Текст книги "Precipice"

Автор книги: David Mack

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Текущая страница: 12 (всего у книги 20 страниц)

31

August 1, 2267

Sixty-four minutes after imposing the admiral’s lockdown on the station, Lieutenant Jackson ushered a man named Joshua Kane into an interrogation room near the security center.

“Have a seat,” Jackson told the lean, bearded man.

Kane’s face betrayed no hint of concern as he pulled back the lone chair from the gray metal table and sat down. His stare was all but blank as he watched Jackson pace on the other side of the table. He said nothing and remained still.

The door signal buzzed. Jackson said, “Come in.”

The door opened. A freshly minted Tellarite ensign from the security division stepped inside the room, handed a data slate to Jackson, and left without speaking a word.

Jackson resumed pacing as he read Kane’s dossier from the Starfleet JAG office. “You’re a man of many incredible coincidences, aren’t you, Mister Kane?” The suspect remained silent. “Do you know what I have here?”

With mock cluelessness, Kane replied, “A data slate?”

“That’s right, genius. Know what’s written on it?” He waited until Kane shrugged, then continued. “Your life story.”

“All of it? Skip to the part where I lose my virginity.” He grinned. “Talk about incredible coincidences.”

“I’m more interested in your amazing knack for being in the vicinity of major crimes,” Jackson said. “According to your file, you just happened to be on eight far-flung planets at the exact time of a spectacular unsolved heist on each world. And if we count your presence here today, that would make nine.”

Nakedly feigning surprise, Kane asked, “Has there been a burglary on the station, Lieutenant?” He deflected Jackson’s most withering glare with a smug half smile.

“You were on Zeta Aquilae in 2254 when its national armory was broken into. The contents of a warehouse filled with military-grade small arms and starship munitions were stolen. Some of those weapons were later found in the possession of Orion privateers harassing shipping in Sector Four.”

Kane lifted one bushy eyebrow. “Sounds like the Orions ought to be your prime suspects on that one.”

Still reading from the data slate, Jackson said, “You were in the capital city of Denobula when its national reserve bank was broken into and relieved of nearly three hundred million credits’ worth of priceless ancient gemstones. Several pieces from that collection were later used by a Nalori arms dealer to solicit a shipment of antipersonnel mines from the Klingons.”

Rolling his eyes as if to suggest that the implications of Jackson’s statement should be obvious, Kane said, “Well, the Klingons and the Nalori areboth fierce rivals of the Federation.”

“Let me jog your memory again,” Jackson said. “April of 2260. The Midas Casino on Risa. You were staying there as a guest when its art gallery was burgled. Dozens of priceless works, including a pair of ancient Vulcan sculptures, were taken in a flawless overnight heist. You checked out the next day.”

“Naturally,” said Kane. “You can’t expect me to stay in a hotel with such poor security. I didn’t feel safe.”

For a fleeting moment Jackson wished he could beat the smile off Kane’s face. Instead, he inhaled deeply and moved on. “March 2261. You just happened to be in the city of Kefvenek on Beta Rigel at the precise time its—” The door signal buzzed, and Jackson snapped, “What is it?” He looked up as the door opened.

Another civilian walked in—an Orion woman unlike any Jackson had ever seen before. Though she had the dark green skin common to her people, her black hair was cut short. She wore wire-frame glasses and a dark business suit over a crisp white shirt. Her shoes were low-heeled, and instead of the erotically charged atmosphere Jackson had come to expect from Orion women, this one was cold and aloof. She carried a metallic briefcase.

“Lieutenant Jackson,” the Orion said as Captain Desai followed her inside the interview room, “My name is Denon Veril. I’m Mister Kane’s attorney.” She set her briefcase on the table. “I need to confer in private with my client, as per his rights under the First Guarantee of the Federation Charter.”

Jackson looked to Desai, who nodded in confirmation and motioned for him to follow her out of the interrogation room. Desai left the room first, and Jackson was close behind her.

As the door hushed closed behind him, he asked in a harsh whisper, “His lawyer? What the hell’s going on?”

“Apparently, she ‘just happened’ to be on the station to negotiate a contract with a mining consortium.”

“Sure she did,” Jackson said, folding his arms.

“Her story checked out,” Desai said.

Jackson shook his head. “Most good alibis do.”

The JAG officer continued, “Veril says Kane’s lunch companion called her on his behalf after we arrested him. She contacted me and immediately filed a motion demanding we turn over any and all security footage of Café Romano in Stars Landing recorded during the time of the alleged heist.”

A grim chortle shook Jackson’s chest. “This has setup written all over it.”

“I agree, but she insists the footage proves her client is innocent. I had Seklir copy the requested files to a data card for Veril. My guess is she’s reviewing it with Kane right now.”

The door to the interrogation room slid open. Veril poked her head out. “We’re ready to speak with you now,” she said.

“After you,” Jackson said to Desai.

He let Desai enter the room first then followed her in. They took up a position opposite Veril, who stood behind the still-seated Kane.

“After reviewing your charges against my client and the alleged timeline of events that constitute the crime, and hearing my client’s alibi, I am prepared to make the following statement on his behalf.

“Between the hours of twelve ten and twelve thirty-four, when your timeline indicates a series of disturbances and security breaches occurred on Cargo Decks A and B of this facility, my client was with his associate Leskon of Delta Leonis, having lunch in Café Romano, in Stars Landing. Mister Kane and Mister Leskon were both in full public view during a period extending from fifteen minutes before the alleged crime began and ten minutes after it is reported to have ended.

“I can produce at least four witnesses who saw and heard my client and Mister Leskon in the café during that time period, including the establishment’s proprietor and chef, Matt Romano.

“Furthermore, I offer as exculpatory evidence the following vid recorded by your own security system during the times in question.” Veril opened her briefcase, removed the data card, and walked it over to a wall panel with a display screen.

She inserted the card into a slot and started the playback. An image flickered onto the screen. It clearly showed Kane and another man of an alien humanoid species Jackson didn’t recognize. The two sat at a table outside the entrance of the café, a popular dining spot in the mostly civilian residential sector, inside the terrestrial enclosure that occupied the upper half of the station’s hollow saucer.

“Note the time stamp,” Veril said. “This is fifteen minutes before the first reported disturbance. Both men are in plain sight.” She fast-forwarded the playback. “Note that during the entire time of the incident on the cargo decks, neither man leaves the table.” She released the fast-forward and the playback continued at normal speed. “The time stamp is now twelve minutes after the cargo decks were declared secure. Both men are still at the table.”

Veril ceased the playback, ejected the data card, and plucked it from the wall. She turned to face Desai and Jackson. “Unless you have witnesses or physical evidence linking my client to the crime, I insist you release him immediately. If you wish to charge him despite the absence of evidence against him, I am prepared to post bail and file an appeal to the Starfleet Judge Advocate General on Earth.”

Jackson was about to challenge the Orion woman to do her worst when Desai said simply, “Release him.”

The security chief turned and said, “What?”

Desai looked at the Orion. “Ms. Veril, you and your client are free to leave. Thank you for your cooperation.”

Veril nodded, and Kane flashed his irksome smile. Then he got up and followed his attorney out the door. As the door closed, Jackson pounded the side of his fist on the table. “I can’t believe we’re just letting him go!”

“We have no case,” Desai said. “No evidence, no witnesses, nothing. And you saw that recording. His alibi is airtight.”

“And what if he has the artifact?”

Desai crossed her arms. “I’ll order the customs group to tear apart his ship and search it bow to stern. But if it comes up clean, we’ll have to let him leave.”

Jackson was sick with rage as he picked up the data slate from the table. “Eight perfect crimes, eight perfect alibis.” He shook his head in disbelief. “And now we’re number nine.”

Desai sat at the briefing room table with Cooper, ch’Nayla, and Jackson, and avoided Admiral Nogura’s steely gaze as he leaned on his fists and harangued them.

“Lieutenant Jackson,” Nogura said in a voice that made Desai think of broken glass, “the Vault is supposed to be the most secure facility on the station, is it not?”

Sounding humbled, Jackson replied, “Yes, sir.”

“And yet an intruder walked in, defeated all our security protocols, stole the most dangerous alien artifact we’ve ever seen, and then vanished inside our own station?”

“I wouldn’t say he vanished, sir,” Jackson said. “He escaped pursuit.”

Nogura nodded. “How?”

Commander Cooper spoke up. “Sir? Lieutenant Jackson and I have been analyzing the heist, and we’ve developed a hypothesis for how the suspect Joshua Kane could’ve pulled it off. We think he might have used a body double or a holographic stand-in to create his alibi in the café. Then, he could have shipped himself from the café’s back room to the cargo deck inside a standard supply crate using the station’s automated matériel-transfer network. Once there—”

“Commander,” Nogura interrupted, “before you waste twenty minutes of our time on this, do you have any proof?”

Jackson and Cooper volleyed abashed glances. The XO replied, “No, sir.”

“Then put it in your report. I’ll read it the next time I can’t sleep.” The admiral turned to glare at the Starfleet Intelligence liaison. “Commander ch’Nayla. Any progress locating the artifact?”

“No, sir,” the Andorian said. “All outgoing vessels have been thoroughly inspected, and we are continuing to carry out hard-target searches of all compartments on the station.”

“Have we dredged the waste processors?”

“Yes, Admiral,” ch’Nayla said. “We found no sign of the artifact or any evidence linked to the crime. However …” He nodded to the executive officer. “I have reviewed Commander Cooper and Lieutenant Jackson’s report speculating on the crime’s particulars, and I was forced to draw one inescapable conclusion. Whoever planned this burglary had detailed knowledge of this station and its various systems, especially its most obscure vulnerabilities.”

Nogura said, “You’re suggesting it might have been an inside job.”

Ch’Nayla replied, “I think it’s very likely, sir.”

“Draw up a list of all personnel who would have had the requisite knowledge to facilitate the crime, and send it to Lieutenant Jackson and Captain Desai.” To Jackson he added, “Once you have the list, investigate all communications by those individuals since the acquisition of the Mirdonyae Artifact. I want to know where they’ve been and who they’ve talked to.” He looked at Desai. “You’ll have to investigate Jackson, since I’m sure his name will be on ch’Nayla’s list. … No offense, Lieutenant.”

Jackson replied, “None taken, sir.”

Though she had been summoned to brief Nogura on the state of her failed criminal prosecution of Joshua Kane, Desai now realized she had another, more pressing duty: to prevent an unnecessary witch hunt against her fellow officers. Remembering what T’Prynn had told her the previous night, she now regretted omitting some of the details of the conversation from her report to security about the call. “Admiral,” she said, “I don’t think we need to investigate the station’s senior officer corps. I might know of a more likely source for the intruder’s information about the station.”

She felt as if she had shrank slightly in her seat as the full weight of the admiral’s stare fell upon her. “Explain,” he said.

“Early this morning, I filed a report with security about an unauthorized communication I’d received last night from the fugitive T’Prynn. I notified security of her warning about the Klingons having hired a known thief. However, I failed to mention what I had dismissed as an outrageous claim.”

The room was quiet with anticipation as she confessed.

“She told me Diego Reyes is alive and in Klingon custody. He knew everything Kane would have needed to break into the Vault and escape with the artifact. Which means if T’Prynn is telling the truth, our former commander isn’t dead—he’s colluding with the enemy.”

32

August 2, 2267

Pennington awoke to faint sounds of comm chatter and fingers working the switches of a computer console. He squinted as he checked the chrono. It was just after 0430 ship’s time on the Skylla. His limbs felt like lead and his eyes itched as he rolled out of his bunk.

The sounds became more distinct as he groggily walked forward in the main corridor. The deck plates felt like ice under his bare feet. A shiver traveled up his legs to his spine.

Not a night goes by I don’t regret not packing slippers,he lamented.

Like the rest of the Skylla’s interior, the cockpit was mostly dark. A handful of computer readouts bathed the cramped space in weak ambient light.

T’Prynn sat with her back to the open hatchway. She was working at the communications station. A compact transceiver was tucked inside her left ear. She touched it lightly with her fingertips while she made an adjustment on the control panel in front of her.

As Pennington stepped over the cockpit’s threshold, she acknowledged his presence with the slightest turn of her head. Nodding in reply, he eased himself into the copilot’s seat. He had learned to keep quiet while T’Prynn monitored signals; her hearing was sensitive to even the softest sounds, and he didn’t want to distract her while she was working.

Finally, she returned the console to its standby mode and removed the transceiver from her ear. “I am sorry if I woke you,” she said.

“No worries. Anything good?”

She nodded once. “We intercepted an interesting signal from Vanguard to Starfleet Command. I was able to break the encryption sequence, but most of the message is written in a code with which I am not familiar.” She called up a transcript of the intercept. “However, this sequence—‘Echo Sierra Bravo, nine, seven, red’—appears to be a legacy code from my tenure as the SI liaison.”

Leaning forward, Pennington asked, “What does it mean?”

“It indicates that an extreme security breach has occurred in relation to the principal mission objective.”

Pennington rubbed the underside of his stubbled chin. “So either Joshua Kane stole whatever it was the Klingons hired him to get, or Captain Desai reported your tip about Commodore Reyes being alive and with the Klingons.”

“Or perhaps both,” T’Prynn said.

That made Pennington think for a moment. “You’re right,” he said. “If Kane is working for the Klingon who’s holding Reyes, and if the thing the Klingons wanted stolen was on Vanguard, then Kutal could’ve forced Reyes to help Kane plan the heist. That would be a majorbreach in Starfleet’s security, both on the station and in this entire sector.”

“Precisely,” T’Prynn said. “A most logical deduction.”

He shrugged. “Well, you know us reporters: sometimes we put two and two together.”

33

August 3, 2267

The Vault was a shambles. Dust and debris littered the floor at Ming Xiong’s feet.

“Most of the damage was localized here, in the experiment chamber,” he said to Admiral Nogura, Dr. Marcus, and Commander ch’Nayla. “The intruder used an ultritium charge to knock out the transparent aluminum barrier.” Xiong stood in front of a bank of shattered consoles facing the breach in the safety barrier. “Blowback from that detonation destroyed these master terminals. Until we replace them, the lab’s internal network will be offline.”

Nogura’s countenance was grim as he surveyed the damage. “You said you had good news to report, Lieutenant.”

“Yes, sir,” Xiong replied. He looked at Marcus. “With your permission, Doctor?”

“By all means,” Marcus said. “Proceed.”

Xiong nodded and continued. “Although our burglar got away with the artifact, we’ve confirmed he had no access to the Vault’s memory banks. When the evacuation alert was triggered, the computer system secured itself automatically. So at least we still have all our experimental data.”

“Small comfort,” said ch’Nayla. The Andorian flicked a shard of cracked polymer off a charred console. It bounced across the deck and disappeared through the open floor panel into the sub-level.

“It’s more important than you might think,” Xiong said. “I saw what little progress the Klingons made with the artifact, both before and after they put me to work on it. We’ve learned far more about it than they ever did, or ever could.” He looked back at Nogura. “I’d like to show you what my team was working on up until we lost the artifact.”

The senior officers and Dr. Marcus pressed in close as Xiong found an intact console and coaxed it back to life. “Even though our scans failed to penetrate its outer surface, we were able to measure other phenomena to develop a virtual model of the artifact’s subatomic structure.” He activated a display screen, which showed an animated wire frame image of the twelve-sided alien object. “Our simulation was able to predict the artifact’s response to new stimuli with near-perfect accuracy. I believe we can continue our research even without the original artifact. At least, on a theoretical level.”

“Excellent work, Xiong,” said Marcus.

Nogura added, “I’ll second that. Well done, Lieutenant.”

Ch’Nayla was less enthused. “Commendable as this may be, it falls short of the practical application we were led to expect.”

Xiong reflexively shot a narrowed stare at ch’Nayla, but forced himself to remain calm in the presence of superior officers. “True,” he said. “And the loss of the artifact means we’ll be relying on simulations until further notice, so we won’t be able to confirm any of our current hypotheses. However, there is one that’s very close to ready for a field test.”

He used the console to call up his latest project. “I had the idea that we could modulate a particle beam using the waveform from the Jinoteur Pattern. Our simulations and early tests on the artifact suggest this would create a signal that would not only pierce the object’s outer shell but also trigger the release of a pulse attuned to the same frequencies the Shedai use to change their physical states. Depending on the specific segment of the pattern we employ, we might be able to use it as bait or as a means of immobilizing them.”

Marcus added, “I’ve reviewed Xiong’s proposal, and I think that if it works, it could have even more significant long-range applications in a variety of sciences, from long-distance subspace communications to tissue-regeneration and beyond. Its possibilities could be effectively endless.”

“Sounds promising,” Nogura said. “How long will it take to weaponize it?”

Ch’Nayla cut in, “There are serious security concerns that need to be addressed first, Admiral.”

Nogura eyed the Andorian. “Such as … ?”

“It is not yet clear whether bombarding the artifact with energy beams utilizing the Jinoteur Pattern would risk releasing the Shedai entity currently trapped inside it,” ch’Nayla said. “If such an event were to occur aboard a starship or space station, to say nothing of on the surface of an inhabited planet, the potential loss of life could be substantial.”

The admiral asked Xiong, “Is that a risk, Lieutenant?”

Uncertainty painted a grimace on Xiong’s face. “Hard to say, sir. None of the simulations we’ve done so far indicates any loss of structural integrity to the artifact. On the other hand, we don’t really have a baseline. It might have a limit to how much energy it can channel at once before it loses the ability to contain its Shedai.”

Horrified, Marcus interjected, “You’re all forgetting something very important. The entityinside the artifact is not some abstract concept—it’s a sentient life-form. Before we start running tests to see how much raw energy we can flood through that thing, I think we need to figure out whether we’d be causing any harm to the creature inside.”

Ch’Nayla regarded Marcus with skepticism. “What do you propose we do then, Doctor? Should we gear our efforts toward releasing the Shedai from its captivity inside the artifact?”

“That might be the humane thing to do,” Marcus said.

Nogura’s eyes widened. “And the most tactically dangerous. In any event, I don’t even want to talk about letting it out until we know who put it in there, how they did it, and why.”

Xiong held up his hands and said, “There might be a middle path to consider.”

“Let’s hear it,” Nogura said.

“We know from Lieutenant Theriault’s encounter with the Shedai Apostate that not all of the Shedai are necessarily hostile. At this point, we don’t really know anything about the identity or intentions of the Shedai trapped inside the Mirdonyae Artifact. While I agree with Commander ch’Nayla that releasing it without proper safeguards would be unwise, I think it might be beneficial, from both a scientific and diplomatic standpoint as well as a humanitarian one, to establish contact with it.”

Nodding slowly, ch’Nayla said, “Mister Xiong makes some excellent points. If contact could be established, perhaps the entity itself could answer our questions about the artifact’s origins and purpose.”

“And talking with it might make it possible to defuse tensions,” Marcus said. “So if and when we do release it, it doesn’t go on a homicidal rampage.”

“Okay,” Nogura said. “You’ve convinced me. Xiong, how long will it take to repair the damage in here?”

“About two weeks.” Looking around at the dark and deserted laboratory, Xiong continued, “We can swap out those fragged consoles in a day or two, and replacing the transparent aluminum barrier is another one-day job. The real delays will be fixing and upgrading the security entrance, isolating the ventilation system to keep us from getting smoked out again, and sealing that hatch in turbolift four.”

Nogura nodded. “Very good. Get it done. If you hit any snags, let me know and I’ll make them vanish.”

“Thank you, sir,” Xiong said.

The admiral shook Xiong’s hand, then said to ch’Nayla, “Walk with me, Commander.” The pair exited the lab through the wide-open access passageway, whose far end now was under twenty-four-hour armed guard.

As soon as they were out of earshot, Marcus folded her arms and kept her voice down as she said to Xiong, “Are you out of your mind? Two weeksto swap out four state-of-the-art consoles, replace a grade-ten barrier, rebuild an entire bulkhead, and install a new security module? That’ll take at least a month.”

Xiong smiled at her. “Nope. Two weeks, tops.”

“Not without a miracle,” Marcus said, clinging to her pessimism.

He laughed softly. “Relax, Doctor. For Starfleet engineers, miracles are just standard operating procedure.”

Rana Desai had the best table in Manón’s Cabaret to herself.

Seated in the front row and just left of center stage, Desai had a perfect view of every member of the jazz quartet providing that evening’s musical entertainment. Their set list since her arrival had consisted of low-key numbers with softly plucked bass lines, smooth wire-brush percussion, and mellow back-and-forth riffs by the piano player and saxophonist.

The dinner crowd’s conversation was muted. Most of the club’s patrons were civilians, but as always there were a few Star-fleet officers in the mix.

Manón’s served as the station’s de facto officers’ club for a number of reasons: it offered better food and drinks; its interior design was more pleasing; its furniture was more comfortable; and its acoustics were superior to those of the actual officers’ club, a drab gray box with chairs located in the station’s core. Last but not least, the view from Manón’s newly opened upstairs open-air terrace, of artfully lit buildings in Stars Landing, was far prettier than the official club’s view of hangar bay three.

All Desai could see, however, was the empty seat on the other side of her table.

She sipped from her glass of sparkling water and enjoyed the tingle of carbonation on her tongue. Listening to the quartet spin a slow, melancholy tune, she wondered what she was going to say when her guest arrived. It was bound to be an awkward conversation, and Desai admitted to herself that she was dreading every minute of it.

“Mind a bit of company?”

The question freed Desai from her reverie. She looked over her shoulder to see Dr. Ezekiel Fisher smiling down at her.

The gray-haired octogenarian chief medical officer had been a steady and quasi-paternal presence in Desai’s life since they were told of Diego Reyes’s alleged death seven months earlier. She had been grateful for Fisher’s support, especially since Reyes had been one of his closest friends, and she knew the old doctor’s loss had to have been as deep as her own.

But he wasn’t who she was waiting for, and his presence could only complicate an already messed-up situation.

She gestured at the empty chair. “Have a seat.”

He planted one palm on the table to steady himself as he eased into the chair opposite hers. “I should have known I’d find you here,” he said, then exhaled with relief as he settled into place. “This was the table Diego always reserved for you.”

“I remember,” Desai said.

A waiter appeared from the steady bustle of activity in the dining room, picked up the bottle of water from its ice bucket beside the table, and filled Fisher’s glass.

“Thanks,” Fisher said with a nod at the waiter, who bowed his head as he returned the bottle to its icy receptacle.

“I’ll be back with your menus in a moment,” the waiter said, and he slipped away before Desai could explain that Fisher wasn’t actually her intended dinner companion.

Fisher traced the rim of his water glass with the tip of his index finger until it produced a dulcet tone. Then he stopped abruptly. “T’Prynn’s news about Diego,” he said and shook his head. “I just can’t get a handle on it. No sooner do I start getting used to the idea that he’s gone …”

“I know,” Desai said. “Part of me screams, Don’t trust her,but I really want to believe she’s telling the truth.”

“We all do,” Fisher said.

“Except that if he isalive, he probably helped the Klingons break into the Vault,” Desai said. “So, which would be better: Diego dying as a patriot, or living as a traitor?”

The doctor’s vaguely amused countenance turned enigmatic. “Seems like a false choice to me,” he said. “If he is alive and with the Klingons, that doesn’t prove he’s there willingly. We shouldn’t jump to conclusions.”

Desai considered the common sense in what Fisher had said. “You’re right,” she admitted. “I’m assuming facts not in evidence. I should know better.”

“There you go,” Fisher said. “Now ask yourself: If Diego’s alive but being held against his will by the Klingons, is that a truth you could live with?”

“Absolutely,” Desai said. Then her spark of optimism was snuffed by her doubts. “But it’s still a risk, Zeke. If I start believing that and find out T’Prynn lied to me, I’d be crushed to find out I’d been clinging to a false hope.”

Fisher cracked a restrained smile. “A long time ago, a wise man once said, ‘There is never anything false about hope.’ It was true then, and it’s true now. Don’t give up on hope—it’s the one thing no one else can take away from you.”

She lifted her water glass to toast him. “Well said.”

He picked up his glass and clinked it against hers with the deft touch of a surgeon. “Thank you.” Looking around, he added, “What happened to our waiter? I’m starving.”

“Um, Zeke … ?” She waited until he looked at her. “I … uh …”

Before she could put her thoughts into words, she heard another voice from behind her shoulder.

“Three for dinner?” Jackson asked. “I thought it was just the two of us.”

Fisher looked up at the younger man with an expression of mild surprise, then back at Desai. “Oh. I see.” He smiled at Jackson. “My mistake: I seem to be sitting in your chair.” He got up just as the waiter returned. Handing the server his water he said, “The gentleman will need a new water glass.”

“Very good.” The waiter nodded and stepped away again.

Jackson looked back and forth between Fisher and Desai then asked, “What’re we talking about?”

With a sly but knowing glance at Desai, Fisher replied, “Whether we dare to hope Diego Reyes is really alive.”

“And what’s the verdict?” Jackson asked Desai.

“Jury’s still out,” she said.

As Fisher started to leave, Jackson said, “I’ll bet you both dinner here—with drinks, appetizers, and desserts—that he’s alive, well, and still on our side.”

The wager put a light in Fisher’s eyes. “Folks tell me you never lose a bet,” he said to the lieutenant.

“That’s right,” Jackson said.

Fisher shook the man’s hand. “That’s a bet I’ll be happy to lose, son. You’re on.” Releasing Jackson’s hand, he patted the man’s shoulder. “Enjoy your dinner.”

As Fisher left the club, the waiter returned and set a clean water glass at the table’s other place setting. There was no point putting off the inevitable any longer.

Desai motioned to the empty chair. “Have a seat, Haniff. There’s something we need to talk about …”