Yamamoto turned to Hidaka for help. The commander nodded. "It's true. He thinks his God has sent him here to atone for his sins. And he thinks we're all heathen dogs who are doomed to perish in a-what did you call it, Damiri? Yes, a jihad. A religious war. He doesn't deny that at all. But he says he has a way to destroy, or at least cripple the Americans. And I believe him."

Moertopo cursed and stalked away a few feet.

"I cannot believe this insanity has followed me here," he said, but nobody was listening now.

Yamamoto regarded Damiri with a new measure of interest, if not respect.

"Tell me your plan, Lieutenant. I hope it's good, or you should prepare yourself to meet this God of yours."

Damiri smiled contemptuously. "You have no idea what you're talking about."

Yamamoto could make out his face quite well now. He was intrigued to see that the young man was not at all frightened of him.

When Damiri explained what he wanted to do, Yamamoto understood why.

Lieutenant Moertopo lay in his bunk, smoking a clove cigarette laced with a small amount of hashish. It was his only comfort now. The luxury quarters and flexible geisha babes had been withdrawn since that madman Damiri had replaced him in the Japs' affections. Allah only knew what they'd do with him when the Sutanto put to sea under Damiri's command.

For now, he spent most of his time in here, his old cabin. He was still the senior officer. He should have been placed in Captain Djuanda's small but comfortable stateroom, but Hidaka was in there. That wasn't surprising. It'd been fitted out at great expense for the rescue of the president and his family from Tanjungpinang-an adventure that was literally a world away now.

Moertopo smiled at his memories of that near disaster. It had seemed like a wild ride at the time; maybe the wildest, with the autocannon hammering at a huge Caliphate mob and every available member of the crew firing in support with sidearms and grenade launchers and even a flare gun as the president had raced up the gangway. He well remembered Djuanda, the old pirate, smoking a ridiculously oversized cigar, bellowing orders at the wheelhouse crew and laughing like a maniac as he fired an antique, silver-plated Colt.45 into the murderous rabble surging up the dock. Say hello to the Virgins of Paradise, he'd yelled at the jihadi hordes. Tell them to save some pussy for me.

Moertopo really missed the old goat. They'd had many great days. And Djuanda would have known what to do about Hidaka. Probably would have drilled him with that damn Colt as soon he'd opened his eyes. Djuanda was a good judge of a man, and never slow to use his guns when the situation demanded. He hadn't trusted Usama Damiri, either. How could you trust someone named Usama?

Moertopo felt ashamed at his own failure to live up to the buccaneering spirit of the Sutanto's former commander, just as he was shamed by his reluctance to confront Hidaka over the old man's death. An accident, the Japanese had called it. Said he'd woken up while nobody was looking and fallen overboard. He was groggy, disoriented, and the sea was heavy, with a lot of reflected waves and cross-chop making the deck quite treacherous underfoot. A tragedy, said Hidaka, a real tragedy. Moertopo had mutely agreed, even though he'd seen Djuanda keep his feet in a typhoon while drunk on a whole bottle of arak.

A knock at the cabin door interrupted Moertopo's litany of woe. He sighed and carefully stubbed out the cigarette. He had a buzz from the hashish, and had hoped to quietly drift off into a drugged sleep. Stripped of all but the most basic components, the ship seemed hollow to him, and he preferred to spend his time drugged and insensible to her violation by the Japanese. Grumbling, he dropped his feet to the deck and peered at the figure in the doorway. It was Damiri.

"I have come to offer you one last chance to join us," he said.

"Oh, fuck off," Moertopo said wearily.

The other man sneered at him with a mixture of contempt and pity.

"Look at you, Moertopo. You're a disgrace. They will bury you with a pig's carcass one day."

"Not for a long time, though," he said, relighting his reefer. "And they won't bury you at all, Damiri. There won't be enough of you left. And the Japanese wouldn't bother anyway. To them, you're just a dog with a trick."

Damiri's eyes shone with an unnatural intensity, but to Moertopo they looked utterly vacant. The maniac was already in Paradise.

"You should seize this opportunity to atone, Moertopo. Others have."

Moertopo sniggered. It was only partly the hashish.

"So you've found a few converts, have you? Let me guess, they'd be the poorest, dumbest, sorriest sacks of shit in the whole crew. Who'd you turn? Those Surabayan peasants from the engine room, haven't got enough sense to wash their hands after wiping their asses; or that rock ape from Kalimantan, the one who still thinks the CIA blew up his grandfather in New York?"

Damiri's strained, almost constipated look caused Moertopo to burst out laughing in genuine mirth. He rolled in his bunk, clutching his sides and howling. "Go on, Damiri. Go off and martyr yourself," he managed to gasp.

The born-again jihadi stalked out of his cabin as Moertopo subsided into a fit of giggles.

With his role in Japan drawing to an end, and a return to the Fatherland looming, Brasch knew he should be looking forward to seeing his wife and son, but a terrible wasting of the soul had taken hold of him again. It was even worse than the depression he'd suffered on returning from the front. He felt as if it would never lift. There was no mystery to the condition. The explanation lay in his hands, in a file called BELSEN.

Brasch had once believed he was fighting for Germany. Then, in Russia, he was simply fighting for his life. Now, after two weeks' exposure to the Sutanto's files, he was beginning to understand that he was fighting a losing battle for a monstrous cause that had nothing to do with the salvation of Germany at all. Germany, it transpired, would do very well without the Nazi Party. Under Hitler, however, it had become a charnel house and a byword for evil.

His back ached and his head pounded. As he lay in his bunk propping himself against the gentle motion of the ship, he came to the desolate conclusion that while he could fight for Germany, he could not fight for Belsen or Auschwitz or Treblinka. He had no real feeling for Jews, and was as happy to be rid of their presence as not. But this Final Solution, no civilized man could support such a bestial policy. Especially not a man whose own family might one day be touched by the Einsatzgruppen.

As a little deaf boy with a cleft palate, Brasch's son Manfred was eminently suitable for disposal under something called the T4 program-the elimination of the physically and mentally undesirable.

The engineer's stomach burned at the very idea. He didn't bother to delude himself that his own status as a hero of the Reich would protect Manny forever. He had come to understand that Germany under the Nazis would inevitably eat its own young.

He had no idea what he could do to save his family.

At some point he dozed off and slept fitfully for a few hours. He no longer suffered regular nightmares from the Eastern Front. Now his sleep was tormented by visions of Manny dying in an SS camp.

An Indonesian shook him awake sometime well before dawn. He'd been sobbing into his pillow.

He came to with a start and waved the concerned sailor away.

There was a bottle of pills by his bed. Happy pills, Moertopo called them.

He dry swallowed three and hauled himself up out of bed.