"Both," Hawke replied. "However, damage to the processing equipment has been extensive."

"Are you saying the materials cannot be processed by the time we reach Cairns?" Kannaday said.

"That is correct," Hawke informed him. He waited a moment, then asked, "Is there anything else?"

"Yes. You don't seem very upset," Kannaday said.

"I cannot change what is," Hawke said.

"The chief did not want us ever coming into port with the cargo," Kannaday reminded him.

"The only other option is to dump the drums," Hawke said. "We have already radioed ahead for new equipment. It will be waiting at the compound when we arrive. We will sail in, collect the gear, then sail out."

"Are you certain there are no other options?" Kannaday demanded. "Nothing we can jury-rig?"

"The destruction was extensive. You can get a radiation suit and go to the laboratory and look for yourself." Hawke removed the headset from his shoulder. He held it forward. "Or you can ring Dr. Mett and ask him."

"I'm asking you," Kannaday said.

"Asking? It sounds as if you are accusing me," Hawke said.

"Perhaps you're feeling guilty," Captain Kannaday said. "What is the problem, exactly?

Hawke's unhappy gray eyes were fixed on the captain. He replaced the headset. "Even crude reprocessing requires nitric acid to dissolve the spent elements," Hawke replied. "All of our containers were shattered in the explosion. We also need a functioning centrifuge to separate the remaining materials into daughter products. The blast dented the swing arms. They will not turn correctly. Our partner is expecting three pounds of enriched uranium in pellet form. Three hundred and fifty pellets, roughly. If we cannot distill the material, we cannot turn it over to our partner, nor he to his clients." Hawke paused. He was beginning to seem restless, annoyed. "I feel obligated to add, Captain, that the crew feels we are lucky to still be afloat."

"I agree, Mr. Hawke. And I don't much care for luck," Kannaday said.

"We took every reasonable precaution," Hawke pointed out.

"Apparently not," Kannaday said. "Our hull was breached."

"Once again, did you order me here to take some of my skin off?" Hawke asked.

"No, Mr. Hawke," Kannaday replied. "The truth is, I asked you here for something else. I'd like your resignation as head of security."

The shifting light fell full upon Hawke's face. After a few moments, his expression changed. He no longer appeared to be impatient. He seemed almost amused by Kannaday's p.r.o.nouncement.

"You expect me to fall on my sword for what happened?" Hawke asked.

"Those are your words, not mine," Kannaday said.

"But that's what you're asking."

"We were unprepared. The men who attacked us were not novices," Kannaday said. "There must have been reports of previous raids."

"Quite possibly," Hawke agreed. The amus.e.m.e.nt vanished as swiftly as it had come. He was growing angry now. "But whenever our computer boys hack about for cla.s.sified information, they risk leaving a trail. Every time we pay someone to look up police records on a particular sea lane or harbor, we bring someone else into our circle. It is more efficient and ultimately more secure to deal with a rogue or two if and when they show up."

"That's an excuse, not an answer," Kannaday replied. "I want your resignation."

"And if I choose not to give it?"

"Then you will be dismissed," Kannaday said.

"With or without the chief's approval?" Hawke asked.

"When we sail into the cove with those drums of raw nuclear waste on board, the chief will not dispute what I have done."

"Are you so sure, Captain?" Hawke walked forward. "I work for him, not for you."

"The chief dislikes failure," Kannaday said. "He'll back me."

"Because you're the captain?" Hawke pressed.

"Because I'm looking out for his interests," Kannaday replied.

"I see. This decision has nothing to do with your being a full-blood?" Hawke demanded.

"That's irrelevant," Kannaday said.

"Because you say so?" Hawke asked.

"Because it's true!" Kannaday replied. "I have never judged you by your background."

"But when you have your audience with the chief, you will tell him that I was inattentive and uncooperative," Hawke said. "White shorthand. Those are the usual charges against native Australians. You might even get him to believe you. He has never been a friend to Aboriginals or their issue."

"Your background has nothing to do with my decision," Kannaday insisted. "You failed in your responsibility. That is not something we can afford. You will be paid for the work you have done thus far. That's a considerable sum, I should add. With a resignation, you can run security for another operation. This won't affect your career."

Hawke drew the wommera from his sash. The four-inch-long darts were in a closed canvas sack that hung beside it. Kannaday was not concerned. There was not enough room to use them in here. And the stick was neither solid nor thick enough to use as a club.

"I refuse to resign," Hawke said. There was steel in his jawline, in his voice. "Now. How will you enforce your decision?"

"I have weapons, too," Kannaday said. "And I have the men to use them. More men than you have."

"You have sailors," Hawke said. "I have killers."

"Half of them are Aboriginal and half of them are white," Kannaday said. "How do you know they won't turn against each other in a showdown?"

"My people are loyal to me," Hawke said.

"Your people? Your killers still work for the chief, and they will want to get paid," Kannaday a.s.sured him. "Now get out. I have to inform the Indonesians that we will not be making the rendezvous in the morning. Then I'm going to turn over security operations to one of my people, Mr. Henrickson. You may have free run of the ship as long as you agree not to work any mischief."

"I will not resign," Hawke said.

"Then you are dismissed," Kannaday said. He glanced at the wommera as he rose. "And if you're thinking of taking me on personally, I've tangled with monkeys like you my whole life. Up and down the islands, in bars and down alleys, on and off board ship."

"Monkeys," Hawke said contemptuously.

"Yes," Kannaday said. "Annoying little creatures. Now leave before I throw you out."

"Like trash," Hawke said.

Kannaday had had enough of this. Everyone felt oppressed these days. He reached for the security chief's shoulders. As he did, Hawke jerked the wommera as though he were c.o.c.king a shotgun. The top quarter of the stick flew off. Beneath it was a scalpel-sharp five-inch steel blade. Hawke thrust the slender knife forward. He pressed it into the soft flesh just below Kannaday's larynx. The blade was pointed up. Hawke forced Kannaday to the b.a.l.l.s of his feet. Kannaday had not known the wommera had a concealed blade. He felt stupid. That was worse than feeling helpless.

"Don't ever ever a.s.sault me," Hawke said. "I'm not your dog . . . or monkey." a.s.sault me," Hawke said. "I'm not your dog . . . or monkey."

Kannaday said nothing. At moments like these it was best to listen. That provided information as well as time.

"Maybe you're telling the truth," Hawke went on. "Maybe you hate me for myself, not for my background. Or maybe you were just protecting your a.s.s like you've done before. For your information, I did conduct research before signing on. I looked up your personal history. I know about the lawsuit your former partner Mr. March filed when you stole this ship by changing national registries. He could not get you into court because he could not find you. I know about the counterfeiters you betrayed in Auckland to save yourself from a smuggling charge, and I know about the wife you abandoned in Sydney. The chief needed someone to run this route, and you were the perfect b.a.s.t.a.r.d. But I knew it would be wrong to trust you too far."

Hawke leaned into the wommera. The captain felt a pinch at his throat. He backed against the rolltop desk. Hawke followed him. Thick drops of blood fell slowly onto Kannaday's trousers. The captain had antic.i.p.ated that Hawke might attack him. He kept a .45 in his desk drawer for protection. But he was up against the drawer and could not reach it.

"You asked why I was late just now," Hawke said. "I was speaking with my men. They may be mixed, Mr. Kannaday, but they understand loyalty. They also understand necessity. If they cannot trust their fellows under fire, they will not survive. So here is my proposal. I will allow you to keep your ship and your command. If the chief dismisses you, we will refuse to sail with anyone else. He will not want to lose us both." Hawke moved in closer. He did not press the blade further. "We can all ride out this unfortunate incident. The key to your personal survival, Captain, is not to find a goat. It is to be allied with a hawk. Someone who can watch over you."

"You have a sword at my throat," Kannaday rasped. "You haven't left me any options."

"Did you leave me any?" Hawke demanded. "How does it feel?"

The blood was running thicker now. Kannaday thought about trying to grab the shaft.

Hawke seemed to read the captain's mind.

"Think this through," Hawke warned. "No one needs to know about our exchange," Hawke told the captain. "When you see the chief, you can tell him you were injured in battle. He may even respect you more for it. I will tell my men that you never threatened me. I will say that we simply agreed on what you would tell the chief. You can wear a turtleneck to conceal the wound."

"I see. And we just go on as we were," Kannaday said.

"We do," Hawke replied. "You don't have to like me or our arrangement. But this is what necessity demands. You will live with it."

Hawke backed away. He relaxed the blade slightly. A moment later he removed it entirely. That was intended, no doubt, to be a show of trust. Or perhaps of confidence. The two were often related.

Kannaday removed a handkerchief from his pocket. He dabbed it against the shallow wound. He stepped away from the rolltop desk. The captain could reach the .45 now. Hawke had attacked him. Kannaday had the wound to prove it. And the weapon.

The sheath of the wommera was attached by a slender leather thong. Hawke replaced the cap and returned the weapon to his belt. Then he turned away and walked slowly toward the door.

Kannaday could easily reach the gun. Hawke obviously knew that, too. He had to suspect that the captain kept a weapon in his quarters. But to stop Hawke now would mean shooting him from behind. To kill him that way would probably cause even his own sailors to turn on him. They would understand discipline and self-defense but not cowardice.

Hawke paused by the door. He turned back and faced the captain full. "Is there anything further you wanted?"

"No," Kannaday replied.

Hawke lingered a moment longer. Then he reached behind him, twisted the k.n.o.b, and left the room.

Kannaday's shoulders dropped. He had not realized how tense he was until they did. He checked the handkerchief and saw that it was thickly stained with blood. He pressed it back in place and went to get a first-aid kit. He kept one in the locker at the foot of his bed, along with his private store of scotch. As soon as he patched the cut, he would open the bottle.

Kannaday was shaken. The captain was also angry at himself for underestimating Hawke. The man had poise. And courage. And a purpose: To end this encounter leaving Kannaday feeling something less than a captain. And a man.

Kannaday sat on the bed to clean and bandage the wound. He gazed into the mirror on the inside of the lid. The gash was a quarter inch long and bleeding slower now. But it went deep. Right down to his dignity.

As Kannaday uncapped the antiseptic cream, he reasoned that he had not come from this empty-handed. If he had not confronted Hawke, there was no guarantee the man would have stood by him. Still, Kannaday promised himself this much. If John Hawke failed to back him up with Jervis Darling, honor and pride would not save him. Kannaday would take him down anywhere and any way he could.

Even if that meant shooting him in the back.

THIRTEEN.

Washington, D.C. Thursday, 11:09 P.M.

"I feel like I'm in Oz," Coffey said into his cell phone.

"You are," Hood reminded him.

"I mean the other one, the Emerald City one," Coffey replied. "The one where an out-of-towner walks around with a strange collection of personalities, looking for something that's really tough to find."

Hood was alone in his office. Bob Herbert and Mike Rodgers had just gone home, but their teams were still looking for intelligence. They were seeking any leads about radioactive materials missing or currently being trafficked through the region. They had not yet turned up anything new or relevant. As Herbert had reported before leaving, governments or components thereof were often involved in this trade. Unlike individuals, nations like China and the Ukraine were very good at covering their activities.

"I'm standing down the hall from the pirate's hospital room," Coffey went on. "Three people just went inside. One was Brian Ellsworth. You can read about him in my files. The other two are Warrant Officer George Jelbart of the MIC and Female Naval Defence Technical Officer Monica Loh of the Singaporean Coastal Command."

Hood entered the names on his computer as Coffey spelled them. He forwarded the information to Bob Herbert. Hood knew that the designation female female had been part of the t.i.tle in Singapore for decades. The military services were fully integrated, and discrimination was not permitted. Nonetheless, high command liked to keep their combat unit leaders weighted toward men. This was an easy way to keep track of the balance. had been part of the t.i.tle in Singapore for decades. The military services were fully integrated, and discrimination was not permitted. Nonetheless, high command liked to keep their combat unit leaders weighted toward men. This was an easy way to keep track of the balance.

"Is the patient conscious?" Hood asked.

"No, which is why I didn't go in with them," Coffey said. "Ellsworth said they'd notify me if he came around. Meanwhile, I'm using the secure phone I borrowed from Jelbart. Switch to code DPR1P."

"Hold on," Hood said.

He entered the code for AMIC into his desk unit. Op-Center telephones were preprogrammed to decrypt calls from over two hundred allied intelligence services around the world. The Australian Maritime Intelligence Centre was one of these. The only thing required to secure the line was an access code for the individual AMIC phone.

"Done," Hood said. "So what do you make of all this?"

"I honestly don't know yet," Coffey admitted. "The wreckage is definitely that of a sampan, and it is definitely radioactive. It was probably destroyed by explosions that occurred on the sampan itself. Apparently, pirates have been working the Celebes Sea sporadically for years. They use explosives to hold crews hostage while the vessels are robbed."

"So this could have been a premature detonation," Hood said.

"It's possible," Coffey agreed.

"But that doesn't explain the radioactivity," Hood added.

"Exactly. As far as anyone knows, these pirates have never dealt in nuclear material. That's making everyone around here pretty jumpy."

"Why?" Hood asked. "Nuclear trafficking has been going on for years in the region. The MIC knows that."

"They also know that there isn't much they can do about it," Coffey said quietly. "If word gets out about this, there will be pressure to do something. Only no one knows what, exactly. It's the same problem the United States has faced for years. How do you monitor every point of access? It's tough enough catching drug shipments. Radioactive materials are even more difficult."

Coffey was right. There was not much that anyone could do about it. A terrorist could use a lead-lined fountain pen or pocket watch or even a rabbit's foot on a key chain to slip plutonium into a country. Just a few grams of weapons-grade material would be enough to kill thousands of people or contaminate tens of thousands of gallons of water.