Sea of Fire

Loh had asked the physician if the patient would be at all communicative without the drugs.

'He would not be talking,' the doctor replied. 'He would be moaning. Loudly. The burns he received are quite severe.'

So there was no information here and no clues from the wreckage. She had just been downstairs. The pieces of sampan had been examined for fragments of another boat. Perhaps the target vessel had been damaged in the explosion. There was nothing. The blast had occurred locally, on the sampan. Forensics had even pulled particles of algae from the wood. They had hoped it might point them to a specific area of the Celebes Sea where the sampan had been sailing in the hours before the blast. Unfortunately, the organisms the scientists had identified all belonged to colonies that existed throughout the region.

A blank ship and, for now, a blank sailor. Word had reached her while they were at sea. There were over 500 Lee Tongs listed at the Singaporean Office of Registry and Taxation. More than half of them were the right age to be this man. COSCOM was checking them out. But the research would take days, possibly weeks. If they could find this one, they might be able to learn who he spent time with ashore. Whether anyone else on the sampan survived. Dr. Lansing had told her he would jolt Tong awake again if she could prove that tens of thousands of lives depended on the answers the pirate would give. But the pirate had not said much before. Lansing and Ellsworth both agreed there was no reason to imagine a second try would produce different results. Loh felt it was certainly worth a try. If she thought that Tong would survive, she would have insisted that he be transferred to a hospital in Singapore. The doctors there might be no less reluctant to wake him than Dr. Lansing, but they would have no choice. Criminals have few rights in Singapore. The government would put public safety before the well-being of a pirate.

Instead of working with what might be scraps of information from the source, they were going to make plans based on ideas from an American spy. This Bob Herbert could be a brilliant intelligence operative. But whatever he came up with would still be exploratory. That was like sailing without charts. It was not something Loh preferred to do.

The FNO continued to look out at the bandaged, frail-looking Singaporean. He seemed so alone in the clean, white bed. She began to think just how alone he really was. She knew that people who were born without opportunity, such as a family business or store or political connections, had three options: they could dwell in poverty, turn to crime, or agree to indentures such as military service or a lengthy contractual apprenticeship. Ironically, if this man survived, he would return to Singapore in a worse position than before. Chances were good the owner of the boat would not come forward to press charges. The pirate would go free. But only the most menial, lowest-paying work would now be available to him because of his past. And because of that past, he would be watched by the police. His activities would have to be reported by landlords and employers. If Tong were involved in a fight, or stole food or clothing, or picked someone's pocket, he would be dealt with very harshly. Caning and imprisonment, most likely.

It would be better for everyone if Dr. Lansing revived him. FNO Loh could ask him a few final questions, and he could die having done something beneficial for society.

That is not for you to say, Loh warned herself. She had gone from making subjective judgments to making moral ones.

She turned from the pirate and walked into the deserted hallway. Darwin police were keeping nonessential personnel away from the pirate's room. They were checking the IDs of everyone who stepped from the elevator. There were already rumors circulating about what had happened on the Celebes. The Australian government did not want anyone to obtain confirmation that nuclear materials were involved.

An MIC officer was waiting to take FNO Loh to the meeting. They made their way to the elevator in silence. Loh was still thinking about the pirate. She was wondering what drove him to his trade. Confidence had to be one of those things. Everyone on a sampan crew works in an extended voyage. And only a crew that knew the sea well would attempt to sail it in a sampan. Especially if they were carrying explosives.

That boldness might spill over into the kind of vessel the pirates would attack, she thought. They were like longboat seamen who would not shy from chasing a whale. No ship would be too large for them tackle. No crew would be too formidable.

That was a small thought, but it could be a useful one. Maybe there were others she had overlooked. Loh actually felt a trace of satisfaction. Perhaps this poor man was not as blank as she had thought.

Lee Tong's misdeeds might help them catch a potential terrorist.

Chapter Forty-One

Washington, D.C. Saturday, 12:23 A.M.

Paul Hood could not sleep.

Dressed in Calvin Kleins and an old L.A. Rams T-shirt that had been given to him by former quarterback Roman Gabriel, Hood lay on his back in the queen-size bed of his two-bedroom apartment. He stared at the ceiling, watching for the occasional cone of light as a car drove past or an airplane flew by. The window was open a crack, and the blinds were raised. He had moved from a nearby hotel four months ago, but he had not gotten around to putting up shades. At least he was remembering to stock the essentials. The first night he'd had no toilet paper. He had to use the Washington Post.

The view was to the west, so Hood did not get the rising sun. Not that it mattered. He was usually awake before the sky was light. He had probably witnessed more sunrises than a generation of roosters. And he probably spent less time in the sun than anyone else in Washington.

The new, five-story-tall building was called The New-port. It was located on Tyburn Court in Camp Springs, Maryland, a short drive from Andrews Air Force Base. Hood had a corner apartment on the top floor. That gave him access to a sundeck on the roof, though he had never been to it. Whenever the kids stayed over, Alexander slept on a sofa bed in the living room, and Harleigh had the second bedroom. To ease the blow for Alexander of not having his own room, the living room was where Hood kept the PlayStation 2 video games.

The room was quiet. It was not noise that kept Hood up. Nor was it the situation in Australia. Hood had been through more than a dozen crises over the past ten years. He had learned how to ride them out by focusing on the upside. Civilization would survive. It was simply a matter of the cost. That did not make a crisis pleasant, only manageable. Besides, this problem was in the hands of very capable people. If they needed him, they knew how to reach him.

What troubled Hood, the more that he thought about it, was the extent to which he was needed. Not at Op- Center but in his personal life. Like the splashes of light above him, the patterns of Paul Hood's life changed less and less as the days wore on.

There was dust on the game console. He had noticed it tonight when he walked past the TV. The kids had not stayed with him in over three weeks. It had not seemed that long. Hood was not angry or disappointed. It was not even a question of his being at the house more. Teenagers grew up. They got involved in activities. They dated. Harleigh had two sessions with a psychiatrist each week. The girl was still suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder following her hostage ordeal at the United Nations. She had gotten over the initial phase, when all she wanted to do was stay in her room and see no one. Now she was back at school and beginning to play the violin again. She still went through frequent periods of lethargy and depression. She was also suffering from occasional headaches and psychosomatic stomach ailments. All of that was being taken care of slowly and carefully. Some of it was being addressed through psychiatry, some by Hood and Sharon. Most, however, seemed to be happening because she was hanging out with her friends. Perhaps that was to be expected.

Teenagers were like the cars and planes outside, Hood thought. They pulled away and threw less and less light on their parents. That was to be expected and accepted.

What bothered Hood was that he had come up with nothing to fill the empty places. Now that he thought of it, maybe losing those activities made him realize that there were other holes. Perhaps Op-Center was part of that problem. He had built an effective team, and he had not set new goals.

Maybe he should run for the Senate, he thought half-heartedly. He had enjoyed campaigning and giving speeches when he ran for mayor of Los Angeles. Maybe he should win an election, have himself appointed to the CIOC, and work on the other side of the intelligence fence. That would be a challenge. Especially if Mike Rodgers were named to replace him.