"I do not know," Moertopo answered truthfully. "But here I am."

"And here your friends are, too, the Americans," Yamamoto stated flatly.

"You believe that?"

"Our radio intelligence has detected a very large volume of traffic from the Midway area. A battle has been fought there. But not by us."

Moertopo quickly scanned the faces behind Yamamoto, hoping for some sign of how to play this. All he found, however, was a wall of anger and suspicion.

"We picked up those signals ourselves," said Moertopo. "It appears that the Americans have hurt each other very badly."

Again, his answers brought no measurable response from Yamamoto or his staff. Moertopo had been hoping that they might tip a couple of flexipads onto the table, maybe a history book or two and couple of pirate video sticks-he'd even managed to locate a copy of Tora Tora Tora-after which the locals would offer him a nice warm sake and couple of horny geisha girls to welcome their new best friend to the original axis of evil.

Yamamoto purred in a deceptively friendly tone, "Tell me, Lieutenant, what was supposed to happen, before the interference of you and your friends."

"The… they're not my friends," Moertopo stammered. "I copied files to these flexipads if you want to read them, or watch them," he hurried on. "I have documentaries. There are some good ones there. The World at War. And Victory at Sea. I have the Tom Cruise miniseries. I could-"

"I am not interested in your toys, Moertopo," growled the Admiral. "I want you to tell me what was supposed to happen next."

Hidaka leaned over to whisper something, but Yamamoto cut him dead with a glare.

Moertopo had studied the archival material on the flight down. He was well enough acquainted with a scratch history of the Pacific War to deliver the briefing that had been asked of him. But he was certain these arrogant dogs would tear him apart as soon as he spoke. The way he understood it, they wouldn't-didn't-believe they could lose until well after their butts had been well and truly kicked. It was hopeless. He was trapped. Until a thought occurred to him.

"You were right," he said.

Yamamoto's wide, Buddha-like face regarded him dispassionately. "What do you mean?"

Moertopo picked up the flexipad that sat on the table in front of him and quickly brought up a bookmarked page. "When you spoke to Prime Minister Konoye in nineteen forty," he explained, "just after he had signed the treaty with Hitler and Mussolini, you said, If I am told to fight, regardless of consequences, I shall run wild for the first six months or a year. But for the second and third years I have utterly no confidence. You always thought that war against the United States was national suicide.

"And you were right. It was. Three years from now the Americans will drop a bomb on Hiroshima, where you attended the Naval Institute, if I remember correctly."

Yamamoto nodded.

"This was, or will be, a special bomb. There was only one dropped that day, but it exploded with a force of more than fifteen thousand tonnes of TNT. Not kilograms, Admiral. Tonnes. It killed seventy thousand people instantly and destroyed most of the city. It was called an atomic bomb. They dropped another on Nagasaki, two days later, and Japan surrendered unconditionally. You didn't live to see it, though. The American's shot down a plane carrying you on…"

He checked the flexipad again, gaining confidence from the stunned silence.

"On Sunday, April eighteen, nineteen forty-three. Over Bougainville."

"Lies!" someone cried. But Yamamoto raised his hand and stilled the protest.

There. The cat was out of the bag now. Moertopo wasn't sure what the long-term results would be, but at least it appeared he'd saved himself from being weighted down and tipped over the side of the ship. He had read more than once of how captured American fliers had suffered just that fate at the hands of these primitive oafs. And they considered themselves the pinnacle of martial civilization!

"It appears," Yamamoto said, "that a heavy blow has landed on the Americans tonight. What is to stop us continuing east to finish the job?"

Moertopo was physically and emotionally worn out. He couldn't contain a small, wan shadow of a smile. "The power of the bomb that destroyed Hiroshima," he answered, "is nothing compared to the weapons they have brought with them. With your permission I shall speak my mind now, Admiral Yamamoto. You were right to oppose this war. You would have lost it. You will still lose it, no matter how badly damaged the Americans are by the events tonight. If just one warship from Kolhammer's force remains afloat, it would be enough to sink every carrier you have. You can avoid the disaster that would have befallen you. You have that opportunity. You should grasp it with both hands."

This time Yamamoto said nothing. His eyes glinted like two small opals.

Moertopo drew deeply but furtively on the clove cigarette. The embers at the tip burned brightly for a few seconds, casting a dim red glow on the base of the empty bunk above him. He was unsure whether the Imperial Japanese Navy enforced a nonsmoking policy, but he was reasonably certain they had not yet invented smoke detectors, so fuck them.

He and Hardoyo were being accommodated-or detained, to be perfectly accurate-in separate cabins far apart from each other. They hadn't been badly treated or abused. Indeed, the reception for Kakuta and Hidaka had been much sharper. For the moment, the Indonesians were regarded as a curiosity and a potential asset. When that changed, he knew, he'd better have an exit strategy locked down. Or something of great value to trade for his skin.

The sweet notes of the cigarette induced a lonesome melancholy in the Sutanto's executive officer. An intensely childlike desire to run for home overwhelmed his confusion and anxiety, while compounding deeper feelings of desolation and irrecoverable loss. He was surprised to find his throat tightening as hot tears welled in his eyes. Moertopo quickly jammed a knuckle into his mouth, lest the guard outside his room hear him. The grief built in intensity until there was nothing to be done but to give himself over to it, curling into a tight fetal ball on his bunk and fighting to draw breath between the great racking sobs that overpowered him. It was as though he were being pummeled underneath a tsunami of wretched sorrow.

In time, a few minutes at most, the seizure passed, leaving in its wake a bleak emotional landscape. He lit another cigarette and raised it between shaking fingers. He drew in a sharp, shuddering breath. As stupidly soothing as this clove cigarette was, Moertopo turned it in his fingers, examining it with a frown. It was emblematic of all his problems. The company that produced this before the war had been a monopoly. In the year before he was born, it had been handed over to an idiot son of the president, who had added the profits from that corrupt transaction to his already formidable business holdings. Both the son and the old man were gone within three years, swept away by the blast wave of the nineties' financial meltdown. The cigarette company reverted to its original and natural owners, the armed forces, which generated 70 percent of its budget from commercial enterprises, most often monopolies.

Little wonder, then, that as Indonesia began to disintegrate under the onslaught of radical Islamists, the generals and admirals had reacted less like professional military men than as the ham-fisted, profiteering mafia they actually were. Moertopo cursed the fools and robbers who had delivered his country into slavery beneath the heel of the Caliphate. But mostly he cursed them for so mismanaging their affairs that he should end up here, in the belly of an iron behemoth, decades before he was born, when he could have been safely tucked up beneath the wings of the Americans.