“We've got it,” Yaeger said, his voice scratchy from weariness. “That is to say, Max and I almost got it.”

“Should I be happy or sad?”

“Maybe both,” Yaeger said. “I had Max working on the file all night. She did a hell of a job. Click on your computer, and I'll show you what I've got.”

Austin did as he was told and called up the e-mail and the attachment Yaeger had forwarded. The image that came up showed a document with several lines of Russian written in graceful script, the words bounded by fancy scrollwork.

“What is it?”

“It's a menu,” Yaeger said. “The first one is the appetizer, Beluga caviar. The rest is a list of courses for something like a Russian banquet. Perlmutter would love it. Sounds quite tasty after this morning's snack of sugar-glazed doughnuts and weak coffee.”

“I'll buy you a full-course breakfast later, but are you saying that after all we went through to get this stuff, the best we can come up with is caviar?”

“Yes and no. The menu is really a set of files encrypted with steganography. It means 'covered writing.' It's a way of hiding messages in pictures. Uses a special software. Man, whoever set up security is real good. Even Max hit the wall on this one. I wrote a new program that unravels the puzzle. Watch.”

A gray dialog box appeared. “What is that?”

“It's asking for the password.”

“What about the password we used to get into the ship's computer?”

“Troika was only good so far as it went. It got me to this point. Now I need another one.”

Austin groaned. “So we're right back to where we started.”

“Yes and no. I've got Max running through possible words or combinations. She'll come up with an answer... but it could be days.”

“We may not have days,” Austin said. “Then I've got another idea that may help you. The files indicate that there is a master control somewhere other than on your mystery ship. Find that, and we can find your password.”

Austin's head was swimming, as it did after any conversation with Yaeger. “Let me think about it. I'll get back to you.”

Austin went back downstairs and shoved his racing scull into the water. Easing into the narrow craft, he warmed up for ten minutes under quarter pressure, gradually working his rate to twenty-eight strokes a minute, his eyes glued to the dial of the StrokeCoach over his toes. The strokes merged with an unbroken rhythm that sent the light shell scudding smoothly over the river's misty surface like flowing quicksilver.