After Kane was gone, Coombs turned to the others.

“I’m going to recommend to the President that he prepare the country for a state of emergency,” he said. “We’ll contact the CDC and tell them this is the big one.”

“I’ll inform Vice President Sandecker directly,” Casey said. “He maintains contacts at NUMA and will enlist them in the search for the lab.”

“Good idea,” Coombs said. “Maybe their guy Austin can give the Navy some help doing its job.”

This parting comment was intended as another dig at the Navy, but Casey didn’t come back at Coombs as he had at the earlier jibes from the White House aide. He merely smiled.

“Maybe he can,” he said.

KANE TRIED TO GET a rise out of the man in black.

“Guess we’re going to the mattresses,” he said as they walked to the elevator.

“Huh?” Jones said.

“From The Godfather . . . Mafia talk.”

“We’re not the Mafia, sir.”

No, you’re not, Kane thought as he followed Jones from the room, but you might as well be. He couldn’t resist using another borrowed line from the movie.

“Don’t forget the cannoli,” he said.

A FEW MINUTES AFTER ONE O’CLOCK IN THE MORNING, AN inflatable pontoon boat softly bumped against the hull of the William Beebe and four figures dressed in black-and-green camouflage suits clambered up the side of the ship on rope ladders suspended from padded grapnel hooks. They vaulted over the rail one by one and dashed across the deck as silently as the shadows they resembled.

Except for the night-shift watch on the bridge, the crew was sound asleep in their cabins, recovering from the exertions of the bathysphere launch and rescue. Austin was awake, however, and after staring at the ceiling, his mind churning, he got up and got dressed and made his way to the machine shop.

He switched on the lights, and went over to examine the blade clamped in a table vise. He found a magnifying glass, placed a desk lamp directly over the blade, and examined the tiny ding near the hilt. Through the lens he saw that the flaw was actually a mark in the shape of an equilateral triangle with a dot at each point.

Austin drew the design on a pad of paper. He stared at it for a few moments but nothing jumped out at him. He set the pad down and went out onto the deck, thinking the cool air might blow away the cobwebs of sleep. He took a deep breath, but the sudden influx of oxygen produced a yawn instead. His synapses needed a stronger jolt.

He looked up at the bridge lights glowing in the window of the pilothouse. The night watch always kept a coffeepot brewing. He climbed the exterior stairs to the starboard bridge wing. A man’s voice came through the partially open door. The words were growled rather than spoken, and had an accent Austin couldn’t place, but one word stood out from the others.

Kane.

Austin’s well-honed instincts came into play. He moved away from the door, plastered his back against the outside wall of the bridge, and edged up to a window. He saw Third Mate Marla Hayes, a male crewman, and Captain Gannon standing together in the pilothouse. The captain must have been rousted from his bunk because he had a jacket on over his pajamas and slippers on his feet.

Four figures wearing commando outfits were gathered around the captain, the third mate, and the crewman. Hoods covered the faces of three of the commandos, the fourth having removed his to reveal an Asian face with jade-green eyes and a clean-shaven head. All four cradled short-barreled automatic weapons carried sidearms, and had long-bladed knives hanging at their waists.

“I’ll tell you again: Dr. Kane is no longer on this ship,” Gannon was saying. “He left hours ago on a seaplane.”

The unhooded commando reacted with the swiftness of a striking rattlesnake, his free hand shooting out in a short, stabbing blow to the captain’s solar plexus.

“Do not lie to me!” he snapped.

The captain doubled over, but he managed to gasp out a reply.

“Kane is not here,” he wheezed. “Search the whole damned ship, if you don’t believe me.”

“No, Captain,” his assailant said. “You will search the ship. Tell everyone to come up to the deck.”

Still bent over in pain, Gannon reluctantly picked up a receiver connected to the Beebe’s public-address system. When he hesitated with the receiver at his mouth, his assailant forcefully jabbed a gun barrel into the captain’s side to show his impatience.

Gannon winced, but he stubbornly resisted the impulse to cry out. He took a deep breath and spoke into the receiver.

“This is the captain. All hands on deck. All officers and crew assemble on the fantail.”

Gannon’s assailant barked out an order, and then he and two of his accomplices herded their three prisoners toward the door leading out onto the wing. Austin saw the move and climbed up a ladder that provided access to the radio tower on the pilothouse roof. From his perch, he watched the group descend to the main deck. He climbed back down and peered in a window. One attacker had been left to guard the ship’s control center.

Austin descended the stairs to a lower deck, quietly opened the door to Zavala’s cabin, stepped inside, and poked the mound beneath the blankets. Zavala groaned, then pushed the covers aside and sat up on the edge of his bed.

“Oh, hi, Kurt,” he said with a yawn. “What’s up?”

“Didn’t you hear the captain tell the crew to gather on deck?” Austin asked.

Zavala rubbed the sleep out of his eyes.

“I heard him,” he said, “but I’m not crew, so I stayed in the sack.”

“Your skill at splitting hairs may have saved your butt,” Austin said.

Zavala suddenly came to life.

“What’s going on, Kurt?”

“Uninvited company. A bunch of heavily armed gentlemen in ninja suits.”

“How many?”

“Four that I know of, but there may be others. They’re looking for Kane. Gannon told them Doc’s not on the ship, but they didn’t believe him. He was forced to round up the crew.”

Zavala muttered something in Spanish, then bounded out of bed and pulled on a pair of jeans and a windbreaker. He yanked his lucky skullcap down over his ears.

“What sort of firepower are we dealing with?” he asked.

Austin told him about the machine guns and pistols the commandos carried. Zavala frowned. Neither man had thought to bring along a weapon on a peaceful scientific expedition.

“We’ll have to improvise for now,” Austin said.

Zavala shrugged.

“What else is new?” he said.

Austin checked the passageway. Seeing it was clear, he led the way to the bridge, with Zavala a few steps behind. The commando was still inside. He was lighting a cigarette. Austin pointed to his own chest, then to the roof ladder. Zavala curled his forefinger and thumb into an OK gesture. As soon as Austin was on the roof, Zavala tapped on the window and waved at the commando, who burst onto the wing with his machine gun at waist level.

“Buenas noches,” Zavala said, brandishing his friendliest smile.

Zavala’s Latin charm fell on deaf ears. The man pointed his gun at Zavala’s midsection. Zavala raised his hands. The man was reaching for a radio at his belt when Austin called down from the roof.

“Yoo-hoo,” Austin said, “I’m up here.”

The man looked up and saw a steel-haired gargoyle grinning down at him. He brought his gun up, but Austin leaped off the roof and landed with his full weight on the man’s shoulders. The man folded like a rag doll under the impact of more than two hundred pounds of muscle and bone and crashed to the deck.

The machine gun flew from the man’s hand. Zavala dove for the weapon and deftly snatched it up before it skittered over the edge. He held the gun on the man, who lay on the deck without stirring.