"That's right. Rudi called me. Adler wants you on the project. Apparently, he's got some clout, because Rudi agreed to his request." Rudi Gunn was in charge of NUMA's day-to-day operations.

"That's odd. I've never even met Adler. Sure he didn't make a mistake? There are a dozen guys at NUMA who've worked searches. Why me?"

"Rudi said he didn't have a clue. But Adler has an international reputation, so he went along with his request to help find the ship."

"Interesting. The Belle went down off the mid-Atlantic coast. How close is the search area to where the Trouts are working?" Paul and Gamay Trout, the other members of the Special Assignments Team, were in the midst of an ocean survey.

"Close enough so that we can raft up and have a party," Zavala said. "I've already packed the tequila."

"While you line up a caterer, I'll change my plane reservations, and let you know when I'm coming in."

"I'll meet you at the airport. We'll have a plane waiting to fly us to Norfolk."

They discussed a few more details and hung up. Kurt pondered the request from Adler, then went back to his table to tell his father he would be leaving in the morning. If Austin was annoyed about his son's change in plans, he didn't show it. He thanked Kurt for coming to Seattle for the kayak race, and they vowed to get together again when they had more time.

Kurt caught an early flight out of Seattle the next morning. As the plane took off and headed east, he thought about his father's muted reaction to his change in plans. He wondered if Austin Senior really wanted him to join the family business. To the old man, it would be admitting that he was on the road to retirement. Both men tended to have strong opinions, and it would be like having two captains on a rowboat.

In any case, his father was plain wrong about Kurt's attachment to his NUMA work. It wasn't the excitement that kept him at the huge ocean science agency. Every opportunity for an adrenaline rush meant many long hours of reports, paperwork and meetings, which he tried to avoid by staying in the field. The siren call that lured him back again and again was the unfathomed mystery of the sea.

Mysteries like the strange encounter with the killer whales. He pondered the incident with the orcas. He wondered, too, about the man with the weird tattoo and the purpose of the electrical setup he'd seen on Barrett's boat. After a few minutes, he put his formless thoughts aside, picked up a pad and a ballpoint pen and began to sketch out specifications for a new kayak.

New York CITY

Before Frank Malloy had become a high-priced consultant to the nation's police departments, he'd been the quintessential cop. He loathed disorder of any kind. His uniforms were always pressed and sharply creased. In a holdover from his Marine Corps days, his salt-and-pepper hair was cut close to the scalp military style. Frequent workouts kept his compact body fit and muscular.

Unlike many police officers who found stakeout tedious, Malloy enjoyed sitting for hours in a car, watching the ebb and flow of traffic and pedestrians, ever alert for the slightest rent in the fabric of society. It also helped that he had an iron bladder.

Malloy was parked on Broadway, checking out the steady parade of fast-walking pedestrians and gawking tourists, when a man cut away from the crowd and made his way straight for the unmarked NYPD cruiser.

The man was tall and slim, and looked to be in his thirties. He wore a tan, lightweight suit, wrinkled at the knees, and scuffed New Balance running shoes. He had red hair and beard, and his goatee was cut to a point. His shirt collar was unbuttoned and his tie hung loose. Years as a beat cop had honed Malloy's ability to size up people at a quick glance. Malloy pegged the man as a reporter.

The man came over to the car, bent down so his face was level with the window and flashed his photo ID.

"My name is Lance Barnes. I'm a reporter with the Times. Are you Frank Malloy?"

The question spoiled Malloy's triumph.

"Yeah, I'm Malloy," he said with a frown. "How did you make me, Mr. Barnes?"

"Easy," the reporter said with a shrug of his shoulders. "You're sitting alone in a dark blue Ford in a neighborhood where it's practically impossible to get parking."

"I must be losing my touch," Malloy said dolefully. "Either that or I've still got cop written all over me."

"Naw, I cheated," Barnes said with a grin. "They told me at the MACC that you'd be here."

MACC was shorthand for the Multi-Agency Control Center, the entity in charge of security for the international economic conference that was being held in New York City. Political and business leaders were converging on the Big Apple from all over the world.

"I cheated too," Malloy said with a chuckle. "MACC called and said you were coming over." He studied the reporter's face and decided he looked familiar. "We met before, Mr. Barnes?"

"I think you gave me a jaywalking ticket."

Malloy laughed. He never forgot a face. It would come to him. "What can I do for you?"

"I'm doing a story on the conference. I've heard you're the top consultant in the field when it comes to dealing with sophisticated techniques of disruption. I wondered if I could interview you about how you plan to deal with the planned protests."

Malloy owned a firm in Arlington, Virginia, that advised police departments around the country on crowd control. He was on the boards of a number of companies that made riot-control equipment, and his business and political connections had made him relatively rich. A favorable story in The New York Times could mean even bigger bucks for his consulting business.

"Slide in," he said and reached over to open the passenger door. Barnes got in the car, and they shook hands. The reporter shoved his sunglasses onto his forehead, revealing intense green eyes and sharply angled eyebrows that formed a V similar to the shape of his mouth and chin. He pulled a notebook and a miniature digital recorder from his pocket. "Hope you don't mind if I record this. It's insurance, to make sure my quotes are right."

"No problem," Malloy said. "You can say anything you want about me, but just spell my name right." Since he'd left law enforcement and started his consulting company, Malloy had become a pro at handling reporters. "You were at the press conference?"

"Oh yeah," Barnes said. "Quite the arsenal! The Long Range Acoustic Devices you've got mounted on the Humvees just blow my mind. Is it true those things were used in Iraq?"

"They're considered nonlethal weapons. They can let out an ear-splitting screech that drowns out even the loudest demonstrators."

"If someone blasted one hundred and fifty decibels in my ear, I'd stop chanting about peace and justice."

"We'll only use the screamers to communicate with large crowds. We tested them the other day. Good for four blocks at least."

"Uh-huh," the reporter said, jotting down a few notes. "The anarchists will get the message, all right."

"My guess is that we won't need the big artillery. It's the little stuff that counts, like the scooter patrols and mechanical barriers."

"I've heard you've got a lot of high-tech stuff too."

"True," Malloy said. "The most effective way to control the crazies is with software, not hardware."

"How so?"

"Let's take a ride." Malloy turned the key in the ignition. As the car pulled away from the curb, he got on the radio. "This is Nomad. Heading north on Broadway."