Behrouz nodded, silently wondering if they had that much time. The baton was still in his hand, and he dropped it into the squat sergeant’s lap before addressing the driver. “All right then, headquarters—quickly!”

*   *   *

They woke with the sun, at this latitude not a few minutes of glory but a process of hours, light feeding the eastern sky in a slow burn. Slaton didn’t want to move, but a look at the clock brought reality down like a hammer. It was nine-fifteen, and Janna Magnussen’s seaplane would be splashing down in the nearby cove in less than two hours.

He got up and looked out the port window. The weather was cooperating, high clouds and good visibility. Slaton didn’t know whether to be happy or disheartened. He began cooking breakfast, wondering what was appropriate for a prenatal menu. He knew Christine needed to eat: for her health, for that of their child, and perhaps most importantly, to instill a sense of normalcy.

Once breakfast was on the stove, and with Christine stirring slowly, Slaton ran his eyes over the tiny cabin. He began checking cupboards and compartments, and found what he was looking for in a portside utensil drawer. At the back, wrapped in a piece of oilskin, a .38 revolver. He had seen a single bullet yesterday in another drawer, and so he knew it was here. He wanted something better than the .22, yet when Slaton inspected the piece it was a disappointment. With difficulty, he pried the cylinder open and saw that the gun wasn’t loaded. He tried to work the firing mechanism but it had long ago seized. The gun was crusted in rust, and probably hadn’t been used in ten years, maybe twenty. Even with a good cleaning it would be unreliable, and a weapon in such condition was worse than none at all. It was a distraction, a thing you might be tempted to trust in a critical moment.

He climbed to the top of the companionway steps and was about to toss it into the sea when he heard, “What are you doing?”

Slaton turned.

Christine was staring at him, as beautiful as ever with bent morning hair and bleary eyes. He stepped back down into the cabin and showed her the weapon. “I’m polluting—heavy metal into the marine environment. They can add that to my rap sheet.”

She frowned at the gun. “Please get rid of it.”

He did so, a neat fling out the hatch that ended in a decisive splash. She came closer, but just as Slaton moved in for an embrace, Christine turned and rushed to the marine head, flinging the door closed behind her. He heard her retching.

He waited at the door, and when she came out he succeeded in getting his arms around her the second time. She was tense and rigid.

“What can I do to help?”

“It will pass,” she said. “I should try to eat something.”