by Clancy, Tom
“Yes,” she said. “Are you sure there isn’t time to get the other man?”
“Very sure,” the pilot said, glancing at the fuel gauge. “We need to pull out. Now.”
The naval officer understood. She unhooked the ladder, pulled it in, and shut the door. She piled it against the door, then fell into the empty seat across from Herbert. She looked at him as the pilot swung the helicopter to the southwest. “Thank you, Bob.”
“Yes, thank you,” said the new arrival.
Loh and Herbert looked at him. The man was sitting in the seat that Herbert had vacated to help him aboard. He was soaked and shivering. He had his left elbow cupped in his right hand.
“Do you have a towel back here?” Herbert asked the pilot.
“I’m afraid not,” the pilot replied.
“A bottle of water?” Herbert asked.
“I finished it a hundred miles back.”
Herbert regarded the man and shrugged. “Sorry.”
“That’s all right,” he said weakly. “I’m just glad to be here. I thought I was a dead man.”
“How about that arm?” Herbert asked. “We can rig a sling for you.”
“It’s my shoulder, actually,” the man said. “It was hurt when the boat was upended. It will keep.”
“We’ll get that taken care of ashore,” Jelbart said. “In the meantime, talk to us. Who are you?”
“I am Peter Kannaday, captain of the Hosannah,” the man said weakly. “And you people are?”
“I’m Warrant Officer Jelbart. The gentleman across from you is Bob Herbert, and the lady is Female Naval Officer Loh.”
“Australia, America, and—Singapore?”
Loh nodded.
“I thank you all,” the man said with a little nod to each.
“Tell me, Captain. What were you doing out here?” Jelbart asked.
“And who was that individual in the water with you?” Loh asked as she removed the damp pilot’s gloves. She flexed her cold fingers. “You said he betrayed you.”
“He betrayed me, and he betrayed Australia,” the man replied coldly, his eyes fixed on something far away.
“How?” Loh asked.
The man blinked quickly as though waking from a trance.
“Captain Kannaday?” Loh pressed.
“Forgive me,” the man said. Suddenly, he began to sob. “Officers, if you would indulge me. This has been a terrible night. I would like to shut my eyes for just a few minutes.”
“Captain Kannaday, we understand what you’ve been through. But this is rather urgent,” Jelbart said. “I need you to tell us who the man was and why you were out here.”
“His name is Hawke,” the man replied. “John Hawke. And he brought the Hosannah out here to sink it.”
“Why?” Jelbart asked.
The man sat back and shut his eyes. He said nothing.
“Captain?” Jelbart said. “Captain!”
“Officers, I must rest,” the man said. “Please. For just a few minutes. It won’t change anything, I assure you.”
Water dribbled down the man’s temples and forehead, and his head slumped against the window. Loh leaned across the aisle and jabbed him with a finger. He grumbled but did not open his eyes.
“If this were Singapore, we’d wake him,” Loh said.
“If this were Singapore, I’d help you,” Herbert said. “We’ve got a nice, long ladder. What are the international laws about fly-fishing a guy from a helicopter to wake him?”
“It’s called ‘extreme coercion,’ Mr. Herbert,” Jelbart said. “What your legal system would define as ‘cruel and unusual punishment.’ ”
“These are extreme and unusual circumstances,” Loh remarked. Her tone was unsympathetic. She did not respect weakness. Especially from a man whose life she just saved.
“Nonetheless, this man is not the pirate we found,” Jelbart said. “As far as we know, this man has not committed a crime. We have no recourse but to bring him in and question him at his convenience.”
“There are times when we worry about etiquette and protocol too much,” Loh said.
“I’m with Officer Loh on that,” Herbert said. “We have two responsibilities here. One is to the captain. The other is to a few million people just like him. In one case, a guy may be inconvenienced. In the other case, tens of thousands may die. That’s not even a contest to me.”
“We can honor both,” Jelbart insisted. “The captain asked for a few minutes. Let us at least give him that.”
Herbert shook his head, and Monica Loh sat back. She wondered if Jelbart would have been so compassionate if Captain Kannaday had been American. Or Singaporean. Australians were notoriously protective of their own.
Because it was her nature, she also wondered whether Captain Kannaday were really asleep or whether he had been listening carefully to everything they said. Trying to decide what he should say.
She did not know. One thing she did know, however. Soon, someone on board was going to be apologizing to someone else on board for a serious miscalculation.
SIXTY-FOUR
Washington, D.C. Saturday, 1:24 P.M.
Research was job number four for Paul Hood. That came after quarterbacking, cheerleading, and devil’s advocacy.
Hood usually did research only on weekends, when Op-Center had just a skeleton staff. He actually enjoyed it. Searching for information exercised his linear thinking. It gave more logic to those “yeah but . . .” questions. It also shut out his emotions, his fears. He was totally in the moment.
Bob Herbert had left the cell phone open. Hood had put the call on the speakerphone, cranked up the volume, and listened to the conversation between the rescue team and Peter Kannaday. As soon as he heard that name, Hood conducted a computer search through Interpol and FBI files. Nothing showed up. That was good. It suggested the man was telling the truth, that he had been used and shanghied. Hood also did a wider off-line search and came across the registry filing for the Hosannah. There was information about Peter Kannaday. He was the owner of the yacht before it was “sold” to the apparently nonexistent Arvids March. It included copies of his license and dates when the yacht had visited various ports in the South Pacific and the Caribbean. Hood forwarded that information to Herbert’s computer. If the Hosannah had been used to traffic nuclear material, the abbreviated log might help to track pickups or drop-offs.
Hood felt the way Warrant Officer Jelbart did. The man was a guest, not a prisoner. That was very easy to forget in times of high emotion, which occurred with some frequency whenever Bob Herbert was involved.
That’s why you have to hold tight to what you once determined was right, Hood told himself. Otherwise, police officers became bullies, presidents became tyrants, and intelligence officers became both.
Hood sent the Kannaday file to Herbert with an audible prompt. He knew the intelligence chief would be sitting in the cabin, stewing. He wanted to make sure Herbert got the E-mail.
Hood heard the wheelchair beep over the phone. The data file had arrived. He still found it pretty amazing that information could be sent around the world so quickly, so completely, and so secretly. He remembered when he was still in school, and telexes were a big, innovative deal. That was about the time when Pong was the rage at airports and college lounges.
At least most forms of terrorism still had to be done the old-fashioned way. The killing tools of that despicable trade had to be moved slowly, by hand. And like a slug trailing slime across a slate walk, there was no way to erase all evidence of its passage. In days of depressing reality, that was a cheering thought.
It was at once sad and astonishing what passed for hope in the twenty-first century.
SIXTY-FIVE
The Coral Sea Sunday, 3:33 A.M.
Herbert was stewing.
The intelligence chief did not think that Warrant Officer Jelbart was wrong about backing off Kannaday. He just did not think that Jelbart was right.
Captain Kannaday was hurt. Herbert had
no doubt that the man was exhausted. But he did not believe the man was asleep. Kannaday’s nap was the Australian equivalent of cover-your-ass. Whatever had happened on the yacht was illegal. Kannaday had said as much. He was not going to say anything else without a barrister or solicitor or whatever they called criminal attorneys Down Under.
It had also been imprudent of Jelbart to mention the pirate. That information had not been made public. If Kannaday were asleep, it would not matter. If he were awake, he might be less inclined to talk. The captain might say things that contradicted what officials already knew from the pirate. That would not be good for Kannaday.
Herbert’s E-mail alert beeped. “Christ,” he said.
“What’s wrong?” Jelbart asked.
Herbert turned and snapped the cell phone from the armrest of the wheelchair.
“Paul, are you still there?”
“I am,” Hood said.
“Sorry, boss,” Herbert told him. “I forgot you were hanging on. What have you got?”
“A file on Peter Kannaday,” Hood said. “I thought you might like to have a look at it.”
“Absolutely,” Herbert said. The laptop monitor was anchored in the left armrest of the wheelchair. Herbert craned around and swung the screen toward him. He punched the On button. It activated with a hiss. He opened and downloaded Hood’s E-mail.
“Do you think the captain is really asleep?” Hood asked.
“Yeah,” Herbert said. “And I’m going to be the next president of the United States.”
“Do you believe anything he said?” Hood asked.
“I don’t know,” Herbert admitted. He was watching the monitor as the file downloaded. “I don’t have enough information.”
“And there’s nothing you or Officer Loh can do to get that information,” Hood said.
“Well, there is—” Herbert said.
“Lawfully, I mean,” Hood interrupted. “Peter Kannaday is an Australian captain working in international waters. He was rescued by an Australian helicopter. They’re going to have the first swing at him.”
“Paul, we’ve got to fight that,” Herbert said. “Maybe Lowell can pull some legal precedent out of his brain pan.” The intelligence chief looked out the window as the computer continued opening the file. It was dark out there. But not as dark as Herbert felt inside.
“Come on, Bob. You know better.”
“Unfortunately, I do,” Herbert replied.
“Even if Lowell got us in to talk to Kannaday, he’s not going to let an interview turn rough,” Hood said.
“He’d rather see some psycho warlord get heavy artillery?”
“The Australians won’t let that happen,” Hood replied. “Give them some credit.”
“In a perfect world, I would,” Herbert said. “But if the authorities find out our other friend may be involved, I’ll tell you exactly what they’ll do. They’ll circle the wagons around the big man. They have to. It would bring down his empire, do damage to the national economy. They’ll scapegoat some secondary guy to keep their national treasure from being sullied. If that happens, we’ll never get all the names we’re after. And we’ll never know if we’ve cut this caravan off completely.”
Herbert did not want to mention Darling’s name in case Kannaday was awake. If the man were going to talk, Herbert wanted him to mention Darling without being prompted. A lie or cover-up could usually be identified quickly. A half-truth was much more troublesome.
“I don’t agree that they’ll protect Darling,” Hood said. “Something this big would leak eventually. They will have to cut a deal.”
“I don’t like the smell of that,” Herbert said.
“It’s done in business all the time,” Hood said. “The alternative is closing your eyes or bringing down the whole system to get one man. In exchange for cooperation, regulators or investigators give executives a degree of immunity and time to turn the companies over to associates.”
“Jesus, Paul,” Herbert complained. “We’re not talking about insider trading here.”
“I recognize that—”
“I don’t want to see this guy have his passport revoked and agree to the equivalent of house arrest,” Herbert said. “That isn’t right.”
“I agree. And I don’t want you to forget that this isn’t about retribution,” Hood said. “That’s why a Richard Nixon resigns and gets a pardon, or a Kurt Waldheim has his visa shredded and any war crimes he may have been involved in are locked in a filing cabinet. It’s about fixing a problem with a minimum of embarrassment, if possible.”
“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.”
“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 Massacre. People will cheer someone who beats the establishment. They won’t tolerate mass 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 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.
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 bullshit 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 passed. 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.
