Still Meng did not react. He stood staring out at open water. Krieger believed he knew what Meng was thinking. So many unexplained American naval accidents recently. Collisions, systems failures, even groundings. Blame for the accidents had been widely distributed. First, to the other party—drunk Jordanian tanker captain, a broken Vietnamese drive shaft. Then, to those on the bridge of America’s warships—poor seamanship in the channel, failure to man all stations, dereliction of duty to train operators. Analyses of the ships’ electronic bridge and navigation systems and log data found nothing wrong with the computer systems.

Meng would be asking himself whether the rumors could be true: that America’s South China Sea problems had not been accidents.

Meng turned to Krieger. “You are betraying your country,” he said in perfect English.

“I have served my country honorably, Admiral,” Krieger replied. “This is business.”

“They were your client,” Meng said, glancing down at the keyboard.

And they might be again, Krieger thought.

“Contracts—like civilizations—end, Admiral. I deal in the future. The future, as I’m sure you’ll agree, is with China.”

Meng stepped away from the keyboard. He held Krieger’s eyes. “Then as a businessman you will understand, China requires that you demonstrate the capability of your product.”

Krieger had hoped Meng would be unable to resist the opportunity to wield the power he offered, but he was fully prepared for the alternative. Hard decisions were what Kriegers made. He stepped to the keyboard and pressed enter.

A flock of small, dark birds hovered above the Shiloh. The birds were quick and maneuvered in perfect harmony. Meng watched them for several moments, then whispered something quietly under his breath. “That species does not fly so far out to sea.”

THE UNDERTAKER’S SON

Washington, DC

Klay walked to the Gray Pigeon. He’d had the dream again about his mother in her red coat. For the first time since he was a boy, she had paused, then turned and looked down at him struggling with his untied shoelace. “What is it, Tommy?” she asked. “What’s wrong?”

He pulled on the bar’s door, but to his surprise the Pigeon’s front door was locked. A cocktail napkin was taped to the door’s glass. “Closed,” it said. It was mid-afternoon. He peered inside. The lights were off. There were half-empty glasses and beer bottles on the bar. In all the years he had been coming to the Pigeon, Billy had never closed the bar during business hours. Not during the city’s worst blizzards or when a water pipe upstairs had burst. Maybe he was sick. Klay had spent more time with Billy than just about anyone he knew, and he didn’t have a phone number for him. Didn’t have a phone number for the bar, either. When he wanted a drink, he walked over.