He was forced to concede that tackling the Reaper question would take some careful thinking. No one who had acquired its power to destroy would give it up without a fight.

* * *

JESSE JOINED HIM at the table as Ed laid out the first course, cold lobster mayonnaise. “Thanks, Ed. I’ll get the wine.” Janson popped the cork and filled their glasses.

“Before we toast victory, a quick mea culpa.”

Janson and Kincaid’s mea culpa review of what went right and what went wrong was an operator’s custom. Their Delta Force friends called it a hot wash, others called it a debriefing, or a wrap, but whatever the name, it was a way of rehashing an action in hopes of not making the same mistakes twice.

As was their custom, Kincaid went first: “We already know I stayed too long in the tree. Should have obeyed orders, because you were in a position to see what I couldn’t.”

Janson was still shaken by that and not in a forgiving mood. “You made me a promise when we hooked up. Remember?”

“I remember.”

“What did you promise me?”

Kincaid glared back and answered between gritted teeth, “Quote: ‘Teach me. I’ll be the best student you ever had.’ ”

“And what did I say?”

“You said, ‘Paul Janson’s protégés have a nasty habit of getting killed.’ ”

“It’s dangerous work. If I tell you to move, I mean move now.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Anything else?” Janson asked.

“That’s it for now—Wait!” Her eyes widened. “Jesus, Paul, Iboga’s shooter who dove off the pier? I missed it at the time—but he wasn’t wearing a yellow scarf like the other presidential guards.”

Janson pictured the two shooters swapping magazines. “I missed it, too. Wonder who he was? It was like he delivered Iboga to the Harrier and said, ‘Okay, my job’s done.’ ”

“Brass-balled dude diving into the enemy’s harbor.”

“Five’ll get you ten he had a guy waiting with scuba gear.”

“How about you, sir? Did The Machine make any screwups?”

Janson looked her in the eye. “Big one. My decision to push toward the FFM camp in daylight was a near-fatal mistake. We should have waited to take advantage of our night gear. The only reason we didn’t get shot by the sentry was that you spotted him and didn’t let him spot you.”

“Anything else?”

“I’m sure plenty will come to me in the morning—but for tonight, victory. The doctor rescued and, incidentally, a righteous revolution won.”

Jessica Kincaid raised her glass and locked eyes with him. “To free doctors and free Foree!”

They touched glasses and sipped champagne.

“Nice. What is this?”

Janson unwound the towel around the bottle and showed her the label. “Mumm.”

“Excellent.”

They ate a little bit of the lobster, some salad, some bread, and a little bit of steak, a few sips of an Argentine Malbec, and every pastry on the plate. Ed cleared the dishes and closed the door to the front of the plane.

“Tired?” Jessica asked.

“Body yes, brain no. You?”

“Not right now. I’ll probably crash for two days starting tomorrow.… Any bruises?”

“A few,” said Janson. “… You?”

“Want to see them?”

“Oh, yes.”

ELEVEN

The red-light district of Porto Clarence was near the cruise ship pier, a well-lit walk guarded by smiling policemen.

Terry Flannigan noticed that the only ship docked was a sea-beaten Bulgarian rust bucket with a big neon name board that read: “Varna Fantasy,” Varna being the Black Sea port from where she sailed, Fantasy being Bulgaria’s cruise line. So the Bulgarian tourists had had front-row seats to an African war and now were probably crowding the massage parlors. He had inquired of Minister Poe’s new security chief where a gentleman might go for “some fun,” and Patrice da Costa, who had spent the war spying in the city, had telephoned a warm introduction to a brothel the Bulgarians couldn’t afford.

Flannigan was welcomed royally, told the night was on “Chief da Costa,” and treated to a glass of wine while he watched a demonstration video of the staff hard at work. The HD preview was new in his experience but circumvented nicely the problem of choosing in front of all, which meant rejecting some to their faces. He chose a stocky blond Ukranian who looked a little bit like Janet Hatfield.

Face-to-face, he had to admit the resemblance was minimal, but he wasn’t really going to be looking at her face, was he? In fact, he was probably going to keep his eyes closed. Or turn out the light. He did both. Then the damnedest thing happened. He couldn’t get it up.

“This has never, ever happened to me before,” he told the girl, who didn’t seem to speak English but was very kind, so he felt a little less like a complete schmuck. It was good that she didn’t understand English. In the dark he felt free to say, “This friend of mine got killed. And she was a good person. A lot better than me. But she was fun, too, sure of herself, and very, very steady. A girl to ride the river with, which is an admiring expression from where I come from. Funny thing was, it fit her doubly since she was a boat captain.”

Funny thing, too, he felt tears streaming down his face.

Someone knocked at the door.

“It’s paid for the night,” he said, his voice cracking. “Go away.”

But the girl turned on the light and pressed her ear to the door, then beckoned urgently. The old woman who ran the joint, who had sat with him while he watched the video, was whispering frantically. Flannigan opened the door.

“Dangerous man. Dangerous man. He’s looking for you. I sent him away, but he didn’t believe me that you weren’t here. You must go.”

Flannigan did not bother asking who the dangerous man was. This cinched what he had feared earlier. The soldier running with Iboga had indeed been Van Pelt, the rabid South African who had led the massacre on Amber Dawn.

Flannigan dressed, pressed money in the girl’s hand, and let the madam guide him out a side door into a reeking alley. “Where will you go?” she whispered.

“Where I’ll be welcomed with open arms.”

He glanced into the street, saw the way was clear, and broke into a run toward the waterfront, sprinting as fast as he could, around a corner and onto the cruise ship pier. The Varna Fantasyhad singled up her mooring lines in preparation to sail. The last lines were going slack as a tugboat pressed her against the pier and stevedores awaited the order to cast off.

A ship’s officer stopped Flannigan at the top of the gangway.

Flannigan said, “Get the purser.”

“He’s sleeping.”

“I guarantee you he’ll be glad you woke him. He’ll even thank you. If you don’t, he’ll fucking keelhaul you.”

The purser appeared sleep lined and rumpled in a white jacket over his pajamas.

Flannigan said, “Good evening, sir. If your ship’s doctor didn’t jump ship here, he’s probably disembarking at your next port of call, or the one after that. Correct?”

“What is it to you?” the purser asked warily.

“I am a physician. A trauma surgeon. I have additional specialties in coddling cruise ship passengers, healing crew of sexually transmitted diseases, and ensuring that your dining rooms don’t serve dysentery. I have served on ships like yours for many years.” He opened the waterproof wallet that never left his person, not in a world where paperwork was everything, and chose carefully from the contents. “Here is my passport and certificates and licenses to practice. Show me to my cabin.”

Terry Flannigan knew that he did not have to advise the purser to leave his name off the manifest until the ship had left Isle de Foree waters. The purser, whose responsibilities included the health of two thousand passengers crammed into a small space, was not about to blow this unexpected stroke of luck by alerting the local authorities that a last-minute crew member was anxious to leave town secretly. Whatever the stranger might have done ashore, a qualified doctor was a priceless commodity.