Hood hung up. He felt more involved than he usually did in evolving situations. For one thing, unlike Mike Rodgers or former Striker leader Colonel Brett August, Coffey was keeping him plugged into every development in the field, however small. For another, the diverse resources of three nations were available to him. It was as true in crisis management as it was in mathematics: one point was simply one point; two points defined a line; three points created a plane, and a plane was something you could stand on. The United States, Australia, and Singapore created a plane.

There was something else that gave Hood comfort as well. For all his clout, Jervis Darling was still a business-man at heart. He was a potentially twisted one, yes, but a corporate tycoon nonetheless. Unlike the rogue generals and megalomaniacal politicians Hood and his team usually faced, he understood this breed. He could sit in their chairs and imagine the decisions they made.

But there was still a storm in the distance. One that Paul Hood could not anticipate. One that Op-Center and its allies might not be able to control. It had to do with the circus, of all things. Bob Herbert once told the CIOC that a crisis was like the big top.

“You can’t afford to grab the ringleader and lose the other attractions,” Herbert had said. “While we’re all packed shoulder to shoulder in the grandstands, those rampaging elephants and runaway clown cars will crush us flat.”

Hood hoped that if Darling were involved, he knew where the nuclear materials were headed and who was handling them. Otherwise, the toll in the grandstand could still be catastrophic.

THIRTY-FIVE - The Celebes Sea Saturday, 2:02 A.M.

THIRTY-FIVE

The Celebes Sea Saturday, 2:02 A.M.

Peter Kannaday did not know what to expect when he reached the radio room.

He could not imagine to whom Hawke might be broadcasting. Jervis Darling? The Malaysian fishing ship? Someone else? Kannaday’s mind leapt to conspiracies. Perhaps Hawke had pirates following them in order to seize the Hosannah. Or maybe an aircraft was en route to remove him. Or Kannaday.

As Kannaday swung down the stairs he learned how wrong he had been. Hawke was not even in the radio room. He and his thugs were waiting for the captain in the hall. Two men grabbed Kannaday, one hugging each arm. A third got behind him and grabbed Kannaday’s windbreaker. He grasped it near the neck and put a knee against Kannaday’s lower back. That prevented the captain from bending. A fourth man forced a rag in Kannaday’s mouth. The captain tasted oil. It had come from the engine compartment. The men turned Kannaday so he was facing into the corridor.

Hawke was standing there.

The security man passed under the recessed light. His arms were at his sides. For the most part his expression was as inscrutable as always. Except for the eyes. They were volcanic.