Safe that gun!

Aye! the sailor answered at once, and dropped his hands to point it at the sky. The officer next to him winced with embarrassment. Another lesson learned. A few words would accompany it in an hour or two. This had been a mistake with a gun.

Wilcox reappeared a moment later, with Chief Riley behind him. The bosun handed over two pairs of handcuffs to the officer, who bent down to work them. They had to be the only two aboard; Riley holstered his pistol a moment later, and Obreckis shotgun went up to the sky again. Wegener thought he saw the youngster reset the safety. The farm boy knew his guns, all right, had learned to shoot the same way his skipper had. Why had he taken the safety off . . .? The radio crackled just as Wegeners mind asked the question.

Captain, this is Wilcox. The lieutenant stood to speak, and both men faced each other, a hundred yards apart.

Im here.

Its a bad one, sir . . . sir, theres blood all over the place. One of em was scrubbing the salon down, butits a real mess here, sir.

Just the two of them?

Affirmative. Only two people aboard. Weve cuffed em both.

Check again, Wegener ordered. Wilcox read the captains mind: he stayed with the prisoners and let Chief Riley do the search. The bosun appeared three minutes later, shaking his head. His face looked pale through the binoculars, Wegener saw. What would make Bob Riley go pale?

Just these two, sir. No ID on them. I dont think we want to do much of a search, I think Correct. Ill send you another man and leave you Obrecki. Can you get the yacht to port?

Sure, Captain. We got plenty of fuel.

Theres going to be a little blow tonight, Wegener warned.

I checked the weather this morning. No sweat, sir.

Okay, let me call this one in and get things organized. Stand by.

Roger that. Sir, I recommend that you send the TV camera across for a permanent record to back up the stills.

Okay, itll be over in a few minutes.

It took half an hour for the Coast Guard base to get the FBI and DEA agreed on things. While they waited for word, the Zodiac took another crewman over with a portable TV camera and tape recorder. One of the boarding party shot off sixty frames with a Polaroid camera, while the TV recorded everything on half-inch tape. The Coast Guardsmen restarted Empire Builders engines and headed northwest for Mobile, with the cutter holding station on her portside. It was finally decided that Wilcox and Obrecki could take the yacht back to Mobile, and that a helicopter would pick up the two yachtsmen that afternoonweather permitting. It was a long way to the helicopter base. Panache was supposed to have her own helicopter, but the Coast Guard didnt have the funding to buy enough. A third seaman was landed on the yacht, and it was time to bring the prisoners back to Panache.

Chief Riley took the prisoners aft. Wegener watched the bosun fairly throw them into the Zodiac. Five minutes later it was hoisted aboard. The yacht headed northwest, and the cutter turned away to continue her patrol. The first man from the boarding party to reach the bridge was the seaman whod worked the Polaroid. He handed over half a dozen of the color frames.

The chief collected some stuff for you to look at, Capn. Its worsen it looks here. Wait till you see the TV tape. Its already set up for copying.

Wegener handed the photos back. Okayit all goes into the evidence locker. You join up with the others. Have Myers set up a new tape in the VCR, and I want you all to tell the camera what you saw. You know how it goes. Lets make sure we get it all right.

Yes, sir!

Riley appeared a minute later. Robert Timothy Riley was a man in the traditional pattern of the chief boatswains mate. Six-two and over two hundred pounds, he had the hairy arms of a gorilla, the gut of a man who knew his way around a beer can, and the rumbling voice to outscream a winter gale. His oversized right hand grasped a couple of plastic food bags. His face showed that anger was now replacing the shock.

Its a fuckin slaughterhouse, sir. Like somebody exploded a couple cans of brown paintcept it aint paint. Jesus. One bag came up. The little one was cleaning up when we pulledem over. Theres a trash can in the saloon with maybe a half dozen cartridge cases. I pulled these two off the rugjust like they taught us, Capn. Picked em up with my ball-point and shuffled em into the baggie. Two guns I left aboard. I bagged them, too. That aint the worst of it.

The next baggie contained a small, framed photograph. It had to be the yachts owner and his family. The baggie after that contained a . . .

Found it under a table. Rape, too. She mustve been havin her period, but they didnt let that stop em. Maybe just the wife. Maybe the little girl, too. In the galley theres some butcher knives, all bloodied up. I figure they carved the bodies up and tossed em over the side. These four people are shark-shit now.

Drugs?

Twenty or so keys of white powder stowed in the crews quarters. Some marijuana, too, but that just looks like a personal stash. Riley shrugged. I didnt even bother using the test kit, sir. Dont matter. This is straight piracy-and-murder. I saw one bullet hole in the deck, a through-and-through. Red, I aint seen nothing like this in my whole life. Like something in a movie, but worse. He let out a long breath. You have to have been there, sir.

What do we know about the prisoners?

Nothing. They aint done nothing moren grunt, leastways not when I was around. No ID on them, and I didnt want to go messing around things looking for passports an stuff. Figured Id leave that for the real cops. The wheelhouse is clean. Sos one of the heads. Mr. Wilcox wont have much trouble taking her back, and I heard him tell Obrecki and Brown not to touch anything. Plenty of fuel aboard, he can run her at full speed. Hell have her in Mobile fore midnight if the weather holds off. Nice boat. Another shrug.

Bring em up here, Wegener said after a moment.

Aye aye. Riley went aft.

Wegener filled his pipe, then had to remember where hed left his matches. The world had changed while hed been off doing other things, and Wegener didnt like it. It was dangerous enough out here. Wind and wave were as deadly an enemy as man needed. The sea was always waiting for her chance. It didnt matter how good you thought you were; you only had to forget once, just once, that you could never trust her. Wegener was a man who never forgot, and devoted his life to protecting those who had. Remembering that one hazard, and protecting those who forgot, had given him a full and satisfying life. He liked being the guardian angel in the snow-white boat. You were never lost if Red Wegener was around. You always had a chance, a good chance, that he could reach into the wet, stormy grave and pull you out with his bare hands . . . but sharks were feasting on four people now. Wegener loved the sea for all her moods, but sharks were something to loathe, and the thought that they were now eating people that he might have saved . . . four people whod forgotten that not all sharks live in the sea, Wegener told himself. Thats what had changed. Piracy. He shook his head. Thats what you called it on the water. Piracy. Something that Errol Flynn had made movies about in Wegeners boyhood. Something that had ended two centuries earlier. Piracy and murder, the part that the movies had usually left out. Piracy and murder and rape, each of them a capital offense in the old days. . . .

Stand up straight! Riley snarled. He had both by the arm. Both were still cuffed, and Rileys hands kept them from straying. Chief Oreza had come along to keep an eye on things.

Both were in their mid-twenties, both were thin. One was tall, about six feet, and arrogant, which struck the captain as odd. He had to know the trouble he was in, didnt he? His dark eyes burned at Wegener, who regarded the younger man dispassionately from behind his pipe. There was something odd about his eyes, but Wegener didnt know what it was.

Whats your name? the captain asked. There was no reply. You have to tell me your name, Wegener pointed out quietly.

Then something very unusual happened. The tall one spat on Wegeners shirt. There was a strangely long fragment of time in which the captain refused to believe what had happened, his face not even showing surprise. Riley was the first to react to the blasphemy.

You son of a bitch! The bosun lifted the prisoner up like a rag doll, spinning him in the air and smashing him down on the bridge rail. The young man landed on his belt, and for a second it seemed that hed break in half. The air whooshed out of his mouth, and his legs kicked, trying to find the deck before he dropped into the water.

Christ, Bob! Wegener managed to say as Riley picked him back up. The bosun spun him around, his left hand clamped on the mans throat as he lifted him clear of the deck with one arm. Put him down, Riley!

If nothing else, Riley had broken through the arrogance. For a moment there was genuine fear in those eyes as the prisoner fought for breath. Oreza had the other one on the deck already. Riley dropped his man beside him. The pirateWegener was already thinking of him in those termspitched forward until his forehead touched the deck. He gagged and struggled for breath while Chief Riley, just as pale, rediscovered his self-control.

Sorry, Captain. Guess I just lost it for a second. The bosun made it clear that he was apologizing only for embarrassing his commanding officer.

Brig, Wegener said. Riley led both aft.

Damn. Oreza observed quietly. The quartermaster fished out his handkerchief and wiped his captains shirt. Jesus, Red, whats the world comin to?

I dont know, Portagee. I think were both too old to answer that one. Wegener finally found his matches and managed to light his pipe. He stared out at the sea for several seconds before finding the right words. When I joined up I got broke in by an old chief who told stories about Prohibition. Nothing nasty like thishe made it all sound like a great big game.

Maybe people were more civilized back then, Oreza thought.

More likely you couldnt carry a million bucks worth of booze on a motorboat. Didnt you ever watch The Untouchables? The gang wars they had back then were as nasty as the ones we read about now. Maybe worse. Hell, I dont know. I didnt join up to be a cop, Chief.

Me neither, Capn. Oreza grunted. We went an got old, and the world went an changed on us. One thing I wish didnt change, though.

Whats that, Portagee?

The master chief quartermaster turned to look at his commanding officer. Something I picked up at New London a few years back. I used to sit in on some classes when I had nothing better to do. In the old days when they caught a couple of pirates, they had the option of doing a court-martial on the spot and settlin things right then an thereand you know something? It worked. Oreza grunted again. I spose thats why they stopped doin it that way.

Give em a fair trialthen hang em?

Hell, why not, sir?

Thats not the way we do things anymore. Were civilized now.

Yeah, civilized. Oreza opened the door to the wheelhouse. I can tell. I seen the pictures.

Wegener smiled, then wondered why. His pipe had gone out. He wondered why he didnt just quit entirely as he fished for his matches again, but the pipe was part of the image. The old man of the sea. Hed gotten old, all right, Wegener thought. A puff of wind caught the match as he tried to toss it, dropping it on the deck. How did you ever forget to check the wind? he asked himself as he bent down to retrieve it.

There was a pack of cigarettes there, halfway out the scupper. Wegener was a fanatic on ship-cleanliness and was ready to snarl at whoever had tossed the empty pack when he realized that it hadnt come from one of his crewmen. The name on the pack was Calvert, and that, he remembered vaguely, was a Latin American brand-name from a U.S. tobacco company. It was a hard pack, with a flip-top, and out of simple curiosity he opened it.

They werent cigarettes. At least, they werent tobacco cigarettes. Wegener fished one out. They werent hand-rolled, but neither were they as neatly manufactured as something from a real American cancer factory. The captain smiled in spite of himself. Some clever entrepreneur had come up with a cute way of disguisingjoints, wasnt it?as real cigarettes. Or maybe it was just more convenient to carry them this way. It must have pitched out of his shirt when Riley flipped him around, Wegener realized belatedly. He closed the pack and pocketed it. Hed turn it over to the evidence locker when he got a chance. Oreza returned.

Weather update. That squall linell be here no latern twenty-one hundred. The squalls are upgraded some. We can expect gusts up to forty knots. Gonna be a fair blow, sir.

Any problem for Wilcox and the yacht? There was still time to recall him.

Shouldnt be, sir. It turned south. A high-pressure system is heading down from Tennessee. Mr. Wilcox oughta have it pretty smooth all the way in, Capn, but it might be a little dicey for the helicopter. They didnt plan to get it to us until eighteen hundred, and thats cutting it a little close. Theyll be bucking the front edge of the line on the way back.

What about tomorrow?

Supposed to clear off about dawn, then the high-pressure system takes over. Were in for some rollin tonight, but then we got four days of good weather. Oreza didnt actually voice his recommendation. He didnt have to. The two old pros communicated with glances.

Wegener nodded agreement. Advise Mobile to put the pickup off until noon tomorrow.

Aye aye, Capn. No sense risking a helicopter to haul garbage.

Right on that, Portagee. Make sure Wilcox gets the word on the weather in case that system changes course. Wegener checked his watch. Time for me to get my paperwork done.

Pretty full day already, Red.

True enough.

Wegeners stateroom was the largest aboard, of course, and the only private accommodation aboard, since privacy and loneliness were the traditional luxuries accorded a skipper. But Panache wasnt a cruiser, and Wegeners room was barely over a hundred square feet, albeit with a private head, which on any ship was something worth fighting for. Throughout his Coast Guard career, paperwork was something Wegener had avoided whenever possible. He had an executive officer, a bright young lieutenant whom the captain stuck with as much of it as his conscience could justify. That left him with two or three hours worth per day. The captain attacked it with the enthusiasm of a man on his way to a hanging. Half an hour later he realized that it seemed harder than usual. The murders were pulling at his consciousness. Murder at sea, he thought, as he looked at the porthole on the starboard bulkhead. It wasnt unknown, of course. Hed heard of a few during his thirty years, though hed never been directly involved. There had been a case off the Oregon coast when a crewman had gone berserk and nearly killed a mateturned out that the poor guy had developed a brain tumor and hed later died from it, Red remembered. Point Gabriel had gone out and collected the man, already hog-tied and sedated. That was the extent of Wegeners experience with violence at sea. At least the man-made kind. The sea was dangerous enough without the need for that sort of thing. The thought came back to him like the recurring theme of a song. He tried to get back to his work, but failed.

Wegener frowned at his own indecision. Whether he liked paperwork or not, it was part of the job. He relit the pipe in the hope that it would aid his concentration. That didnt work either. The captain muttered a curse at himself, partly in amusement, partly in annoyance, as he walked into his head for a drink of water. The paperwork still beckoned. He looked at himself in the mirror and realized that he needed a shave. And the paperwork wasnt getting done.

Youre getting old, Red, he told the face in the mirror. Old and senile.

He decided that he had to shave. He did it in the old-fashioned way, with a shaving cup and brush, the disposable razor his only concession to modernity. He had his face lathered and halfway shaved when someone knocked at the door.

Come! It opened to reveal Chief Riley.

Sorry, Capn, didnt know you were No problem, Bob, whats up?

Sir, I got the first-draft of the boarding report. Figured youd want to go over it. We got everyones statement on tape, audio, and TV. Myers made a copy of the tape from the boarding. The originals in with the evidence, in a lockbox inside the classified-materials safe, as per orders. I got the copy if you wanna see it.

Okay, just leave it. Anything from our guests?

No, sir. Turned into a pretty day outside.

And me stuck with all this damned paper.

A chief may work from sun to sun, but the skippers work is never done, Riley observed.

Youre not supposed to pick on your commanding officer, Master Chief. Wegener managed to stop himself from laughing only because he still had the razor to his throat.

I humbly beg the captains pardon. And, by your leave, sir, I also have work to do.

The kid we had on the fifty-cal this morning was part of the deck division. He needs a talk about safety. He was slow taking his gun off the yacht this morning. Dont tear his head all the way off, Wegener said as he finished shaving. Ill talk to Mr. Peterson myself.

We sure dont need people fucking around with those things. Ill talk with the lad, sir, right after I do my walk-around.

Im going to do one after lunchwe have some weather coming in tonight.

Portagee told me. Well have everything lashed down tight.

See you later, Bob.

Aye. Riley withdrew.

Wegener stowed his shaving gear and went back to his desk. The preliminary draft of the boarding and arrest report was on the top of his pile. The full version was being typed now, but he always liked to see the first version. It was generally the most accurate. Wegener scanned it as he sipped at some cold coffee. The Polaroid shots were tucked into pockets on a plastic page. They hadnt gotten any better. Neither had the paperwork. He decided to slip the videotape into his personal VCR and view it before lunch.

The quality of the tape was several steps down from anything that could be called professional. Holding the camera still on a rolling yacht was nearly impossible, and there hadnt been enough light for decent picture quality. For all that, it was disturbing. The sound caught snippets of conversations, and the screen occasionally flared when the Polaroids flash went off.

It was plain that four people had died aboard Empire Builder, and all they had left behind were bloodstains. It didnt seem very much of a legacy, but imagination supplied the rest. The bunk in what had probably been the sons cabin was sodden with blooda lot of itat the top end of the bed. Head shot. Three other sets of bloodstains decorated the main salon. It was the part of the yacht with the most space, the place where the entertainment had gone on. Entertainment, Wegener thought. Three sets of bloodstains. Two close together, one distant. The man had an attractive wife, and a daughter of thirteen . . . theyd made him watch, hadnt they?

Jesus, Wegener breathed. That had to be it, didnt it? They made him watch, and then they killed them all . . . carved up the bodies and tossed them over the side.

Bastards.

Creatures of the Night.

THE NAME ON this passport said J. T. Williams, but he had quite a few passports. His current cover was as a representative for an American pharmaceuticals firm, and he could give a lengthy discourse on various synthetic antibiotics. He could similarly discuss the ins and outs of the heavy-equipment business as a special field representative for Caterpillar Tractor, and had two other legends that he could switch in and out of as easily as he changed his clothes. His name was not Williams. He was known in CIAs Operations Directorate as Clark, but his name wasnt Clark either, even though that was the name under which he lived and raised his family. Mainly he was an instructor at CIAs school for field officers, known as The Farm, but he was an instructor because he was pretty good at what he did, and for the same reason he often returned to the field.

Clark was a solidly built man, over six feet tall, with a full head of black hair and a lantern jaw that hinted at his ancestry, along with the blue eyes that twinkled when he wanted them to, and burned when he did not. Though well over forty, Clark did not have the usual waistline flab that went along with a desk job, and his shoulders spoke volumes about his exercise program. For all that, in an age of attention to physical fitness he was unremarkable enough, save for one distinguishing mark. On his forearm was the tattoo of a grinning red seal. He ought to have had it removed, but sentiment did not allow it. The seal was part of the heritage hed once chosen for himself. When asked about it during a flight, hed reply, honestly, that hed once been in the Navy, then go on to lie about how the Navy had financed his college education in pharmaceuticals, mechanical engineering, or some other field. Clark actually had no college or graduate degree, though hed accumulated enough special knowledge along the way to qualify for a half dozen of them. The lack of a degree would haveshould havedisqualified him for the position which he held in the Agency, but Clark had a skill that is curiously rare in most of the Western intelligence agencies. The need for it was also rare, but the need was occasionally real, and a senior CIA official had once recognized that someone like Clark was useful to have on the payroll. That hed blossomed into a very effective field officermainly for special, short, dangerous jobswas all the better for the Agency. Clark was something of a legend, though only a handful of people at Langley knew why. There was only one Mr. Clark.

What brings you to our country, Seor Williams? the immigration official asked.

Business. And Im hoping to do a little fishing before I go home, Clark replied in Spanish. He was fluent in six languages, and could pass for a native with three of them.

Your Spanish is excellent.

Thank you. I grew up in Costa Rica, Clark lied. He was particularly good at that, too. My father worked there for years.

Yes, I can tell. Welcome to Colombia.

Clark went off to collect his bags. The air was thin here, he noted. His daily jogging helped him with that, but he reminded himself to wait a few days before he tried anything really strenuous. It was his first time in this country, but something told him that it wouldnt be the last. All the big ones started with reconnaissance. That was his current mission. Exactly what he was supposed to recon told him what the real mission would probably be. Hed done such things before, Clark told himself. In fact, one such mission was the reason that CIA had picked him up, changed his name, and given him the life that hed led for nearly twenty years.