“Matt, am I wrong in believing that we do most of our on-line work through U.S. Governet?”
“You are not incorrect,” Stoll said in his characteristic monotone. “I am talking about a system I use at home. However, our computers here have the juice to really spruce up the service.”
“Permanently?” Hood asked.
“No. For just an hour. To show those NOLO incompetents what they could have if they upgraded their systems and paid more attention to customers than to their stock prices,” Stoll said.
“I’ll tell you what,” Hood replied. “No.”
Stoll seemed unfazed. “They are an evil empire, sir. This is a crisis situation. It is within the parameters set by the NCMC charter to involve ourselves.”
“The charter also specifies the process by which executives other than the director, deputy director, and acting directors may request operational status for a project,” Hood said. “Write a report and submit it to the CIOC. If the committee backs this, you will have my full cooperation.”
“I could have done it without telling you,” Stoll pointed out. “You wouldn’t have known about it unless you saw it on the news or read it in an intelligence briefing.”
“Possibly. Why didn’t you?” Hood asked.
“Because the individual we are investigating, Jervis Darling, is a major stockholder in NOLO-Australia,” Stoll said. “I did not want any moves against a holding controlled by him to be traced back to me or to Op-Center. It might raise flags.”
“Thank you,” Hood said.
“You’re welcome,” Stoll replied.
The technical officer stepped from the doorway and left. The encounter was strange but not unprecedented. Telling someone the damage he could do was Matt Stoll’s way of complaining. He was a tech guy and a perfectionist. He had vented about cable networks, long-distance phone carriers, and other high-tech systems in the past. It was like Mike Rodgers beefing about the bureaucracy at the Pentagon or Bob Herbert venting about what he could do with one-tenth the budget allotted the CIA or the FBI.
Stoll was right about one thing, though. “NOLO contondere,” as it was referred to in the stock pages, was an ineffectual disaster. It made money because it was a monolith, nothing more. If he started thinking about that, Paul Hood would get pissed as well.
The phone beeped. It was Lowell Coffey.
“Paul, there has been a strange twist since our last conversation,” he said. Coffey proceeded to tell him about the discussion with FNO Loh. “She spoke to the military intelligence people in Singapore who liaise with the prime minister’s Office of Strategic Information,” Coffey went on. “They confirm business ties between Darling and Mahathir bin Dahman. He’s invested in the Malaysian’s building projects, commercial aircraft plants, and water-processing facilities.”
“Do you know what the paper trail looks like?” Hood asked.
“If you’re asking whether this is public knowledge or not, it is,” Coffey replied. “Darling puts money in Malaysian banks, and bin Dahman draws on that as needed.”
“Is there a public record of Darling’s holdings?” Hood asked.
“No,” Coffey said. “The government has learned that Darling gets private stock for his money. Nothing actionable, though.”
“It’s a lot of stock, I’m sure,” Hood said. “An improportionate amount compared to what other investors get. I’ll bet that bin Dahman takes a big hit every time Darling invests.”
“He does,” Coffey said.
“This could suggest that bin Dahman is using real estate and privately held businesses to pay Darling for services rendered,” Hood said. “Such as providing him with nuclear materials.”
“It makes sense,” Coffey said. “What’s your view on Darling himself? He’s got a helluva reputation down here. He’s got a mega-fortune. Why would he risk all that to do something like this?”
“I’ve been wondering about that,” Hood said. “Maybe it’s tied into something you said a minute ago. He got away with murder and liked how it felt.”
“You mean Leopold and Loeb, the sequel?” Coffey asked. “Bored rich man gets his kicks planning the death of millions of people?”
“You answered your own question.”
“Yeah,” Coffey replied. “Jelbart and I were talking about this as a power grab, but you may have something there. You don’t even have to run that one past Liz Gordon. It’s simple but neat.”
“It’s a starting point, anyway,” Hood replied. “Meanwhile, what’s your next step?”
“We’re sailing back to Darwin to wait for Bob, then I guess it’s on to Cairns,” Coffey said. “We’re obviously going to have to take this investigation directly to Darling.”
“I agree,” Hood said. “And when you do grab him, I want you to do me a favor.”
“Sure,” Coffey said.
“Tell him he runs a lousy on-line service,” Hood said. “Tell him for Matt Stoll.”
Coffey was confused, but Hood told him not to worry about it.
Hood hung up. He felt more involved than he usually did in evolving situations. For one thing, unlike Mike Rodgers or former Striker leader Colonel Brett August, Coffey was keeping him plugged into every development in the field, however small. For another, the diverse resources of three nations were available to him. It was as true in crisis management as it was in mathematics: one point was simply one point; two points defined a line; three points created a plane, and a plane was something you could stand on. The United States, Australia, and Singapore created a plane.
There was something else that gave Hood comfort as well. For all his clout, Jervis Darling was still a business-man at heart. He was a potentially twisted one, yes, but a corporate tycoon nonetheless. Unlike the rogue generals and megalomaniacal politicians Hood and his team usually faced, he understood this breed. He could sit in their chairs and imagine the decisions they made.
But there was still a storm in the distance. One that Paul Hood could not anticipate. One that Op-Center and its allies might not be able to control. It had to do with the circus, of all things. Bob Herbert once told the CIOC that a crisis was like the big top.
“You can’t afford to grab the ringleader and lose the other attractions,” Herbert had said. “While we’re all packed shoulder to shoulder in the grandstands, those rampaging elephants and runaway clown cars will crush us flat.”
Hood hoped that if Darling were involved, he knew where the nuclear materials were headed and who was handling them. Otherwise, the toll in the grandstand could still be catastrophic.
THIRTY-FIVE
The Celebes Sea Saturday, 2:02 A.M.
Peter Kannaday did not know what to expect when he reached the radio room.
He could not imagine to whom Hawke might be broadcasting. Jervis Darling? The Malaysian fishing ship? Someone else? Kannaday’s mind leapt to conspiracies. Perhaps Hawke had pirates following them in order to seize the Hosannah. Or maybe an aircraft was en route to remove him. Or Kannaday.
As Kannaday swung down the stairs he learned how wrong he had been. Hawke was not even in the radio room. He and his thugs were waiting for the captain in the hall. Two men grabbed Kannaday, one hugging each arm. A third got behind him and grabbed Kannaday’s windbreaker. He grasped it near the neck and put a knee against Kannaday’s lower back. That prevented the captain from bending. A fourth man forced a rag in Kannaday’s mouth. The captain tasted oil. It had come from the engine compartment. The men turned Kannaday so he was facing into the corridor.
Hawke was standing there.
The security man passed under the recessed light. His arms were at his sides. For the most part his expression was as inscrutable as always. Except for the eyes. They were volcanic.
Kannaday struggled for a moment before settling into tense compliance. He was not afraid. Though Kannaday had a pretty good idea what was about to take place. He was going to die. He was resigned, though still defiant.
Hawke stepped in very close. He put the he
el of his left palm against Kannaday’s chin and began to push up slowly. The captain’s head went back. Kannaday’s gaze shifted from Hawke’s angry eyes to the low ceiling of the corridor. He felt the muscles tense along his shoulders and upper arms. The pressure was cutting off his air. He tried to draw breath around the rag in his mouth. Nothing was getting through. He began to feel claustrophobic, panicky. If Hawke pushed back any farther, his neck would snap.
Kannaday resisted. He began to struggle again.
“You want to breathe,” Hawke said. “Let me help.”
Hawke released Kannaday’s chin. He stepped back and punched the captain hard in the gut. Kannaday could not help but breathe then. He sucked air through his nose and around the rank cloth. Hawke moved in on him again. He hit Kannaday with a roundhouse right to the jaw. It struck so hard that the cloth flew halfway from the captain’s mouth. Kannaday snatched more air through his nose and mouth as he took another blow to the belly, a hard left. Hawke stepped in as he delivered it, twisting at the waist. At the same time he drew the other elbow back, tucked tight against his ribs. That gave the twist extra snap. Hawke knew how to drive the blows in. He knew how to make them hurt.
When he was younger, Kannaday had been in a number of dockside brawls. But those always ended up on the floor and consisted mostly of grappling and clawing. He had never been given a beating. Kannaday’s jaw throbbed, and his ears were pounding. He was nauseated from the blows to the abdomen. His shoulders burned from the strong fingers of the man behind him.
A left uppercut rocked Kannaday’s head back. He could actually feel his brain bump the top of his skull. His teeth bit through the cloth and snapped on his tongue. He tasted blood. The bone of his lower jaw literally rang, and the ringing spread to his limbs. If the men had not been holding him up, he would have fallen. Kannaday’s jaw continued ringing as Hawke followed the uppercut with a right back fist to the mouth. Kannaday’s head slumped to his right shoulder. His hurt tongue flopped over dislocated teeth. His eyelids sagged.
Hawke stepped in again. He grabbed Kannaday’s aching chin and squeezed. The pain forced the captain’s eyes to open.
“This is just the beginning of your tutorial,” Hawke said.
He kneed Kannaday very low in the belly. Twice. The gag fell entirely from the captain’s mouth now. So did thick drops of saliva mixed with blood. Hawke ignored the bloody spittle dripping onto his hand. He slapped him hard with his left hand. Against the right ear. Then Hawke cocked his left arm and jabbed a fist square into Kannaday’s right eye. He drew his fist back and hit him in the mouth. Kannaday felt his lips split.
“Now, Captain,” Hawke said. “Do I have your attention?”
Kannaday’s head was drumming. His face felt hot wherever skin touched bone. He had only a greasy view from his right eye. All he could hear was his own rapid heartbeat and strained breathing.
Hawke was still holding the captain’s chin. He moved his mouth close to Kannaday’s left ear.
“I asked you a question,” Hawke said.
Kannaday’s chest was still bleeding from the wound inflicted earlier by the wommera. He was dizzy from the loss of blood and dazed from the beating. All he could manage was a weak nod.
“Good. Here is how the rest of this enterprise will play out,” Hawke said. “You will stay in your cabin until we reach Cairns. Then you will go to the chief and tell him that the mission was successfully completed. When he asks why you look the way you do, you will tell him we had a disagreement.”
Kannaday attempted to speak. He could not even move his mouth. It felt as though everything had been pulped together: tongue, teeth, lips. Instead, he just shook his head.
Hawke kneed him again, this time in the groin. Bloody spittle flew from Kannaday’s broken lips. Hawke continued to lean close.
“We can keep this going for as long as you want,” Hawke told him. “In the end, you will do what I ask.”
Kannaday managed to exhale something that sounded like the word he intended. “Why?”
“Why?” Hawke asked. “Because if you tell him that you walked into another ambush, he will regard you as an ineffective commander. He will dispose of you, and I will get your job. Only I do not want it, Captain. I like having one man on the plank in front of me. I am only interested in money.” Hawke moved back slightly. “Our friend Marcus will corroborate your story. He likes the way things are now, having to report to Uncle Jervis every now and then. I do not think he would enjoy serving a real captain.”
Hawke had spoken slowly and clearly. Kannaday had heard all the words. But they were confusing. The captain had never known a man to fight for anonymity and a subordinate position.
“I would like to take you to your cabin,” Hawke said. “My men will see that you are cleaned and patched up. But I want to make certain that we have an understanding this time, Captain.”
Hawke’s voice seemed to be echoing now. Kannaday had to fight to pick up the words.
“G-good,” Kannaday said. It was the only word he could manage without using his lips or tongue. He was not sure anyone heard. He felt himself drifting. His good eye shut.
Hawke was still holding Kannaday’s chin. He pinched hard. “Good?” Hawke repeated. “Then you agree?”
Kannaday nodded once. Hawke released his chin. The captain’s head dropped so that his right ear was facing the ground. A moment later he felt his legs being lifted. He was being carried astern.
There was something oddly comforting about being semiconscious. Kannaday was living from second to second. He was preoccupied with pain. He had no responsibility other than to ride it out. The moments when the hurt subsided, even slightly, were almost euphoric. A part of him was actually grateful to the men who were carrying him.
A Marshall Plan for Peter Kannaday, the captain thought with lightheaded detachment. First we break you down, and then we build you back up.
Awareness came in short flashes. Kannaday was in the hall. Then he was in his cot. Then he was being bandaged and wiped down with a damp cloth. It felt refreshing but hurt at the same time. He realized that he was passing out and then waking as the men ministered to his wounds.
Finally, everything was silent and still. The pain was there, but it seemed distant.
As he lay there, Kannaday heard a soft buzz behind him. He recognized the sound. It was the engine of the launch. The crew must be heading to the fishing vessel. Or maybe they were returning. He had no idea how much time had passed. Perhaps he had been down here longer than he thought. In any case, Kannaday needed to get on deck to make sure the delivery went as planned. He was still the captain. Even the mutinous Hawke had said that much.
Hawke, Kannaday thought suddenly. Dreamlike memories of the beating came back to him. So did the rage he had felt when Hawke’s men first grabbed him.
The captain should have killed the mutinous bastard when he had the opportunity. He would get the gun from his desk and kill him now. Marcus had betrayed the captain, too. Kannaday could not kill the boss’s nephew. But he could lock the privileged little bastard in the radio room until they reached Cairns. Jervis Darling would understand that.
The captain sat up. As he did, his head imploded. The act of moving had reignited the beating. Hot prickles raced from Kannaday’s forehead to his temples and down his neck into his spine. His flesh caught fire, and he was immediately sickened by the iron-rust taste of blood in his mouth. Kannaday shouted and shot back onto the cot. He breathed quickly, squeezing his eyes shut and whimpering as he tried to ride out the pain.
No one came to him. No one spoke. He listened past the blood that was surging through his ears.
He was alone.
THIRTY-SIX
The South Pacific Saturday, 7:44 A.M.
Before Lowell Coffey turned in for the night, he phoned Bob Herbert. Coffey brought Herbert up to date on the latest development involving Jervis Darling. The veteran intelligence officer was not surprised by the idea that Darling might be involved in this under
taking. It was not the power-corrupts bromide that influenced Herbert. It was what Herbert called the big-shot syndrome. The idea that coin itself was no longer the coin of the realm. Resources were. He had tracked the phenomenon from his childhood, when the people who had color television sets were big shots. You went to their house to watch Bonanza or Star Trek or King Leonardo cartoons. Less than a decade later, oil became the prized commodity. Everyone wanted it. The Arabs had it. They became big shots. Kids in the early eighties who had Atari Pac-Man cartridges or Cabbage Patch Dolls were the talk of the class. Shortly after that, the Japanese had the technology everyone wanted. Enter the new generation of bigeru shotsu. Money was irrelevant. People would pay whatever it cost to get what the newest grand panjandrum was peddling.
With the collapse of the Soviet Union, high-grade nuclear materials became the hottest coin in the world. Just like the kid with a PlayStation 2, the person who had enriched uranium or plutonium or a nuclear weapon itself could be a star, if only for a moment. Herbert remembered thinking how a few years back atom bombs had briefly been the codpiece of India and Pakistan. One blew up a plain and hogged the headlines, the other blew up a mountain and did the same. Gross national product, religion, starvation, and disease just did not matter then. For those few days, big booming bombs was it. Megatonnage made you the Tom Cruise of the international stage.
Someone accustomed to wealth and control would find nuclear material irresistible. With it, he was a player. Knowing where it was, he was safe. Without it, he was simply an observer who could be erased along with every other pawn on the chessboard. That would definitely not appeal to a man like Jervis Darling. He liked to be a big shot.
Unfortunately, Darling was a big shot. Herbert downloaded gigabytes of data and read up on him. Darling had security, influence, money. He controlled international corporations that could be used to shift money and hide people and deeds. He also had the world’s largest private collection of prehistoric fossils.
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