"That's the solution of a bureaucrat," Herbert said. "I want this guy's tanned hide."

"That is the self-righteous indignation of the Lone Ranger," Hood replied. "Bob, if Darling is guilty, I'd love to see him get life in prison. But that probably won't happen. Right or wrong, you can't just remove a foundation of international industry like that. Maybe over time, but not immediately." is the self-righteous indignation of the Lone Ranger," Hood replied. "Bob, if Darling is guilty, I'd love to see him get life in prison. But that probably won't happen. Right or wrong, you can't just remove a foundation of international industry like that. Maybe over time, but not immediately."

"Over time people will forget," Herbert said. "They'll forgive."

"That's possible," Hood agreed.

"It's inevitable," Herbert said.

"Not if he was trying to kill people," Hood said. "Al Capone was a folk hero until he ordered the Saint Valentine's Day Ma.s.sacre. People will cheer someone who beats the establishment. They won't tolerate ma.s.s murder."

The computer beeped, signaling that the file had been downloaded. Herbert terminated the link and opened the file. He was angry. He was not angry at Hood. He was angry because Hood was right. Jervis Darling would probably survive a worst-case scenario.

"Bob?" Hood said.

"Yeah."

"You're unusually quiet."

"Sorry," Herbert replied. "I was thinking about what you said."

"And?"

"Like Mr. Jelbart, you've got a point. I just don't happen to like it," Herbert told him. "Is that what we do for a living? Risk our lives so we can settle for a compromise?"

"It seems that way," Hood said.

"It doesn't seem right."

"I agree," Hood said, "but that's the ante when your opponents are ready to risk their their lives. Besides, in our business a trade-off that prevents a war is still better than a loss." lives. Besides, in our business a trade-off that prevents a war is still better than a loss."

"I don't know," Herbert said. "I never respected football teams that went for a field goal and a tie. That's not what champions do."

Hood chuckled.

"What's so funny?" Herbert asked.

"Your choice of words," Hood said. "When I was mayor, there was a small bronze plaque in city hall. It was a quote from Daniel Webster that read, 'This is a hall for mutual consultation and discussion, not an arena for the exhibition of champions.' I believe that."

"You would, Paul. You have the patience for talk," Herbert said. His tone was not disparaging. He admired Hood's diplomacy.

"Talk works," Hood said. "If you're doing that, you probably aren't killing each other."

"I can do both."

"Only if you're screaming, not talking," Hood said.

Hood was right about that point. The problem was, Herbert had always liked his way of doing things. It worked. Hood made it sound bad.

"Anyway, it isn't patience," Hood went on. "Talk is my weapon of choice. It worked well with voters and with my kids. Now it's a part of me. I couldn't change if I wanted to." He added pointedly, "None of us can."

Finally, there was something Herbert could agree with.

Hood said that he would call Lowell Coffey and bring him up to speed. Herbert thanked him and hung up the phone. He sat back and thought about what Hood said.

None of them could change.

Hood was right about that. But with that comment came Paul Hood's tacit acknowledgment that he accepted Bob Herbert as is. That gave Herbert a little wiggle room. He had not been told, expressly, to stay out of the investigation and interrogation.

What it did not give Herbert, immediately, was a place to put his fist. He was furious with Jervis Darling, with the polite but recalcitrant Peter Kannaday, and with the coddling mentality in general. Herbert understood talk. But to be honest, he still preferred war. It took less time and it resolved disputes a lot quicker. Nor were the casualties any heavier, really. Just quicker. The combatants lost to bullets what they would have lost to endless raids and corrosive debate.

Herbert noticed Loh staring at him.

"What are you thinking?" he asked her.

"I agree with you," she said.

"About?"

"A stalemate," she said.

Herbert smiled. "I didn't think you would care for that."

"Not at all. I would rather fight and lose than feel as though I did not give something my fullest effort," she replied.

Herbert smiled at her. That iced it. FNO Monica Loh had to become the next Mrs. Herbert. He was betting she had less patience for bulls.h.i.t and insincerity than he did.

Almost absently, Herbert reached behind him and opened the computer file Paul Hood had sent. The intelligence chief angled the monitor toward him. He considered dreamily how he and Monica would be banned from every party and fund-raiser in Washington, D.C.

The file opened. Herbert glanced at it. His eyes shrank and his mouth widened. He stared at the screen more closely.

And he knew at once what to do with his rage.

SIXTY-SIX.

Cairns, Australia Sunday, 3:56 A.M.

The call was late.

Jervis Darling stood in the beige kitchen eating a half cantaloupe from the rind. He was no longer dressed in the gray Cairns Yacht Club sweat suit he had been wearing earlier. He had exercised on his rowing machine for forty-five minutes. Then he showered, pulled on a bathrobe, and sat in front of the television. He moved impatiently from satellite to satellite, watching nothing as the hours pa.s.sed. At the same time, his mood shifted from disgust to anger to concern. He should have heard from his nephew or John Hawke by now. But the cell phone in his pocket had remained resolutely silent.

Darling finished the fruit. He cut the rind into slices and fed it into the garbage disposal. Things always seemed worse in the dark hours of night. Yet he could not help but think that something had gone wrong. Even if they had failed to sink the yacht, Marcus would have gotten in touch with him. The only thing he could think of was that miserable American.

Other than by dumb, idiotic luck, Darling could not imagine how Herbert might have found the yacht. Or what he might have done to stop Hawke. No one stopped John Hawke. As he finished pulping the rind, Darling began to consider what he should do. Earlier that evening he had called his old college friend Bruce Perry about Herbert. Perry had said he would handle it. The men had not spoken since. Darling did not want to call and ask him how the conversation went. Pressure was as good as an admission of guilt. The only thing that drove away an ally faster was failure.

Darling began to consider his next move. It might have to be a bolder preventative step than simply calling a friend at the White House. This was not a position Darling enjoyed. He was usually the one maneuvering CEOs or politicians into a corner.

Darling felt that he should wake Jessica-Ann and leave the estate. He and his daughter could go to the cove and take the yacht to his retreat in the Sister Islands. Or they could drive to the airstrip and depart by jet. If something had gone wrong, Darling did not want to be easily accessible. Since the Sister Islands were part of New Zealand, that would add another country-and another bureaucracy-between himself and any legal activities. He would let the barristers tackle any issues that might come up.

Though these concerns are premature, Darling reminded himself. Darling reminded himself.

Darling still did not know for certain that anything was wrong. John Hawke could simply be hiding until dawn. He might have had a reason to maintain silence. Or he could be playing a psychological game of some kind. Darling would not put it past Hawke to make him wait. Hawke would do that from spite or to show some muscle. Just enough to be annoying but not enough to threaten. Hawke knew better than to cross that boundary.

After considering the situation for several minutes more, Darling decided that it would be a good idea to leave. He would take the jet to the nearest of his islands in the Sisters. Picking up the house phone, Darling woke Andrew and told him to pack a bag for himself and for his daughter. Next he called his pilot, Shawn Daniels, who lived in a cottage at the far end of the estate. Darling told him to be ready to fly out within the hour. The Learjet was always ready and accessible for unexpected business trips.

Finally, Darling went to wake his daughter. He moved quickly but unhurriedly to the living room and up the winding marble staircase. Jessica-Ann would be groggy, and she would sleep through the flight. She would wake up to invigorating sunshine and clean sea air. Wake from the restful sleep of the innocent. Darling wished that were something he could enjoy.

Not that it matters. Things will look better in the morning, he a.s.sured himself. he a.s.sured himself.

If they did not, he would have them fixed by the afternoon. Either through talk or through deed.

A man with radioactive materials at his disposal always had options.

SIXTY-SEVEN.

The Coral Sea Sunday, 4:01 A.M.

Monica Loh sat in the deep vinyl seat of the helicopter's dark cabin. She was watching Bob Herbert. His face was in shadow, but his posture was tense, aggressive. He was leaning forward, anxiously pressing a thumb into his palm. Loh did not wonder what he was thinking. She knew. He wanted to get information from Captain Kannaday using any means possible. Herbert had said as much when he was on the telephone.

But then something changed. Herbert glanced at his computer monitor and sat up. His hands relaxed. He turned toward Captain Kannaday and regarded him for a long moment. Then he looked at her.

"Wake him," Herbert said.

Loh turned and gave Kannaday's shoulder a firm shake. He opened his eyes slowly.

Warrant Officer Jelbart turned. "What is it?"

"I wanted to ask our guest a question," Herbert said.

"I thought we had decided to let the captain be for now," Jelbart said with a hint of annoyance.

"I let him have his power nap," Herbert said. "Now I want to know something. Something simple."

"You are free to ask anything you like," the man replied.

"Thanks. But you're saying you may not answer," Herbert said.

"As I said, I am extremely tired. I don't want to say anything that is inaccurate or may be misinterpreted."

"I understand," Herbert said. "How about this, which is pretty tough to screw up. Where were you born?"

The man looked at him.

"What's wrong?" Herbert asked. "Is that too tough?"

"Are you serious?" the man asked.

"I've been accused of that, yeah," Herbert said. "Have you got an answer for me?"

"I was born here. In Australia," the man replied.

"In which town?" Herbert asked. "On what date?"

"Why?" The man grinned. "Are you going to buy me a gift?"

"One that keeps on giving," Herbert told him. "A lifetime sentence in a maximum security prison."

"Really?" the man said. "For what?"

"I think you know," Herbert said.

"Bob, we decided we weren't going to do anything like this," Jelbart said angrily.

"You decided that," Herbert said. His eyes remained on Kannaday. "Where were you born and when?" decided that," Herbert said. His eyes remained on Kannaday. "Where were you born and when?"

Loh did not think Herbert would bully someone unless he had a solid reason. Apparently, he did. She watched Kannaday's reaction. He was unfazed. After a few moments the captain closed his eyes. His head sank back on the seat and was lost again in darkness.

"Bob, why do you want to know that?" Jelbart asked.

"Why?" Herbert replied. "Because this man is not Peter Kannaday."

"What?" Jelbart said.

"I just saw a photograph of Captain Kannaday," Herbert said. He angled the monitor toward Jelbart and cranked up the brightness. "There is a picture attached to his license."

Jelbart looked from the computer monitor to their guest. "I'll be a nong-an idiot, to you. Bob is right. This isn't you."

"Rot," the man replied without opening his eyes. "There's obviously a mistake in the file."

"I don't think so," Herbert said. "There were two men on the deck of the yacht. One man dies. The other man a.s.sumes his ident.i.ty."

"Why?" the man asked. His eyes were still shut. He seemed utterly unconcerned.

"What better way to earn our trust than to pose as a virtuous sea captain fighting smugglers? We give that trust, along with safe pa.s.sage to sh.o.r.e. Then, as soon as you get there, you slip away."

"The photograph is as mixed up as you are, Mr. Herbert."