Krieger looked at Gatt. Half Filipino, half Chinese, and somehow as big as two men, Fat Anthony was president and CEO of the number one in-port ship-servicing company in the South China Sea, the one to go to for everything a visiting warship or submarine might require. His company, Core F Services, operated tugboats, managed port authority and customs fees, sent divers down to demine harbors, provided food and fuel, hauled away trash and sewage, and shuttled crews into town for R&R.

Fat Anthony was also Krieger’s fixer, a wharf rat who knew every latrine, mess, frayed line, and flag officer in the region. Every whore and every bloodied knife, as well. Port service was a competitive industry. To stay on top, Fat Anthony oversaw a network of moles throughout the world’s armed services that ensured he won the contracts he wanted. A man like that was both useful and dangerous.

It galled Krieger to be in the same room with Gatt, but Gatt’s message had been urgent, and Krieger had too much riding on him to ignore it.

Krieger ordered the Dover sole. Waiters brought Gatt’s meal to their table as if they were supplying an expedition. Foie gras terrine . . . black truffle soup . . . goto congee . . . rock lobster salad . . . osetra caviar . . . pan-seared duck liver with pear and sunchoke . . . A5 Kobe Wagyu . . . Krieger watched it all disappear into Gatt.

“Mindanao City Port,” Gatt said finally, letting the words slip from his mouth syllable by syllable, while chewing the end of a lamb chop he held in his fingers. His extra-long thumbnails were manicured, coated in clear nail polish, and cut to a point. Like cockroach feet, Krieger thought, watching them flash over his food.

“As I predicted, that one was not easy to acquire. It required many months of negotiations. Many greased palms. But it turns out Moros can be capitalists, too.” Gatt smiled and reached for his napkin. “It surprised even me when suddenly it became possible. Do you remember the priest I told you about? The one who opposed our offers?”

Krieger did not respond. “The problem is a priest,” Gatt had said. “A peace negotiator who is trying to expand the Muslims’ territory to include a port, the same one you have your heart set on, I’m afraid . . .

“Well,” Gatt said, shaking out his napkin, “no matter. He decided to remove himself from our world and join our Father.”

“So. Why am I here?” Krieger said, and waited.

Gatt looked up from his pot de crème. “Yes, it is about the money, Terry. You have your deep-sea port now. I have provided you the other services. Now it is about the money.”

“We have a schedule for that,” Krieger replied.