Even more troublesome was the preliminary lab report on Hannah's would-be abductors. The Agency medical examiners had worked through the night over the charred remains, and their findings scared the shit out of him.

Hannah, answer your goddamned phone.

That had to be him.

Hannah stiffened in her chair at the coffeehouse window as she saw the tall, dark-haired man making his way down the pier.

There was something very familiar about that silhouette she'd stared at in those many photographs. He wore black jeans and a corded cream-colored sweater. Standard-issue Rugged Man of the Sea, she thought.

He boarded the trawler and disappeared inside.

After ten minutes, he reemerged and walked back up the pier. He moved with confidence and masculine grace. She tried to get a good look at his face, but it was getting dark. Damn.

He went inside the saloon.

What now? She could follow and get a good look at him in the bar.

She cast a glance back at his boat.

Or there might be one way to put an end to this. If he was a journalist or submarine buff, she'd probably know after a quick glance inside the trawler.

She packed up her laptop and walked out of the coffee shop. The night had brought even more mist, and the pier's wood planks shimmered from the peach-colored overhead lights. A lone buoy rang in the distance.

She was shivering. Nerves? It wasn't every night that she indulged in criminal trespassing. Or it could be the cold; the temperature had dropped a good ten degrees since she'd been inside. She stopped in front of the trawler and stared at it for a long moment.

Don't think. Just do it.

She climbed over the transom and pulled open the hatch.

Inside.

Dark, smelling of lemon wax and coffee.

She raised her key ring xenon flashlight and shined it around the cramped living quarters. The area was used efficiently, with almost every inch of wall space covered with shelving and corkboards.

Cotton sheets were stretched tightly over a narrow mattress. A military bedroll, she noted. She could have bounced quarters off it.

She turned toward a series of navigational charts plastered across the front bulkhead. Typical Eastern Seaboard charts, available for sale at any bait and tackle shop in town. She moved closer to look for any indication of the boat's recent travels.

She went rigid. "My God."

The charts were far from typical. They were filled with the same odd symbols she'd seen on the bulkhead of the Silent Thunder that night Conner had been killed. Only these navigational symbols were written with a variety of colored grease pencils. They could be other symbols or copies of the ones taken from the submarine. Which meant-

Holy shit.

It meant she was in bad trouble. She had to get the hell out of here.

The hatch flew open!

She caught only a glimpse of cream-colored sweater stretched over broad shoulders before she instinctively barreled forward and tried to get past the man standing in the doorway.

"What the hell are-" He didn't finish the question as his arm flew out to stop her. "Stop struggling. You don't-"

He grunted as her fist connected with his stomach. "Damn you." He knocked her down, dove on top, and straddled her. His hands grasped her wrists and pinned them to the floor. "I've no compunction about beating up on women when they exhibit lethal tendencies. Just give me an excuse."

God, he was strong. She could feel the muscles of his thighs rock hard against her hips. She was a strong woman herself, and he was holding her still with no real effort. "Let me go." Jesus, that sounded as futile as that panicky rush she'd made at him. Stupid. Use your brains, dammit. "You won't hurt me. It would be dumb. Do you think I'd come here without letting someone know I was going to do it?"

"Indeed? And did they know you were going to try to burgle my poor vessel? Very poor judgment. I'd be within my rights to shoot an intruder."

He did have a slight accent, but it wasn't Irish or Scottish. The accent was the same as the Russian naval officers she'd worked with. "I wasn't going to rob you. I just wanted to have a look around." Christ, she felt helpless. She couldn't stand being held down like this. Go on the attack. "And I think you know that, Captain Danforth. I think you know who I am and why I'm here. Either call the police and have me arrested for trespassing, or get the hell off me so we can talk."

He was silent and then chuckled. "May I point out you probably wouldn't be in this position if you'd indicated you wanted conversation earlier, Ms. Bryson? I'm the one who was assaulted. I was only defending myself."

He did know who she was and was making no attempt to hide it. "And how was I to know what you'd do? I've been attacked every time I've turned around lately. Maybe you had something to do with that too."

"And maybe I didn't."

"Then tell me why the hell you have those damn scribblings on that navigational map."

She could feel him tense against her. "You're in a very vulnerable position to discuss the matter."

"That's right, I've nothing to lose. You'd know I saw them anyway. If you're going to kill me, you'll kill me. If you're not one of those bastards who killed Conner, I'm going to keep after you until I get answers."

He hesitated and then swung off her and stood up. "Then by all means, I must let you get your breath before you start interrogating me."

She felt a rush of relief. God, she'd been scared. "I don't know if I can get my breath." She flinched as she sat up. "I think you cracked a rib."

He shook his head. "No, I only bruised you."

"You seem very sure of that." She ignored the hand he offered and got to her feet. "You must indulge in this kind of violence frequently."

"Enough to be able to gauge the damage." He turned and moved across the cabin. "While you, on the other hand, were miserably inept."

"You took me by surprise. I acted on impulse and didn't mean to-" She was defending herself, she realized in disgust. "I hate violence, and I don't need to make excuses for not being good at it. There's too much-" She stopped. He had turned on the light and she got her first good look at him. A shock of dark hair generously flicked with gray, blue eyes lined at the corners from squinting into the sun, high broad cheekbones. Not a classically handsome man, by any means. Yet it was difficult to look away from that face.

"Acting on impulse is foolish. One must always make excuses for being foolish." He opened the cabinet and took down a bottle. "Would you like a drink? You look like you could use one."

"No, I don't want a drink." She stared at him in frustration. He was perfectly calm, almost offhand, and it bugged the hell out of her. "I want to know about those symbols."

"They're navigational symbols as you guessed. Samsovian school." He poured himself a whiskey. "A bit esoteric but hardly criminal."

"But it's criminal if you kill to get your hands on them."

"True." He gestured to the map. "But if you study them I'm sure you'll realize they're not the same ones on the bulkhead of the Silent Thunder. Go ahead, take a look." He sat down in a chair at the desk. "And you'll see I'm just a poor fisherman charting my path."

She made a rude noise and heard him laugh as she crossed to stare at the map.

She was too upset to concentrate enough to bring up the full memory of those markings on the bulkhead, but now that she studied the map, she could see that they weren't the same. He was right, dammit. Similar but not the same. She turned to face him. "It's different. But that doesn't mean-" She wearily shook her head. "I don't know what the hell it means. I just know that you're probably as crooked as everyone else, and I want to know why you were following the Silent Thunder from port to port."