details on the Russian mob connections. We're pretty sure the lead man on that paint crew, a man named Zinkovitch, and a contractor named Alex Lešković planted the explosives. Lešković owns an auto body shop and chop shop dealing in stolen luxury cars. Zinkovitch brought him in to do the paint work on Ceto's fuel tanks. Aaron confirmed that both of them are targets of a federal investigation into drug smuggling and money laundering. Mary didn't give any sign that she knew about that. I figure Lešković's the one Mary referred to as the customer in her message."

"So you're suggesting that Zinkovitch may have passed info on Bob's plans to the mob, to this Lešković?"

"It's a possibility," I said. "The mob might have targeted Bob for some reason and found out about Ceto. Then Lešković could have enlisted Zinkovitch and learned about the plans for the sea trial. Mary seemed to have it the other way around, but my version's more likely. They could have recruited the Benton woman to trigger the explosives at the critical time. Mary said Benton didn't know who she was working for."

"So you think this mobster, Lešković, hired Benton and kept her in the dark as to who he was?" Mike asked.

"No reason for him to share that with her, and it helped keep his involvement quiet."

"Have you mentioned that to Aaron?"

Bob looked at me, raising his eyebrows. I shook my head.

"No," Bob said. "Not yet."

"Good," Mike said. "Let's see what he comes up with before you open that possibility. It's certainly more palatable than a leak in Phorcys. Let Aaron know to patch me in for that briefing. I'll still be here then. I need to make a couple of calls before that, though. We done for now?"

"Yes," Bob said. "Thanks, Mike. Talk to you soon."

14

An hour later, Bob and I were still in his suite on the conference call with Aaron and Mike. Aaron outlined his plan to check for leaks, emphasizing that the scale of the problem was significant.

"I've already started pulling records of everyone's online activities, looking for anything that doesn't directly relate to their assigned tasks. Ditto for phone records, including personal cellphone usage patterns, to see if there's anything anomalous over the last few months. Once I vet the four of us, I'll clear my two key direct reports. If they're clean, I'll bring them into the loop to make sure none of our communications and computer systems have been compromised. That'll let us move a little faster."

Aaron outlined a tiered process, working down the chain of command one level at a time until everyone had been evaluated. "Realistically, that's going to take two or three days, at least."

Mike and Bob peppered him with detailed questions. True to form, Aaron had solid answers to their concerns, and he accepted their suggestions as to ways he could streamline the process. I kept my mouth shut.

After about 20 minutes of discussion, Mike said, "Good, Aaron. Make it happen. We should make this a routine activity from now on, given the way our organization has grown. Now, unless you have something else related to looking for the leak, Finn has some ideas to kick around about the two attempts on Bob's life. Finn?"

I spent a few minutes covering the thoughts I had shared with Mike and Bob earlier.

"Finn's version is more consistent with the facts than Mary's," Aaron said, when I finished. "There aren't any big differences between his assessment and Mary's, but she doesn't have our background data on Zinkovitch and Lešković, unless Finn's passed that along to her."

"I haven't," I said. "Not yet."

"I'll be curious to hear her reaction when you do," Aaron said. "The question that's bugging me is why the Russian mob has targeted Bob. Also, if it went down the way Finn suggests, it could have happened without a leak in our shop. I'd like to know more about why Mary thinks Phorcys is the source of the Russian mob's intel."

"I'll pursue that with her in our next exchange," I said. "Did you pick up Mary's trail in Gainesville yet?"

"Not yet. And I haven't found any trace of Zinkovitch, either. Lešković is still running his chop shop, though. He's there every day. I've put the brakes on our effort to look into that federal investigation into the two of them, though. Until I can clear the people I have working that angle, I don't want to risk tipping our hand, in case we do have a leak."

"Fair enough," Mike said. "But those two are probably our best leads. Try to clear — Excuse me for a second."

There was a click as Mike put us on hold. "Good work, Aaron," Bob said.

"Thanks. Wish there was a faster way for me to say yea or nay on the leak, though. This puts a serious hitch in our — "

"I'm back," Mike said, rejoining the call. "Sorry for the interruption. That was my driver. I'm due to head into D.C. for a client meeting as soon as we're done here. He just now did a routine check of the car before he brought it around to the front of the house. Found a bomb under the rear seat, wired to pressure sensors on both sides of the seat. He disarmed it, and he's checking the security videos of the garage now. Looks like Bob's not the only target. That says the motive's not personal, anyhow. Whoever's behind this looks to be aiming at Phorcys, not just Bob. Does that trigger any thoughts? Anybody?"

"Yes," I said. "Going back to early days, about the time Mary and I joined you. Remember that whole mess that started with the O'Hanlons and the Daileys? Mary was still freelancing then, busy shutting down their drug-running and money-laundering operation."

"That was right before we recruited her," Bob said. "And you, Finn. But what's that got to do with our current problem?"

"The Russian mob was muscling in on the O'Hanlons' action," Aaron said.

"That's my point," I said.

I was still part of the old "Department" then. My boss, the woman running the place at that point, had been corrupted by the Russians, but that's a long story.

"That was about when Mary went AWOL the first time," Aaron said.

Mary and I had teamed up to finish off the remains of the O'Hanlon operation by then. She had indeed taken off on her own to chase down a target of opportunity when she was kidnapped and drugged in Charleston, South Carolina. Her captors were holding her aboard a yacht named Anastasia, which was moored in a marina there.

Mike laughed. "I remember that. She got snatched by the people she was chasing, but it backfired on them."

Backfired was an understatement. Mary killed Anastasia's whole crew. Thirteen people. And then she disappeared again. Phorcys sent me to track her down and decide whether she could be salvaged.

"Here we are again," I said. "Déjà vu."

"We came out of that all right," Mike said. "It was the yacht, Anastasia, that clued us in to the Russian involvement."

"Yes. It belonged to a mystery man named Uri Lavrov," I said. "We broke up his party, but he rode off into the sunset."

"You don't suppose…" Bob said.

"I hate to break up the trip down memory lane," Mike said, "but I need to get myself into D.C. for that client meeting."

"And we need to let Aaron get back to work on the leak," Bob said.

"It's past time for me to respond to Mary," I said. "I'll see what else she can tell us about this leak business."

Needing a change of scenery, I took my laptop up on deck and settled in a chair that gave me a view looking west across the harbor. Gazing at the tourists sailing their small, rented boats through the peaceful anchorage, I composed a message to Mary. Updating her on the details of the situation, I asked her to share everything she knew about the leak from Phorcys. I wrote it out longhand and then signed in to the blind email drop. Opening the drafts folder, I noticed Mary had deleted the brief response I left for her this morning. In its place was a short note agreeing to my proposed four-hour schedule. After I deleted her response, I typed in a new draft, reading from my handwritten notes.

I was supposed to meet Bob for a private lunch in his suite at noon. Dropping my laptop off at my cabin, I burned my paper notes and flushed the ashes down the head before I went to Bob's suite. Knocking once on his door, I let myself in. He was on the phone, but he waved me over to his desk. I sat down in a guest chair.

"Finn's here, Mike. I'm going to put you on the speaker."

"Hey, Finn. Did you bring Mary up to speed?"

"I left her a message in our drop. Could be a few hours before she checks, I guess."

"All right. I just left 1600. We have a new project. Your timing's perfect. I was about to fill Bob in. You sitting down? This'll take a few minutes."

"Yes, sir." Mike's mention of 1600 got my attention. That's typically how he referred to the White House.

"Okay. Turns out you were prescient."

I looked at Bob and raised my eyebrows. He shook his head and pointed at me.

"I was?"

"Yes. The Russians are our new target, specifically a man called Molot. Not only that, but this assignment ties back to those data centers that were part of Uri Lavrov's game. Déjà vu, indeed. There's another election on the horizon."

"Is Uri Lavrov back?" I asked.

"In spirit, at least," Mike said. "Maybe in person, but we don't know that."

When the Russian Mafia took over the O'Hanlon drug-running and money-laundering operation a few years ago, we initially thought it was a simple turf battle between rival criminal organizations. It was only after we shut them down that the feds found several hidden server farms, self-contained data centers, concealed within properties that belonged to the O'Hanlon organization. The first one they found had been wiped clean and offered no clue as to what it was used for.

"What do we know about Molot?" Bob asked. "And how is he involved with those old data centers? I thought the feds got rid of all of them."

Before she joined Phorcys, Mary had infiltrated Rory O'Hanlon's organization to carry out a series of contract hits. She became well acquainted with the way the O'Hanlon gang ran their business. When we learned about the data centers back then, she pointed out that the O'Hanlons had no need for a single data center, let alone several huge server farms. "I stole their business records, remember? Everything fit on a single thumb drive," she had remarked at the time.

Then the feds had found an intact server farm and discovered the purpose of the data centers. The Russian mob was working for the Kremlin, and the data processing infrastructure was being used to spread misinformation intended to influence the results of the last election. One of the data centers was configured to corrupt voting data from a few precincts in which voting machines were connected to the internet.

"Yes," Mike said. "The feds did shut down all the data centers Lavrov's people had established. References to Molot started showing up in NSA intercepts of Russian-language telephone traffic about eighteen months ago. The frequency of its occurrence has accelerated steadily. Recent context connects Molot with fake news about several current candidates for federal office. Molot, incidentally, is Russian for 'The Hammer.'"

"Did the Molot intercepts mention data centers?" Bob asked. "What's the tie-in?"

Lavrov's project had been in its infancy and had no significant impact on the last election as far as altering election results. However, there was ample evidence that it had served the Russians as a proof of concept. Until their plot was uncovered, Lavrov's team was planning to use the proceeds from the criminal enterprise they had taken over to fund the expansion of their data processing infrastructure. Their goal was to control the next round of U.S. national elections.

"The tie-in is in the context, again," Mike said. "The Molot scheme is about election interference. There's been no mention of establishing new data centers, but there's been some discussion of how to change vote tallies for those precincts that are still connected to the internet. This time around, the emphasis appears to have shifted, though. They're more focused on using misinformation and less on direct alteration of vote tallies."

"We need to bring Aaron in on this right away," Bob said. "Think the client could give us access to those NSA intercepts?"

"We have a designated contact for liaison with the security agencies and the FBI," Mike said. "She was the only other person in my meeting with the client. Dr. Louise Santoro, the Deputy National Security Advisor. She's available to us any time, and she's fully acquainted with the situation. She's on the National Security Council and has access to all the security agencies, including the NSA. In fact, she briefed the client and me on the intercepts."

"Finn's frowning," Bob said.

"What's wrong, Finn?" Mike asked.

"Doctor? Of what?"

"Not medicine," Mike said, with a chuckle. "A PhD in who-knows-what, with a long list of credentials. Why do you ask?"

"I don't like it," I said. "Does she know what our mission involves?"

"The client didn't go into the specifics of what he expects Phorcys to do, but I'm sure she knows that we're being brought in to disrupt Molot's plans."

"Did she or the client mention Phorcys by name?"

"Yes, both did, in passing. Why?"

"There's one sentence from Mary's message that's stuck in my mind. She said, '…the other side knows Phorcys is looking for me, according to my intel sources.'"

"You think she meant that literally?" Mike asked. "That the other side knows an organization called 'Phorcys' is tracking her?"

"I took it that way, yes. I'll verify that with her. But putting that together with the attempts to kill you and Bob supports the notion of a leak. Mary thought it was from Phorcys, but it could also be from the government's side."

"I see where you're going. If we're done here for the moment, I'll get Aaron on the horn and bring him up to speed. And I'll ask him to vet Santoro, first thing. But my gut is that if the client trusts her, she's going to come up clean. I should have thought of that, though. Good work. I need to get moving. Talk to you both later."

Mike disconnected the call, and Bob locked eyes with me. "What do you think?"

"Sounds like the game's afoot," I said.

"Should we try to get Mary to come back into the fold?" Bob raised his eyebrows.

"I don't think so. Not yet. It's just as well that the other side thinks she's running her own game. But I'll ask her to check her dark web intel sources for background on Santoro."

"You don't trust Aaron?"

"I trust Aaron," I said. "And I trust the client. I'm not so sure about the security agencies, though. Aaron can probably get everything they have on Santoro or anything else in their databases. I have no doubt Santoro will look pure as the driven snow, and she may be. But it would be interesting to see what pops up about her from the dark web, just in case. That's what Mary's hackers are good at."

Bob nodded. "Keep me apprised of what you learn, then."

"Will do. I'm going to check our blind drop. See you for dinner?"

"Sure. I'll be around if you have anything before that."

15

Although it had only been a little over an hour since I left my last message for Mary, I was impatient. Logging into our blind drop, I found a draft from her, responding to my query about the leak.

Hey, Sailor,

Good to be in touch again. I'm not used to flying solo anymore.

About the leak. When I first heard from my old broker about the Benton contract on Bob over a week ago, she said her source also mentioned the word Phorcys, but neither she nor her source knew what it meant. I tasked my old hacker network to look for any references to Bob, Phorcys, and Benton on the dark web. In the interest of security, I buried those terms in a long list of random keywords. Within a few hours, the following snippet surfaced. Origin and destination addresses couldn't be determined.

"Alert to all… Phorcys will move to stop operation Molot… contingency plans A and B re. sea trial in effect… Nassau… More to follow."

I have no clue what operation Molot is, nor what was in the spaces the intercept missed. Given what I had just learned from my broker about Benton's contract on Bob, though, I figured Molot must be related to a pending project Mike and Bob were negotiating. Then I spotted you in Nassau, as I was following Benton back to Miami. When I found out from her about Bob's new boat and his plan to join her crew in Nassau for part of the sea trial, the pieces started to fall into place. Given how few people even know Phorcys exists, let alone Bob's role, I thought that snippet had to come from somebody in Phorcys. Hence, my warning to you.

Nothing new from my sources, but I have more feelers out. Let me know if this helps.

I took a screenshot of Mary's draft, then deleted it. After leaving a message asking her to have her hackers check the dark web for any info on Dr. Louise Santoro and promising to send more information soon, I packed up my computer and returned to Bob's stateroom.

"What's up?" he asked, as he opened the door and motioned for me to enter.

I filled him in on Mary's comments about the leak. We sat side by side at the conference table and studied the screenshot.

"What do you make of it?" he asked, after several seconds.

"My big takeaway is that nobody in Phorcys could have even heard about Molot until after Mike's meeting with the client this morning. That's unless you two were holding out on us."

"No way," Bob said. "I see where you're going, though. That snippet Mary sent you had to either come from Molot or our government, didn't it? Given the timing, I mean."

"That's the way I see it, yes. We don't know exactly when the message Mary's hackers intercepted was sent, but they found it a week ago. I don't know how the client operates, but unless he sat on the knowledge of Molot for a week before calling Mike in, the message must have come from Molot."

"I don't know." Bob was shaking his head. "It's possible the client's people were kicking it around for that long. If so, it could have been one of them who leaked it. But my gut says you're right — that it came from Molot. Unless it was a staffer in the client organization anticipating what would happen when they ran it up the line. But the client doesn't share info about Phorcys with much of his staff. He's obviously careful about letting anyone know about us and what we do. Mike may have more insight; he didn't share the details of Santoro's briefing with us yet. Let's see if we can get him on the line."

Once Bob had Mike on the speakerphone, I read Mary's latest message to him.

"Wait," he said. "She had that for a week?"

"Yes," Bob and I answered simultaneously.

"Then it didn't come from Phorcys. It was either somebody in the government or the Russians. Had to be. Interesting that they referred to 'operation' Molot. That might mean Molot doesn't refer to a person. Or it could be a mixup in translation or transcription. But Santoro thought Molot was a code name for a person. Have you shared that with Aaron yet?"

"No," Bob said. "I wanted your reaction first."

"Uh-huh," Mike said. "I can see why Mary concluded that there was a leak in Phorcys, but she didn't have the context that we have now. Given that the snippet mentioning Molot was intercepted before any of us heard about the project, it pretty well rules out a leak in Phorcys. Unfortunately, I can't say the same about a leak somewhere in the client's shop. Still, that's a remote possibility compared to a leak on the Russian side."

"Should we tell Aaron to back off on searching for an internal leak?" Bob asked. "I think we still need to keep our plans among the four of us for a while, but I'd rather focus his efforts on finding out more about Molot instead of chasing potential ghosts. Besides, Finn's asked Mary to check her dark web sources for any info on Santoro, so depending on what they find, we can reconsider."

"I agree," Mike said. "And as long as I have you two on the line, I have another topic to discuss. Ready to move on?"

"Sure," Bob said.

Mike cleared his throat. "Finn, you should get back to the States. Ideally, I'd like to have you and Mary ready to deploy on short notice as we begin to pick up leads. Given what we know about Molot's goal, the action's not going to be down in the islands. Does either of you disagree?"

I looked at Bob and shook my head. He gave me a brief nod before he answered Mike.

"Makes sense to us," Bob said. "Think you can link up with Mary, Finn?"

"I'm sure I can," I said, thinking about Mary's comment about not being accustomed to working alone these days. "I'll get right on it. But what about you? You staying down here?"

Bob shook his head. "I agree with Mike. The action's going to be in the States. I'll wrap up here and get back to Northern Virginia as soon as I can, but you should catch a plane ASAP."

"I'm on my way as soon as we finish this call," I said. "Unless you want me on the line for your call to Aaron."

"No, I can handle that, but check in with him once you get yourself scheduled on a flight. Let him know what you're up to."

"Will do. Anything else for me before I go, Mike?"

"No. Hurry home."

I went back to my cabin and booked the next flight to Miami, leaving St. Thomas in a couple of hours. Before I packed up my laptop, I sent a brief message to Mary with my flight information, omitting any mention of our new mission. I wasn't sure where she was at the moment, but Miami was a sort of hub for us. Maybe she would at least reciprocate and tell me her location. Besides, the flight I booked was the quickest way for me to get back to the States. Five minutes later, I was in a taxi to the airport.

The sight of the turquoise waters of the Bahama Bank through the plane's window was so familiar that it felt like I was coming home. The jewel-like islands sprinkled among the glittering waters conjured up fond memories of carefree sails in better times. I was lost in my recollections when the shock of the landing gear on concrete jarred me back to reality.

As I left the arrivals gate area at Miami International Airport heading for the car rental counters, I was startled by a tap on my shoulder. Whirling and stepping back, I saw a woman with a dark tan and short gray hair grinning at me. It took me a second to recognize her.

"Easy, sailor. I won't hurt you. Not yet, anyway."

"Nice hair," I said. "You've aged well since I saw you last. Blond didn't suit you, in my opinion."

"Glad you like it. It's true that blondes have more fun, but I got my fill; it was time for a change."

"I didn't expect you to meet me," I said, noticing the way the flow of pedestrians parted to get around us. "Let's keep moving."

She nodded and fell in step beside me. "I was in Fort Lauderdale when I got your message, so I thought, 'Why not surprise him?'"

"I'm surprised, all right. What brought you here? I figured you'd be staking out Lešković's chop shop."

"Who?" she frowned. "Chop shop?"

"Later," I said, taking note of her reaction. I could read her well enough to know she was truly puzzled by my comment. That was in her favor, in my mind. "We should find a place to talk in private."

She nodded. "You headed anywhere in particular?"

"To pick up a rental car."

"I've got one outside, unless you're going to take off on your own."

"My first order of business was to find you. Let's head for your car. I'll cancel my reservation."

Mary gestured to the exit doors. "Come with me, then."

While she led the way, I sent Aaron a brief text and called the rental car company about my reservation. By the time I disconnected the call, she was opening the tailgate of a white, midsize SUV. I dumped my duffle bag in the cargo area and got into the front passenger seat. Mary started the engine and cranked the air conditioning up to full blast.

"Hot and sticky in Miami," I said, buckling my seatbelt.

"No kidding. It's good to see you, Finn." She leaned across the center console and gave me a lingering kiss. "I've really missed you."

"Likewise," I said, as she pulled away after several seconds. "What's new on your end?"

"Not much. What's this about a chop shop?"

"You knew about the explosives on Ceto," I said.

"Yes, but only what I got from questioning Natalie Benton. She didn't know much, except that they were there and that she'd been given a remote actuator to set them off. Until then, I didn't even know Bob was building a new boat. What happened to the Lizzie Lawson, anyway? Did he sell her?"

"I don't know; I never even thought to ask. But I think he had Ceto built specifically for use by Phorcys. She's a good bit bigger and more robust than the Lizzie. Maybe he's keeping Lizzie Lawson for his personal use."

I described Ceto in detail, including the composition of her crew.

"Huh. Sounds like the beginnings of the Phorcys navy," Mary said. "Especially the way you describe the skipper and mate. They sound more like us than like typical yacht crew."

I chuckled. "They do, for sure. I forgot to mention Ceto's main tender — a ten-meter RIB with three 450-horsepower outboards. You'd love it. Fuel tanks for a 150-mile range at speeds over 100 knots, with foam-filled flotation tubes in case somebody's shooting at you."

"You sound like a kid with new-toy envy, Finn."

I shook my head. "Not me. Not my kind of boat. But like you said, Ceto may be the cornerstone of an upcoming Phorcys navy."

"Back to this chop shop business," she said. "What was that name you threw out?"

"Lešković. Alex Lešković." I told Mary what we had learned about how the explosives came to be planted on Ceto at the shipyard.

"Okay," she said. "So Zinkovitch worked at the shipyard, and he brought this guy Lešković in to plant them. But why did they decide to target Bob? How does that tie in with Benton and this Molot business? How did they even find out about Phorcys? You think one of those two hired Benton?"

"All good questions," I said. "Aaron's still looking for answers. We were grasping at straws until you passed along that snippet your hackers found."

"I don't see how that could have helped much. It was a dead end, as far as I could tell. But what about the leak in Phorcys?"

"That got everybody's attention." I told her about Bob and Mike diverting Aaron to track down the leak based on her comment. "But when we saw what your hackers intercepted, they put the brakes on that. Nobody in Phorcys had even heard about Molot until this morning. That includes Mike and Bob."

She frowned, not saying anything for several seconds. "So the leak couldn't have come from Phorcys, then." She shook her head.

"That's our best judgment. But it's easy to see why you thought otherwise."

"Yes, but that still means whoever sent that message knows about Phorcys."

"That's so," I said. "We've been around a few years. It's conceivable that the Russians learned about us when we foiled their attempt to skew the results of our last election. And don't forget, they infiltrated the Department while Aaron and I were still working there. Who knows what that woman running it might have shared with them? Remember interrogating her before you put her to sleep permanently?"

"Uh-huh. Nora, or Phyllis. Whatever her name really was. I forgot about her ties to the Russians. Where do we go from here? Any ideas?"

I shrugged. I was feeling more comfortable with Mary, but I wasn't quite ready to open up with her about the new mission. "Do you have any new information?" I asked, stalling.

"No, not really."

Was she holding back as well? "Why were you in Fort Lauderdale?"

"I followed Natalie Benton to Miami. After I finished with her, I went up there to put a little distance between myself and her body. I'm at loose ends at the moment. My sources haven't picked up anything recently. What brought you back to the States?"

"There wasn't anything to keep me down in the islands. Do you have a place to stay around here? Another safe house that you haven't told me about, maybe?"

"Ouch." She caught her lower lip between her teeth and looked away for a few seconds. Heaving a sigh, she looked back at me. "I deserved that. I'm really sorry, Finn."

"You could have told me what happened. There was no conflict there. Not that I can see, anyhow. Not based on what you've told me so far."

She swallowed hard. "Did I burn my bridges with Phorcys?"

I held her gaze and let the silence hang.

"Finn?"

"What?"

"At least tell me. Did they send you back to kill me?"

"Should they have?" I asked, watching the emotions play across her face.

"Are you going to?"

"I can't believe you're asking me that."

She took a deep breath and blinked. I didn't look away.

"Would you tell me?" she asked, her face going pale.

I forced a laugh. "What do you think?"

She clenched her jaw and shook her head. "You wouldn't. Tell me, that is. And you wouldn't toy with me, either. Not if that was your mission. It's not your style. I'd already be dead."

She was right on all counts. I kept my poker face in place, letting her work her way through this.

16

"I can see how bad this must have looked to you," Mary said, after what seemed like forever. "And to Bob. In hindsight, that is. At the time, I was freaked out; I made a mistake."

She locked eyes with me, and I nodded for her to continue. Looking down at her hands on the steering wheel, she resumed speaking.

"All I could think about was that Bob's life was in danger. For a long time, I resented that he didn't help me after… Well, you know about that. But that's ancient history. Now I realize he did the best he could back then, and I'm forever indebted to him for bringing me into Phorcys. I couldn't let someone murder him."

Pausing, she glanced over at me again. I gestured for her to continue.

"Anyway, I made an impulsive decision; I didn't think I had time to bring you and the rest of Phorcys up to speed, so I charged ahead. I was wrong, Finn. But besides you and Abby and Bob, I don't have anybody else. All I could think of was stopping Natalie Benton. It would have been the same if you or Abby had been the target."

I nodded and made another rolling gesture with my hand, encouraging her to keep talking. She was telling a nice story, but I couldn't afford to believe all of it. Not just yet.

She studied me for a moment. "I'm not sure what else I can say to convince you that I'm still on your side. Anything in particular you're looking for?"

"We've been sitting here too long," I said. "If anybody's tracking either of us, it'll look suspicious. Let's move."

"Where to?" She took her lower lip between her teeth again. Shifting into reverse, she backed out of the parking place.

"Do you have a room in Fort Lauderdale?" I asked.

"I did," she said. "But I checked out when I got your last message."

"Do you have a receipt?"

Her face fell, but she said, "In my purse. It's in the back seat behind you. Help yourself."

Conscious that reaching around behind my seat would leave several of my vital organs exposed to a strike from her, I said, "Okay. Start driving. Get us out of the airport and head for the Tamiami Trail."

Once she pulled out of the garage and merged with the traffic leaving the airport, I reached back and retrieved her purse, working by feel. I was surreptitiously watching her for any sudden movement, but she focused on driving, ignoring what I was doing.

"Any weapons in here?" I asked, hefting her purse. "Booby trapped with tear gas?"

"No. Nothing. The receipt for the hotel's folded up in my wallet with the cash."

I opened the purse with caution and did a quick inventory, finding nothing but makeup, a hairbrush, and a thick black wallet. Extracting the wallet, I set the purse on the floor between my feet. Unsnapping the wallet and opening it, I found a Virginia driver's license in the name of Elizabeth Matthews, with a picture of Mary wearing her gray wig.

The receipt was stuck in with several large denomination banknotes, its edge exposed. I took it out and unfolded it. From a local Fort Lauderdale motel I'd never heard of, it supported Mary's story. Elizabeth Matthews had spent three nights there and checked out at 11 a.m. this morning. The license plate number of her car matched the plate I spotted as we approached the SUV.

"Well?" she asked, as I put everything back in the purse and returned it to the back seat.

"So far, so good," I said.

"Where are we going?"

"The Lodge. Remember the way?"

"Yes," she said, frowning. "What happens when we get there?"

"We'll be in a holding pattern until we hear from Mike and Bob."

"Am I out of the woods?"

"You're on your way out," I said. "Keep the faith."

"I'll do whatever I have to do to regain your trust."

"You have to know how hard this is for me, Mary. You know how I feel about you. If it was up to me — "

"Stop, Finn. Don't rub it in. I know the score. This is my third strike; it's not the first time I've disappeared on you. And I do know how you feel about me because I feel the same way about you. If I could go back and do this over, I'd — "

"Okay, now you stop," I said, interrupting her. "I have no doubt we're going to weather this upset. We've been here before, like you said. But there may be some hoops yet to jump through. Let it rest for now. I'm glad to be back in your company."

When she didn't say anything for several seconds, I looked over at her. I knew she'd been telling the truth when tears began rolling down her cheeks. In all the years we'd been together, with all the trauma she'd endured, she seldom wept.

"You okay?" I asked, putting a hand on her shoulder.

She sniffled. "Yes. Thanks, Finn."

"You're welcome. Want me to drive?"

"No. It'll keep me occupied. Does Aaron know we're coming?"

"He knows I'm coming. I called him from the airport before I left the arrival gate."

"What about me?" she asked. "Shouldn't you call him and let him know?"

"No need," I said. "He's expecting us. I sent him a text while we were walking to the car, right before I canceled my reservation."

When we arrived at the Lodge, we found Aaron waiting on the front porch of the main building. I waved as Mary steered for the cabin where we usually stayed. Aaron drew a finger across his throat and held up his right hand, palm toward us.

"Hold it," I said. "He's flagging us down."

Mary stopped the SUV and backed up, pausing near where Aaron stood. I lowered my window.

"What's up?" I asked.

"Bob and Mike are standing by on a conference call. When I got your text about Mary, I gave 'em a heads-up, and they wanted to speak to both of you ASAP. I got them on the horn when you opened the gate. Mike's in a hurry; he has another client meeting about our new project."

Mary turned off the engine, and we joined Aaron on the porch. "Good to see you, Aaron," she said, grasping his outstretched hand and giving it a quick shake.

"Same here. Let's get the call out of the way. Then you two can get settled." He led the way into the Lodge's dining room, where a secure conference telephone set was centered on the table. "Bob? Mike? We're all here," he said, pulling out a chair and sitting down.

"Welcome back, Mary," Bob said, as we joined Aaron at the table.

"Thanks. I know I owe everybody an explanation and an apology. I —"

"Yes, but save it," Mike said. "Sorry to be abrupt, but I don't like to keep the man who pays the bills waiting. We have an urgent assignment. I'm hoping you two can handle it, but we can't brief you yet. There's a protocol we need to follow in situations like this, so I'll get right into it. I'm glad you're back, Mary, but we can't just pick up where we left off. Given what you've done, Bob and I need to make sure that both of you are fit for duty before we can put you back to work. Do I make myself clear?"

Mary swallowed hard and looked first at me, then at Aaron. "Yes," she said.

"I'm talking to both of you. Finn?"

Mary looked at me again, the color draining from her face.

"Yes, sir," I said, not too surprised that he was including me. After all, the relationship between Mary and me wasn't a secret. I gave Mary a stern look to emphasize how serious our situation was.

"Jill Hardwick is en route to the Lodge. She'll interview both of you at length tomorrow and give us an opinion on whether you represent a risk to our new mission. Your cooperation isn't an option, and her determination will be final. Do you both understand?"

I waited for Mary. She licked her lips and swallowed hard. "Yes."

"Finn?"

"Yes, sir."

Jill Hardwick, M.D., Ph.D., was our in-house shrink. A board-certified psychiatrist, she came to Phorcys from The Department, along with Mike, Bob, Aaron, and me. Aside from handling chemical interrogations, she was on hand for mandatory counseling sessions with any of our people who were exposed to trauma, either physical or mental. Mary and I were well acquainted with her; we each spent a few hours with her after completing each of our missions.

"Good," Mike said. "Get some rest. You'll need it."

There was a click as Mike disconnected.

Bob stayed on the line. "I hope your sessions with Jill go as well as I expect them to. Whatever happens with that, though, I'm glad that you're all right, Mary. I confess to having been worried about you. I failed you once, and I feel somewhat responsible for the turns your life has taken."

Mary's eyes glistened as she blinked several times. "Thanks for that, but this mess is my doing. I wish I had handled it differently. Finn didn't have anything to do with it. It was all me. I just had to — "

"Don't put yourself through this, Mary. That's enough for now; you and I will talk later, whatever happens. Now try to put it all to rest for the evening. Have you and Finn eaten dinner?"

"No," she said. "We came straight here from the Miami airport."

"I've stocked the freezer with prepared meals," Aaron said. "You two get settled in your cabin. I'll join you for dinner here in half an hour. Salmon, beef, or lobster?"

"Wish I could join you, but we'll break bread soon, I'm sure," Bob said. "We'll talk tomorrow. Enjoy your dinner."

"Thanks," Mary and I both said, simultaneously.

Aaron switched off the conference telephone set and looked up at us. "Dinner?"

"Salmon, please," Mary said.

"For me, too," I said.

"Good choice," Aaron said. "That's what I'm having."

"We'll see you in a few minutes," I said.

Mary and I moved the SUV to our cabin and took our bags inside.

We had a pleasant dinner with Aaron, carefully avoiding the topic of our upcoming sessions with Jill, and the pending project as well. Our conversation centered on our last project, which was a safe enough topic at this point. This was the first chance for the three of us to compare notes informally since its official conclusion. It was an interesting job, and it served to distract Mary and me well into the night.

17

Mary and I joined Aaron for an early breakfast in the Lodge's dining room the next morning.

"How'd you rest?" he asked.

"Fine, surprisingly," Mary said. "I was braced for a sleepless night, but I guess the pressure's off, whatever else happens."

"When's Jill arriving?" I asked, offering Aaron an alternative to commenting on Mary's response.

"She's here already," he said. "She's in the little conference room off the sitting area, reviewing your files. Got here at the bust of dawn. She said once you had breakfast, I should send you in first, Finn."

I made short work of two hard-boiled eggs and several slices of buttered toast. "May as well get it over with," I said, excusing myself and heading for the conference room.

Given that Jill and I had known each other almost as long as I had known Mike and Bob, it didn't take her long to assess how I had dealt with Mary's disappearance. Having interviewed me after each of countless missions over the years, she could read me like an open book. After about 30 minutes of pointed questions, she asked if I had anything else troubling me besides Mary's fate.

When I answered in the negative, she said, "We're done. I'm clearing you to return to action. Send Mary in, please, but don't share any of what we've talked about with her until I've concluded my assessment of her."

When I rejoined Mary and Aaron in the dining area, Mary's curiosity was clear from the beseeching look she gave me. "Jill's waiting for you. We'll talk later," I said, before she could ask any questions.

Mary frowned, but she got up from the table and marched herself into the sitting area, where she knocked on the closed door to the conference room.

"Well?" Aaron asked, once we heard Jill greet Mary and shut the door to the conference room again.

I made a thumbs-up gesture, and he nodded. "I figured," he said. "Are you okay? I don't mean to pry into private matters, but you know I'm here if you need to talk."

"Thanks, Aaron. I'm okay. I'm feeling good about Mary, if that's what's on your mind."

He nodded. "Good. If you think she's clean, I'm sure that's where Jill's going to come out, too."

"I hope so." I helped myself to a mug of coffee from the sideboard before I joined Aaron at the table.

"You guys ready to go to work?" he asked, as I sat down.

"As ready as can be. Does that mean you found something?"

"Nothing earthshaking. I've got a full background on Lešković, but we might as well wait until we can all review that together. The other thing worth knowing is that the cops found Zinkovitch's body. Some birdwatchers stumbled over it in the Great Swamp National Wildlife Refuge in Morris County, New Jersey. Single small caliber bullet to the back of the head."

"That's it?" I asked. "I thought you'd be up to your neck in files from the security agencies."

"I will be soon enough. The troops are digging into Dr. Santoro's background right now. I called her, but she wants to have a face-to-face meeting before we start sharing data. Guaranteed, she'll be looking for reciprocity, so I'm holding off on meeting with her until we're sure she's clean."

"Mike felt pretty comfortable because the client trusted her in their meeting," I said.

"Yeah. But the client wouldn't be the first one in that office to get led down the garden path by one of the intelligence services. Don't forget, the Russians co-opted the Department and got Phyllis to send you off to do their bidding."

I grinned and shook my head. "I'm not likely to forget that. And besides, I saw through that woman. When she put the moves on me, I knew something was wrong."

Aaron laughed. "You passed up a chance to score a sexual harassment settlement just so you and Mary could interrogate her?"

I shrugged.

"I don't mean to cut this short," Aaron said, "but I need to get back in the loop with the lab on this Santoro business. Jill figured she'd be tied up with Mary until close to lunchtime, so if you'll excuse me…"

"Sure," I said. "Should we regroup here for lunch?"

"Yeah. Noon sounds good. The fish are biting out in the swamp. Tackle's in the supply room if you're interested."

"Thanks, but I'm going back to the cabin and crash. Mary slept like the dead, but I can't say the same for myself. See you in a little while."

Aaron and I were making sandwiches when Mary joined us.

"All done?" I asked.

She shrugged. "I think so."

"How did it go?"

"Okay, I guess." She grimaced. "Jill didn't say where she came out. She's calling Mike and Bob right now to discuss her findings with them."

"Make yourself a sandwich," Aaron said. "Think we should wait for Jill to eat with us?"

"She said not to; she's got a flight out of Miami to catch. She said I'd hear from Mike or Bob yet this afternoon with their decision." Mary was chewing on the inside of her cheek as she picked up a plate and began making a sandwich.

"Hang in there," I said. "You're going to be okay."

"I hope so. Jill was really hard to read. She seemed more guarded with me than usual."

"No surprise in that," Aaron said. "This situation is pretty far removed from her usual encounters with you."

"How did she seem to you, Finn?" Mary asked.

"She's been through this kind of thing with me so many times we've probably both lost count," I said. "I wouldn't be surprised if she was a little more guarded with you; you don't have as much history with her as I do. Not even close."

"If you played straight with her, I'm sure you'll be fine, Mary," Aaron said.

"Thanks, Aaron." Mary forced a smile and finished putting her sandwich together. "I'm starved."

"You didn't eat any breakfast," Aaron said.

"I was too wound up, worrying about what she'd think. Did she give you any hint as to how she felt about me?" Mary looked me in the eye.

"No. Jill's a consummate professional. She wouldn't share preliminary thoughts with anybody, let alone with me."

Mary nodded and took a bite of her sandwich, looking down at her plate as she chewed. Just as she swallowed, the conference telephone set rang. Aaron got up to answer it, lifting the phone from the sideboard and planting it in the center of the dining table. Mary choked down her bite of the sandwich.

Aaron tapped a button and said, "Yes?" as he sat down again.

"It's me," Bob said. "Are Finn and Mary with you?"

"I'm here," Mary said.

"Me, too."

"All clear from Jill on both of you. Get to work; we've lost too much time already."

"Thanks, Bob," Mary sighed.

I could see the tension melt from her face.

"I'm the one who should thank you. You saved my life at least once, probably twice. Now let's put this behind us. Aaron?"

"Yes?"

"Read them in on the Molot project. I need to run. Mike and I are meeting with the client shortly. Mike had another stop on the way, so he left me to welcome you two back aboard. We're both happy to have you up and running again. Mary?"

"Yes?"

"You and I need to talk after this is over," Bob said. There was a click as he disconnected the call.

"Well," Aaron said, "That seems to call for a celebration. There's cold beer in the fridge. Shall I get us each one?"

"Please," Mary said.

"Sure. The sun's over the yardarm somewhere," I said.

18

Before we finished our lunch and drained the beers, Aaron offered to fill us in on what he had learned about Lešković.

"Wait, Aaron," Mary said, before he started. "Finn mentioned Lešković the other day. I know he and a guy named Zinkovitch planted the explosives on Ceto, but what's this 'Molot' project Bob mentioned? It has to be related, somehow. Finn told me nobody in Phorcys had heard of Molot until he shared my last message with all of you yesterday."

Aaron looked at me and raised his eyebrows, then frowned.

Seeing Aaron's confusion, I answered her. "That's true as far as it goes, Mary. What I missed telling you was that at the time your hacker picked up that snippet a week or so ago, nobody in Phorcys had heard of Molot. About the time I retrieved your message from the drop yesterday, Mike got independent information about Molot. It's late breaking news."

"Okay," Mary said, shaking her head. She was frowning now. "But I'm still puzzled. What's the Molot project?"

Aaron nodded. "Sorry to start in the middle. Let me back up a bit. Until yesterday, my top priority was to track down the possible leak you warned us about. Then Mike met with the client yesterday morning, and we got a new assignment to find and eliminate Molot, but I'll get to that shortly. Your confusion may stem from the fact that when Finn shared your message with us, it convinced us that the leak was unlikely to have come from within Phorcys. That intercept you passed along mentioned Molot, and none of us had heard the name Molot before yesterday. That snippet your hackers found was at least a week old, so it couldn't have come from a leak in Phorcys."

"Ah," Mary said. "Got it. Sorry for the interruption."

"No problem. I should have started with the new assignment, anyway. We don't have the full picture from the client yet; I'm due to meet with Dr. Santoro for an info swap any time now. She's our designated contact within the security community." Aaron went on to share what Mike had learned at his client meeting.

"Okay, it's all falling into place," Mary said. "Finn mentioned Santoro earlier." Mary looked at me and raised her eyebrows. I nodded. She said, "I asked my hacker source to check her out."

"Have you heard back on that?" I asked.

"Yes. There's nothing floating around out there about her. Just the public information about her being the Deputy National Security Advisor."

"That's a relief," Aaron said. "She came up clean on the lab's search, too."

"You were going to tell us about Lešković," Mary said. "Do you think he may lead us to Molot, then?"

"Exactly. We were working to find out what Lešković was up to before we ever heard the word Molot. Has Finn shared with you what we learned about the explosives?"

"Bits and pieces, but we haven't really had a chance to get into that," I said. "Why don't you lay it out for us so we're all starting from the same place?"

"Here goes," Aaron said, launching into the story of how the explosives came to be planted on Ceto. When he got to the part about Bob and me capturing and interrogating Lucas Weatherford, Mary interrupted him.

"That explains why my team of hackers picked up the word that whoever hired Natalie Benton was pissed off," she said. "They thought Weatherford had collected his down payment for the hit on Bob and skipped out. He was just a hitman hired by Benton. She'd used him as a subcontractor before; he did a lot of work for the cartels in south Florida and the islands, she said."

"I'm surprised you didn't warn us about him. He was probably still following us when you interrogated Benton."

"I was going to, but by the time I caught her and questioned her, you'd already foiled the plot, so it didn't seem important."

"How did you know that?" I asked.

"Benton told me. By the time I caught her, she was already catching hell from her client. In fact, she thought I'd been sent by her client to execute her. But I'm still not clear on who made the decision to hit Bob."

"We're working on that," Aaron said. "It probably came from someone in Lešković's chain of command."

"Whoa. Let's get back to the main storyline, you two," I said. "Until we know more, let's stick with the idea that Lešković or one of his cronies hired Benton and the sniper. Tell us what you've learned about Lešković, Aaron."

"Right," Aaron said. "Alex Lešković and Anton Zinkovitch are both targets of a long-running federal investigation into the Russian mob. The feds have an interagency task force focused on their money-laundering, drug-smuggling, and human-trafficking operations. They've been tracking the mob all over the eastern U.S. for over two years now. We've gotten into the task force's files over the last few days. So far, we've been focused on Alex Lešković. He's one of their top enforcers, plus the chop shop he runs plays a key part in their drug running and money laundering."

Aaron explained that besides dealing in stolen luxury cars and the parts for them, his shop also modified vehicles to include compartments to conceal cash and drugs. "And unbeknownst to the shipyard that built Ceto, he was using Zinkovitch to do the same with some of the vessels they built or repaired. From what the feds uncovered, the Russians corrupted the crews of some of the vessels and used them to carry contraband, including human trafficking victims, sometimes — presumably without the owners of the vessels knowing about it. So the working arrangement that allowed them to rig the explosives on Ceto was already in place."

"Okay," Mary said. "That all fits together, but it doesn't answer the question of why they targeted Bob."

"It's not just Bob," Aaron said. "Mike's in their crosshairs, too."

When I saw Mary's frown, I said, "I haven't had a chance to tell her about the bomb in Mike's car."

"Bomb in Mike's car?" Mary said, looking at me.

"Phorcys is their target," Aaron said. "Not Bob or Mike personally. They're trying to cripple our organization. That's probably what the snippet you found was all about."

"All right," Mary said. "But why target Phorcys, and why now?"

"We don't have much information yet," Aaron said. "Mike's only had one meeting with the client. That included a preliminary briefing from Dr. Santoro, the Security Council contact I mentioned. We'll learn more when Santoro and I start sharing information, but first we need to make sure she's not the source of the leak that your hackers picked up. Somehow, the Russians must have thought Molot was on our radar before we even knew about their new game. Or maybe they were making a preemptive strike based on our disrupting Lavrov's crew before the last election. We can rule out Phorcys as the source. That leaves somebody in the government. Or the Russians themselves."

I realized Mary was still missing a critical piece of information. "Mike did learn that the reason the client's turning us loose on Molot is that the Russians are aiming to disrupt our upcoming national election."

"Not again!" Mary vaulted to her feet, almost knocking her chair over. She paced from one side of the room to the other. "Now it's starting to make sense. They're picking up where Lavrov left off."

"Bingo," Aaron said.

"Calm down," I said. "You're making me nervous."

Mary gave me a hard look, but she sat down again and pulled her chair up to the table. She was tense, her hands clasped in front of her, her shoulders hunched. I reached over and rubbed her forearm. After a couple of seconds, I felt her tension melt away. She turned to me and smiled, shaking her head.

"Sorry. It's just that we let that bastard get away after all the trouble he caused," she said. "But he was the only one. We nailed the rest. Too bad we didn't get him, too. Think he's Molot?"

"We were wondering about that," I said. "It's early days yet, though. And we don't even know who Lavrov really was. That could have been an alias. And there was another person from back then that made me uncomfortable, too."

"Yes!" Mary said. "Grissom, right? The undercover FBI agent?"

"Supposedly undercover," I said. "He looked dirty to me, but when we handed everything off to the feds, it wasn't clear that they agreed."

"I remember that too," Mary said. "Do we know what happened to him in the end, Aaron?"

Aaron shook his head. "I'll find out."

"What else do we have?" I asked.

"That's about it," Aaron said. "I need to review what the lab found on Santoro and then meet with her. She's supposed to give us everything all the security agencies have on Molot. I'll ask her to look back at any earlier material they might have on Lavrov, and Lešković, too. And maybe Grissom, depending on what the lab can find out about him on their own."

"What about the other one?" Mary asked. "The painter from the shipyard — Zinkovitch, was it?"

"Yeah, Zinkovitch. Might as well include him," Aaron said. "But I just realized you weren't with us when I told Finn that Zinkovitch is dead. Single bullet to the back of his head. My bet is he knew enough to make Lešković nervous. He was the last connection between the Russians and the shipyard. They killed everybody that could connect them to the explosives on Ceto."

"Except Lešković," I said. "Mary and I should head for New York and see what Lešković looks like up close."

"I'll vote for that," Mary said.

"Can you fix us up with everything you have on Lešković and Zinkovitch?" I asked.

"Yeah," Aaron said. "I'll get you a copy of those files. When are you leaving?"

"As soon as we have the files," I said.

In a few minutes, Mary and I were in the SUV on our way from the Lodge to Miami. While I drove, Mary was busy on our laptop computer, studying the files Aaron had given us. She kept up a running commentary on her discoveries, focusing on how we could stake out Alex Lešković's automobile body shop.

"This guy has a sense of humor," she said, shortly after opening the first file. "At least for an enforcer."

"How's that?"

"The name of his collision repair business is Bodies by Alex. Wonder if his phone number is 1-800-HIT-4YOU?"

"Could be. Pays to advertise, I guess. Where's it located?" I asked.

"Brooklyn, in Brighton Beach. Where else would you expect to find an enforcer for the Russian mob?"

Brighton Beach had become an enclave of Russian immigrants in the late 20th century, already having come to be known as "Little Odessa" because of the large number of Soviet Jews who settled there starting in the '70s. In 1991, the city attracted hordes of Russian-speaking immigrants from the countries that had been part of the Soviet Union. Recent statistics show that only a minority of the city's population speak English, with the overwhelming majority of the residents having been born abroad. It was no surprise that the federal task force Aaron tapped into referred to Brighton Beach as a hub of activity for the Bratva, the Russian Mafia.

"Where in Brighton Beach?" I asked.

"I'm looking." Mary typed the address into her computer and brought up a map of Brighton Beach. "Do you know the city at all?"

"A little," I said.

"Sheepshead Bay?"

"Yes. I've been there before."

"His place is right off the western end of the Bay; a big warehouse, from the satellite view," she said. "There looks to be a marina maybe a mile to the west."

"Sheepshead Bay Piers. It's a city park, not really a public marina, though. It's a base for fishing charters and excursion boats. I think I remember some hotels in that area. See what you can find, and book a flight and a rental car for us. We shouldn't have much trouble getting out of Miami this evening."

She nodded and went to work. In a few minutes, she said, "Seven-ten out of Miami, into JFK at nine-fifteen. We'll have an SUV waiting, and a room just east of the piers."

"Perfect," I said.

Mary passed the time by reading excerpts from the files aloud as I drove. By the time we got to Miami, we were up to speed on Alex Lešković. By eleven o'clock, we were settled in what passed for an upscale hotel room in Brighton Beach. Both tired, we showered and crashed.

19

We slept until we woke up without an alarm, and ate a big breakfast in the hotel's restaurant.

"Ready to do a little sightseeing?" I asked, pouring the last of the coffee from the carafe into our cups. "Check out Brighton Beach?"

"Sure, sailor. Are we walking or riding?"

"Walking. Parking's likely to be a problem."

"Good. I need to stretch my legs," Mary said, taking a last swallow of coffee.

She set her mug down and ran a hand through her very own sun-streaked, wavy brown hair. I smiled.

She gave me a curious look, eyebrows raised. "What? Where's the smile coming from?"

"It's nice to have you back, looking like yourself again."

"Thanks, sailor. Glad to be here."

It was a pleasant morning, sunny and in the mid-seventies, with a light breeze off the water. We strolled to the west along the waterfront, passing the piers, until we came to the Ocean Avenue Pedestrian Bridge. Crossing the bridge, we continued to the west until we came to the Holocaust Memorial Park at the west end of Sheepshead Bay. We dawdled for a few minutes, playing at being tourists and getting a sense of the neighborhood.

"Shall we check out our friend's place?" Mary asked.

"May as well," I said.

Walking hand in hand, we ambled north along the seawall that marked the western end of the Bay, turning left on Emmons Avenue. We wandered around, passing Lešković's place of business. Acting bored, we kept walking for a few minutes until we found ourselves in a residential area. We meandered back to the east, zigzagging through a mix of small business and residential areas until we recognized the north-south street that ran past our hotel.

"What do you think?" Mary asked, once we were back in our room.

"Not an ideal spot for a stakeout," I said. "I was hoping for a little more light industry between his place and all the houses, too. The only place we could hang out is the little sandwich shop across the street from the body shop, but we would be pretty obvious if we spent much time there."

"There's not much of a buffer zone around the body shop, either," Mary said. "The neighborhood turns residential within a block. Do you think we could get into that building at night? To poke around his shop?"

"Maybe," I said. "We'll get Aaron to do a little research."

"Wonder if there's any way Aaron can track Lešković?" Mary asked.

"I don't know. If Lešković uses a cellphone, the lab might be able to keep tabs on him. What are you thinking?"

"There were several late-model luxury cars in the parking lot out front, and a lot of activity just now. It looks like a legitimate business, not a front for criminal activity. If he's really dealing in stolen cars, he wouldn't do it in broad daylight. We should go back after dark and see what happens when it's quiet. But it would be nice to know if there were people in there after normal business hours."

"Let's give Aaron a call," I said.

"Then can we eat lunch? I know it's early, but we missed dinner last night, and I've walked off breakfast already."

"You bet."

We called Aaron and told him about our outing. He agreed to see what the lab could do as far as tracking cellphones near Bodies by Alex.

"Give me a call later this afternoon," he said. "I'll check for records in the office that issues building permits and see if the federal task force has done any surveillance on Lešković's place recently."

"Let's walk back to that sandwich shop for lunch," I said, after we finished the call. "Sound okay to you?"

"Sure," Mary said. "It'll give us a chance to get the lay of the land. We can watch the body shop while we eat."

Twenty minutes later, we were sitting at one of a dozen tables for four in Maggie's Bayside Cafe. We sat across from each other at a window table that gave us a view of Bodies by Alex on the other side of a four-lane road. Traffic wasn't heavy, and we could both see the front of the building without being obvious about it.

A tired looking but cheerful middle-aged waitress brought us menus and filled our coffee mugs, promising to be back in a few minutes to take our orders. She went back to the cash register and rang up a couple of customers who were waiting to pay. Before she got back to us, several people came in to collect takeout orders, which were bagged and waiting. It was five minutes before she managed to get back to us, pen in one hand and pad in the other.

"Sorry about that," she said. "One of our gals is out sick today. Now what can I get you?"

We gave her our order, and she said, "It'll be about ten minutes. More coffee? Some crackers to snack on, maybe?"

"No, thanks," Mary said. "We're not in a hurry. Happy to sit here and watch the world go by."

"Suit yourselves. Flag me down if you change your mind. The takeout business happens in spurts. It'll settle down soon, at least for a few minutes. Let me sneak your order in while it's quiet for a minute."

"Do you think she's Maggie?" I asked, after she disappeared into the kitchen.

"Good chance." Mary looked over her shoulder in the direction the waitress had gone, checking the occupancy of the other tables. "Looks like most of their business is takeout. Can you see all the bags on the counter behind the register?"

"I'll trust you," I said. "But this place definitely won't work for a stakeout. Did you catch how she was chatting with the people as she rang them up? She knows her customers."

"It's a neighborhood kind of place," Mary said, nodding. "Guess the spots that cater to tourists are closer to the beach."

I nodded. The beach wasn't far, and we'd surely be less noticeable there. But that wouldn't help us with our surveillance. I turned my attention back to the storefront across the street. Most of the front wall of the building was made up of side-by-side overhead doors, which I assumed opened onto service bays for automobiles. In the middle of the wall, there was a plate glass storefront window about the width of two of the overhead doors. It bore the legend "Bodies by Alex," painted in large block letters. At the right end of the window, there was a glass door for pedestrians.

I glanced at Mary. She was still studying the body shop. Looking back at that storefront window, I could see a bored-looking receptionist with bleached blonde hair that reminded me of an oversized serving of cotton candy. Sitting at an ornate desk, she was doing her nails and watching a wide-screen television that was mounted on one of the walls. There was a seating area in front of the desk with chairs facing the television. All the chairs were vacant.

I looked back at Mary to find her watching me.

"What do you think?" she asked. "Not much traffic for the size of the building. I haven't seen a single car come or go, wrecked or otherwise."

I shrugged. "It's lunchtime."

"True. And there are several cars in the lot out front. But only a few of them have obvious damage."

"Maybe the ones in good shape are finished and waiting for customer pickup." I shook my head. "Odd layout, but what do I know about body shops? I wouldn't have expected a waiting area that big. A receptionist, sure. You need somebody to greet customers, I guess. That building's huge, too. It must have been something else once upon a time."

"Or he's using it for storage. Maybe renting out space or something."

"This isn't going to work for us," I said. "There's not a good spot for us to hang out without being obvious. Was there a home address for Lešković in that file Aaron gave us?"

"Yes, but I didn't check its location. It might be worth doing at least a drive-by. But from what I read, he spends most of his time at the body shop."

"That figures," I said.

We passed a minute or two in silence, watching the receptionist working on her manicure.

"Got a break in the takeout orders," our waitress said, startling us.

Turning to look at her, we saw that she had her left arm loaded with food. Holding a steaming pot of coffee in her right hand, she set a heaping plate in front of each of us. "Two Reubens with fries. Enjoy." She refilled our mugs with coffee.

"Thanks," Mary said. "Oh, boy! These look wonderful."

The woman grinned. "They are. They're my favorite. My husband's, too. And the bread was fresh from the oven less than an hour ago."

"You bake your own bread?" I asked.

"Wouldn't have it any other way. Getcha anything else before we're overrun with takeouts again?"

"Just a check," I said. "Save you a trip."

She nodded, scribbling a total on her pad. Tearing off the page and sticking it under the rim of my plate, she said, "Gotta run. You come back soon."

As Mary and I picked up our sandwiches, a steady stream of people began coming through the door. They were soon lined up several deep, waiting to pick up their orders. The wave didn't end before we finished our sandwiches.

Swallowing my last bite, I picked up the check and looked at the total — a paltry twenty-one dollars. Not New York prices, by my reckoning.

"You ready?" I asked, glancing up at Mary.

"Yes." She pushed her chair back and we both stood.

I looked around the restaurant. All the tables were full, but only a few people were eating. The others were visiting with one another, waiting for their takeout orders. The waitress was a blur of motion, standing behind the cash register. She would ring up an order, call the name of the next customer, and make change for the one she'd just rung up. Smiling and nodding, offering an occasional greeting or comment, she was clearly accustomed to this.

The line at the register was still several people deep when Mary and I got there. I folded a ten and a twenty around our check and squeezed past the line, handing my bundle to the waitress. She glanced up and took it from my hand, frowning and shaking her head, distracted from the rhythm of her work.

"Thanks," I said. "It was wonderful. Keep the change."

She set the check and my money beside the register. Smiling, she gave a brief nod without looking at me, and picked up where she left off.

When we were outside, Mary said, "What a way to make a living. Can you imagine doing that every day?"

"It's probably quiet on the weekends," I said. "The food was great, but it won't work for a stakeout. Everybody in there knew we didn't belong. And they all seem to know one another. We need to find a better place to come to grips with Lešković."

"Let's go back to the room and talk to Aaron," Mary said. "No point in wandering around here anymore. We've already attracted too much attention. This is like small-town America, nothing like I expected."

"Amen to that."

"Hey, you two. What's new in Brighton Beach?" Aaron asked.

We filled him in on our lunchtime excursion. "That cafe was the only spot that might have worked for surveillance of his business," Mary said. "But it was all locals. No way we could hang out there without attracting attention."

"Yeah, okay. Too bad, but at least I've had some luck; the lab found another set of files in the federal task force's database. These were from more recent surveillance. They concealed cameras around the neighborhood and tracked the activity at the body shop. And we struck pay-dirt with the building permit and business licensing offices, too. Lešković owns the whole building. He rents out some space, but most of it's taken up with his operations."

"Who rents space in there?" Mary asked, when Aaron paused for breath.

"According to the feds, his tenants are all subcontractors to his business," Aaron said. "He's running several different businesses there, with anywhere from 100 to 200 employees, total. They come and go at odd hours, and some may be part-timers, so it's a nightmare to keep track of them. Based on what you said about lack of cover, surveillance would be risky. So would trying to get inside the building. Not sure Bodies by Alex is a place you should mess with."

"That's a surprise about the number of employees," I said. "The place looked dead. The only sign of life was a receptionist doing her nails in a big, empty customer waiting area. You sure about other businesses sharing the space?"

"Yeah," Aaron said. "But from what the feds discovered, the body shop's probably the only semi-legit operation there, and it's a cover for the rest. There's an automobile detailing business, a repair shop, and another operation that supposedly customizes cars and restores antique and classic vehicles. Everything's done by appointment only. They pick up customers' cars and bring 'em in early in the morning, supposedly to avoid rush hour traffic. When they finish their work, they deliver the cars to the customers."

"So why is there a waiting area with a receptionist?" Mary asked.

"I don't know. The task force suspects that most of the cars coming into the shop are stolen. While they're in the shop, all the identifying numbers are probably altered. Lešković keeps several wrecks in the warehouse, all late-model luxury cars. Claims his troops scavenge parts from them for the repairs. The wrecks are purchased as salvage. After they're stripped of usable parts, they get sent out to a recycling operation run by another member of the Bratva. The recycler crushes the cars into blocks of metal and sells them to scrap dealers, who are also members of the mob. They're vertically integrated," Aaron said. "Nothing goes to waste, especially any parts that have an identification number that shows up as having been on a salvaged vehicle. They're reused on the stolen ones, the feds figure."

"I'm surprised the feds haven't infiltrated at least one of those businesses," I said.

"It's not that they haven't tried. The fact that none of the employees speak English complicates things. And a lot of them are related to each other. A stranger doesn't have a chance. They've tried sending in decoy cars for detailing or repairs, and the work is done flawlessly, delivered on time at the quoted price."

"Sounds like Bodies by Alex is bulletproof," Mary said.

"Yeah, looks that way."

"We're thinking we should look at Lešković's residence," I said.

"Great minds, and all that," Aaron said. "The feds are working that angle, too. Lešković has a big house in Connecticut on Long Island Sound. Several acres; super private. His wife and their three young children live there. Security's heavy. The man's rolling in money; he came here from Russia in the '90s with a fat bankroll. Rumor is he was a buddy of Putin's, although he's a naturalized citizen now. But he does have at least one weakness."

"How come the feds haven't exploited it?" Mary asked.

"It's all those rules they have to play by," Aaron said. "Lešković's a genius when it comes to not stepping over any of the lines, so the feds are hamstrung."

"What is it? His weakness?" I asked.

"Women," Aaron said. "He's got a multimillion-dollar condo off Ocean Parkway overlooking the beach. It's only a few hundred yards from his business, and he keeps a mistress there."

"Bleached blonde with a bouffant hairdo straight out of the '60s?" Mary asked.

"Bingo. That matches the surveillance pictures, anyhow. How did you know?"

"She's the receptionist who presides over that empty waiting room," Mary said. "Now we know why."

"What's the security like at this condo? Any idea?" I asked.

"No. It's a high-end building, so it's probably pretty tight. What are you thinking? A hit there? Or en route there from his shop?"

"Well, a hit, yes. But we need to question him first. He sounds like he's high enough up the food chain to at least point us to the next level in the hierarchy."

"Yeah," Aaron said. "I agree."

"Do we know how he gets from his warehouse to the condo? And how often he's there?"

"In a black Suburban, probably armored, with a driver and a bodyguard. He spends most weeknights at the condo and heads for Connecticut on Friday night, late, after spending the evening at the condo. The Suburban picks him up at the condo and drives him to his house."

"What else do you have for us?" I asked.

"That's about it for now. The lab's still working the cellphone angle to see if we can track his location."

"All right," I said. "We'll check in with you later. I want to scope out the condo building. What do you know about it?"

"It's got one wing on the east side that's six stories, and the main building's ten stories. Lešković's unit is on the sixth floor of the east wing. It takes up most of the floor. The rest is a garden that's all his — the whole top of that wing. His unit has sliding glass doors that open to the garden."

"Servants?" Mary asked.

"Don't know," Aaron said. "No mention of them, but it wouldn't surprise me in the least."

"Okay," I said. "Let us go see what there is to see. We'll call when we get back."

"Roger that. Good hunting." Aaron disconnected.

"What do you think?" Mary asked. "Catch him in the Suburban? Or the condo?"

I shrugged. "Let's go walk the route. Then we can talk about it. If we could get into the condo, we could handle the whole job there. But that's not likely to be easy. And the Suburban comes with its own set of problems. His place on Long Island Sound is a distant third, given that his wife and children are there."

20

We retraced our earlier route from the hotel to Bodies by Alex. The walk from there to his beachfront condo was only a couple of blocks. We passed two strip shopping centers on the west side of the street and a row of houses on the east side. The houses were sizable and looked alike except for the colors. They were two stories, narrow across the front, but extending quite a distance back from the street. From our perspective, it was difficult to tell whether they were single family or multifamily dwellings. Given their proximity to the beach, they were certain to be expensive, but they looked run down and unattractive, weatherbeaten from the salt air.

"This won't work," Mary said. "We could definitely stop the Suburban along here, but even in the wee hours of the morning, there would be witnesses. We'd never be over fifty feet from somebody's bedroom."

The condo building that housed Lešković's love nest was in a cluster of similar buildings, all about the same age and design. Private parking and small, park-like green spaces with benches and plantings were scattered among the buildings.

"Not too shabby," Mary said. "But there's no way I could live in a place like this."

"Me either. That goes for the whole town. And this is the upscale neighborhood, from what Aaron said."

Mary pursed her lips and shook her head, studying the six-story wing that housed Lešković's unit. "Those trees and bushes on the front corner would provide good cover if we wanted to climb up to his roof garden. The bricks around the corner would give us a decent grip."

"Just what I was thinking. At least up to about the third floor. But late at night, if we were wearing clothes that would blend with the red brick, we'd be okay."

"Floodlights," she said, looking up at the corner where we imagined we could gain access to the roof.

"High-powered pellet gun. We could hit 'em before we lost the cover of the trees, no problem."

Mary nodded. "Okay. Wonder if Aaron can come up with detailed drawings? Or better yet, some aerial photographs and a floor plan?"

"If not, there's always a drone. It wouldn't be much of a challenge."

"You're thinking this is the place?"

"Most likely," I said. "But we should make the drive to his place in Connecticut, just to be certain."

"Don't forget the kids, Finn."

"No. I wasn't thinking of the house. Depending on where it is and the route they use, there are some lonely roads in Connecticut, especially late on a Friday night."

"Ambush the Suburban?"

I nodded.

Mary shook her head. "But where would we question him?"

I shrugged. "We won't know if we don't do a little recon."

We walked back to the hotel and picked up our rental SUV. I pulled up a route to the address Aaron gave us on the GPS. The distance was 47 miles on the fastest route, which gave us about an hour and fifty minutes' driving time. While I worked my way out of Brighton Beach, Mary played with the navigation app on her phone.

"It's predicted to take about an hour and ten minutes at 1 a.m. on Friday morning," she said. "But the routes all look densely populated. And they're all about the same distance."

"No surprise. Once we get off the beaten path up there around Greenwich, we may find a few isolated spots. Aaron said his house was on several acres. If his neighbors have spreads like his, there may be room for us to nail him close to home."

"What about questioning him?"

"Depends on what we find," I said. "And how much privacy we have."

"Will the driver and the bodyguard be collateral damage?"

"Probably best if they are. We could shoot 'em with tranquilizer darts, but they might remember too much when they woke up."

Mary put her phone away and began looking out the windows at our surroundings. "They probably deserve it, anyway. Comes with the territory. Are you planning to just leave the bodies?"

"Yes. There'll be water nearby, but we won't have the time or the equipment to deep-six them."

"Okay. Makes sense," she said. "I don't know about you, but that condo's looking better to me by the minute."

"Me, too. But we might as well be thorough. Besides, I know a place not too far from his house where we can feast on a New England shore dinner with all the fixin's."

"I should have known," Mary said, grinning. "I could tell you were getting restless in Brighton Beach."

"Not my kind of town. And we've spent enough time there, poking around Lešković's turf. Better to get out of town for a while in case somebody noticed us."

"Should we change hotels?"

"Yes," I said. "See if you can find us a place at the beach, to the west of his condo. Let's check in tomorrow morning. Maybe we can get lost among the tourists for a while. And try to keep us within drone range of his place, in case Aaron doesn't have any aerial photos that show the roof garden."

As we suspected, our reconnaissance of Lešković's place on Long Island Sound turned out to be a bust. By the time we did our drive-by and got back to the highway, it was late afternoon.

"Okay, sailor, what's a New England shore dinner, anyway?"

I glanced over at her. "Are you hungry already?"

"It's a little early, but I could eat."

"Good. Think you can hold out for twenty minutes or so?"

"I'll try, but you didn't answer me." She frowned and poked me in the ribs. "What is it? Tell me."

"Don't worry. You'll like it. This place is famous with the yachting set in this part of the world."

"Really? We're not dressed for a fancy place."

I suppressed a chuckle at her misunderstanding of my use of the term yachting and decided to build on it. "I'll give the maître d' a big tip. He can seat us in a corner somewhere."

I glanced at her again. She had a dubious look on her face.

"Are you messing with me, Finn?"

"Would I do that?"

"No comment, but this place better be good," Mary said. "I'm getting really hungry."

"Okay. That being the case, I'll switch to plan B. There's another spot I always liked just up the road."

"I don't want to miss your special place."

"Don't worry about it," I said, signaling for a right turn and slowing down.

"A dirt road? In Connecticut?" She was scowling at me.

"It's gravel, not dirt," I said, following the track for a short distance and pulling into a nearly empty parking lot outside a big ramshackle building with peeling red paint. There were a few battered cars and a couple of pickup trucks in the parking lot.

"This place doesn't even look open, Finn."

"We're a little early, but they'll feed us."

"It looks like it closed years ago." Her scowl turned into a frown.

"We'll see." I took her hand.

Mary was still frowning as I led her around the side of the building. Opening the door, I gestured for her to precede me into the empty dining room. An elderly waitress with a dour expression was placing trays of condiments on the beat-up picnic tables, which were covered with brown paper.

"Sit where you like," she said. "But all we got ready this early is the special."

"That'll be just fine," I said, escorting Mary to a bench at one of the tables.

I took the seat across from her, and the waitress brought us glasses of ice water.

"Drinks?" she asked, without enthusiasm.

"Pitcher of draft and two glasses," I said.

She nodded. "Special for two?"

"Yes, please."

"Be right out."

She disappeared into the kitchen.

"She's not happy to see us," Mary said.

"That's just their shtick. Welcome to New England."

Mary was still frowning when the waitress reappeared with a rusty, two-gallon bucket in her right hand and two platters tucked under her left arm. In her left hand, she clutched two sets of stainless-steel utensils wrapped in generous lengths of paper towel. She swung the bucket up between us and dropped it on the table with a thud. Grabbing the platters from under her arm, she put one in front of each of us. She laid a set of utensils by each platter. Looking over her shoulder as she left, she grumbled, "Beer's coming."

Mary's frown had morphed into a scowl. I reached over the rim of the bucket and found a pair of tongs. As I picked up Mary's plate with my other hand, she grabbed my wrist.

"What is this, Finn? What's in the bucket? It looks filthy. We're supposed to eat out of it?"

"It's fine. It's been sterilized by the steam."

"What steam?"

"Let go of my wrist, and I'll serve you some appetizers."

She clenched her jaws, but she released her death grip. I scooped out several steamed clams and a few mussels.

Handing her the plate, I said, "Dig in. There's plenty more."

She unwrapped her utensils and used the fork to spear a mussel out of its half-open shell. I watched, waiting.

"Not bad," she said, chewing.

Her scowl melted away. She tried a clam next. "Okay, these are good. What else is in there?"

"Corn on the cob, new potatoes, and a couple of lobsters. This is that New England shore dinner I promised."

She grinned. "You had me going there for a few minutes. Is this the place you were planning to bring me all along?"

"Yes."

"So where's this maître d' you were going to tip?"

I shrugged. "Guess he's not working the early shift. Eat up. We've got a long drive back."

21

We made short work of dinner and got on the road. We called Aaron to let him know what we'd discovered during our reconnaissance.

"So, what's the plan?" he asked. "Gonna waste the guys in the Suburban when they pick him up at the warehouse and snatch him there? Or maybe on Friday night when they pick him up from the condo for the trip to Connecticut?"

"No," I said. "Those places are too densely populated, and we need privacy to question him. Plus, that would leave us with three corpses and a Suburban to dispose of out in the open."

Mary told him about our plan to scale the wall at the condo building. "There's good cover about halfway up, and from there, we'll be out of anybody's sight. We'll shoot out the exterior light on the corner with a pellet gun, and climbing the brickwork won't be much of a challenge. But we need details of that roof garden, and a floor plan for his unit."

"Gotcha covered on both counts. The feds had great aerial photos, and we got the floor plans from the building permit for the last remodel. What else will you need besides the pellet gun?"

"A couple of Glock 19s with suppressors, and a chemical interrogation kit," Mary said.

"Lightweight backpacks and a couple of hundred feet of low-stretch 10-millimeter braided rope," I added. "Carabiners, so we can rappel on our way out. Climbing shoes and gloves. And earpiece radios with throat mics. We can find everything else locally."

"No problem," Aaron said. "I'll have a package delivered to your hotel in the morning."

Mary told Aaron about our plan to change hotels. "And we're using the alternate identities, just in case."

"Good. Your stuff should be waiting for you when you check in. When are you planning to take him?"

I looked at Mary and shrugged. "Tomorrow night?"

She nodded. "But we need to know he's there before we commit ourselves. How's the lab coming with his cellphone?"

"We've got him. And his phone's the latest and greatest, so we have access to his onboard GPS. No need to rely on triangulating cell sites. We're seeing location accuracy of a few feet. What are you planning for the mistress?"

"Ideally, we can drug her in her sleep. When she wakes up, she'll discover that Lešković had a heart attack during the night," Mary said. "Otherwise, she'll OD on fentanyl. Or whatever you put in the interrogation kit. But we're trying to minimize collateral damage."

"Fentanyl," Aaron said. "Anything else you need delivered? I should get to work on that."

"That should do it for now," I said. "We'll call you from the new place in the morning when we get your care package."

"Before you go, you asked about David Grissom and what happened to him after Lavrov disappeared."

"Right," Mary said. "The undercover FBI agent. We thought he was dirty. You found him?"

"Sort of. He's undercover again, still for the FBI, but that's all we've been able to find out. No clue where he is or what he's doing. Obviously, the feds decided he was clean."

"That doesn't help us any," Mary said. "But since Lavrov disappeared too, you have to wonder…"

"Yeah," Aaron said. "We'll keep an eye out for Grissom, but I don't expect we'll find anything. The FBI's buried him pretty deep. Talk to you later."

Rush hour was over by the time we got back to Brooklyn. I was about to tap the keycard on our door when Mary put her hand on my arm. She shook her head, pointing at a spot where the door met the frame, about 18 inches above the floor. I froze.

Cupping my ear with her hand, she whispered, "My hair's gone. Somebody's been in our room."

I pointed at my chest and gestured to show that I would go in low and to the right. She nodded and stepped to the left side of the door where the hinges were. We took out our cell phones and turned on the flashlights. With her back to the wall, she extended her left arm and put her hand on the door, ready to swing it open.

I tapped the card against the electronic lock, and she slammed the door open as I dove through and rolled to the right. She was on my heels, diving to the left. We bathed the room with light. It was empty, and at first glance, it appeared to be undisturbed. The layout allowed us to see into the empty bathroom, including the shower, which had sliding glass doors.

Satisfied we were alone, we closed the door and put the security chain in place. Catching her eye, I put a finger over my lips. She nodded, and we checked the room, looking for any signs of disturbance. I opened a hidden app on my special, Phorcys-issued phone and swept for listening devices, finding nothing.

"Somebody's been through my stuff," I said.

"Mine, too. But nothing's missing."

"I didn't know you left a hair in the door."

She shrugged. "It was a whim at the last minute. You think somebody made us?"

"I don't see how, but it could be. Or it could have just been a hotel employee looking for valuables. No way to know."

"What do you want to do?"

I looked around the room for a few seconds. There were no connecting doors to the adjacent rooms. Sliding glass doors opened onto our third-floor balcony, but they were blocked closed with a fold-down security bar. I moved back to the door into the hall and examined it. All the hardware was intact, and the security chain was solid.

"Nobody can get in without making some noise," I said. "Let's leave the chain on and sack out. There was nothing for them to find, whoever they were, so they probably won't be back."

"Too bad," Mary said, rubbing her hands together. "I could use a workout."

"Take a nice long shower and relax. With any luck, you'll get some exercise tomorrow night."

Half an hour later, we turned down the covers and crawled into bed. Mary dropped off to sleep before I did, but only by a few minutes.

I woke up staring at the digital clock on the nightstand. It was two forty-three a.m. Wondering what woke me, I looked over at Mary. There was enough ambient light leaking past the drapes for me to see that she was pointing at the door. Turning my head, I could see that it was open as far as the security chain would allow. A hand was in the gap, silhouetted in the light from the hallway. I watched as the fingers found the security chain stretched across the opening.

I rolled silently out of the bed onto the floor. Mary did the same on the opposite side. We both crouched in the shadows as the hand disappeared. It was replaced in a second or two by a pair of diagonal-cutting pliers. There was a soft snipping sound, and the chain dropped, caught by another hand to keep it from making a noise. This intruder knew his business.

The door swung open without a sound, and two shadowy figures stepped through. One swept his pistol around our room while the other eased the door closed. There was a click as he turned the deadbolt. When he started feeling for the light switch, Mary and I launched our attack.

The one with the pistol was closer to me. I took him, gripping the pistol in my right hand and pushing the slide back so it wouldn't fire. Locking his wrist in my left hand, I gave a mighty twist with my right. His trigger finger, caught in the trigger guard, broke with a loud snap. He screamed as I pulled the pistol from his hand. Sticking it in the waistband of my shorts, I pulled his arm up and behind him, smashing his face into the surface of the door with my free hand.

I held him there, waiting for Mary to subdue his partner, who was turning to face her. He was reaching for the pistol stuck in his belt when she lunged, driving the heel of her right hand up under his chin with all her momentum behind it. His head hit the steel doorjamb with a solid thunk, and his knees buckled as he lost consciousness. She turned on the light, and I handed her the pistol I had taken from the first one, using my weight and the armlock to keep him pinned against the door.

"Nice work, sailor. Glad you left this one conscious so we can question him."

"I ain't gonna tell you shit. You're as good as dead."

"Hold that thought. We'll get back to you," I said. "Pat your guy down, Mary."

She crouched beside her unconscious victim and relieved him of his pistol, setting it aside while she rifled his pockets. She brandished a fistful of cable ties in one hand and a folding combat knife in the other. "Look what I found."

"Good," I said. "Nice knife."

She used four of the cable ties to secure his wrists and ankles. Rising to her feet, she flicked the knife open with her thumb. Grabbing a handful of the top sheet from our bed, she cut several long strips of fabric from it. She wadded up one of them and came over to stand next to the man whose head I still had pinned to the wall.

"Hold his head still," she said. "He's not going to like this."

I nodded and put my weight on the hand that gripped his hair. Mary brought the tip of the combat knife up to touch the skin of his right lower eyelid, pressing just hard enough to break the skin.

"I ain't scared, bitch," he growled.

"That's because you're a dumbass," she said. "Now, open your mouth wide, or you'll be a one-eyed dumbass."

When he hesitated, she used the knife to lift the fold of skin slightly, drawing blood. He tensed in my grip, but he opened his mouth. She crammed the wad of fabric into it and pulled the knife back. There was another long strip of fabric dangling from her left hand. She threaded the end of it between his neck and the surface of the door and then worked it into place to secure the gag. Wrapping it around his head a couple of times, she tied it off.

"Now let's get him in that chair," she said, nodding at the cheap Danish modern armchair on the opposite wall. "You cooperate, and I won't start cutting you — yet."

I pulled him toward the chair, keeping the pressure on the armlock and stepping to the side as the backs of his calves bumped against the chair's seat. He stiffened, resisting my efforts to get him seated. Mary smirked and gave her head a little shake. With blinding speed, she pivoted on her left foot and drove her right foot into his solar plexus with the force of a pile driver. He collapsed into the chair. He choked, the gag preventing him from gasping for breath. Desperately trying to draw enough air through his nose to fill his lungs, he was still choking when we finished securing his wrists and ankles to the chair with cable ties.

Mary stood in front of him, watching as he fought for air, a smile on her face. When he finally settled down, she said, "Here's what's going to happen, tough guy. You're going to answer our questions, but first I'm going to hurt you to get you in the right frame of mind. When you're ready to talk, you blink three times, fast, and I'll remove the gag. If you scream when I take it off, I'll put out your eye. You ready to talk?"

He blinked three times in rapid succession. Mary shook her head and laughed. "That's the right signal. But you have to wait until I've softened you up. Finn?"

"Yes?"

"Get some towels. This may get bloody."

I nodded and went into the bathroom, returning with a bath towel. "I'm ready."

She prodded the man's right bicep gently with the knife. "Are you right-handed or left-handed? Raise the fingers of … Oh, damn! I almost forgot. We need to gag his partner. Don't want him coming to and disturbing our neighbors. Sorry to make you wait." She smiled sweetly. "But it'll only be a minute."

She cut more strips from our bedsheet, and we gagged the still unconscious man.

She moved back to stand in front of the man in the chair. "See? That didn't take long at all. Now, left-handed or right-handed?"

He raised his left index finger in answer.

"He's lying, Finn. I think he's right-handed. What do you think?"

I poked at his right and left biceps with a stiff finger. "You're the expert. I agree, though. More muscle in his right arm. And he had the pistol in his right hand."

Mary nodded. "Lying to me is a bad idea."

With one quick, violent motion, she drove the knife into the arm of the chair, grazing his right forearm but not doing him any harm. He flinched and began to tremble. She laughed.

"It's not going to be that fast or that easy," she said.

She put her left hand down on top of his right, pressing his palm against the wooden arm of the chair. Using her right hand, she lifted his fingers one at a time, studying them.

"You already broke his trigger finger," she said. "I'll start small, then." Grasping his right little finger in her fist, she bent it to the side until it made a popping sound. His scream was muffled by the gag; he arched his back in an involuntary attempt to get away from her. She still had his palm pinned to the chair's arm.

"How are you feeling? Ready to talk?"

He blinked, nodding his head vigorously, tears running down his cheeks.

"Good. Hold that thought. It won't be too long now, but I need to make sure."

She grasped his injured finger, manipulating it as he writhed and groaned. "What do you think, Finn?"

"I'm not sure he got the message. Like you said, he already had a broken finger on that hand. How much more could a second one hurt?"

"Good point. Get the towel ready."

She shifted her grip to his undamaged left hand. He curled his fingers around the arm of the chair, trying to protect them. Mary drove the point of the knife into the wood of the chair through the last joint of his left little finger, severing it cleanly. He strained against the cable ties, shrieking into the gag again. Mary took the towel from me and pressed the end against the stub of his finger to stop the bleeding.

"How about it, tough guy? Ready to talk? Or should I take another joint off?"

He shook his head, gurgling and blinking his eyes three times.

"Are you sure?" she asked.

Three more blinks.

"Okay, I'll take the gag off, but first, do you remember what will happen if you cry out for help?"

He blinked again, nodding his head. Mary grabbed a handful of his hair and put the point of the knife against his left lower eyelid.

"Take his gag off, Finn."

22

After the man in the chair answered all our questions, Mary grabbed his hair and forced his head back, driving the five-inch knife blade up behind his chin, through his soft palate, and into his brain. He convulsed briefly and then was still. Meanwhile, I clamped my hands around his partner's throat and bore down. He expired without recovering consciousness.

"What about the bodies?" Mary asked.

"Let's cut 'em both loose and take the cable ties. Dump the one we questioned in the bed and leave his buddy on the floor. That should confuse things for a while. We need to wipe down everything so we don't leave any prints, and then get the hell out of town."

Ten minutes later, we slipped out of the hotel's back entrance and tossed our duffle bags in the back of the SUV. I drove east, out onto Long Island. Still headed east, we were approaching Amityville by sunup. Deciding Aaron was probably awake, we made a rest stop at Jones Beach State Park and Mary got him on the phone. While we watched the sun rise over the ocean, we filled him in on what we'd learned from our attackers. He listened without comment.

The two men worked for Lešković. The one we questioned told us Lešković had people stationed around the neighborhood to keep a lookout for strangers who seemed too curious. We were spotted near his haunts too many times to suit Lešković, so he sent the two goons to find out who we were. Their orders were to question us thoroughly and then dispose of our bodies where they wouldn't be found. Despite Mary's best efforts, we weren't able to extract any further information that we didn't already have.

"That's about it," I said.

"What about the bodies?" Aaron asked.

"Left 'em in the hotel room," Mary said. "It was too risky to move them."

"I'll have the lab monitor the local cops' communications and let you know what happens."

"Unless Lešković sends somebody to look for them, I doubt you'll hear anything until afternoon," I said.

"Why's that?" Aaron asked.

"Checkout time's eleven a.m.," Mary said. "We told the front desk yesterday that we'd be leaving today, so the bodies won't be found until the maid shows up to clean the room."

"Can you scrub those identities we were using before then?" I asked. "No point maintaining them any longer."

"Actually, what I'll do is have the lab modify them. If the locals check, they'll discover that you were undercover with the FBI. That should stir things up a bit. Are you still planning to move to the beachfront hotel later today?"

"Yes," I said.

"When do you plan to hit Lešković? Don't forget, tomorrow's Friday. If he runs true to form, he'll be leaving the condo after midnight tomorrow night to spend the weekend with his family."

"Right," I said. "Once you confirm that he's in the condo tonight, we'll make our move. Probably after midnight, to give him and the woman time to get to sleep, but not so late that we can't question him and get on the road before rush hour starts Friday morning."

"What's your plan for this morning?"

"We're going to find a spot out here on Long Island to have breakfast and kill some time," Mary said. "Swap this SUV for something different, and then head back to Brighton Beach to check into our new hotel. We'll make a loop to the north and then come down I-278 to the Belt Parkway and enter Brighton Beach from the west, so we don't drive through Lešković's neighborhood, just in case."

"Sounds good to me. Your stuff will be waiting when you check in. We'll talk later."

We checked into our new hotel on the beach shortly before noon and unpacked the care package from Aaron. Once satisfied that we had everything we would need to deal with Lešković, we went downstairs and ate lunch in the hotel's coffee shop. Back in our room, we slept for a few hours, recovering from last night's excitement. A call from Aaron on my encrypted phone woke us up a few minutes after six p.m.

Fumbling to see the screen and check the caller ID, I barely caught the call before it went to voicemail. "What's up?"

"Checking up on you. You in your room?"

"Yes. I'm putting you on the speaker."

"Okay. Did you get the package I sent?"

"Yes," Mary said. "Everything's there."

"Good. I didn't call earlier; figured you two needed some shut-eye. But the lab intercepted a call from your former hotel to a burner cellphone at the body shop a little before noon."

"And?" I asked.

"I'll play the recording for you."

A man's voice said, "We just found two bodies in that couple's room. The ones you told us to watch."

"Yeah? They dead?" another male voice asked.

"No, not them. Two men. We seen 'em around wit' the boss before. No sign of the couple."

"Shit," the second voice said. "Okay. We'll handle it. Lock it down and stay out of the way until we give you the all-clear. Don't call no cops or nobody else. We got this."

There was a click as the call disconnected.

"Perfect," Mary said. "Nice of them to clean up their own mess."

"Yeah," Aaron said. "Just for the record, as far as we can tell, the cops don't know about it. At least not officially, but who knows? Are you still planning to make your move tonight?"

"Yes, if Lešković's spending the night at the condo," I said.

"He already left his office. His phone's in a restaurant right up the street from the condo. Want me to call you when he looks to be settled in for the evening?"

"Yes, please," Mary said.

"Will do. You got anything else? I need to chase down some new leads from the federal task force."

"Go for it. We'll talk later." I disconnected the call.

"So they were watching us," Mary said. "The people at the hotel, I mean."

"Apparently. Maybe that shouldn't be a surprise. But the staff's willingness to help cover up what happened does show how deep Lešković's tentacles reach into the community."

"Scary. Do you suppose he's got people here, too?"

I nodded. "We should assume he does."

"Then we shouldn't come back here after we take care of him."

"Definitely not," I said. "We'll pack up our rental car before we hit his condo."

"What are we waiting for?" Mary asked. "Let's get out of here now, in case Lešković's people know we're here."

I thought about that for a second or two. Mary misread my hesitation.

"Come on, Finn, let's just check out now," she said, elbowing me. "We can load the car and get out of town — go get some dinner and chill out until Aaron calls us."

Nodding, I stood up. "I like it."

Ten minutes later, we were in our new rental car, headed north. Mary drove while I kept a sharp lookout to make sure nobody was following us. In a little over an hour, we passed La Guardia and began looking for a likely spot to have a leisurely dinner.

We found a nondescript Italian restaurant in Jackson Heights and parked the car. After killing a couple of hours over dinner, we drove back to Brighton Beach, once again taking a roundabout route to enter town from the west to avoid passing through Lešković's neighborhood. We parked in a busy area not too far from last night's hotel. As we were considering how to spend the next few hours, Aaron called on my encrypted satellite phone.

When I answered, he said, "His phone's in the condo."

"Thanks." I glanced at the digital clock on the dashboard. It was ten-thirty.

"You still in that hotel?"

I told Aaron about our excursion.

"Good," he said. "The lab's been monitoring that burner phone your first hotel called to report the bodies. It's been busy, calling all the hotels in the area, looking for you two. They called the one you just left a couple of hours ago, but whoever they talked to didn't recognize you."

"Did they ask for us by name?" Mary asked.

"Yeah, but they also said you might be using different names. And they described you pretty well, except they said you had short gray hair."

Mary grinned, running her fingers through her own brown tresses. "I did when we got there, but I was tired of it. Besides, Finn said it made me look old."

Aaron chuckled. "So when are you going in?"

"How long's he been in the condo?" I asked.

"About an hour."

"We'll get our stuff together and go for a walk on the beach," I said. "His condo's visible from there. We'll watch for it to go dark and then give 'em an hour or so to get to sleep."

"Okay. Keep in touch," Aaron said.

"Will do." I disconnected the call.

23

We made our initial approach to the condo building a little after midnight. Lešković's unit had been dark for about an hour and a half. Taking an indirect route from the beach to the building that housed his unit, we kept to the shadows until we were on the back side of the building.

We paused for a moment when we reached the loading dock and service area, studying our path to the front corner. Aside from a single dim fixture illuminating the steps beside the loading dock, the back of the building was dark.

There were well-groomed shrubs planted along both sides of the building. As we planned to climb the right front corner, we ducked into the shrubbery on that side. We paused there long enough to put on our earpiece radios and don dark brown coveralls so we'd blend in with the brickwork as we scaled the wall.

The plants were close enough to the wall so that we couldn't walk behind them. We crawled underneath the vegetation along the base of the wall toward the front of the building.

When we reached our chosen corner, I took a moment to study the brickwork, making sure it would offer enough hand and footholds for us to free-climb to the roof. Luckily, the brickwork included quoins, those decorative rectangles of bricks, on both sides of the corner. Each quoin was formed by three courses of bricks that extended along the wall away from the corner for the length of three bricks. There was one course of brick in the vertical space between quoins, and each quoin stuck out from the wall itself by about half the depth of a brick.

"They might as well have built steps for us," Mary whispered, running a hand over one of the quoins.

I nodded. "Let's hope this is an omen."

Flexing my fingers a few times, I slipped on my climbing gloves and started scaling the corner. Mary's comment about steps didn't miss the mark by much; the ascent was much less demanding than I had expected. I was at the height of the second-floor windows when I heard Mary's voice in my earpiece.

"I'm on the wall, one floor below you."

"Roger that," I said.

We picked this corner because there was a sizable tree which would hide us until we reached the halfway point of our climb. A minute and a half after Mary's announcement, I was at the level of the treetop. I paused and took the pellet pistol from its holster on my right hip.

With the fingers of my left hand hooked around the far edge of a quoin, I leaned into the corner and craned my neck to see the two floodlights that bathed the walls. With my left cheek grazing the bricks on the front side of the building, I lined up the pistol's sights on the first spotlight.

"Close your eyes and watch for falling glass," I said, subvocalizing into my throat mic.

"Roger that," Mary said.

I squeezed the trigger, closing my own eyes as the floodlight shattered and went dark. There was a brief shower of broken glass.

"One down."

"Roger."

I shot out the second light and tucked the pistol back in its holster. "Two down. Climbing again."

"Roger."

Without the light, our dark brown coveralls rendered us almost invisible against the reddish-brown brick walls. After another two minutes of climbing, the shattered light fixtures were at my eye level. I paused for a few seconds and studied them. I reached for the fixture on my left, the one that was aimed at the side wall. Grasping it, I tested it with progressively more of my weight. It was anchored solidly, the fixture itself on the end of a stem that stuck out almost a foot from the wall.

I gripped the stem of the fixture with my left hand. Reaching behind my back, I used my right hand to unzip a pouch that spanned the bottom of my backpack. Working by feel, I closed my fingers around a length of ten millimeter low-stretch climbing rope. I pulled on it, withdrawing a loop about twenty feet long. Having packed it earlier, I knew the loop connected two coils of the line, each coil a hundred feet long. The coils were tied with webbing straps to keep them from coming undone.

"Why'd you stop?" Mary asked, her voice sounding tinny in my earpiece.

"Rigging our escape route." I glanced down, barely able to make out her shadowy figure several feet below me.

"Roger that."

When I had both coils free of the backpack, I draped the loop over the stem of the light fixture. Wrapping the two strands of the loop around my left hand, I leaned back away from the corner, with my feet braced on the quoins. I took one coil in my right hand and tossed it up and over the edge of the roof. It fell back, bouncing against my chest.

The drawings Aaron sent us showed a two-foot-high parapet, a wall around the edge of the roof. For my second toss, I held one strand of the loop in my right hand and let the coil dangle about five feet below me. I started swinging the coil, lengthening the arc on each swing. Once I thought the coil had enough momentum, I let it fly. This time, it went over the parapet. I took up the slack in the loop and repeated the process with the second coil.

"Going over the edge now," I subvocalized.

"Roger."

I climbed the remaining few feet and rolled over the low parapet, staying in its shadow. While I listened to the soft sounds of Mary climbing, I studied the roof. Its surface was covered with precast concrete pavers, about two feet square. They were separated by gaps of an inch or so to allow for drainage. There were several medium-sized trees in tubs between me and a forty-foot-long wall of glass, which provided Lešković's condo with an ocean view.

The drawings Aaron sent us showed a wall of sliding glass doors opening onto a veranda of quarry tile. The veranda was raised about a foot above the level of the roof garden and extended out about twenty feet from the glass wall. Two shallow steps running the length of the veranda led down onto the garden level. The veranda was furnished with expensive-looking patio furniture. At one end, there was a pergola that housed a wet bar. From the floor plan drawings, I knew that the sliding door at the left end of the wall opened into the master bedroom.

As I finished my quick survey, Mary slithered over the parapet and joined me in the shadows. We took off our backpacks and unpacked what we would need to subdue the woman and interrogate Lešković.

I swapped the pellet pistol for a Glock 19 with a suppressor, and Mary slipped into a shoulder holster that held another suppressed Glock. She pocketed a zippered pouch that held hypodermic syringes and a selection of carefully compounded drugs.We each had a pair of standard handcuffs and a handful of Flexicuffs.

We repacked the backpacks, leaving them ready for us to grab them upon our exit. Mary looked at me and raised her eyebrows. I nodded, and we crept along the parapet, making our way to the left end of the glass wall and the sliding door into the master bedroom.

Although the curtains were open, we couldn't see much looking in through the sliding glass door. The room was dark, and the glass reflected the ambient light from the neighboring buildings. I put my hand on the door's handle and applied slight pressure, testing to see if it was locked. The door slid smoothly in its track. Opening it about a foot, I could make out the outlines of the room's furnishings. I stepped inside and to the left, partially concealing myself behind the floor-length drapes.

Mary peered past me, pausing before she entered to open her zippered pouch and select a pre-filled syringe. She gave me a nod and moved into the room, her left hand extended at waist height and her right poised with the syringe at the ready. I followed in her footsteps, my pistol in my right hand.

As we crossed the room to the bed on the opposite wall, I began to make out details in the way the covers were draped. A large man was to our right, resting on his back and snoring softly. On the left, a woman slept on her side, facing away from the man. A cloud of teased blond hair hid her face. I crept around the right side of the bed, while Mary went to the left.

When we were both within striking distance of our victims, Mary turned to look at me across the bed. I couldn't make out her face, but her shrug with her palms turned up was plain enough. I nodded, and she bent close to the woman, both hands reaching toward her. Mary gently lifted the sheet away from the woman's left shoulder. Her touch with the injection was extraordinarily light; the woman didn't move as Mary emptied the syringe. I held my pistol at the ready, aimed at the man.

Mary stood up straight and snapped the needle off, putting it and the syringe in one of the cargo pockets of her coveralls. Then she laid a hand on the woman's shoulder and shook her gently. The woman didn't budge, but the man sat bolt upright, opening his eyes and reaching under his pillow. When he withdrew his hand, he held a pistol. As he put his feet on the floor and stood, he saw me and started to point the weapon at me, but he was too slow.

I stepped into him and gripped his pistol, forcing the slide back and rendering it incapable of firing. At the same time, I put the muzzle of my pistol under his chin.

"Let go of your weapon," I said, feeling him release it before I finished the sentence.

Taking his pistol, I backed away a couple of paces, keeping my weapon trained on his center of mass. "Good move. You get to live a little longer."

"Whatever they pay you, I double it," he said, his voice gruff. "Or more. You tell me how much. I make you a rich man, no hard feelings." He looked to the side as he sensed Mary's approach. "Both of you. Rich. I make you rich."

I took a set of Flexicuffs from my pocket. "We'll see, but we need to talk first."

Mary held another syringe in her right hand, hidden beside her leg. I made a motion indicating I would toss her the cuffs, and she nodded. When she caught them, I told the man to put his hands behind his back. He did, and Mary clamped the syringe in her teeth, freeing her hands. She snugged the cuffs up and immediately grabbed the syringe again, sticking it in his right forearm. His eyes went wide and he tensed his muscles for a moment, then his knees buckled. Mary guided him back onto the bed and we stretched him out on his back, his cuffed hands underneath his hips.

"Get his ankles," I said, passing her another set of Flexicuffs.

When we had him secured, Mary opened her zippered pouch again.

"Ready for me to wake him up?" she asked.

"How long is the woman out for?"

"Hours. Don't worry about her. We'll be finished with him and long gone before she comes to."

"Wake him up, then. Let's get this done."

Mary removed a third syringe from the pouch, and I rolled the man onto his side to expose the veins in his well-muscled forearm. She administered the stimulant, and in a few seconds, his eyelids began to flicker. Within a minute, his eyes were wide open, but he lay still, giving no sign that he knew we were there.

Mary leaned over, putting her face squarely in his field of view. "You awake?"

"Uh…"

I took my phone from my pocket and set it to record the interrogation.

"Good. I'm Mary. What's your name?"

"Um, Alex."

"Nice to meet you, Alex." She patted his cheek, laughing when he flinched. "What's your last name?"

"Lešković. Alex Lešković."

"I hear an accent. Where are you from, originally?"

"Leningrad."

"And when did you come to the United States?"

"In 1991."

Mary and I traded glances. That was the year the Soviet Union was dissolved.

"Did you come directly to Brighton Beach?"

"Yes."

Mary probed Lešković about why he made that choice, and how he supported himself. As she drew him out, he became more forthcoming, although he was still subdued from the drugs. As she kept up her questioning, he told her about using money from 'business friends' to establish himself. Under her guidance, he described his various commercial operations.

"Tell me about Natalie Benton," Mary said, changing the subject.

"We don't never meet, Natalie Benton and me. She is contractor, does special jobs sometimes when I need."

With a bit more prompting, he described Benton as a killer for hire. She was recommended by friends, he said.

"What friends?" Mary asked.

"Different ones I do business with. Plus a man at the embassy we all know. He say she can be trusted."

"Which embassy?"

"Russian. In Washington."

Lešković didn't know what the man's official duties were, but he traded favors with Lešković and other immigrants like him. The man's name was Zbigniev Petrovsky.

"What kind of favors?" Mary asked.

Lešković told her that Petrovsky often brokered financial deals, putting entrepreneurs like him in touch with wealthy Russian investors looking to participate in the U.S. economy.

"Plus other things, sometimes," he said. "Business deals."

"Why would Petrovsky know about a killer for hire in the U.S.?" Mary asked.

"Sometimes, is necessary to use people like Benton," Lešković said. "When deals do not go so smoothly, yes?"

"Does the name Bob Lawson mean anything to you?" she asked.

"Yes. The man Lawson, he is example of when deals don't work right, I think."

"So Lawson was involved in a deal that didn't work right?"

"I don't know this. But I think so. Not deal with me, but with someone. Petrovsky said this man Lawson was causing problems for some investors, and he would owe me a favor if I took care of him."

"Petrovsky would owe you a favor?"

"Yeah. Petrovsky. But also the investors, they would owe me."

"Who were the investors?" Mary asked.

"I don't know. Petrovsky don't share no names. He keep the score for all of us."

"Us who?"

"Me and my friends. And the investors. Petrovsky is broker, but not just for money. Also for favors."

Lešković admitted that Petrovsky had asked him outright to kill Bob. He said Petrovsky told him about the construction of Bob's yacht, Ceto, and the opportunity it would provide to eliminate Bob outside the U.S.

"Why outside the U.S.?"

"Don't know. Because Petrovsky say so."

"Why did Petrovsky ask you to do this? Why not someone else?"

"Because Petrovsky know I have a man inside that shipyard."

"A man," Mary said. "Tell me about this man inside the shipyard. Who is he? What does he do?"

"Anton Zinkovitch. He is painter there, with some men work for him."

"And he did work for you, too?"

"Yes, sometimes."

"What did he do for you?"

As Mary drew him out, Lešković confirmed what Aaron had discovered about Lešković and Zinkovitch modifying vessels without the owners' or the shipyard's knowledge and then using the vessels to smuggle contraband and people. Lešković didn't know that Zinkovitch had disappeared. Nor did he recognize Mike Killington's name. Further, Lešković knew nothing of Phorcys.

"Forces? Armed forces? Like army?"

"No, like in Greek gods."

"Don't know nothing about no Greek gods."

"How about Molot? Tell me about Molot."

"Molot? Is hammer. Molot mean hammer. Is Russian word for."

"Is Molot the name of a project? Or a person? A company, maybe?"

"Maybe could be, but not nothing I know about."

Mary looked at me and tilted her head toward the open sliding door. We went outside, leaving Lešković restrained on the bed next to his sleeping mistress.

"What else should I ask him?"

I took a few seconds, mentally going through what she'd covered. "I don't think he knows anything else of use to us."

She nodded. "That's where I come out. Let's send him on his way and clean up after ourselves."

Back inside, Mary broke out her fourth syringe and injected Lešković. He convulsed, turning blue and gasping for breath for a minute or so, and then he was still.

We removed the Flexicuffs and used the lights on our cellphones to check for signs of our intrusion. Satisfied that we were leaving no clues to our presence, we put on our backpacks and stepped outside. Closing the door, we went to the corner where we had climbed onto the roof.

I handed Mary one of the two coils of rope I had stashed there. We freed the ties holding the coils and dropped them over the parapet. Taking climbing harnesses from our backpacks, we put them on.

Mary pulled on her climbing gloves and looped the pair of ropes through the carabiner on the front of her harness. She eased herself over the parapet, paying out rope until her body was almost horizontal, with her feet against the wall and her back to the ground. She bounced on her legs a couple of times and then let the ropes slip through her gloves as she rappelled to the ground. I stood guard with my pistol at the ready, waiting for her call on the earpiece radio.

"I'm down," she said. "Ready to cover you."

I followed her down. Once on the ground, I pulled one of the two lengths of dangling rope. It slid easily over the stem of the floodlight up at roof level. I kept pulling it as Mary coiled it up. We had recovered less than half of the rope when the weight of the remainder pulled the bitter end over the stem of the light fixture above us. The rest of the rope fell in a pile at our feet. We finished coiling it, stowed it in the bottom of my backpack, and crept away into the darkness.

24

"Zbigniev Petrovsky, huh," Aaron said. "I'll put the lab to work on him right away. Did Lešković say anything about him besides what you've given me so far?"

"Nothing," I said.

Mary held the encrypted phone while I drove. We gave Aaron a quick summary of our interrogation of Lešković, and Mary used my phone to send him the recording.

Our tentative plan was to turn in our rental car at Newark. Assuming that our next target would be Petrovksy, we were already booked on an early morning flight to Washington.

"When will you get to D.C.?"

"Nine a.m., at National Airport," Mary said.

"Leave your backpacks in a locker near baggage claim at Newark. Call me when you get to National and I'll let you know where to leave the key. I'll arrange a pickup. No point in losing the weapons."

"Right."

"You got any plans after you get to D.C.?"

"Not yet," I said. "We figure Petrovsky's our next target, though."

"Safe bet. I'll see what I can dig up on him. Bob's in D.C. He and Mike have a meeting with the client around lunchtime. I'll get word to them and maybe they can meet you somewhere midmorning. With any luck, I'll have at least a little background on Petrovsky by then. Anything else before I get to work?"

"No, sounds good so far," I said.

"All right. I'll call you as soon as I track down Bob or Mike."

We ended the call.

"We're going to be right on time for our flight," Mary said. "Unless there's traffic."

"We should be okay. It's still early, and we're past most of the choke points. We might even have time for breakfast."

"Yum." Mary grimaced. "Not sure which sounds less appetizing. Airport food or the stale snacks they'll serve on the plane."

There was no traffic to slow us down, and we were on the shuttle from the rental car drop off to the terminal an hour and a half before our check-in time. As we stepped off the shuttle, Aaron called on my phone.

"Where are you guys?"

"About to walk into the airport. What's up?" I asked.

"Nothing too exciting. I talked to Bob. He'll meet your flight at National, and the three of you will join Mike for a late breakfast. He's booked a private room at the old officers' club at Fort Myer. Patton Hall, they're calling it these days. They'll patch me in, and I'll bring everybody up to speed on Petrovsky. The lab's still putting together all the pieces; he was damn near invisible at first. I gotta get back in the loop with them. Talk to you in a few hours."

When we arrived at National Airport, Mary and I found Bob waiting for us in the arrivals area.

"How was the flight?"

"Okay," Mary said. "A flight. Good to see you."

"Likewise. Both of you."

She caught my eye. "Should we call Aaron about the key?"

Before I could answer, Bob said, "Just give it to my driver. I have a car waiting outside. He'll take care of it. The locker's at the airport in Newark, right?"

"Right. The number's on the key."

Bob nodded. "Any checked bags?"

"None," I said.

"Let's go." Bob led us to one of the nearby exits.

An oversized black SUV was parked at the curb right outside the door, hazard lights flashing. The driver opened the back door on the passenger side and Mary climbed across to sit behind the driver's seat. Bob motioned for me to follow. I buckled myself into the rear-facing seat in front of Mary. Bob took the seat on the passenger side next to Mary, and the driver closed the door.

"Mike's already at the club," Bob said, as the driver pulled away from the curb. "Not to get ahead of things, but I should let you know Mike and I agree that this Petrovsky character is likely to be your next target. However, we're going to run that by the client before we make a move on him. He's got diplomatic immunity; we don't want to cause an international incident."

"I wondered about that," I said. "But based on what we learned from Lešković, there's no question he's dirty. We're curious to see what Aaron's found out about him."

Bob grinned. "Me, too. It's kind of personal for me."

The drive from the airport to Fort Myer only took a few minutes. Bob craned his neck, looking over his shoulder as the SUV came to a stop under the portico of Patton Hall.

"Won't be long now," Bob said, as the driver opened the door.

As Mary climbed out, she handed the key to him. "The locker's near the security checkpoint for Terminal A. Number's on the key."

"Yes, ma'am. Got it."

"Thanks," she said.

Mary and I followed Bob to a small, unmarked meeting room tucked away in a corner of the main building. Mike was sitting at the table with a laptop open in front of him. When we entered, he got to his feet to shake hands.

"Help yourselves to refreshments while I get Aaron on the horn." He gestured at a sideboard holding a coffee urn and a couple of carafes of fruit juice, as well as a platter of baked goods.

"Mike?" Aaron's voice came from a speaker on the table.

"Yes. Everybody's here. What can you tell us about Petrovsky?"

"Zbigniev Petrovsky is a Deputy Commercial Attaché at the Russian Embassy. His official focus is supposedly networking and trade support. He's a schmoozer; travels all the time, has a busy social calendar. And he appears to be a target of federal surveillance, but we haven't been able to get any details beyond the fact that the FBI has occasionally had people following him. The lab's set to keep tabs on his travel arrangements now, but that doesn't help much for background."

"What about Dr. Santoro?" Mike asked. "Did you check with her?"

"I did. Not much help there; she confirmed what I just told you and agreed to look into the surveillance question. It's only been a little over an hour. I haven't heard back from her, but I'll let you know when I do."

"Did you get any travel history on him?" I asked.

"Some, but it's spotty so far. We're trolling through airline bookings, but that's slow going. Credit card records show that he's spent a good bit of time in Brighton Beach, but that's not a surprise given the size of the Russian-speaking population there. It's tempting to jump to the conclusion that he was visiting with Lešković, but we can't confirm that yet. We're digging into cellphone data, looking for patterns of calls and texts to match up with his travel, but there's a lot of data to wade through."

"Back up for a second," Bob said. "About the FBI following him…"

"Okay. What can I tell you?"

"You can't get into their surveillance records? I thought you could."

"Yeah, normally we can. There's something odd about Petrovsky's. It's not like we can't get into any of their records on him; we got the agents assigned, like I said. It's more like further records don't exist. At least that's what it looks like so far. We can get into other surveillance reports for the assigned agents. Just not the ones that cover Petrovsky."

"So what kind of references to him did you find?" Bob asked.

"Very few, and those only show that he was followed a few times — it's like manpower budgeting stuff, accounting for resource allocation in local offices. But no reference to who requested the surveillance, and no follow-up reports by any of the assigned agents. None that mentioned Petrovsky, anyhow. We thought maybe they gave him a code name or something, but no other surveillance reports matched up with the time spent. It's like somebody pulled all those files and left gaping holes in the records."

"Have you seen that kind of thing before?" Mike asked.

"No, but I can't say that it doesn't happen. Maybe it's something to do with his diplomatic status, you think?"

"I don't know," Mike said. "No point in guessing about it just yet. We'll ask the client about it this afternoon when we brief him on what you got from Lešković."

"Does he know about how we left Lešković?" Mary asked.

"Not from us, he doesn't," Bob said. "And he won't ask. That's not the kind of information he wants to know. If he does any follow-up on his own, he'll find out Lešković had a heart attack. He might put two and two together, but he won't try to confirm his suspicion. It's one of those situations where he's more comfortable knowing that he doesn't know."

"Deniability," Mike said.

"Exactly," Bob said. "Why do you ask?"

"Just wondering if Santoro would be there, and whether she can be trusted," Mary said.

"I wouldn't be surprised if she's there," Mike said. "But if she is, I can give you an ironclad guarantee that the question of what happened to Lešković after the interrogation won't be discussed. The client's far too careful to allow speculation about that sort of thing."

"That's comforting," Mary said.

"Then I take it that your agenda this afternoon is just to share what we learned from Lešković," I said.

"The client called the meeting," Mike said. "He asked for a status on our investigation into Molot. We'll cover what we've learned, including the attempts to kill Bob and me. We'll also tell him that Zbigniev Petrovsky is the one who issued the order on Bob. Plus that Lešković had never heard of me or Phorcys or Molot. As an aside, that must mean Petrovsky has other enforcers. Interesting that he didn't send Lešković after me — maybe Lešković's days were numbered anyway, because of his two failed strikes against Bob. That's it from our side. The client may or may not have further details to share."

"Where does that leave us with Petrovsky?" Mary asked. "If you don't mind the question."

"Nothing wrong with the question in my view," Mike said. "Bob?"

"It's a fair question. I think Aaron should press on with building background on Petrovsky. He tried to have me killed. Probably you, too. I intend to reciprocate, whatever the client thinks about Petrovsky. You disagree?"

"No, but it would be cleaner all the way around if the client gave the order."

"Absolutely," Bob said. "We'll scope out Petrovsky, but take no overt action until we hear from the client. Everybody okay with that?"

Mary and I nodded when Bob looked our way.

"Aaron? You on board?"

"All the way, sir."

"Anything else we should talk about?" Mike asked.

When nobody said anything for several seconds, Bob broke the silence. "I think we're done, then. We'll touch base after Mike and I have seen the client."

"I'll flesh out the background on Petrovsky for our next," Aaron said, dropping the connection.

"You two must be exhausted," Bob said. "My driver can take you to your hotel. Mike and I have a few things to kick around before our meeting."

"Good work, both of you," Mike said. "Get some rest. We'll talk later today."

25

Bob's driver dropped us off at our hotel in Crystal City near National Airport. After quick showers, we spent the afternoon catching up on lost sleep. Exhaustion takes its toll every time. My encrypted phone woke us at about 5 p.m.

"Aaron?" I answered, too groggy to see the caller ID.

"Yeah. You awake?"

"I am now." I switched the call to the phone's speaker.

"Sorry to disturb you, Sleeping Beauty. Mary there?"

"Yes," she said. "What's up?"

"I just got a text from Mike. He wants a conference call with us in an hour. Just wanted to give you a heads-up."

"Any clue as to what he and Bob got from their meeting?" I asked.

"No, but I finally got a callback from Santoro a few minutes ago. I asked her about the missing records on Petrovsky, and she got all pissed off. She said she didn't know. Said she was told it was above her pay-grade."

"That's weird," Mary said. "Was she in the meeting?"

"I asked. She dodged the question."

"Did you get the sense that she knew something and couldn't tell you?" I asked.

"That's possible, I guess," Aaron said. "But it wouldn't account for her attitude. If she'd been in the meeting, she would have had a condescending tone. Instead, she sounded more like I was rubbing salt in a wound."

"You said the conference call's in an hour?" Mary asked.

"Yeah. That okay with you two?"

"Yes, but I'm starving," she said. "We didn't get lunch, and breakfast in Newark wasn't much. Do you have anything else we need to know right now?"

"No. Go get some dinner. Talk to you later." Aaron disconnected the call.

I looked at Mary. "Room service?"

"I guess so. There's no time to go out anywhere."

"We could get appetizers from room service and go out to dinner after the call," I said. "I know a good Italian place in Arlington, maybe a five-minute cab ride from here."

She was studying the room service menu. "Sold. I'll order an antipasto platter to tide us over. Wine? Or a beer?"

"How about coffee? Not sure I could stay awake if I had alcohol."

"Good point." She dialed room service on the house phone and placed the order. "Fifteen minutes, max, they told me," she said, after she hung up.

The antipasto didn't arrive for almost a half hour. Although late, it was better than I expected it to be. Mary was just finishing the last bits of cheese and prosciutto when my phone rang. This time I checked the caller ID before I answered.

"Hello, Aaron."

"Hey. Mary there?"

She was chewing and gestured for me to respond. "Yes. You caught her finishing up our room service feast, but she's all ears."

"I'll put you on hold while I add Mike and Bob."

Mary had time to wash down her food with a swallow of coffee before Aaron came back on the line.

"Everybody's here, Mike."

"Good. Bob and I had a lengthy session with the client. Dr. Santoro was there to start with. He had her open with a presentation covering the latest Russian-backed hacking and disinformation activities that the various security agencies have been monitoring. Pretty scary stuff. The technology's come a long way since we shut down Lavrov's scheme to disrupt the last election."

Mike and Bob summarized what they learned. The Russian effort was much more sophisticated now than it was four years ago. They were no longer focused on hacking into the systems used to tally votes. Aside from the fact that our voting systems are much more secure now than they were a few years ago, recent developments in technology created new opportunities for mischief. Instead of attempting to tamper with vote tallies, they were harnessing generative A.I. on a large scale. Their objective was to influence public opinion.

"So they're focused more on propaganda?" Mary asked.

"In a manner of speaking," Mike said. "But what they're doing is light-years beyond what we're accustomed to calling propaganda."

"How so?" I asked.

"Well, the basic idea of spreading false information is still fundamental," Mike said. "But what they're doing now differs from old-fashioned propaganda in quality and in quantity. Remember TooDAFT? From a couple of years ago?"

"TooDAFT," Aaron said. "Tool for the Dynamic Adaptation of Facts and Truth — that classified project that fell into the hands of a bunch of criminals. As slick as that was back then, it's child's play now. Artificial Intelligence has come a long way in the last three years."

I looked at Mary and raised my eyebrows. She nodded. We had been tasked with tracking down and eliminating the corrupt entrepreneur who developed the TooDAFT system for the U.S. government, as well as the criminals who stole the technology. Everyone thought the problem was contained at that point. About a year later, though, a group of the developer's former associates resurrected the technology and put it to use in ways no one had envisioned. With Aaron's help, Mary and I did them in as well.

"That's it," Bob said.

"But we put paid to those people," Mary said.

"To the people, yes," Mike said. "But the technology lives on."

"Proof of the old saying that you can't put the genie back in the bottle," Bob said. "Back in the '60s, a man named Gordon Moore said the number of electronic components that could be incorporated into an integrated circuit would double every year for the next decade. His point was that technology would progress at an ever-increasing rate. People thought he was blowing smoke. History has proven that he was right, and over time, his theory became known as Moore's law. It's a catch-all used to describe the overwhelming growth of capability in hardware and software. That was a key point in Santoro's presentation."

"You've lost me," I said. "What's that got to do with TooDAFT? Or Petrovsky?"

"Stay with me for a moment," Bob said. "TooDAFT was based on the idea that computing power could be harnessed to create deepfakes — recordings and videos of real, recognizable people appearing to say and do things they never actually did. When Harken and his troops released TooDAFT into the wild a few years ago, we saw that in action, right?"

"Yes," I said.

"You can't look at the news these days without running into the term artificial intelligence," Mike said. "Everybody's already blaming A.I. for all kinds of societal ills, and the concept is still in its infancy."

"You're right," I said. "But I'm still having trouble connecting the dots, here."

Mike said, "Even Congress is waking up to the idea that A.I. could be dangerous. They're making noise about regulating it, maybe even making it illegal. All their flailing's a good indication that the concept is far beyond their grasp. Santoro's review pointed out that A.I. is already loose in our world. The NSA has solid data that illustrates how it's already being used to shape public opinion."

Bob followed up on Mike's introduction. "What's happened recently is that hackers have begun to marry A.I. with the concept of deepfakes. The details are complex, but the result is that just about anybody with a computer and evil intent can crank out deepfake video and audio in a few minutes. And the quality is light-years ahead of what we saw from TooDAFT. Our salvation so far has been that a lot of the early efforts are so amateurish that people are learning not to trust anything unless they witness it first hand — live and in the flesh. The members of congress haven't caught up with their constituents on that front yet, but there's still hope."

"But that's not our biggest problem," Mike said. "There are even signs that it may be a distraction. Those early, sloppy efforts may foster the belief that common sense will win out and people won't buy into this latest round of propaganda. We may be discounting the danger, given how quickly the technology's improving."

"So what's our biggest problem, then?" Mary asked.

"If falsehoods are repeated often enough and spread widely enough, substantial segments of the population begin to accept them as true," Bob said. "The real danger of artificial intelligence isn't just that it can be used to make convincing fake recordings and videos. There's a twofold gotcha on top of the deepfakes."

"A twofold gotcha?" I asked.

"Yes," Bob said. "First, A.I. makes it possible for almost anybody to create fake news quickly and with remarkable verisimilitude. Second, using the huge databases that were developed to train the large language models that drive A.I., it's possible to essentially reverse-engineer credibility."

"What's that mean?" Mary asked.

"With a query of a few words, people developing deepfakes can identify trigger words that will cause certain segments of society to accept a falsehood as true. That's especially so if they keep encountering it from different sources. The reasons the trigger words will cause an audience to buy into the lie aren't obvious, but that doesn't matter. The developer of propaganda doesn't have to waste time trying to puzzle out which lies are the most likely to resonate with an audience. A.I. helps the developer determine in advance what kind of material will get buy-in from the target audience."

"I'm still lost as to what this has to do with Lešković and Petrovsky," I said.

"Me too," Aaron said. "Did Santoro tie any of this back to them?"

"No, not her," Mike said. "Once she explained all that and answered our questions, the client excused her from the meeting."

"Ah! No wonder Santoro was pissed," Aaron said.

"What's that?" Mike asked.

"Never mind. Sorry to interrupt. What happened after the client kicked her out of the meeting?"

"Once it was just the three of us, the client got down to business," Mike said. "There's a super-secret joint task force — put together with people from the FBI and the State Department's Bureau of Diplomatic Security. They've been identifying the sources of fake news produced by generative A.I. They found repeating patterns in terms of where similar bits of fake news first surfaced."

Bob expanded on Mike's remark about the repeating patterns, explaining that while these snippets of misinformation came from different sources, they had common threads. At first blush, each snippet seemed unimportant and disconnected from the others. But as the task force collected more of them, the tidbits of misinformation began to fit together in a way that made the whole more credible than the parts.

The pieces reinforced one another. Each one was targeted to appeal to a different audience, but they were all designed to trigger people who thrive on conspiracy theories. Soon, the target audiences began to assemble the pieces into what amounted to a jigsaw puzzle of ideas.

"And the fact that they had to work hard to find the pieces and fit them together convinced the audiences that they were onto something big," Bob said.

"That's a bit of an oversimplification," Mike said. "Remember that what we just described as a single coordinated campaign is being replicated in many places with slight changes. Also, the campaigns don't just appeal to people who share a particular ideology. There are multiple conspiracy theories being promoted to people who have widely different agendas. Where TooDAFT was being used to try to skew the last election to a favored candidate, this collection of campaigns is intended to create divisiveness and encourage the fragmentation of our political parties. In other words, the perpetrators are offering something for everyone." Mike paused, and Bob picked up the story.

"There's one more key point we need to share before we get to Petrovsky," Bob said. "The task force backtracked every snippet to its earliest appearance. The goal was to find where it originated."

Bob went on to point out that the task force was using A.I. against the perpetrators. They compiled a list of relatively new, comparatively unknown news outlets that were putting out coordinated bits of misinformation. Then they tracked down the ownership of the outlets. Bob didn't get into the details, but once the task force cut through all the weeds, all trails led to the Russian Federation.

"Let's see if we can walk you through how the Russians did this," Mike said.

He and Bob spent a few minutes explaining the structure and scope of Russia's latest and most sophisticated propaganda effort. First, news outlets with names that sounded as American as apple pie were established. They began at a grassroots level, hiring legitimate journalists to report on stories of local interest. Given the way news propagates over the internet, some outlets were able to grow their readership rapidly. As they developed, they began to attract the attention of larger, well-established news organizations.

"You've probably run across at least a few of these startups," Bob said. "They cook up a name for their news outlet that makes you think you've heard of them, but you're not quite sure."

"Yeah," Aaron said. "I know that feeling. I've run across a few of those, but I can't come up with names off the top of my head."

"Me too," Mary said.

"Over time, the startups get to be better known," Mike said. "And a substantial proportion of their articles are not controversial at all. That helps them build credibility with audiences. Then the next step is that mainstream news outlets begin to pick up and distribute articles from them, articles that appeal to their own larger audiences."

He and Bob described how the fledgling operations leveraged their credibility. As they expanded their base of readers, they used generative artificial intelligence to choose topics with ever broader appeal. Over time, the startups began to short circuit the major outlets, as subscribers signed up directly with the startups.

The startups used their A.I. tools to continue to refine the trigger words, topics, and tone of their articles. Once a startup had sufficient credibility, it would begin to include tidbits of sensational, slightly skewed news, crafted to appeal to their new, expanded base. All the while, they carefully monitored how the tidbits were received, adjusting their style to suit their objectives.

"Keep in mind that these startups aren't just in the U.S.," Bob said. "The scope of the propaganda effort is international, and the activity is coordinated across the globe."

Bob described how credibility was reinforced through co-ordination. The impact of any one startup's offerings might be slight. However, the impact of multiple, subtly linked pieces of misleading information released through numerous outlets began to influence what larger segments of the population believed.

Mike said, "All of this is leading up to the next phase of our mission. Dr. Santoro's presentation set the stage from a clinical perspective. The client's own description of the findings of the joint task force explains why our domestic politics suddenly appear to be so polarized. The propaganda arm of the Russian Federation's government is having a worrisome level of success at sowing discord in U.S. society. They're doing as well or better in other countries, too. Following us so far?"

We acknowledged that we were, and Mike said, "The task force has correlated the physical addresses of those startup news outlets with the travels of several members of the Russian Federation's diplomatic corps. To reinforce Bob's point, the scope of this scheme is global, not restricted just to the U.S. and our allies."

Bob said, "The Russians are seeding misinformation in a similar fashion among their own allies. We suspect their allies are no more aware of this than we were."

"It's an abominably clever way to bolster the impact of their propaganda," Mike said. "And now it's time to cut to the chase. I mentioned the correlation between physical addresses and diplomatic travel. The person who appears to be coordinating their effort in the States is our friend Zbigniev Petrovsky. His travel history matches closely with the locations of the startup news services."

"So he's our target," Mary said. "Perfect."

"Yes, he's our target," Mike said. "But the client's imposed an unusual constraint."

"What's that?" I asked.

"I'm not too happy about this," Bob said. "My beef with Petrovsky's personal. So is Mike's, although we don't yet know who gave the order to put that bomb in his car. Anyhow, we agreed to the client's proposal, even though we'd rather just kill Petrovsky and be done with it."

"Here's the deal," Mike said. "Petrovsky's got diplomatic immunity. He looks like a small fry, a cog in a bigger machine. But then you have to realize he's the one coordinating this broad scale, long-term propaganda attack against the U.S., Russia's most important foe. He has to know more about their program than just the portion that affects the U.S. We need to find out what he knows. Just taking him off the board probably won't derail the program."

"On top of that, there's another complication," Bob said. "The client doesn't want this to turn into an international incident. Bottom line, our mission is to spirit Petrovsky away, get him out of the country, and turn him over to a team that the client is assembling. The plan is for Petrovsky to end up in a black site somewhere. He'll be thoroughly interrogated and kept on ice so that his captors can expand the scope of their questioning as they learn more. This is expected to go on for some time."

"So we've been hired just to kidnap him?" Mary said, the pitch of her voice rising as she scowled. "They don't even want us to question him? That's a new one for us."

Her anger and disbelief were visible as she shook her head, the muscles along her jaw jumping. I laid a hand on her arm, and when she looked over at me, I raised my eyebrows and shook my head. She grimaced and gave me a quick nod.

"Yes, that's right," Mike said. "But there's more. The client's well aware of the capability that Aaron has developed in the lab. Beyond taking Petrovsky out of circulation, our mission will extend to deploying countermeasures to subtly expose the misinformation that's being promulgated."

"That's a whole new line of business," Aaron said, his inflection rising.

"You could look at it that way," Mike said. "Or you could consider it a logical extension of our existing capability. It's just an expansion of what your in-house hackers are already doing. For the moment, our mission is to snatch Petrovsky. There'll be time later to talk about how to grow your part of the operation. I think we've covered enough for the moment. Unless you have questions for me and Bob, you three need to figure out how to snatch Petrovsky and deliver him to that new task force. Bob? Anything to add?"

"Yes. Ceto is en route back to the Chesapeake. I'm putting her and her crew at your disposal for whatever use you can make of her. I had the idea that you might use her to get Petrovsky out of the country for a handoff. She should be in Norfolk sometime tomorrow. Get busy, and call us if you need anything."

After Mike and Bob dropped off the call, we kicked a few ideas around with Aaron. We agreed to talk in the morning, then Mary and I went over to Arlington's Restaurant Row on 23rd street to the Italian place I mentioned to her earlier. We enjoyed a nice, relaxing dinner and turned in early.

26

"I'm surprised Aaron hasn't called already," Mary said.

We were finishing breakfast in our room. Wide awake by sunup, we had ordered from room service, as the hotel's coffee shop wasn't open yet.

I glanced at the clock on the nightstand. "It's only seven-thirty. He'll call when he's ready."

Aaron's troops had been assembling background on Petrovsky for several hours when we last spoke yesterday, but they had planned to work through the night. He said he would call us when they had a preliminary profile.

Mary nodded. "How are you feeling about this? Snatching Petrovsky, I mean?" She was frowning, still not happy about our role.

I shrugged. "It'll be okay. Just think of it as a hit, but we'll shoot him up with a tranquilizer instead. No different than if we were going to question him."

"But it is, Finn. We're talking about kidnapping a diplomat in D.C."

"Maybe. But he travels. We can catch him in an out-of-the-way place. What's bothering you?"

"The idea that our victim's going to live to tell the tale. What if the feds cut a diplomatic deal and turn the bastard loose at some point? He's not going to forget us; he'll come after us for sure. You or I would, if our roles were reversed." She took her lower lip between her teeth and shook her head. "This one feels wrong," she said. "The ending's out of our control. How do we know we can trust the people we're handing him off to?"

"Is it the handoff that's got you worried?"

"That's only part of it. I've never done this kind of job before. It's open-ended, uncertain. Not like running the whole thing from start to finish. I've never left one of my targets alive, either. Did you ever do anything like this?"

"Yes, early on. It's a little different; I'll grant you that. We'll have to coordinate things for the handoff. But that shouldn't be a big deal."

She held my gaze, thinking. "Maybe. The whole setup feels vague to me."

"It is vague right now," I said. "We don't have enough background to get a clear picture of the situation yet. Don't get worked up; it'll come clear before we commit ourselves. Otherwise, we'll hold off. And don't forget, if the feds turn him loose, we can always go after him in self-defense. Bob and Mike have the same risk we do if Lavrov is freed. We'll have Phorcys on our side if it comes to that."

"But what if this top-secret task force wants to run things?" She was frowning again.

"They won't have the option. We're the critical element in this. We can do things they're expressly forbidden to do."

"Hah! You sound pretty sure of that," Mary scoffed.

"Because Phorcys holds all the cards. Guaranteed, the people running the task force won't like it. But they don't have the wherewithal to get this done without Phorcys, and that means you and me. That gives us plenty of leverage. Now, relax. You'll feel better about it once we know more about Petrovsky. We'll get it all sorted out. We won't make a move until we do."

"Okay. But — "

The phone rang, interrupting her. I glanced at the caller ID.

"Aaron," I said, pressing the icon to answer on the speaker.

"You two ready to get the skinny on Petrovsky?"

"Can't wait," I said.

"Good. We've got a decent start, but we're still working on details. His office is in the Russian Embassy on Wisconsin Avenue in the District. No surprise there. He lives in a condo in Arlington, not far from where you're staying. It's on the sixth floor of a twelve-story building. Good security, parking is inside the building. The lab's still processing phone records; we're looking for movement patterns right now — not calls. Our goal's to figure out when and how he commutes to the embassy. His title makes him a low-level member of the staff, but that doesn't match his lifestyle or his behavior. His condo's worth close to a million bucks, and he drives a 2009 Porsche 911 Sport Classic. That's a limited-edition collector's car, insured for $700,000."

"Wow. Bet he doesn't commute in that," Mary said.

"No, probably not," Aaron said. "That car's a potential vulnerability, though. We're trying to get into his insurance company's records. A lot of insurers require antitheft tracking devices on cars like that."

"That could be helpful," I said.

"Yeah. Maybe we'll get lucky," Aaron said. "The other angle is that there's a woman in his life. Not just any woman, either. She's loaded. A rich widow, Russian-born, a naturalized U.S. citizen. Her name's Anna Karamazov Ryan. Her late husband was an American, D. L. Ryan. Wealthy guy with family money, apparently. And get this: he owned a string of small-town newspapers, which she inherited. She's moved the news business online, quite successfully. No doubt that's how she and Petrovsky came to be acquainted."

"Is she working with him on his scheme?" Mary asked.

"Not that anybody can prove — not so far, anyway. But it's definitely suspicious. The task force has been looking into that. She's something of a socialite; has a horse farm out in Loudon County and spends most of her time out there. It's called Maiden Lane Farms. Petrovsky often spends weekends with her out there. Nobody's sure if they're romantically involved or if it's just business. Again, the feds are working on that."

"Any ideas about where we might get the drop on him?" I asked. "It's clear that snatching him anywhere close to the embassy's not going to work."

"Yeah, I agree with that. A snatch anywhere in D.C. would be risky. Maybe in Arlington or Crystal City, but that whole area's densely populated. You could scope out his condo building for a start, but it may not be ideal. I'll email you what we've got. The address and building layout are in the package. Lots of mid-level foreign diplomats and upper-level government employees live there. Plus active and retired senior military. It's a stone's throw from the Pentagon and Fort Myer."

"What else do you have?" Mary asked.

"That's about it. Stuff's coming in as we speak, though. I'll keep you posted. You got anything going on today?"

"We're going to pick up a rental SUV this morning. Once we get your email, we'll scout the neighborhood and likely routes from his place to the Russian Embassy. We'll check in with you when we're done. Call us if you pick up anything hot in the meantime."

"Will do." Aaron disconnected.

"Shall we get on with our day? I need to shave; I feel grubby."

"Go for it, sailor. I'll book a car for us."

By the time we picked up our SUV and fumbled our way through the rush hour traffic around National Airport, we didn't get to the street where Petrovsky's condo was until a quarter to nine. I was driving; Mary was navigating.

"It should be just a little farther up the hill, in the next block on the right side," she said.

I nodded. The speed limit on the quiet, residential street was twenty-five miles per hour, and the building took up about half of the block at the top of the hill we'd been climbing for the last few blocks. The street was free of traffic, but with cars parked along both curbs, it felt narrower than it actually was. I slowed down to about fifteen miles per hour, figuring anybody who saw us would think we were looking for a parking place.

"The next break in the parked cars should be the entrance to the building's driveway," Mary said. "Turn in there; it goes under a portico and then exits back to the street."

I signaled for a right turn and followed her instructions. The driveway was wider than I expected, with diagonal parking on the left side for about a dozen cars facing out toward the street. Signs informed us that parking was for visitors, who must register with the concierge, and that towing was enforced twenty-four hours a day. We got a good look at the front of the condo building.

The portico was wide enough to accommodate two cars side by side and was about sixty feet long. Plate-glass windows ran the length of the wall under the portico, affording us a view into a sizable, elegantly furnished lobby. There was a counter at the left end of the lobby for the concierge, who was engaged in conversation with a woman standing across the counter from him. Neither of them noticed as we drove past the entrance doors at a walking pace.

I turned right at the end of the driveway and followed the street uphill again. In fifty yards, it made a hairpin turn past a small, unoccupied park at the top of the hill. Just around the hairpin turn, the road continued downhill. Within another fifty yards, we saw an empty parking place. I stopped the SUV and flicked on the turn signal.

"What do you think?" I asked, turning to look at Mary.

"Looks okay to me," she said. "From what I could see, nobody in the building has much of a view of the street. We can at least walk back to the top of the hill and get a look at this end of the building. The concierge won't be able to see the us; the angle's wrong."

I parked, and we strolled back to the top of the hill. There was a bench in the little park, facing to the north, which afforded a panoramic view across Interstate 395. Arlington Cemetery was to the left, and the Pentagon was directly on the other side of I-395 from us. Across the Potomac, we could see the landmarks on the National Mall in the distance.

"Quite a view," Mary said. "Imagine what you can see from the condos."

"From the building layout Aaron sent us, the units are on the back side of the building. They wouldn't be able to see the cemetery."

"No, but they all have balconies. I'll bet those give the residents a prime view of D.C. and the government buildings on the Mall."

"Probably," I said, turning to look back toward the condo building.

The north end of the building was a sheer wall, unbroken except for a single window on each floor. The windows were small; the floor plans of the building showed that each one was in a bedroom of an end unit. They all had shades pulled down against the morning sun. Satisfied that we weren't likely to be observed from the building, I let my eyes follow a sidewalk down the hill from the park where we stood. The sidewalk led to a steel door at ground level in the building's end wall.

Recalling our study of the floor plan again, I knew there was a staircase at each end of the building. On every floor, a hallway ran along the inside of the front wall, with occasional picture windows. There were small storage rooms and laundry rooms in the space between the windows, and at each end of the hall, fire doors opened into the staircases. The ground-level door was an exit from the staircase at this end of the building.

There were security cameras above the door. One was trained on the door itself, and the others were moving, sweeping the approaches. Besides the sidewalk and steps that led from our location to the door, another sidewalk led around to the front of the building. From the detailed architectural drawings Aaron sent, we knew the wall at the other end of the building was almost a mirror image of this one. The other end of the building was separated by a small plot of shrubbery from a condo building next door. We noticed that as we drove past a few minutes earlier.

"I don't think this is a good place for a snatch," I said. "But we may as well drive around to the back side where the balconies are."

Mary nodded, chewing the corner of her lower lip. "A clean hit would be one thing. This isn't much different from Lešković's place, except for all the video cameras. We could knock them out, but that might attract attention. Even so, we could be in and out quickly. But dragging a drugged captive out is a different thing altogether."

We walked back to the car, and I made a U-turn coming out of the parking place. Driving past Petrovsky's condo building and down the hill, I turned left at the stop sign. The road curved and took us behind his condo building and the one next door. As we passed the back of Petrovsky's building, Mary was looking up, studying the balconies.

"His unit's on the sixth floor," she said. "I've got his balcony picked out, but I can't tell much about it. Looks like we could rappel down from it, though. With a harness on him, we could lower him. The only problem is that we'd end up landing on the driveway that goes up into the parking garage. We'd be right out in the open. And there are video cameras that cover the whole back of the building. I counted six, but I could have missed some."

"If we knocked out all of them, somebody would probably notice," I said. "Given the number of cameras we've seen, my bet is they've got a security office with a guard. They most likely have back-up monitors at the concierge's desk, too. Half a dozen going black at once would catch somebody's eye for sure."

I came to a stop sign at a T intersection and turned right, heading back toward Crystal City and our hotel. "Should we take a ride out to Loudon County and take a look at that horse farm? Traffic shouldn't be too bad at this time of day. It'll probably take around an hour."

"Might as well," Mary said. "Getting into the condo building would be manageable. We could knock out the camera covering that door on the north end wall and then pick the lock. There might be an alarm on the door, but we could handle that. Still, getting out with Petrovsky would be a whole different thing."

I nodded. "I can get us to I-66 westbound from memory, but can you pull up a route to Anna Ryan's horse farm?"

"Sure," Mary said.

27

We had a quick, fifty-minute trip to Leesburg, Virginia, on I-66 and Highway 267. From there, we turned onto U.S. Highway 15 South for a few miles and followed Mary's route to Anna Ryan's horse farm. The drive from Petrovsky's condo took us a few minutes longer than an hour.

"It should be on our left just over this next hill," Mary said, looking down at her phone.

"Got it," I said, slowing down.

There was no other traffic on the road as we took in what seemed to be an endless expanse of rolling green pasture dotted with several groups of horses. A paved road barred by a closed gate led off to the left, winding around a hill which blocked our view of any buildings. The gateway sign bore the legend Maiden Lane Farms — Private.

"That's the place," Mary said. "Pull over for a second and let's see if there's a way to get closer or find a better angle."

We studied the map on her phone's screen for a few minutes but didn't find anything promising. I pulled back onto the road, making a U-turn.

"Where are you going now?" Mary asked.

"I saw a little restaurant back in Leesburg that looked promising. We can have an early lunch and call Aaron. Maybe he can get his hands on an aerial photo of the farm."

Ten minutes later, I pulled into the parking lot of the restaurant. There were several pickup trucks and a few cars, but the place was far from crowded. We decided to call Aaron before we went inside.

"What's up with you two?" Aaron asked, after we exchanged greetings.

"We're in Leesburg," I said. "We did a quick recon of Petrovsky's condo. It didn't look promising, so we decided to check out Anna Ryan's horse farm."

"And?"

"The pastures look nice, but that's all we could see from the road," Mary said. "We were hoping for satellite photos, or maybe some flyover shots."

"I'll see what I can do," Aaron said. "Meantime, though, the lab had a breakthrough on Petrovsky's Porsche."

"What kind of breakthrough?" I asked.

"As we suspected, it does have an anti-theft tracking system. They hacked into it; it's an unusual one. It supports interactive communications."

"What's that mean?" Mary asked.

"Well, the normal ones will give you the current location and some trip history, like origin and destination points, time of departure and arrival, and max speed. That sort of thing. Some will even send you an alarm if the vehicle goes outside certain limits that you set."

"What kind of limits?" I asked.

"They could be geographic boundaries, or an upper speed limit. The kind of things you might use to keep an eye on your spouse, or a teenage driver."

"Okay," Mary said. "But this one does more?"

"Yeah. It's got a couple of features that might be useful to us," Aaron chuckled. "One in particular caught my attention. If the car is stolen, the tracking system operator can restrict fuel flow to slow the vehicle down, and even shut off the engine, all by remote control. How's that grab you?"

"That could be handy," I said. "Can the lab get into that? Take over from the system operator?"

"Of course. That's why it caught my attention. And the other thing is that the tracking system provides a means for the driver to place an SOS call to a dispatcher who will send roadside assistance, no cellphone required. See where I'm going?"

"Yes," I said. "And the road we were on when we drove past the horse farm is a perfect place to put those features to use."

"And here we were thinking it would be the woman that made him vulnerable," Mary said. "All along, it's his car that's the weak point in his armor."

"Don't be so fast to write off Anna Ryan," Aaron said.

"Okay," Mary said. "But why do we need her?"

"Oh, we probably don't need her per se, but she's still a major vulnerability for Petrovsky. That tracking system for his car maintains several months of travel history. He doesn't drive that car much, but when he's in town, he drives it out to her farm on Friday nights and stays until Sunday night. He's careful; he has several different routes he uses, and he mixes them up. But that's no problem, since we have access to his tracking system. So Anna Ryan's definitely a vulnerability, just indirectly."

"Right. Can you send us his routes?" I asked. "We may as well scout them all while we're in the neighborhood."

"You got it. They're on the way as we speak."

"Great. Thanks," I said. "We're going to get some lunch and then we'll check 'em out."

"Good. Anything else I can do for you?"

"That'll keep us busy for now, but it would be nice to have more info on the farm, and maybe pictures of his lady friend," Mary said. "Just for backup."

"Got that on my list."

"Do you have any other news to share?" I asked.

"No. Just the info on the Porsche. We're still looking into a bunch of other stuff. Let me know how your recon goes this afternoon."

"Will do," I said.

We disconnected the call and got out of the car. I stretched and rolled my shoulders.

Mary chuckled as she watched me working the kinks out. "Been sitting still too long?"

"Yes. Ready for lunch?" I asked.

"Starved. Let's go."

While we were on our call, several more cars and trucks pulled into the parking lot. The dining room was moderately full, but we found a table easily enough. Several people nodded at us as we passed their tables. A few even greeted us casually.

"Haven't seen y'all before," the waitress said, as she handed us menus. "You new here, or just passing through?"

"Passing through," I said. "Beautiful country."

"Thanks. We think so, too." She nodded, with a smile. "I'll be back in a minute to take your order."

The menu was upscale, as were the prices. But the food was worth every penny.

"Reminds me of Maggie's in Brighton Beach," Mary said, as we stepped out into the parking lot.

"Really?" I shook my head. "Not the food. Or the prices."

"I meant the clientele," Mary said. "And the waitress. Nice people. Friendlier than the ones at Maggie's, but just as nosy."

I chuckled as I opened the door of the SUV for her. "A refined crowd, compared to Maggie's. A little farther out in the sticks, and they would have greeted us with, 'Y'all ain't from 'round here, are ye?' They're a little more subtle in the ritzy parts of the South."

"Let's look at those routes," Mary said, once we were both in the SUV.

We opened the attachments to the email from Aaron and discovered that he sent screenshots of maps with the routes marked. Each screenshot was annotated to show how often Petrovsky used the route depicted. His most favored route was the one we took this morning.

"I'm surprised he'd use that route so often," Mary said. "It's the most direct one; that's so obvious."

"That's probably why. It's the main route to that area from D.C. There's always lots of traffic on it; good cover for him."

"And for whoever might be following him," Mary said.

"Yes, until they follow him down U.S. 15 to the turnoff. All he'd have to do to spot a tail is watch his rearview mirror after he turned onto that first unmarked road. They'd stick out, big time."

"Right," Mary said. "I didn't think about that. Anyway, there's not a good spot for an ambush on that route until he turns off U.S. 15."

"I agree. Let's check the routes through Centreville, Potomac Falls, and Chantilly. Since we're already out here, we could start at the farm and work backwards."

"You're thinking the parts of the routes from Arlington to those towns will be too busy?"

"Well," I said, "They'll be busier than the parts on the back roads."

"Makes sense to me."

We retraced our route to the horse farm and then reversed Petrovsky's routes from the farm to each of the other small towns his routes passed through. By focusing on the back roads, we saved ourselves a few hours of scouting time and finished our recon by late afternoon. On the drive back to Arlington, we discussed what we'd discovered.

"You know," Mary said, "It just hit me. We might not know ahead of time that he's planning to spend the weekend with her. But if we wait until we know he's out there, we could set up to take him on his return trip to Arlington on the Sunday night."

"Good idea. We could hang out in the area until he left the farm and then use the anti-theft tracking system to figure out which way he's going. Get ourselves in position and have the lab shut the car down when he's where we want him. And that has an extra benefit."

"What's that?" Mary asked.

"If we were to snatch him on a Friday night, she would be expecting him. When he didn't show up, she might raise an alarm."

"You're right," she said. "But on a Sunday night, he probably won't be missed until he doesn't show up for work at the Embassy on Monday."

"If he's even going to the Embassy that day. For all we know, he could be flying off to somewhere else on that Monday morning. He might not be missed for a day or more. Plenty of time for us to get clear."

"I like it," Mary said. "Let's call Aaron and see what he thinks. This could work well."

Aaron agreed with our tentative plans. He had a few embellishments to offer, based on further research by the hackers in the lab.

"I've already sent a package to your hotel. It should be waiting for you when you get there."

"That was fast," Mary said.

"The advantage of having you near D.C. There are plenty of people I can tap for minor errands."

"So what's in the package?" I asked.

"A pair of magnetic signs for your SUV, and a set of coveralls for each of you."

"What kind of signs?" Mary asked. "And why coveralls?"

"You're about to go into business as Riverside Emergency Road Service. When we kill the engine in his Porsche and Petrovsky pushes the SOS button, your 'dispatcher' will tell him that there just happens to be a unit ten minutes away from his location. The story will be that you were sent to jump-start somebody in the closest little town to where he's stalled."

"A stroke of genius," Mary said. "So we'll fake tinkering with his car for a minute or two, then tell him it has to go to the shop."

"Something like that. But better. The tracking system has access to the error codes stored in the car's onboard computer. You can explain that and tell him there's a problem with his high-pressure injector pump. Say that a tow truck is en route with an ETA of about an hour, but there's no need to wait. Ask him where he's going, offer to take him there, and he's all yours."

"Too easy," Mary said. "That almost makes up for not getting to kill the bastard."

"About that tracking system," I said.

"What about it?" Aaron asked.

"Where's his car right now? Today's Saturday. If he's at the farm, we might be able to get our act together fast enough to snatch him tomorrow night."

"No such luck. The Porsche is in his garage space. He's out on the West Coast this weekend, coming back mid-week. Keep your fingers crossed that he misses his lady friend and wants to spend next weekend with her."

28

When Mary and I got back to our hotel, we stopped at the front desk and picked up the package Aaron sent. Back in our room, we opened it and examined the contents.

"The coveralls are a nice touch," Mary said. "So are the pistols with the tranquilizer darts. I should have thought to ask for those."

I nodded. "It's a clever plan all the way around. Here's hoping Petrovsky plans to spend this weekend at the horse farm."

"How are we going to manage the handoff once we have him?" Mary was frowning. "Bob said Ceto was supposed to arrive in Norfolk yesterday, but that's a three or four-hour drive. That could put us transferring him to Ceto in daylight, depending on how late we grab him. If they're in a marina, we might attract attention."

"Time for some map reconnaissance. Ceto could meet us somewhere closer than Norfolk. Maybe along the Potomac. Let's look."

I booted up my tablet and opened our marine navigation app. The Potomac River is broad, with a deep channel that is navigable all the way from the Chesapeake Bay to Washington, and it meanders through some relatively unpopulated areas. We ruled out the Maryland side of the Potomac as a rendezvous point with Ceto. Crossing the river into Maryland after kidnapping Petrovsky would require driving back to the D.C. area. Then we'd still have to turn south and drive a good distance to find an out-of-the-way place to meet Ceto. Staying on the Virginia side would cut down our driving time, so we traced the river's Virginia shoreline to the south of Quantico, well away from the D.C. sprawl.

"How about Aquia Creek?" Mary asked, pointing to where the creek flowed into the Potomac. She pinch-zoomed, expanding the area around the mouth of the creek. "Aquia Landing Park. Ever heard of it?"

"No, but I know there are several marinas on Aquia Creek. That doesn't bode well for staying out of sight."

We zoomed in on the creek, tracing it farther north. The marinas I remembered were all well north of the creek's mouth. Aquia Landing Park took up the eastern edge of the southern point where Aquia Creek flowed into the Potomac. We checked out the park's website and studied the detailed map and the list of amenities, which were sparse. The park's entrance road ran right along the shore of the Potomac for a few hundred yards.

"Looks good," I said. "We'll have to check it out in person tomorrow, but it should work. There's nothing there to attract anybody in the wee hours of the morning, either."

Mary tapped on the tablet's screen, switching from the nautical chart to a road map. "It's about an hour and a half from the horse farm."

I took the tablet and flipped back to the nautical chart. "And there's plenty of room for Ceto to stand offshore, well out into the river. The park's two and a half miles across the Potomac from the main channel, and there's good depth almost all the way to shore. They could stand off in a position far enough out so nobody ashore would notice them in the dark. Then they can send a small RIB or inflatable in to make the pickup."

"I like it," Mary said.

"Me too. We should check in with Aaron and kick it around with him, but I vote for dinner first."

"Sounds good," Mary said. "Let's go back to that same place on Restaurant Row."

"Finn?" Aaron asked, answering our call.

"Both of us are here," I said.

"Good. What's new on your end?"

Mary described our reconnaissance of Petrovsky's routes. After she shared the most important details, she said, "I've marked the most isolated parts of each route on the screenshots you sent us. I'll email them to you when we're finished."

"Great. Did you get the package?"

"Yes," I said. "We're all set on that, but we need to talk about what happens after we have him."

"Right. Before we get into that, I got a call this afternoon from Terry Reynolds. Ceto is in Norfolk, and Bob already filled him in based on the status as of our last conference call. Terry wanted me to add him on the next time you called in. Is this a good time to bring him up to speed?"

"Sure. Let's get him on board."

Aaron put us on hold for a moment while he got Reynolds on the line. Mary asked if Reynolds knew about her.

"Not from me," I said. "Bob or Aaron may have told him by now."

"Finn?" Aaron came back on the line before Mary could respond.

"Yes."

"Good. You still there, Terry?"

"Yes."

"Mary O'Brien's on here as well," Aaron said.

"Hi, Ms. O'Brien. General Lawson's told me a little about you. I'm looking forward to working with you."

"Same here," Mary said. "Just call me Mary."

"Okay. You got it. I'm Terry."

"Good to hear your voice again, Terry," I said.

"Hey, Finn. Bob says you have work for us."

"Yes." I gave him an overview of our tentative plan, including our need for a pickup where Aquia Creek joins the Potomac. "We don't have a date yet," I said, wrapping up. "Petrovsky often spends the weekends at the horse farm — goes out there Friday night and drives back to Arlington on Sunday night. We'll have from Friday night until Sunday evening to get in position once we know he's out there. What do you think?"

"We shouldn't have any problems on our end," Reynolds said. "I was looking at the chartplotter as you were talking. That's about a hundred-forty-mile run for us, say twelve hours from Norfolk. I'll want a recon run beforehand to get a look at your proposed pickup point. We'll do that with our fast RIB so nobody will see Ceto poking around ahead of time, though. Let's talk about the pickup itself. We'll have Ceto stand by out on the edge of the channel like you said. I'd suggest sending one of our little 12-foot RIBs ashore if that will accommodate everybody. If there's an unexpected observer, that won't be as memorable as the big RIB. Who's going to be with Petrovsky?"

"We haven't settled on that yet," I said. "My preference would be for Mary and me to join him aboard Ceto, at least until somebody else takes custody."

"Makes sense to me," Reynolds said. "So there'll be three of you, plus whoever's running the RIB. No problem."

"But we'll have the SUV," Mary said, frowning at me. "We can't abandon it at the park."

"We can handle that," Reynolds said. "I'll send an extra man in with the RIB. He can turn in your rental and catch a flight to wherever's a convenient spot to rejoin Ceto. And what about that Porsche? Are you going to leave it by the side of the road?"

"Terry? Let me take care of all that," Aaron said. "I didn't mention it earlier, but I was already planning to have somebody drive the Porsche back to Petrovsky's condo and put it in his parking place. I'll send somebody to join you on Ceto. When you make the pickup, drop him off, and he can return the SUV. Everybody okay with that?"

"That's perfect," Mary said. "Great idea, Aaron. Finding Petrovsky's car back in its normal place at the condo will seriously muddy the water for anybody trying to figure out what happened to him."

"The lab's hacked the condo building's security system, by the way," Aaron said. "They'll manage the video feeds and recordings so that nobody will be able to identify the driver of the Porsche when it pulls into the garage."

"That's icing on the cake," I said. "But what about the tracking system? Won't it show the Porsche sitting idle in the middle of nowhere for a while after the lab kills the engine? And will their system operator realize they were hacked?"

"No, and no," Aaron said. "We have that under control. The lab will be spoofing the tracker, and when we've put the car back in his parking place in the condo's garage, they'll do a seamless merge of the data. The tracking system's history will show Petrovsky driving home, and we'll diddle the recorded speed and route to make the timing work out."

"That's even better," I said. "At a minimum, we'll have him for around 12 hours before anybody could notice that he's missing. By the time anybody starts looking for him, Ceto should be well clear of the Chesapeake Bay entrance and out at sea."

"Speaking of that, where are we taking him?" Reynolds asked.

"Good question," Aaron said. "Bob and Mike want a briefing at 11:00 tomorrow morning. We can cover the plan with them. That will give 'em time to work with the client to figure out the next step after you have him in custody. Anything else we should cover now?"

When nobody offered further thoughts, Aaron said, "All right. Have a good evening."

29

"I could get used to this kind of schedule," Mary said, as we took the elevator back to our room Sunday morning after a leisurely breakfast in the hotel dining room.

"No kidding. Me, too. Nice to sleep in for a change."

Once we were back in the privacy of our room, I asked, "Any last-minute thoughts on our plan before the call?"

"Not really."

Aaron called at ten minutes to eleven. "I wanted a few minutes to get our ducks in a row before the conference call," he said.

"Okay," I said. "Have at it."

"If it's okay with you, I'll carry the ball. You and Mary can chime in any time, but I thought it might be easier for me to lay out the proposed sequence of events, given how much the timing depends on the lab's electronic surveillance."

"Fine with me. Are you okay with that, Mary?"

"Sure."

"Good enough," Aaron said. "I'll call you back when I have the others on the line."

"We'll be here," I said.

Aaron disconnected. As I put the phone down, I noticed Mary was frowning.

"What's wrong?" I asked.

"Aaron seems a little more anxious than usual. It's not like him to want to lock down an agenda before a call with Mike and Bob."

I thought about that for a second. "Terry Reynolds is a new participant, an unknown quantity."

"He's that handsome kid who was with you when you found the sniper's body?"

"That's right."

"You think Aaron has doubts about him?" she asked. "I thought you were comfortable with him."

"I am. And with his second in command, too. But I've had a chance to work with each of them in tense situations. Aaron hasn't. He'll be okay once he gets a feel for how Reynolds handles himself."

Mary nodded. "Who's his second in command, again?"

"A former SEAL named George Davis."

"Do you think he'll be on the call?"

"I don't know." I shrugged. "Could be. He and Reynolds are pretty tight; lots of mutual respect. And Reynolds served under Bob, early in Reynolds' Army career, just like Aaron and I did."

"But Davis was in the Navy, right?"

"Yes, but…" What I knew of their backgrounds was learned in confidence. I wondered how much of their personal history I should share with Mary. I would prefer letting them decide when to take her into their confidence. During my hesitation, our conference call came in.

"Finn? Mary?" Aaron asked.

"We're here," Mary said.

"Good. Bob, Mike, and Terry are on. Mike?"

"Thanks, Aaron," Mike said. "Terry, I just wanted to welcome you to the group. You've met everybody but Mary, correct?"

"Yes, sir. And Mary and I spoke last night. Good morning, both of you."

After we acknowledged Terry's greeting, Mike said, "Before I turn it back over to Aaron, you all need to know that Bob and I are having lunch with the client in a couple of hours. We'll be sharing our plans with him for his okay, and I expect we'll leave the meeting with his blessing to go forward. If he has new information that's relevant to our mission, he'll pass that along. I've asked Aaron to arrange a call for all of us later this afternoon when Bob and I are free again, so keep your schedules clear, please. Aaron?"

"Thanks, Mike." Aaron gave Bob and Mike a detailed explanation of our plan to capture Petrovsky, including the use of his car's antitheft system to simulate a mechanical failure. The notion that Mary and I would be dispatched to provide emergency roadside service got a chuckle from Bob. Both of them thought that returning the Porsche to Petrovsky's garage space was a nice touch. Neither expressed any surprise at the idea that Mary and I would escort Petrovsky while he was aboard Ceto. As Aaron was wrapping up, Bob suggested that Terry Reynolds should make sure that Ceto was fueled to capacity and fully provisioned.

"When we get a green light from the client," Bob said, "We'll ask about handing off Petrovsky. Our working assumption is that you'll have a rendezvous with another vessel in an out-of-the-way part of the ocean, away from normal shipping routes. Once you're well offshore, you should go dark, Terry. We don't want anybody tracking you."

"Understood," Reynolds said.

"Let's talk about timing," Mike said. "Today's Sunday. If the client says go, could you make your move next Sunday? That would allow us a week to work out details."

Mary and I traded glances. She nodded.

"Sure," I said. "No problem, assuming Petrovsky heads for the horse farm next weekend."

"Terry?" Bob asked. "Aaron said you were planning a recon run before you took Ceto up the Potomac. That must be a day's trip."

"For Ceto, it would be. But I'll take the big RIB so nobody will see Ceto poking around in the river. That'll be an easy morning's boat ride, round trip. So the answer is yes. In fact, I could do that this afternoon."

"How about your folks, Aaron?" Mike asked. "Can they move that quickly?"

"Yes. We're ready."

"Anything we've missed?" Mike asked. "Last-minute questions or suggestions?"

After we all replied in the negative, Mike said, "Good job. Thanks, everybody. Stand by for our call later."

Mike and Bob dropped off, and Aaron disconnected the call.

"Sounds like we have a few hours to kill," Mary said. "Any ideas?"

"We could hop on the Metro and go to the Smithsonian. I never get tired of looking at the National Firearms Collection. Have you ever seen it?"

"No. Sounds interesting."

"It is. They've got over 7,000 guns going back for centuries," I said. "Dueling pistols, matchlocks, flintlocks, you name it. Right up to the latest technology."

Mary grinned. "My kind of museum. Let's do it."

"Good. And we can grab lunch somewhere on our way back here."

We'd just gotten back to our room when Aaron called at about three-thirty, with Terry Reynolds already on the line. "I'll put you all on hold for a few seconds while I add Bob and Mike."

Mike's voice was the next one we heard. "The client gave us the go-ahead, with an unexpected twist. Bob and I have spent a little time working through that, and we've decided we're okay with it if you four are. Bob?"

"Dr. Santoro wasn't at the meeting, but the client had spoken with her earlier. There was another NSA intercept that mentioned Phorcys and Molot — no details, just a vague reference like before. But it supports the notion of a continuing leak. Because of that, the client's uncomfortable about involving any of our government's security agencies in debriefing Petrovsky. As he put it, with such a broad-based task force, there are too many people who could have reservations about the kidnapping of a foreign diplomat. He's still committed to the mission, but he wants us to handle Petrovsky's interrogation."

"The client's familiar with Jill Hardwick's work," Mike said, picking up where Bob left off. "He doesn't know her personally, but he remembers when she was part of the Department back when we first got it started. He's well aware of her skills at interrogation."

Mary looked at me and raised her eyebrows. I shrugged, but I could tell she was wondering why the client even knew about the Department, let alone Jill Hardwick's background. I wondered the same thing. The Department had been shut down before the client assumed his current office, and during its twenty-plus years of operation, its existence was a secret shared only with the president. By my reckoning, the current president shouldn't have known about the Department except possibly in a summary, historical context as background for the government's use of Phorcys. But clearly, he did. I put a finger across my lips and Mary nodded.

Mike was still speaking. "As a result, he's expanded our mission. Jill will board Ceto this weekend, assuming our quarry goes to the horse farm on Friday night. She will handle Petrovsky's interrogation, and once we're satisfied that we have everything he knows, we'll inform the client. At that point, the client expects to give us the order to terminate Petrovsky. That's subject to change if we and the client determine that Petrovsky might be of further use, in which case he'll be imprisoned at a black site yet to be determined. That's it. Questions or comments?"

When there were none, Mike said, "We've got plenty of time, assuming Petrovsky sticks to his normal schedule. Aaron will monitor Petrovsky's movements in case it looks like he'll be away over the weekend, but right now, the client's information has Petrovsky in town for the rest of this week and next week. If anything changes, we'll regroup. Otherwise, make it happen, and keep in touch."

Aaron disconnected the call, and Mary raised the topic we were both curious about. "How does the client know about Jill?"

"I don't know," I said. "He's been around Washington for a long time, but when Mike started The Department, the client was a junior congressman. There's no telling how he learned about Jill. He's certainly been exposed to the fruits of her labor via some of our recent missions. It's not beyond the realm of possibility that he asked Mike and Bob who was handling interrogations for Phorcys. Or something like that. He is the president; nothing's really off limits to him now."

"That still makes me uncomfortable," Mary said. "Do you suppose he knows about us? You and me, I mean?"

"Of course he does," I said. "He doesn't think Mike and Bob go out in the field and do wet work, Mary."

"I mean, does he know our names? Who we are?"

"I don't know, but I seriously doubt it. There's no reason for him to know that, and the very reason Phorcys exists is to provide the government with deniability. He wouldn't want to know who does the things we do. And now that I think about it, I suspect that he only knows Jill by her results, not by name or any personally identifiable characteristics. Mike and Bob wouldn't share that with him. There's no reason for them to."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes," I said. "No doubt in my mind. But if you're worried, you could ask Bob."

She shook her head. "He'd think less of me if I asked, wouldn't he?"

I pondered how to answer for a second. "He's your uncle. He has your best interests at heart."

"Uh-huh. Sorry I went soft for a moment. I just lost my perspective. It's not in the client's best interest to know who I am."

"That's right. It could only harm him if he knew," I said.

"Harm him Hell! If he knew my identity, I'd have to kill him," she said, with a grin. "That was a joke. Don't be alarmed. I'm going to clean up and get dressed, and you're going to buy me dinner at that Italian place again tonight. Things may be about to get hectic for a few days. We might as well relax while we can."

"You got that right. We have a few days to ourselves for a change," I said. "Anything in particular you'd like to do?"

"Yes. I really got a kick out of the Smithsonian. I've never had a chance to play tourist in Washington. You seem to know your way around the museums and sights. You interested in being my personal tour guide this week?"

"Sure thing. After dinner, we'll start with a driving tour of the National Mall and the monuments by night. That'll get you oriented."

After a few days, Mary was an old hand at being a tourist in D.C. She'd walked me for several miles every day, cajoling me about being old and decrepit. I let her tease me at first. When I finally protested, she said it was payback for my remark about her 'aging well' when I first saw her in the gray wig a few days ago.

Our holiday ended Friday night with a phone call from Aaron. "The Porsche is en route to the horse farm. Looks like Sunday night's showtime, but Mike wants everybody to stand by for any short-notice changes starting tomorrow morning in case Petrovsky does something unexpected. Assuming he stays there, Ceto will move up the Potomac Sunday to be in place for the pickup."

I welcomed the excuse to chill out on Saturday and Sunday, and Mary took pity on me. We relaxed and made use of the hotel's health club and swimming pool. Petrovsky's car didn't move from the horse farm until Sunday evening. By then, we were in position near the farm's access road, and Ceto was anchored a mile or two downstream from Aquia Landing Park, about 80 miles away on the Potomac River.

30

"He just started the Porsche." Aaron's voice came over the speaker of the encrypted phone resting on the console of our SUV.

"Roger that," I said.

It was a few minutes after nine on Sunday night. We were parked in an overgrown field, shielded from a dirt road by a copse of trees. Fifty yards to our west, the horse farm's driveway intersected the road.

"He just left the driveway," Aaron said. "Turned right onto the road. He should pass your location any time now."

About ninety seconds later, we saw lights flickering through the trees. The Porsche was moving slowly, which wasn't a surprise given the rough, unimproved road.

"We see him," I said.

"Good. Sit tight. Let him get to the T-intersection and see which way he goes."

We wanted to stop him before he reached one of the paved roads, but we also wanted him far enough from the horse farm so that he wouldn't be tempted to walk back.

"He's turned southwest. Looks like he must be heading toward I-66, but he's taking the long way around, down toward Middleburg."

"Can you put his location on our tablet?" Mary asked.

"Roger that. I'm accessing your tablet. His location will pop up on your screen in the next few seconds. You'll be able to follow along."

We could hear Aaron tapping on his keyboard. There was a chime from the tablet.

"Got him," Mary said, turning the device so I could see the screen.

"Those must be really shitty roads," Aaron said. "He's keeping it between fifteen and twenty miles an hour."

"They're rough in spots, with some pretty deep ruts and world-class potholes," I said. "Not meant for low slung million-dollar sports cars."

We watched Petrovsky's progress in silence for a few minutes. I glanced at the clock and decided it was time for us to start following him.

"We might as well get rolling," I said. "He's got almost ten minutes on us now. We don't want to make him wait too long after you stop him."

"Yeah," Aaron said. "He's in the middle of nowhere, about halfway between Leesburg and Middleburg, still on a dirt road."

"We're on our way," I said.

"Good. He's still got maybe a ten or fifteen minute lead on you. Should I stop him?"

"Yes," I said.

"He's stopped," Aaron said, almost simultaneously. "Let's see how long it takes for him to hit the SOS button." There was a pause. "The lab's monitoring the voltage of his battery via his antitheft system. It's cycling between about twelve point five volts and ten volts every ten or fifteen seconds."

"What's that mean?" Mary asked.

"He's cranking the car, trying to start it," Aaron said. "Okay. He gave up and called in. The closest town of any size is still Leesburg. We'll tell him you just finished up a call there and should reach him in fifteen minutes."

"All right," Mary said. "This is really cool. The lab just put our route to the Porsche on the tablet screen."

"Customer service is our most important product, ma'am," Aaron said.

Twelve minutes later, we spotted the Porsche's flashing hazard lights.

I glanced at Mary. She was loading her CO2-powered dart pistol.

Looking over at me, she said, "I'm going to put him under first thing. Knowing what he is, he's probably armed and definitely dangerous."

I nodded.

"Roger that," Aaron said. "We just updated Reynolds. Ceto's holding position on the edge of the channel, a couple of miles east of the park. Their RIB's in the water and ready to go. They'll be watching for your arrival. And our clean-up team's already en route to the Porsche. We have another person aboard Ceto. He'll come ashore in the RIB and return your SUV to the rental agency."

I flipped on the SUV's emergency flashers and pulled up behind the Porsche.

"It's a go," I said, as Mary got out.

"Roger that," Aaron said.

I left our engine running and caught up with Mary as she approached the Porsche. The driver's side window was down. Petrovsky's left arm rested in the opening as he turned in the seat to face us.

"Mr. Petrovsky?" Mary asked.

"Yes. You are from Riverside Emergency Roa — "

Mary shot him in the throat with a tranquilizer dart. His eyes went wide with shock and his right hand rose from behind his right thigh, a pistol dropping from his hand as he lost consciousness. The pistol fell on the console between the seats as I opened the door.

"He's good for about four hours," Mary said, picking up his pistol and sticking it in the pocket of her coveralls.

His seatbelt was already unfastened. I dragged him from the car and loaded him onto my back in a fireman's carry. We took him back to the SUV, and I dumped him in the cargo area.

"While you get him secured, I'll kill the lights and flashers on his car," Mary said. "Nobody's going to hit it out here, and the recovery crew has the location already. We don't need to attract any attention."

By the time she got back, I was gagging Petrovsky with duct tape. Mary double-checked the Flexicuffs I put on his wrists and ankles. We spread a blanket over him to be certain he was out of sight if anybody we passed got a look through the back windows.

"Let's go," I said, closing the tailgate.

"You still on here, Aaron?" Mary asked as I executed a U-turn and headed toward U.S. Highway 15.

"Yeah. What's up?"

"We're on our way to the park," she said. "Everything's good."

"Roger that. The recovery team for the Porsche is about two minutes out. Don't be alarmed if you cross paths with them. They'll probably be running dark, so you might not see 'em until you're on top of 'em."

"Got it," I said. "We're about to pull onto the highway."

"Yeah. I got you on the screen. Recovery's gonna miss you by several seconds. Your ETA at the park is eighty-five minutes. The RIB will hover offshore until they see you."

I turned the SUV's headlights off as we turned into the Aquia Landing Park driveway. Although the park was closed after sunset, there was no gate, and we didn't want to attract the attention of anyone driving past.

As I pulled to a stop within a few yards of the narrow strip of sandy beach that fronted on the Potomac, a dark gray, twelve-foot-long RIB nosed silently up onto the beach. The electric outboard's purring sound was barely audible. In the dim ambient light, I recognized George Davis, Reynolds' second in command, as he stepped ashore.

"Hey, Finn," he said in a soft voice, approaching us as we got out of the SUV.

"Hi, George. Meet Mary O'Brien."

"Hello, George," Mary said, extending her hand. "Call me Mary."

"Nice to meet you," he said, with a quick handshake.

She nodded. "I'll push the RIB back in the water and hold it while you two get Petrovsky."

"Where's the person who's returning this thing?" I asked, as George and I lifted Petrovsky from the SUV's cargo area.

"He's around here somewhere. I brought him ashore a few minutes ago. He had orders to stay clear of you two. Protecting your identity, I guess."

I nodded as George and I carried Petrovsky, wading out to where Mary held the RIB. Once we lowered him into the center of the little boat, Mary and I climbed aboard and sat on the tubes across from each other. George gave the RIB a shove toward deeper water and scrambled aboard, switching on the near-silent outboard. The battery-operated motor sent the RIB ghosting out into the darkness.

"Jill Hardwick's already aboard Ceto," George said. "We're outta here as soon as we get this RIB on deck."

"So you've met Jill," Mary said.

George laughed. "Met her? You could say that, I guess. She knows more about me than my own mother. The rest of the crew, too."

"Really?" Mary asked.

"She spent hours interrogating each of us before Bob Lawson took us on. I could get the death penalty for giving up some of the stuff she pried out of me. No shit. That woman's really something."

"Did she drug you?" Mary asked.

"Didn't need to, once she showed me the file she was working from. She had the classified records covering everything I ever did. I didn't even know records existed on some of that stuff. Scary. I'm still not sure how Phorcys got access, but it made a believer out of me. The rest of us came out in the same place. We didn't talk among ourselves about our sessions with her in any detail. We couldn't, because of the classification. But I'm glad we're on the same side as she is. That's all I got to say about her."

George brought the RIB up to Ceto's stern boarding platform. One of the deckhands was waiting for us, standing next to a stretcher. He gave Mary a hand up and then helped me lift Petrovsky onto the stretcher.

"I'll take you to Dr. Hardwick while George runs the dinghy around to the hoist," the deckhand said.

I introduced him to Mary as he and I maneuvered the stretcher through the hatch in Ceto's transom.

Jill was waiting for us in a small cabin on the lower deck that was fitted out as a sick bay. The deckhand excused himself to help get Ceto underway.

"Good to see you both," Jill said.

Mary and I returned her greeting and Jill got down to business.

"You hit him with one of our standard tranqs?" she asked.

"Yes," Mary said.

"How long ago?"

"Two hours, give or take a few minutes."

"Good. Help me get him out of these clothes. We need to make sure he's not concealing anything he could use to kill himself."

Jill locked the stretcher in place using latches that were built into the deck. She cut his clothing off with a few practiced swipes of a scalpel, handing everything to me and Mary.

"Search all that thoroughly," she said. "You know the drill."

Mary and I each picked up scalpels and began opening every seam in Petrovsky's clothes.

Snipping the Flexicuffs from his wrists, Jill rolled Petrovsky onto his back. She quickly fastened the restraints that were affixed to the stretcher, running a final heavy strap across his forehead and wedging his head between two hard rubber blocks so that he was facing the overhead. She used a dental mouth gag to hold his jaw open while she probed his teeth, one by one.

"Aha!" she said. "Thank goodness."

Mary and I paused in our search of his clothing and shifted our positions so we could see what Jill was excited about. She turned to open a drawer filled with surgical instruments and swapped her probes for an odd-looking pair of forceps.

"What are those?" Mary asked.

"Crown removal forceps. I think I've found a crushable crown; he's probably got a suicide pill in there."

"So you're going to pull the crown off?" Mary asked.

"Yes, but I have to be careful. I'm going to pack his mouth first, just in case."

"In case?"

"If the crown shatters, whatever poison is inside could end up in his mouth. I don't know what it might be, but it's certain to act fast, and it won't take much of it to kill him."

Jill lined as much of Petrovsky's mouth with thick gauze pads as she could. "That should do it. Now, I need another hand, one of you."

"I'll help," Mary said.

"Good. Hold this." Jill handed Mary a suction wand. "Press the button on the side, and it works like a vacuum cleaner. Put the tip as close below where I'm working as you can, so it'll suck up any debris that comes loose when I lift the crown."

Mary nodded, and the two of them went to work. Jill clamped the forceps around the crown and worked them gently back and forth for several seconds as Mary ran the suction device.

"All right," Jill said, "The crown's loose. Pay close attention when I lift it clear. There's probably a pill under it. We don't want that pill to touch the inside of his mouth at all. It may stay on top of the tooth. If so, I'll use another pair of forceps to take it out. Then I'll rinse the spot where it was resting, and you suck up the liquid until I tell you to stop. Okay?"

"Okay," Mary said.

Jill lifted the crown out in one piece and laid it aside. "See the pill?"

"Yes."

"It's stuck in place with a weak adhesive. If he had bitten down hard on that tooth, the crown would have broken and that would have crushed the pill." Picking up a pair of smaller forceps, Jill removed the pill and set it by the crown. "Now I'll rinse the area, and you vacuum up all the liquid. Ready?"

"Ready."

After about 30 seconds, Jill said, "That should do it. Thanks, Mary."

"You're welcome. I didn't know you did dental work."

Jill laughed. "Whatever it takes."

"Are you going to put the crown back?"

"No. We don't know what was in there. That crown could have enough trace inside to still kill him. Besides, that tooth looks healthy. The only reason for the crown was so he could kill himself if he was captured."

"Another question," Mary said.

"What's that?"

"Why did you say, 'Thank goodness,' when you found the crown?"

"Because I was almost certain he'd have a way to kill himself, and the crown was easier to deal with than a subcutaneous implant, or any of the other likely methods. I'll still check him over, though, before he wakes up. Anything else you wanted to ask?"

"Not really," Mary said.

Jill looked at me. "Finn?"

I shook my head.

"Then I'm going to hook him up to the monitors and let him sleep off the tranquilizer while I check him over for more surprises. If you want to head up to the lounge, I'll meet you there shortly."

"You're not going to wake him up and start in?" I asked.

"No. I talked it over with Mike and Bob. We decided it would be less risky to keep him sedated until we're in international waters. That way, should anything happen that would lead to a boarding and inspection, we'll just have an ill crewman in the sick bay. The lab provided a passport and seaman's papers to support that, so it will be about eighteen hours before I begin to interrogate him. Once we're in the clear, I'll let you know. Besides, the drugs I'll be using can interact with the tranquilizer that's still in his system, so I'll get a better result by waiting, given how much you pumped into him."

"Good enough," I said. "See you in the lounge in a few minutes."

EPILOGUE

"The client's satisfied that you've wrung the prisoner dry," Mike said. "Do you agree, Jill?"

"Yes."

"He's given us the termination order," Bob said. "Seems like you're in a good enough spot to carry it out. Plenty of water out there, right?"

Mike and Bob were in D.C. in Mike's office. Aaron was at the Lodge, having summoned us all to participate on a conference call at Mike's behest. Jill Hardwick, Terry Reynolds, Mary, and I were sitting around the conference table in the owner's suite aboard Ceto, just inside the Bermuda Triangle.

"There's about 3,000 fathoms under our keel right now," Terry Reynolds said.

It was Wednesday night. Seventy-two hours had elapsed since we abducted Petrovsky, as we were calling him back then. A lot of water had passed under Ceto's keel since Sunday evening. We were roughly two hundred nautical miles southwest of Bermuda, in a part of the North Atlantic known as the Hatteras Abyssal Plain because of its extreme depths.

"We'll take care of it right away," I said. "As soon as we're done with this call. Any word as to our next step after that? Our mission's bound to be extended after what Aaron's people and Jill uncovered."

The first thing this past Monday morning, Aaron dispatched an undercover forensics team to Petrovsky's condo. Posing as interior decorators who were there to redo the condo, they spent the day taking the place apart and putting it back together.

Meanwhile, Jill Hardwick was busy interrogating Petrovsky from Monday morning until Tuesday evening. She spent the better part of Tuesday grilling him on the fruits of the forensics team's labor.

"I agree. No doubt we'll have more work to do," Mike said. "But the client needs a little time to digest what we've given him today."

While Jill questioned Petrovsky, Aaron's team found several encrypted disk drives and two passports with Petrovsky's picture in them. A U.S. passport identified him as George Richard Jackson and bore entry and exit stamps for several extended trips over the last few years. But the more telling one was a Greek passport in the name of Uri Alexander Lavrov.

"Learning that Lavrov slipped through everybody's fingers after the debacle surrounding the last election and then reincarnated himself as Petrovsky threw the client for a loop," Bob said. "Not to mention learning that David Grissom was the source of the leaks about Phorcys and Molot."

After we disrupted Lavrov/Petrovsky's attempt to corrupt the last election a few years ago, the FBI erroneously determined that Grissom's cover was still intact. They reassigned him to penetrate another Russian-American crime syndicate, which turned out to be Lavrov's most recent venture.

Grissom had continued to feed information to his old Russian friend. After Jill questioned Lavrov to confirm Grissom's role, the FBI discovered that Grissom had a source on the White House staff whose identity was yet to be determined.

"I can't imagine it'll take long to figure out who Grissom's source is," Mike said. "Until that happens, though, we're on hold. The client wants to be sure the scope of the penetration is known before Grissom is dealt with."

Among the things Jill extracted from Lavrov/Petrovsky were the passcodes for the encrypted disk drives from his condo. Aaron's people were still working their way through the huge mass of data recovered from the disk drives. So far, they found a full roster of the international network of online news outlets controlled by Lavrov/Petrovsky.

The drives included the identities of key members of the staff in each organization, one of whom was David Grissom. Petrovsky/Lavrov had confirmed to Jill that Grissom was responsible for the editorial content of the domestic fake news operations with the largest audiences.

"The client's thinking is that if we can turn Grissom's source in the White House, we can feed Grissom enough bogus information to destroy the credibility of some of their outlets," Bob said. "To do that, we'd need to leave Grissom in place, at least for a little while. But once he's outlived his usefulness, he'll be a target for us."

"Meanwhile, Aaron, you should start staffing up," Mike said. "The client's all in on having Phorcys building our own disinformation operation. That's all we have for now, but stand by. More to come soon, I'm sure. Questions?"

Terry Reynolds spoke up. "Bob, should we bring Ceto back to the States?"

"No. Mike and I decided everybody needs a break. We want you to take Ceto back to Paradise Island. That's about as close as coming back. Jill's already aboard, and the two of us and Aaron will fly down to meet you. We'll take a cruise down through the islands for a few days."

"It'll be a rare chance to have the senior management of Phorcys together for a strategic planning session," Mike said. "We're about to have a growth spurt with the addition of this new disinformation group. We need everybody's ideas to make it happen smoothly. Terry, let us know when you have an ETA for Paradise Island, all right?"

"Yes, sir. Right away."

"Good. I'm looking forward to seeing everybody soon. Bob?"

"Same here," Bob said.

"Carry on, then," Mike said, disconnecting.

"Guess I'd better get to work," Aaron said. "Have a good trip. See you all in a few days." He disconnected.

"Is Petrovsky awake?" Mary asked.

"Close enough," Jill said. "I assume you're going to give him a lethal injection. There's nothing in his system that will interfere. Or did you have questions for him?"

"No," Mary said. "I just wondered if we would have to carry him to the stern platform."

"He can walk, with a little help. I left him in restraints in the sick bay, but only to keep him from rolling off the stretcher. He's malleable enough."

"That's good," I said. "Terry, we'll need a few fathoms of ten-millimeter chain to weigh him down. Plus a few shackles to secure it."

"I'll have it on the stern platform in a few minutes. Do you want one of the crew to help?"

"No. Better if we have no witnesses. I know they're all hardened veterans, but this is different. It's best left to the two of us. Just maintain your course and speed. We'll let you know when we're done."

Mary and I stopped by our cabin on our way to the sick bay to collect Petrovsky/Lavrov.

"This feels weird," she said, as she filled a syringe from her kit. "It's creepy. All these people know exactly what we're doing. I don't like it."

"It comes with the territory. Don't dwell on it. They already know what our part of the job is."

"I know, but I suddenly feel like I'm stark naked in front of a crowd, or …" She shook her head, staring off into space.

"Now, that would be creepy," I said, with a chuckle.

"Wait just a minute." She was scowling at me now. "Is that some kind of insult? You have a complaint about my looks?"

"No, ma'am. Not me. My mama didn't raise no fools. I know how lucky I am. No way would I insult the most beautiful woman in the world." Leaning in, I gave her a quick kiss on the cheek.

"That's more like it," she said, her scowl softening into a smile. "As long as you're sure about that. I won't put up with any deceit, and we don't need any more conflict."

"I'm sure. Especially when you're holding that syringe within striking distance of my shoulder. Just don't get me confused with Petrovsky."

"No way, sailor. That would be a disaster. He's pure evil, and he's about to be destroyed."

"That sounds more like the lady I know and love. Let's get this done."

The End.

JOIN MY MAILING LIST

Join my mailing list at http://eepurl.combKujyv for notice of new releases and special sales or giveaways. I'll email a link to you for a free download of my short story, The Lost Tourist Franchise, when you sign up. I promise not to use the list for anything else; I dislike spam as much as you do.

A NOTE TO THE READER

Thank you again for reading Deceit and Conflict, the thirteenth book in the J.R. Finn Sailing Mystery Series. I hope you enjoyed it. If so, please leave a brief review on Amazon.

Reviews are of great benefit to independent authors like me; they help me more than you can imagine. They are a primary means to help new readers find my work. A few words from you can help others find the pleasure that I hope you found in this book, as well as keeping my spirits up as I work on the next one.

The J.R. Finn Sailing Mystery Series is also available in audiobook format.

I also write two other sailing-thriller series set in the Caribbean. If you enjoyed the adventures of Finn and Mary, you'll enjoy the Bluewater Thrillers and the Connie Barrera Thrillers.

The Bluewater Thrillers feature two young women, Dani Berger and Liz Chirac. Dani and Liz sail a luxury charter yacht named Vengeance. They often find trouble, but they can take care of themselves.

The Connie Barrera Thrillers are a spin-off from the Bluewater Thrillers. Before Connie went to sea, she was a first-rate con artist. Dani and Liz met Connie in Bluewater Ice, and they taught her to sail. She liked it so much she bought a charter yacht of her own.

Dani and Liz also introduced her to Paul Russo, a retired Miami homicide detective. Paul signed on as her first mate and chef, but he ended up as her husband. Connie and Paul run a charter sailing yacht named Diamantista. Like Dani and Liz, they're often beset by problems unrelated to sailing.

The Bluewater Thrillers and the Connie Barrera Thrillers share many of the same characters. Phillip Davis and his wife Sandrine, Sharktooth, and Marie LaCroix often appear in both series, as do Connie, Paul, Dani, and Liz. Here’s a link to the web page that lists those novels in order of publication: http://www.clrdougherty.com/p/bluewater-thrillers-and-connie-barrera.html

A list of all my books is on the last page; just click on a title or go to my website for more information.

If you’d like to know when my next book is released, visit my author’s page on Amazon at www.amazon.com/author/clrdougherty and click the "Follow" link or sign up for my mailing list at http://eepurl.com/bKujyv for information on sales and special promotions. I welcome email correspondence about books, boats and sailing. My address is clrd@clrdougherty.com. I enjoy hearing from people who read my books; I always answer email from readers. Thanks again for your support.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Welcome Aboard!

Charles Dougherty is a lifelong sailor; he's lived what he writes. He and his wife have spent over 30 years sailing together.

For 15 years, they lived aboard their boat full-time, cruising the East Coast and the Caribbean islands. They spent most of that time exploring the Eastern Caribbean.

Dougherty is well acquainted with the islands and their people. The characters and locations in his novels reflect his experience.

A storyteller before all else, Dougherty lets his characters speak for themselves. Pick up one of his thrillers and listen to the sound of adventure as you smell the salt air. Enjoy the views of distant horizons and meet some people you won't forget.

Dougherty's sailing fiction books include the Bluewater Thrillers, the Connie Barrera Thrillers, and the J.R. Finn Sailing Mysteries.

Dougherty's first novel was Deception in Savannah. While it's not about sailing, one of the main characters is Connie Barrera. He had so much fun with Connie that he built a sailing series around her.

Before writing Connie's series, he wrote the first three Bluewater Thrillers, about two young women running a charter yacht in the islands. In the fourth book, Connie shows up as their charter guest.

She stayed for the fifth Bluewater book. Then Connie demanded her own series.

The J.R. Finn books are his newest sailing series. The first Finn book, though it begins in Puerto Rico, starts with a real-life encounter that Dougherty had in St. Lucia. For more information about that, visit his website.

Dougherty's other fiction works are the Redemption of Becky Jones, a psycho-thriller, and The Lost Tourist Franchise, a short story about another of the characters from Deception in Savannah.

Dougherty has also written two non-fiction books. Life's a Ditch is the story of how he and his wife moved aboard their sailboat, Play Actor, and their adventures along the east coast of the U.S. Dungda de Islan' relates their experiences while cruising the Caribbean.

Charles Dougherty welcomes email correspondence with readers.

www.clrdougherty.com

clrd@clrdougherty.com

OTHER BOOKS BY C.L.R. DOUGHERTY

Bluewater Thrillers

Bluewater Killer

Bluewater Vengeance

Bluewater Voodoo

Bluewater Ice

Bluewater Betrayal

Bluewater Stalker

Bluewater Bullion

Bluewater Rendezvous

Bluewater Ganja

Bluewater Jailbird

Bluewater Drone

Bluewater Revolution

Bluewater Enigma

Bluewater Quest

Bluewater Target

Bluewater Blackmail

Bluewater Clickbait

Bluewater Payback

Bluewater Survivor

Bluewater Thrillers Boxed Set: Books 1-3

Connie Barrera Thrillers

From Deception to Betrayal - An Introduction to Connie Barrera

Love for Sail - A Connie Barrera Thriller

Sailor's Delight - A Connie Barrera Thriller

A Blast to Sail - A Connie Barrera Thriller

Storm Sail - A Connie Barrera Thriller

Running Under Sail - A Connie Barrera Thriller

Sails Job - A Connie Barrera Thriller

Under Full Sail - A Connie Barrera Thriller

An Easy Sail - A Connie Barrera Thriller

A Torn Sail - A Connie Barrera Thriller

A Righteous Sail - A Connie Barrera Thriller

Sailor Take Warning - A Connie Barrera Thriller

Sailor's Choice - A Connie Barrera Thriller

A Deadly Sail - A Connie Barrera Thriller

J.R. Finn Sailing Mysteries

Assassins and Liars

Avengers and Rogues

Vigilantes and Lovers

Sailors and Sirens

Villains and Vixens

Killers and Keepers

Devils and Divas

Sharks and Prey

Sin and Redemption

Ashes and Dust

Anarchy and Chaos

Deepfakes and Diablas

Deceit and Conflict

Call Me Finn Boxed Set: Books 1 - 3

Call Me Finn Boxed Set: Books 4 - 6

Other Fiction

Deception in Savannah

The Redemption of Becky Jones

The Lost Tourist Franchise

Books for Sailors and Dreamers

Life's a Ditch

Dungda de Islan'

Audiobooks

Assassins and Liars

Avengers and Rogues

Vigilantes and Lovers

Sailors and Sirens

Villains and Vixens

Killers and Keepers

Devils and Divas

Sharks and Prey

Sin and Redemption

Ashes and Dust

Anarchy and Chaos

Deepfakes and Diablas

Call Me Finn Boxed Set: Books 1-3

Call Me Finn Boxed Set: Books 4-6

For more information please visit www.clrdougherty.com

Or visit www.amazon.com/author/clrdougherty

BLUEWATER KILLER

A Serial Murder Mystery set in Florida and the Caribbean

Book 1

An Introduction to the Bluewater Thriller Series

PROLOGUE

The sun had just dipped below the horizon, and the sea surface was lit by that lingering glow that fades to darkness so quickly in the tropics. The man on watch in the freighter's wheelhouse caught a glimpse of safety yellow among the waves a few hundred yards off the bow, and then darkness fell.

A strobe light caught his eye as the scrap of yellow faded from view. He called to one of the off-watch crewmen to go up to the bow as a lookout while he altered course slightly, wondering what they would find.

The helmsman throttled the big diesel down and disengaged the transmission, allowing the ship to coast as they approached the strobe. A few yards from the flashing light, he went to full power astern for a moment to stop them.

The man on the bow turned on a powerful handheld spotlight. The helmsman climbed down from the wheelhouse and joined him.

In the light's harsh beam, they could make out a young woman in a bright yellow life vest. She gave no sign that she was aware of the ship looming a few yards away. They called out, but she didn't respond, rolling with the waves, her head and arms moving loosely.

The waves blocked their view every few seconds. The sea was rough, and the man who had been steering didn't think he could maneuver the ship well enough to retrieve the woman.

He went back to the wheelhouse, to the little cabin where the captain was asleep, and woke him. The captain took the controls and put the ship close alongside the person.

When the ship's pilot ladder drew abreast of their target, a deck crewman hanging on the last rungs of the ladder snagged the life vest with a boat hook. The helmsman joined him on the ladder and they brought the woman aboard, hoping they would be able to revive her.

CHAPTER 1

He drifted into consciousness, fighting it the whole way. The harsh light of the sun burned through his eyelids. He clamped them closed, in hopes that he would drift off again.

"Where am I?" he asked.

No one answered, but his instincts told him that it wasn't a good place. As he raised a hand to his throbbing head, he smelled the corrosive vapors of jackiron rum wafting from his shirt.

Have I been drinking? Not much of a drinker, but I feel hung over.

Moving his hand to the floor, he felt the surface beneath him — hard, lumpy, and damp. Cobblestones?

He forced his eyes open again, a little bit at a time. His surroundings rolled past in surreal swirls. His instincts were right. He was nowhere good, and nowhere familiar, either.

Sunlight beamed from a hole, high up in one of the walls. He turned his head, trying to look the other way, but instantly regretted the effects of the motion.

Retching, he rolled onto his side to avoid choking. As the waves of nausea receded, he took in the uneven stone floor stretching from his cheek to the iron bars comprising the wall opposite the one with the hole in it. Bars? I'm in a cell.

"Where am I?" he asked again, in a loud voice.

Still, no one answered.

Ignoring his body's protests, he forced himself to a sitting position. He paused, waiting for his surroundings to stop their circular motion.

Alone. Dead quiet, but...

In the distance, he could hear voices, raised in gospel song. There was a subtle but noticeable calypso undertone to the familiar music. As he registered the rhythm, the notion that he was in the islands formed in his mind.

I'm hung over and in jail, somewhere in the Caribbean. Church service. Thirsty. Hungry. His stomach growled.

He crawled over to the bars and pulled himself to a semi-erect position. His vision swirled again; he clung to the bars to keep from falling.

Careful about moving my head so fast. He looked out into a dim, rough-walled corridor, broken pieces of oyster shell visible in the construction. Definitely in the islands.

"Hello," he called. "Anybody there?"

He listened as the sound of his voice died in soft echoes. Still grasping the vertical bars of his cell door, he shook it to make a noise and get someone's attention. To his surprise, the door swung out into the corridor with a loud screech of rusty iron hinges.

He stumbled, shuffling to stay on his feet, as he followed the arc of the swinging door. He paused, hanging on the door to regain his equilibrium. After a few seconds, he released his grip on the door and moved a little way into the corridor, taking in the empty cells to either side of his.

"Hey!" he yelled, rewarded by an increase in the throbbing pressure behind his forehead.

No one answered. Leaning on the wall, he worked his way down the corridor toward what appeared to be an exit. Reaching the end of the corridor, he peered through a narrow archway into a sort of waiting room.

It was dirty but neat, in that way unique to official spaces in small Caribbean countries. There was a bench along one wall. Along the opposite wall, there was a counter, with a window of scarred, yellowed Plexiglas, like the ticket booth at a defunct theater.

There was nobody behind the window. He stumbled out into the empty waiting room. Looking around for a moment, he blinked in confusion. A single door stood open, leading outside.

Still unsure of his footing, he shuffled out into the morning sunlight, expecting to encounter a policeman at any moment. He was a little worried about how he would explain his accidental freedom if anybody challenged him.

As he staggered out of the door, he looked up and back, over his shoulder. A signboard hanging above the portal bore the legend, "Police."

He recognized his surroundings, now. Bequia.

Bequia is a delightful little island just south of the main island of St. Vincent. The streets were deserted, and music poured forth from every house of worship.

Sunday, for sure.

His grasp of his situation increasing, he recalled that he was here on his sailboat. He made his way to the town dock, remembering as he walked with uncertain steps that he should find his dinghy tied up there. Better get back to the boat and get myself out of town. No telling what I've gotten myself into.

There were several rigid inflatable dinghies, one of them his, tied at the end of the dock. He had painted the name of the mother ship, Sea Serpent, in 3-inch-high letters on both sides when he bought it. The dinghy was locked to the dock with a heavy cable and a padlock.

He fumbled in his pockets. Empty. No keys, no money, either. Police probably have it unless somebody beat them to it.

Normally, he would only have been carrying a little local currency and his keys. He would have left everything else locked away aboard Sea Serpent.

He scrounged around the foot of the town dock, looking for something that he could use to liberate the dinghy. Picking up two almost-intact bricks, he carried them out to the end of the dock. He put one brick down on the dock and pulled on the cable holding the dinghy.

Gaining some slack, he twisted a kink into the cable, positioning the kink on top of the brick. After smashing the kinked cable repeatedly with the other brick for a few minutes, he succeeded in breaking the cable.

He dropped the bricks in the dinghy, climbed in, and fired up the outboard. His head was clearing now, thanks to the adrenalin and the activity, and he was aching with his need for water and food.

Looking out to the west, he spotted Sea Serpent, swinging to her anchor out near the harbor entrance. He brought the dinghy alongside her and shut off the outboard. He set the bricks up on the side deck.

The companionway was locked, as he had expected it to be, but a few quick blows with one of the bricks solved that problem. He dropped the bricks over the side.

At least nobody bothered the boat while I was ashore.

He went down the companionway ladder and rummaged in the refrigerator, finding a bottle of cold water. He swigged it down, feeling it soak into the dry tissues of his mouth and throat. He got a pot of coffee and a pan of scrambled eggs going on the galley stove.

His physical condition improving, he checked in the chart table to find that his wallet, passport, and ship's papers were where he always left them. He scanned the papers, discovering that he left St. George's, Grenada, on Wednesday, October 19, and had not yet cleared in with customs and immigration in St. Vincent and the Grenadines. A glance at the digital wristwatch hanging by its strap above the chart table confirmed that it was indeed Sunday morning, October 23.

According to the clearance documents from Grenada, he had been bound for Rodney Bay, St. Lucia. He probably spent Wednesday night at an out-of-the-way anchorage and got into Bequia the next night, most likely after Customs and Immigration had closed for the day. That would have been Thursday night, but now it was Sunday. He frowned.

Puzzling over the missing time made his headache worse, but he forced himself to think through his probable itinerary. He couldn't account for Thursday, Friday, or Saturday.

The papers from the chart table provided no record of his having cleared into Bequia, which he would normally have done the morning after an evening arrival.

Maybe I got here late last night. He shook his head, dismayed at the gap in his memory.

His eyes fell upon the ship's log, sitting on the tabletop in front of him. He opened it to the last entry; he had anchored in Petite Martinique late in the afternoon on October 19. There were no more recent entries in the log. He found that strange, as he was meticulous about records.

There was no official record of his arrival, unless he had lost his copy of the clearance paperwork. He checked his passport for an entry stamp, but there was none. He always asked the immigration officer in Bequia to stamp his passport, even though they didn't routinely do so. He liked clean records. His whole life, he had carried this legacy of parental control. All rules must be obeyed.

Since he wasn't carrying any identification, the police wouldn't have known who he was. They didn't even lock my cell; I couldn't have been in much trouble.

He wanted to know how he had come to spend the night in jail, but he had no idea how to find out without risking being re-incarcerated. Screw it. It doesn't matter. But I'd better get moving, just in case. St. Lucia here I come.

As he leaned down into the cockpit to start the diesel, he noticed splattered blood all around the drains. Did I catch a tuna?

He couldn't remember. Tuna often bled a lot. He shook his head. I always clean it up right away, so it doesn't stain the teak. Cleanliness and order were deeply ingrained in his psyche.

Puzzled, he grabbed the windlass control from the cockpit locker and went forward to raise the anchor. He noticed more bloodstains, all over the teak decking forward of the coach roof.

What happened? Looks like somebody butchered a hog. I don't land fish up here.

He shrugged off his confusion and raised the anchor, lashing it securely in its chocks, ready for sea. As Sea Serpent drifted toward the mouth of the harbor, he uncovered the mainsail and laid the jib out on the foredeck, ready to hoist.

Out of the lee of the land, the breeze began to fill in, and he raised both sails. While he clambered back to the cockpit, the breeze blew the bow off to port and the sails began to flog on the starboard tack. He sheeted them in for a close reach, heading for the west side of St. Vincent, and shut down the diesel.

As Sea Serpent worked her way out into the open water beyond the shelter of Bequia Head, the wind built to a steady 20 knots from the east. He trimmed the sails and set the wind-vane steering.

Gonna go below; get a quick shower. Late morning, no traffic to worry about. Everybody else left hours ago. He turned on the radar, set a two-mile guard band to warn him of other vessels coming too close, and went below deck.