Dead or Alive

“Listen, my predecessor let the military run rampant. He got them all jazzed up and let them off their leashes. It’s high time we put the collar back on. We can’t have U.S. soldiers going around shooting sleeping men in the head. Scott, can we do it?”

“There’s precedent both ways, but I think a case can be made to stick. We’d have to start the ball at the Pentagon, then have it bumped to justice, then bring in Army CID.”

Kealty nodded. “Do it. Time to let the grunts know who’s in charge.”

A damned fine day for fishing, Arlie Fry decided, but then again, just about any day was a fine day for fishing-at least here, that was. Not like Alaska, where they shot that show, Deadliest Catch. Fishing there had to be hell on earth.

The fog was thick, but it was a Northern California morning, after all, so a little muck was to be expected. Arlie knew it would lift within a couple of hours.

His boat, a twenty-one-foot Atlas Acadia 20E with a Ray Electric outboard motor, was just three months old, a retirement gift from his wife, Eunice, who’d chosen the inshore saltwater launch model in hopes of keeping him close to dry land. And there the blame lay again at the feet of the boob tube, specifically that George Clooney movie, The Perfect Storm. In his younger days he’d had dreams of sailing across the Atlantic, but he knew the stress of that would outright kill Eunice, so he satisfied himself with biweekly coastal fishing trips, most often alone, but today he’d talked his son into coming along. Chet, now fifteen, was more interested in girls, his iPod, and when he could get his learner’s permit than he was in catching yellowtails and lingcods-though he did perk up when Arlie mentioned having seen a shark on his last outing. The story had been true, but the shark was only two feet long.

Currently Chet sat in the bow, earbuds in his ears, as he leaned over the gunwale and trailed his hand in the water.

The sea was mostly flat, with a slight chop, and high above Arlie could see the sun, a fuzzy pale circle, trying to burn its way through the clouds. Be bright and hot within the hour, he thought. Eunice had packed them plenty of soft drinks, half a dozen baloney sandwiches, and a plastic Baggie filled with Fig Newtons.

Suddenly something thumped against the Acadia’s hull. Chet jerked his hand out of the water and stood up, causing the boat to rock. “Whoa!”

“What is it?”

“Something hit the side… There, see it?”

Arlie looked where Chet was pointing, just off the stern, and caught a glimpse of something orange just before the fog swallowed it.

“You get a look at it?” Arlie asked.

“Not really. Scared the shit-heck-out of me. Looked like maybe a life jacket or bumper float.”

Arlie briefly considered continuing on, but the object, whatever it was, hadn’t been just orange but international orange, which was generally reserved for distress and emergencies. And life jackets.

“Sit down, son, I’m coming about.” Arlie turned the wheel and brought the Acadia back on a reverse course, slowing as he did so. “Keep an eye out.”

“Yeah, Dad, I am. Jeez.”

Thirty seconds later Chet called out and pointed off the port bow. Just visible through the fog was an orange blob about the size of a soccer ball.

“I see it,” Arlie said, and steered that way, bringing the object alongside. Chet leaned over and snagged it.

It wasn’t a life jacket, Arlie saw, but a diamond-shaped rubber float. Attached to it was a two-foot painter line, and attached to that was a black metal box, roughly four inches wide, eight long, and about as thick as a good-sized paperback book.

“What is it?” Chet asked.

Arlie wasn’t sure, but he’d seen enough movies and television shows to have a hunch. “Black box,” he muttered.

“Huh?”

“Flight data recorder.”

“Whoa… You mean like from a plane?”

“Yeah.”

“Cool.”

The facility’s security was decent enough, Cassiano knew, but three things were working in his favor: One, he’d been working for Petrobras for eleven years, long before the discovery of Tupi. Two, the industry was unique above all others, so hired security personnel could competently check only so much of the facility’s inner workings. The rest had to be done by workers who knew what they were looking at and how things worked, and so while such double-duty provided a good paycheck and ensured the smooth running of the facility, it also gave Cassiano unfettered access to high-security areas. And three, the demo-graphics of Brazil itself.

Of Brazil’s estimated population of 170 million, less than one percent is Muslim, and of that number only one percent are made up of Brazilian-born Islamic converts. The rising tide of Islamic radicals so feared in other Western hemisphere countries was in Brazil a virtual nonissue. No one cared what mosque you went to or whether you hated the war in Iraq; those subjects rarely came up and certainly had no bearing on your job fitness, whether it be at a restaurant or at Petrobras.

Cassiano kept his thoughts to himself, prayed in private, was never late for work, and rarely took sick days. Muslim or not, he was the ideal worker, for both Petrobras and for his new employer, which certainly paid much better.

The details they’d asked him to provide made their intentions fairly transparent, and while Cassiano didn’t particularly like the idea of playing the role of industrial spy, he took comfort in their assurances that the only damage his actions and information would cause would be monetary. Besides, he told himself, with the extent of the Santos Basin find growing by leaps and bounds, the government of Brazil, which was a majority share-holder in Petrobras, would have money to burn for decades to come.

There was no reason he shouldn’t share in that boon, was there?

25

CARPENTER IS INBOUND,” the radio chirped next to where Andrea was sitting.

“Want me to get him, boss?” she asked.

“No, I’ll get it.” Ryan got up from his computer and walked to the front door. “He’ll be staying for dinner, by the way.”

“Sure, boss.”

Arnie van Damm had never been one to stand on ceremony. He’d rented a car at BWI Airport and driven himself down. Still wore those L.L.Bean shirts and khaki pants, too, Jack saw, as he got out of his Hertz Chevy.

“Hey, Jack,” the former Chief of Staff called in greeting.

“Arnie, it’s been a while. How was the flight?”

“Slept for most of it.” They headed inside. “How’s the book coming?”

“It’s kinda hard on the ego to write about yourself, but I’m trying to tell the truth.”

“Whoa, boy, that ought to confuse the reviewers at the Times.”

“Well, hell, they never did like me much. I wouldn’t expect them to change now.”

“Hell, Jack, you just fought off an attempt on your life-”

“Bullshit, Arnie.”

“Perception, my friend. The public hears about that kind of thing, all they absorb is that somebody tried to kill you and paid the price.”

“So what, omnipotence by proxy?”