The man regarded Herbert. “I won’t go to jail,” he said. “I did not run the ship, and I did not run the operation. I was just a mate.”

“Are you John Hawke?” Herbert asked.

“Yes,” he replied.

“What was your job?”

“Security chief,” he answered unapologetically. “I had no contact with sellers or purchasers, and I did not interact with the contraband. Peter Kannaday ran the ship. Jervis Darling ran the operation. His nephew Marcus operated communications and is back there in the water.”

“Those flares?” Loh asked.

“They were fired by Kannaday to sink the dinghies,” Hawke replied. “He wanted to prevent anyone from getting away.”

“Why?” Herbert demanded.

“Because we were told by Jervis Darling to sink the ship,” Hawke said.

“To hide evidence of what?” Herbert asked.

“A nuclear processing laboratory on board,” Hawke replied.

Herbert smiled.

“But I will not repeat any of this for the record if you send me to prison,” Hawke said. “I go free, or you have no testimony.”

“The deal is this,” Herbert told him. “You talk or you go to Singapore. We’ll encourage leniency, but that’s the best you’ll get.”

“That’s not good enough,” Hawke snarled.

“The only other option is to walk out the door right now,” Herbert told him. “Frankly, I think five to ten years with cable TV is a better deal than a long drop into a cold sea.”

Even in the dark, Loh could see Hawke’s expression tighten. He looked as if he wanted to put a fist through Herbert’s chest. But that would get him nothing. He would still have to deal with Loh and Jelbart.

John Hawke’s mouth sagged into a frown. His eyes lost their cruel luster. The slight man lowered himself back into the seat and looked out the window. He appeared to be lost. Herbert was right. This was probably the first time the man had ever been cornered. And it happened without a blow thrown or shot fired. The security chief had been undone by words.

Just words.

Herbert looked as pleased and surprised as Hawke looked sullen.

SIXTY-EIGHT - Cairns, Australia Sunday, 4:45 A.M.

SIXTY-EIGHT

Cairns, Australia Sunday, 4:45 A.M.

The sun was beginning to brighten the skies behind the hills as Lowell Coffey waited for the helicopter. The attorney had managed to get a little sleep in the fire station before Hood called to tell him about Captain Kannaday’s rescue. Spider was asleep in the next cot. Coffey stepped into the brisk morning to take the call. When it was done, he breathed in the crisp air.

Washington, D.C., had never tasted like this. Nor Beverly Hills. Both cities were hot and fuel-scented. The only other place the attorney had spent any time was the Middle East. That was dusty and arid.