Herbert and Coffey had been on the phone with their superior in Washington. She walked past the conference room they were using. Herbert saw her go. He excused himself and went after her. The intelligence chief wheeled alongside the officer as she walked down the hall.
“Are you leaving now?” he asked.
“At ten o’clock,” she told him. She pressed the elevator button.
“Jelbart sent out for coffee and doughnuts. Do you want to wait with us?”
“There is something else I must do,” she replied.
“By yourself?”
She looked at him. “I would prefer to.”
“Oh.”
“But I was wondering about something,” Loh went on. “I have three weeks’ leave in two months. I have never been to America. I was thinking I might like to fly to Washington.”
“That sounds like a very good idea,” Herbert smiled. “I would love to show you around.”
“I would like that,” Loh smiled back.
“Just make sure to stay away from our deputy director, Mike Rodgers,” Herbert said. “He’ll send you on a mission.”
Loh frowned. “I don’t understand.”
“You will,” Herbert assured her. “I’ll have to introduce you to Maria Corneja. She’ll explain.”
All of this was very confusing. But FNO Loh liked the idea of a world ripe for exploration. She also liked the fact that Bob Herbert seemed genuinely pleased by her suggestion. That surprised her. He had not seemed like a man who would enjoy leisure.
But then, you are not a woman who likes to socialize, she thought. Perhaps all it took was the right person.
The two parted with a long handshake. Herbert held her hand between both of his. They were strong hands, but gentle. She was glad Herbert had taken charge of this, though the good-bye could easily take far longer than expected. And she had something to do. Loh smiled warmly and left quickly.
“Monica!” Herbert called after her.
She turned. “Yes?”
“Thanks for everything,” he said. “And I don’t mean just the crisis management.”
“You are welcome.”
“Good luck with whatever you’re off to do.”
“Thank you,” she said.
And then she went off to do it.
SEVENTY-NINE
The Coral Sea Sunday, 7:45 A.M.
Although the Singaporean patrol ship was not a fully equipped salvage vessel, it did carry air buoyancy bags. These were to be deployed in the event the ship itself suffered a critical breach. Descending well before sunrise, divers placed the bags in the higher stern section of the Hosannah. It was a difficult salvage, due to the darkness. However, Lieutenant Kumar did not want to risk the boat sinking further. The air compressor filled the bags one at a time. Finally, with six bags inflated, the aft section of the Hosannah broke the surface.
However, with the ship’s return came something else. Something the crew did not expect.
A body.
The divers recovered the remains. Kumar went to the cabin, where several of the rescued seamen were being kept. He asked the young man Marcus Darling to come to sick bay and identify the body.
Marcus seemed numb and pale as he looked at the still-damp, slightly bloated corpse on the gurney.
“Who is he?” Kumar asked.
“That is Captain Kannaday,” Marcus said softly.
“Was he part of the ring?” Kumar asked.
“At first,” Marcus Darling said. “Then . . . something happened.”
“What happened?”
“He changed,” Marcus said. “He turned on Mr. Hawke.”
“I see.” Kumar motioned to the medical officer. The man handed him a white towel. The lieutenant opened it gingerly and showed it to Marcus.
“We found this tangled in the ropes beside him,” Kumar said. “Did it belong to him?”
“No,” Marcus said. “That belonged to Hawke.”
“What is it?”
“A weapon,” Marcus told him. “A wommera. You use it to throw darts.”
“That might explain the wounds on his body,” the medic interjected. “Was there a struggle, Mr. Darling?”
“I don’t know,” Marcus told him. “We were in the water.”
Kumar covered the weapon and set it on the gurney. “It appears as though Mr. Hawke may earn himself a murder charge as well.”
Marcus snickered. “That’s funny. Hawke was always so careful. They all were.”
“All it takes is one active conscience to undermine the cleverest criminal plot,” Kumar said.
“Well, I’m sure that is a real comfort to Kannaday here,” Marcus said. “Instead of being wealthy, he’s dead.”
Kumar looked disdainfully at the man beside him. “I believe it must have been a significant comfort to him. Buddhism teaches that the quality of a moment can be valued more than corrupt longevity. The ripples are felt throughout the world and time.”
“Thanks for the lesson,” Marcus said.
“In fact, Mr. Darling, it was advice.”
“Was it?”
“Yes,” Kumar said. “We have reason to believe that you were one of the men who shot at the sampan.”
“I did what? I don’t even know how to fire a gun!”
“You can tell that to the chief interviewer in the Maximum Security Changi Prison in Singapore,” Kumar replied.
“Changi? You’re not taking me to the logs,” Marcus said.
“I have consulted with my superior, who is with representatives of your government. They agree that it is within our rights to ascertain your innocence,” Kumar replied.
“This is wrong!” he shouted. “I want a lawyer!”
“You will have one, though it may be a few days before he can see you,” Kumar said. “Singapore’s courts are always very busy.”
“I want one of my uncle’s lawyers!”
“I’m told they are going to be fully engaged as well,” Kumar said. “May I suggest a compromise, however?”
Marcus asked what that would be.
“Tell us who your captain dealt with,” Kumar said. “Do that, and we will return you to Cairns.”
“I thought this was about shooting the sampan,” Marcus said.
“It can be,” Kumar said.
“You bloody bullock,” Marcus said.
“I am not bloody,” Kumar replied. “Not yet.”
Marcus huffed for a moment, then said he would have to think about it. On the way back to the cabin, he agreed to cooperate with Kumar. The lieutenant radioed to inform FNO Loh that he had a successful chat with Marcus Darling. The young man seemed willing to cooperate. Kumar also told Loh that they had located the real Peter Kannaday.
Back in sick bay, the medical officer finished cleaning the body of the seaweed that had collected on it. He picked it away carefully, using long tweezers and cotton swabs. Then he covered the body with a sheet and left it on the gurney. There was nothing else he could do. The body could not be touched until an autopsy had been performed onshore. He turned off the light and locked the door. It had been a long night of caring for the half-drowned sailors. He needed to rest.
Captain Peter Kannaday was alone. He was at sea, where he belonged.
And one thing more.
He was at peace.
EIGHTY
Darwin, Australia Sunday, 7:46 A.M.
Lee Tong had never felt ill or disoriented when he was at sea. Not even the first time on the wonderful old timber carrier. Now he was on land, and it made him sick to move. Anything more than a slow, short breath caused deep waves of nausea. Which was strange, because Tong was also hungry. The young man could not remember the last time he had eaten.
In fact, Tong could not remember much of anything. He remembered closing in on a boat and being shot at. He remembered an explosion. After that, he remembered nothing.
Tong appeared to be in a hospital room. It was white with yellow walls and a large screen of some sort. People came in now
and then, but he did not know who they were or what they were saying. Most of the time he did not bother to look or listen. Lying in the cool bed, floating in and out of sleep, was physically less disturbing. Yet even that was not a haven. He dreamed of better times, of a happier youth. The future had never held much promise for him. But when Lee Tong sailed the ocean with his father, at least there was the prospect of success. There was hope. He preferred that to the reality of failure. In the moments after he woke, Tong would wish desperately to go back and try again. But then the truth washed over him. He was here. Hope was gone. People did not get a second chance.
“Lee Tong.”
The young man thought he heard someone say his name. The voice was muffled, but it did not sound like a voice from one of his dreams. He forced his eyes open, just barely. Someone was looking down at him from the foot of the bed. A woman. She had a darker face than the others, but was also wearing a mask and gown. Through his nearly shut eyes she looked gauzy, like a ghost.
“Can you hear me?” she asked.
She was speaking Malay. It was beautiful. He nodded once. The nausea reminded him to stay as still as possible. He obeyed.
“Good,” the woman said. “I am Female Naval Officer Monica Loh of the Singaporean Navy. You are suffering from mild radiation poisoning. It came from the vessel you attacked. But I’ve just spoken with your physician. You will recover. Do you understand?”
Tong nodded once, very, very slowly. The nausea was a little kinder this time. He opened his eyes a little wider. Some of the haze lifted from the woman. She was real.
“Mr. Tong, you were the only member of the sampan crew to survive the explosion,” the woman went on. “We will need you to testify about the nature of the firefight. Whatever you remember, we want to know.” The woman took several steps around the edge of the bed. “But that is not why I came to see you. I know what you were doing out there. We cannot prove you did anything wrong. However, I would like to keep you from doing anything illegal in the future. When you are released from the hospital, I would like to see you about a civilian job with the navy. There are a number of defense technical positions and administrative support positions for which you can be trained. I hope you will consider them.”
Lee Tong was awake. He knew that because he felt queasy. But he thought he heard the woman say she wanted him to work for the navy. He had neither the education nor the kind of background recruiters sought. No one in his family had served in the military. It did not make sense.
“Why . . . ?” he asked weakly.
“Why do I want you?” Loh asked. “It took a great deal of skill to navigate a sampan that far out to sea. We can always use talented men and women, and I don’t just mean the navy.” The woman smiled under her mask. “I heard someone use the phrase ‘the good guys’ to describe us today. I like that. I want you to be one of them, Mr. Tong.”
He looked at her and smiled back weakly. He nodded once. The nausea was worth it.
The woman nodded back and left.
The navy, Tong thought. Even in a civilian capacity, naval service would give him the kind of respect his father had always wanted for him. His only regret was that his shipmates were not here to collect their share of respectability. They were good men and loyal friends. He would miss them.
The young man’s eyes blurred again, this time from tears.
As he slipped back into sleep, Lee Tong’s last thought was that he no longer had to dream of happier times. He could imagine them.
For they were no longer behind him, but ahead.
EIGHTY-ONE
Washington, D.C. Saturday, 6:29 P.M.
Paul Hood was about to leave his office when the phone beeped. The caller ID identified it as Bob Herbert. He picked up.
“Lowell went on to participate in what’s left of his conference in Sydney, then decided to hang with the hostess and her husband,” Herbert said. “But I’m coming home. I’m flying commercial later in the afternoon. First class.”
“I hope you’ve got the frequent flier miles for it,” Hood laughed.
“Nope. Op-Center’s treat. I don’t think chasing Darling’s plane earned me enough to upgrade,” Herbert said.
“I’ll see if we have any money left in our ‘off to save the world’ account,” Hood joked.
“If not, you can dig it out of the goodwill fund. We made some good friends here, Paul. Strong allies. And I have a rotten feeling we’re going to need them all sooner rather than later.”
“I have that feeling, too,” Hood said. “There’s a new world out there with a lot of enemies we haven’t begun to identify.”
“Well, we’ve made a good start identifying a few of them,” Herbert said. “I understand Marcus Darling has caved. He’s reportedly opened his Palm Pilot rogues gallery for the Singapore navy.”
“In exchange for what?”
“Being handed to Australian authorities instead of Singaporean grill masters,” Herbert said.
“Lowell will probably not approve, but nicely done,” Hood said.
“Lowell did not openly disapprove, which is pretty good for him. This thing scared him, too. Speaking of enemies,” Herbert went on, “did you hear anything else from Mr. Perry?”
“Not so much as a snarl,” Hood said.
“Hardly a surprise,” Herbert said.
That was true. Lowell had nailed it before when he said that a failure was a stranger in his own house. The corollary to that is, ‘No one leaves the house faster than a politician.’ Hood toyed with the idea of calling Perry at home and busting his chops. He decided that would not be necessary. Perry was probably anticipating just such a call. That was revenge enough.
“Well, I’m going to be sitting around Jelbart’s office for a couple of hours, helping him write reports. A lot happened, and we weren’t taking notes. What are you up to on what is still early Saturday night?”
“I have a date with a lady,” Hood told him.
“Oh? Is this the advertising lady you saw the other night?”
“I started to call her, but there was someone else I wanted to see tonight,” Hood said.
“And she is?”
Hood smiled. “My daughter.”
Herbert did not say anything. He did not have to. The intelligence officer had just gone through this event with Darling and Jessica-Ann. He would know where Hood was coming from.
“Are you going to see Sharon, too?” Herbert asked.
“Only in passing,” Hood said. “She agreed to switch weekends with me so I could see Harleigh tonight.”
“Nice. Make sure you give her a hug from Uncle Bob,” Herbert said.
“I will,” Hood assured him. “I’ll tell her you’re bringing what? A stuffed koala?”
“It’s a deal,” Herbert said. “And a boomerang for Alexander. I won’t even bill Op-Center for it.”
Hood smiled. “Thanks, Bob.” He looked at the computer clock. He did not want to be late. He wished Herbert a safe flight and left his office. He rode the elevator up one flight.
It is indeed a deadlier and less predictable world than ever, Hood thought, as he stepped into the twilight. But in it was one constant.
Loyalty.
With it, you possessed what was best in men. Loyalty to loved ones, to friends. Loyalty to ideals, to country. With it, you had long, powerful arms that could reach for the heavens.
Or a daughter.
Which worked out fine, Hood reflected, as he climbed into his car. For in the end, who were the heavens for?
Other titles by Steve Pieczenik
THE MIND PALACE
BLOOD HEAT
MAXIMUM VIGILANCE
PAX PACIFICA
STATE OF EMERGENCY
HIDDEN PASSIONS
MY BELOVED TALLEYRAND
For more information on Steve Pieczenik,
please visit www.stevepieczenik.com.
Books by Alexander Court
ACTIVE MEASURES
ACTIVE PURSUIT
&nb
sp;
Sea Of Fire (2003) Page 36