Hawke backed away. He relaxed the blade slightly. A moment later he removed it entirely. That was intended, no doubt, to be a show of trust. Or perhaps of confidence. The two were often related.

Kannaday removed a handkerchief from his pocket. He dabbed it against the shallow wound. He stepped away from the rolltop desk. The captain could reach the .45 now. Hawke had attacked him. Kannaday had the wound to prove it. And the weapon.

The sheath of the wommera was attached by a slender leather thong. Hawke replaced the cap and returned the weapon to his belt. Then he turned away and walked slowly toward the door.

Kannaday could easily reach the gun. Hawke obviously knew that, too. He had to suspect that the captain kept a weapon in his quarters. But to stop Hawke now would mean shooting him from behind. To kill him that way would probably cause even his own sailors to turn on him. They would understand discipline and self-defense but not cowardice.

Hawke paused by the door. He turned back and faced the captain full. “Is there anything further you wanted?”

“No,” Kannaday replied.

Hawke lingered a moment longer. Then he reached behind him, twisted the knob, and left the room.

Kannaday’s shoulders dropped. He had not realized how tense he was until they did. He checked the handkerchief and saw that it was thickly stained with blood. He pressed it back in place and went to get a first-aid kit. He kept one in the locker at the foot of his bed, along with his private store of scotch. As soon as he patched the cut, he would open the bottle.

Kannaday was shaken. The captain was also angry at himself for underestimating Hawke. The man had poise. And courage. And a purpose: To end this encounter leaving Kannaday feeling something less than a captain. And a man.

Kannaday sat on the bed to clean and bandage the wound. He gazed into the mirror on the inside of the lid. The gash was a quarter inch long and bleeding slower now. But it went deep. Right down to his dignity.

As Kannaday uncapped the antiseptic cream, he reasoned that he had not come from this empty-handed. If he had not confronted Hawke, there was no guarantee the man would have stood by him. Still, Kannaday promised himself this much. If John Hawke failed to back him up with Jervis Darling, honor and pride would not save him. Kannaday would take him down anywhere and any way he could.

Even if that meant shooting him in the back.

THIRTEEN - Washington, D.C. Thursday, 11:09 P.M.

THIRTEEN

Washington, D.C. Thursday, 11:09 P.M.

“I feel like I’m in Oz,” Coffey said into his cell phone.

“You are,” Hood reminded him.