Tighe glanced coolly at the top document, recognized something, and began thumbing pages, increasingly unnerved. Krieger knew it wasn’t the content of the emails that shook him. It was the emails themselves. Tighe had communicated with Gatt using CAINA, the Pentagon’s network for communications among leaders in times of war. No one but the intended recipient could read comms sent in this way—or so they had no doubt told him. But Krieger had his Gatt emails. Tighe’s eyes moved through the pages. He had internal NCIS reports, too.

Krieger watched comprehension dawn on Tighe’s horizon: Perseus Group had hacked the top secret communications channel of the head of the Seventh Fleet.

“Treason, Admiral. So, starting today, this little sex ring of yours is over. Tell everyone involved you’ve found religion. Understood?”

“What about . . . ?” Tighe pointed his cigar at the screen.

“Taken care of.”

“How do you know? If Gatt has copies—”

“He doesn’t.”

Gatt’s task had been to reserve the hotel rooms, select the girls, order the foie gras and Cristal. Mapes oversaw the cameras.

Gatt had been a valued Fund investor. He had delivered critical intel on Australia’s finance minister in advance of the Darwin deal; on a Pakistani salt baron in secret control of Gwadar port; on the wife of a Malaysian sultan who would now be happy to allow arms through his state. But Gatt had been double-dealing. While gathering compromising information for Krieger, he had been simultaneously selling that same intelligence to the Russians. Not to the Russian government. Worse. To Krieger’s rival, Dmitri Yurchenko. Krieger wasn’t sure how much Yurchenko knew yet, but that was a separate issue.

Mapes touched a button, and the screen filled with the image of Anthony Gatt, all 409 pounds of him, naked on a morgue table, his gigantic body swollen and pale after three days at sea. The commander of the Seventh Fleet ran his eyes over Gatt’s corpse. Fish had started on him. His eyes, fingertips, and most of his nose and lips were missing, a chunk of his thigh. His thickened tongue filled his mouth.

Appetites, Krieger thought. The Fund depended on them. But the Fund had rules.

Tighe glanced at the cigar ash that soiled his pant leg, but did not seem to see it. His eyes roamed the room, unfocused, calculating his exposure. Krieger gave him time, waiting for two words that took some men longer to come to than others.

“And me?” Tighe said finally.

Krieger got to his feet. He circled his desk and waited for Tighe to stand. “You, Admiral,” he said, walking Tighe to the door, “are exactly where I want you to be.”

Moments later a helicopter lifted clear of Raptor and flew Tighe back to the Blue Ridge. A second chopper, bearing Krieger, took off in the direction of Donsol and Krieger’s family.

ON ICE

Sovereign Headquarters

Washington, DC