Текст книги "Open Secrets "

Автор книги: Dayton Ward

Соавторы: Kevin Dilmore
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Текущая страница: 12 (всего у книги 32 страниц)

22

Lieutenant Holly Moyer, hunched over her desk as she had been for the past five hours, finally forced herself upright and released a groan of fatigue. She pushed away from the forbidding stacks of reports, legal briefs, data slates, computer data cards, and other clutter concealing the surface of her desk and raised her arms over her head, the muscles in her back and shoulders thanking her as she interlocked her fingers and reached for the ceiling. That accomplished, she brought her hands to her head and massaged her temples, certain that at any moment, her head might simply explode in protest.

You make that sound like such a bad thing.

Her day had been spent much like however many—Moyer had stopped counting—had passed since Captain Desai had assigned her to assist in the prosecution of Commodore Reyes. The days began early, veryearly, and continued well into the evenings, to the point where on several occasions, Moyer had forsaken returning to her quarters in favor of collapsing on the sofa in her office for a few fitful hours of sleep. True rest evaded her, though, as her mind continued to process the voluminous amounts of information relating to the commodore’s case. Meals, when she ate them, were taken at her desk, though she did manage to escape her office each day for a precious respite at the gymnasium, which also allowed for a shower and a fresh uniform following her workouts.

There’s really nothing like a life of leisure.

Rising from her desk, Moyer reached across the administrative quagmire and retrieved her coffee mug. It was the same dark maroon vessel, emblazoned with the symbol of Starfleet’s Judge Advocate General Corps, that she had acquired while still attending law school. With its wide, thick base, molded handle, and insulated exterior, the ceramic mug had withstood three years of studies plus a tour at Starbase 11, associated moves, and numerous attempts to supplant it by other, lesser contenders. It had survived long enough to find itself at the hind end of explored space, flanked on all sides by just a few of the Federation’s more formidable enemies, and now was facing perhaps the most daunting task of its owner’s young career.

Okay,Moyer decided, shaking her head in response to the wayward stream of thoughts. Youdefinitely need more coffee.

The doors to her office slid aside, and she exited into the “bullpen,” the large open area located at the center of the JAG offices and harboring the lawyers’ cadre of legal and administrative assistants. Moyer stopped short as she glanced around the room, noting that most of the bullpen’s dozen desks were unoccupied, their individual lamps extinguished. Even the overhead lighting had been dimmed, and it took her an extra moment before she glanced at the chronometer over the main exit and remembered that it was well past normal duty hours.

Only two of the desks held any signs of habitation. The one closest to her belonged to her own assistant, Ensign Christopher Pimental, who was elsewhere at the moment. The other desk, at the far end of the room and closest to Captain Desai’s office, belonged to her assistant, Lieutenant Deborah Simpson. Its personal lamp shone down upon the lieutenant’s own collection of files and reports, and the desktop computer monitor also was active, displaying a jumble of text Moyer could not decipher from this distance. As for Simpson herself, Moyer presumed she was in Desai’s office, bearing the brunt of the captain’s latest round of prosecutorial preparations.

Moyer actually smiled at that, knowing that Desai was pushing herself far harder than anyone else in the office as arrangements and strategizing continued for what everyone on the station believed would be one of the most followed and scrutinized Starfleet courts-martial in the history of the Federation.

Being a bit melodramatic, aren’t we?

Sighing, Moyer headed toward the galley at the rear of JAG’s suite of offices and conference rooms, nearly bowling over Ensign Pimental as the other officer rounded a turn in the corridor. Pimental, nimble and quick to react, sidestepped to avoid the collision while protecting the mug of coffee he carried.

“I’m sorry, Lieutenant,” Pimental said with a sheepish smile. “I didn’t see you there.” He was a tall human, with close-cropped black hair that was receding back across the top of his head. His gold uniform tunic stretched across his muscled chest and shoulders, and not for the first time did Moyer consider what he might look like without it.

At ease, Lieutenant.

Shaking off the errant observation, Moyer waved away his apology. “No, it’s my fault. I wasn’t watching where I was going.” Holding up her own coffee mug for emphasis, she added, “I’m afraid I’m cruising on automatic pilot.”

“I know what you mean, ma’am.” His expression changed, and Moyer realized that he was making a grand effort to stifle a yawn. After blinking several times, he returned his attention to her. “Sorry about that. Today’s been a long year.”

Moyer laughed, enjoying the brief diversion. “I know it’s been a tough haul these past few weeks, but all we can do is just keep pushing ahead.”

She knew that the trial preparations were hard on everyone in the office. From a strictly legal standpoint, there was little to be said in defense of Commodore Reyes and the actions he had committed, but that did not detract from the simple fact that she knew of no one who did not respect the man as an officer, a leader, or a human being. In private, there had been much admiration voiced for the bold and likely career-ending steps Diego Reyes had taken to allow the truth about the alien threat to be made public. Of course, such praise was all but stifled in the face of the numerous apprehensive conversations held with regard to what this truth meant to every single person currently living aboard Starbase 47.

Were we better off not knowing?Moyer dismissed the question. As any Vulcan might tell her, it would be illogical to waste time dwelling on what might have been. Better to direct that energy elsewhere. Yes, but not without coffee.

“Time to get back to it,” she said, turning once more in the direction of the galley as Pimental made his way back to his desk. She had taken only a few steps before she heard the JAG office’s main doors opening. Moyer was surprised to see a stocky, barrel-chested Tellarite, dressed in a gold Starfleet tunic and carrying a standard-issue briefcase, enter the room. His tunic sported captain’s stripes as well as the chest insignia of Starfleet Headquarters, and while he appeared shorter than Moyer herself, there was no mistaking the air of authority surrounding him.

Tell me this isn’t who I think it is.

“Good evening, Captain,” she said, depositing her coffee mug on the desk closest to her as she crossed the bullpen to greet the new arrival. “Welcome to Starbase 47’s JAG offices. I’m Lieutenant Holly Moyer, one of the junior legal officers assigned here. How may I help you?” As she drew closer and got a better look at the Tellarite’s face in the room’s subdued lighting, Moyer realized that she had indeed recognized and correctly identified him.

Uh-oh.

“Good evening, Lieutenant,” the Tellarite replied, his words clipped and formal. “I am Captain Mosh zelev Sereb. I have been dispatched to this godforsaken boil on the posterior of space by order of Starfleet Command, and I am here to see Captain Desai. I was told she would be here.” Making a show of subjecting the entire room to a scathing visual inspection, Sereb returned his gaze to Moyer and grunted in derision. “Well, where is she?”

Swallowing the lump trying to fight its way into her throat, Moyer replied, “She’s in her office, sir.” Indicating Desai’s office door with a nod of her head, she added, “I’ll get her right away.” She activated the intercom on the nearest switch and connected to Desai’s office, alerting the captain of her visitor. All the while, her imagination swam with the possibilities of why Sereb had been dispatched to Vanguard from Earth.

This cannot be good.

After a moment—which seemed to take an hour to pass—the doors to Desai’s office parted, and the captain emerged, Lieutenant Simpson following her. There was a determined set to her jaw as Desai crossed the room to stand before Sereb, folding her arms across her chest.

“I’m Captain Desai,” she said, her tone so low and reserved that her normally clipped London accent was all but absent. “How may I help you?”

Instead of responding immediately, the Tellarite reached into his briefcase and extracted a red computer data card, which he offered to Desai. “These are the Starfleet Judge Advocate General’s orders removing you from the prosecution of Commodore Reyes and assigning me in your stead.”

Accepting the data card, Desai nodded. “Well, that was expected.” She paused, examining the card as though attempting to divine its contents. “It would’ve been nice if JAG had made this decision before my staff and I spent the past month working twenty-hour days to prepare our case.”

Sereb’s stout nose wrinkled up and down, and he released a short grunt. “What is that human expression? The wheels of justice grind slowly, do they not?” Then, in a way that Moyer considered most out of character for a Tellarite, he actually seemed to take on a sympathetic air. “You should not consider this an impugning of your integrity or professionalism, Captain. No one is questioning your character or ability to prosecute this case. Starfleet simply believes it imperative to avoid any appearance of impropriety while adjudicating a trial of this magnitude.”

Sure took them long enough,Moyer mused. For JAG to send Sereb all the way from Earth, it meant that Starfleet itself and perhaps even the Federation Council were serious about seeing this to the end. There would be no cover-up, no attempt to mitigate or sidestep the issue. Diego Reyes would be facing one of the most formidable prosecutors in the Starfleet legal community. Mosh zelev Sereb’s reputation was well known; he had never lost a case, even on those rare occasions when he acted as defense counsel. His ethics were beyond reproach, and he coupled a brusque manner born of Tellarite stubbornness with an unrelenting approach to trial work. Reyes’s attorney, Commander Nathan Spires, would have his work cut out for him.

Desai’s features remained fixed and impassive, but Moyer could see in her eyes that the captain appeared to be having some difficulty accepting something she had to have seen as inevitable. Even with the long days spent in virtual seclusion as they worked to prepare their case, Moyer had been certain of this as well. Desai had revealed to Starfleet JAG her personal relationship with Commodore Reyes almost from the moment it had become clear that she would have to place him under arrest. To her credit, she had offered to recuse herself from the case, stating the obvious conflict of interest and the perception of bias from the public if she were to remain as prosecutor. Rather than accepting her offer, JAG had waffled, citing concerns about the station’s remote location coupled with the strain of making available sufficient officers of flag rank needed to sit on a court-martial board. Meanwhile, Desai and her people had turned to their work.

Her gaze once more locked with Sereb’s, Desai nodded. “My assistant will see to it that you’re provided with everything my staff and I have put together. Have you brought a staff or an assistant with you?”

“No,” Sereb replied, indicating the data card in Desai’s hand. “Also included in the orders are instructions allowing me to select from your office whomever or whatever I require to assist me.” Glancing over his shoulder, he added, “Lieutenant Moyer comes with high recommendations, and it would be imprudent to waste the effort she’s exerted in preparing for this case. Therefore, Captain, if you have no objections, I request that she assist me.”

It took a moment for that to sink in, and when it did, Moyer could not help the expression of shock that she knew appeared on her face. “Excuse me?” she asked. Then, realizing her slip, she immediately cleared her throat and reclaimed her bearing. “I’m sorry, Captain.” The idea of assisting Sereb was exciting and terrifying at the same time. Serving as the distinguished attorney’s aide would, of course, be quite an entry in her service record—but on this case? All of the discomfort she had been squelching, the unease as the reality of putting Commodore Reyes before a court-martial, came rushing back at her. Until this moment, she had been able to treat it as something abstract, possibly not coming to pass. Sereb’s presence reinforced that it was real, it would happen, and she would be one of the instruments that would decide the fate of a man she greatly respected.

I think I’m going to throw up.

“Very well,” Desai said, offering a curt nod. Turning her attention to Moyer, Simpson, and Pimental, she added, “See to it that Captain Sereb receives any assistance he requires.” Taking her leave of the Tellarite, she returned to her office, the doors closing behind her.

To Moyer, Sereb said, “We’ll begin at oh-seven-hundred hours tomorrow morning. Please see to it that I have an office at my disposal, and bring all of the case work prepared to date. I don’t know if it will be useful, but it will be a start. Good evening.”

As he turned to leave, his briefcase brushed against the nearby desk, catching Moyer’s coffee mug and sending it tumbling to the deck, where it clattered against the duranium plates, shattering into dozens of pieces of disjointed ceramic shrapnel.

Eyeing the mug’s remnants, Sereb released another snort. “Not the best place to put something like that, I suppose. Please offer my apologies to its owner.” He nodded once more to Moyer before turning and exiting the JAG offices, leaving Moyer to stare at her destroyed coffee mug.

If that’s not an omen, I don’t know what is.

23

It took every last ounce of his formidable will to keep Ganz from hurling the data slate across the room. Instead, he settled for simply crushing it in his hands.

The sound of plastinium cracking echoed in his office, followed by pieces of the data slate raining down on Ganz’s desk. Wiping his hands together to rid them of any remaining bits of shrapnel, the Orion looked down at himself, then brushed from his robe the few shards that had fallen on him.

“Feel better?” asked Zett Nilric from where he stood on the other side of the desk. One of Ganz’s most trusted assistants aboard his ship, the Omari-Ekon—with trust being a relative concept, of course—he held his hands clasped behind his back, smiling so that his black teeth reflected from the light of Ganz’s desk lamp. As always, the Nalori assassin was impeccably dressed in a dark blue, well-tailored suit that, to Ganz’s trained eye, appeared to have been designed from Andorian silk. The shoes he wore were polished to a high gloss, as black as the opaque, glistening orbs that were Zett’s eyes.

“I’ll feel better when the captain of that freighter is standing in front of my desk,” Ganz replied, moving from around his desk to the well-appointed bar dominating one wall of his office.

“That’s not likely to happen,” Zett said. “He and the crew were arrested, the vessel and its cargo impounded.”

Ganz did not bother to offer Zett a drink as he poured one for himself; the Nalori never imbibed any alcohol, at least not while anyone was watching. It was yet another of Zett’s rigid, unwavering habits, and it was that self-control that made him such a valuable asset in Ganz’s organization. In this line of work, one could not afford to be surrounded by undisciplined subordinates. At best, they could lose you money. At worst, they might get you killed.

“There was a lot of money tied up in that ship’s cargo holds,” Ganz said, turning from the bar with his drink in his massive left hand. The shipment had consisted of various prohibited items—weapons, illegal alcoholic beverages, pharmaceuticals, computer equipment, and so on—which ordinarily required special permits to transport. Any of the components on their own would attract scrutiny from an attentive border-patrol ship, but all of that seized at one time aboard a single vessel? Such a find would raise questions that might lead back to Ganz’s organization, if not to Ganz himself.

He took a long pull from the glass, enjoying the burn and sting of the Aldebaran whiskey as it flowed down his throat. Soothing warmth cascaded to his belly, and for a moment, at least, his anger was subdued. Finally, he asked, “How did this happen, at Arcturus, of all places?”

“They didn’t actually make it to Arcturus,” Zett said, his voice low and even, as always. “The Valinorwas two days out when it was intercepted by a Starfleet vessel on patrol in that sector.”

Ganz released a grunt of irritation. “That’s the point. What was a Starfleet ship doing in that sector at all? Since when does the Federation care about anything within ten light-years of Arcturus?” The planet’s location, on the fringe of Federation territory and close to the borders of both Romulan and Klingon space, made it an ideal center of free commerce, as none of the three interstellar neighbors seemed at all interested in dealing with the system and the type of travelers it attracted. It also was a key stop along travel routes utilized by smugglers and pirates of every stripe, drawing all manner of business transactions, both legitimate and illicit.

Making a show of examining the dark nails on his right hand, Zett said, “Relations between the Klingons and the Federation are tense at the moment. It therefore makes sense that Starfleet would increase its presence and attention all along the border. I understand there may even have been an incident with a Romulan ship.”

Very little surprised Ganz, but that new bit of information did. “Really?” he asked, taking another sip of his drink. “After all this time? Not a single Romulan ship has ever visited Arcturus, and that’s right next door to their border, or any of the other free-trade planets, but now they’re crossing into Federation space?” He had no idea what might prompt such a drastic change in behavior from the notoriously reclusive Romulan Star Empire, which had been—as far as was generally known, anyway—ensconced in a sort of self-imposed isolationism for more than a century. It had been that way since the signing of the peace treaty between them and the coalition of planets formed by the humans and a few staunch allies, the act that had signaled an official end to the Earth-Romulan War of the mid-twenty-second century.

He waved away his own question. “I don’t care. If the Romulans want to come picking a fight with the Federation, I’m happy to stay as far from that as I can, but only if we figure out that there’s no money to be made. What I care about is the Valinor.This could be a bad sign.” If the freelance merchant freighter his organization had contracted—after passing through several intermediaries, shadow companies, and legitimate business fronts designed to disguise the flow of information and currency to and from Ganz himself, of course—had made it all the way to Arcturus as planned, he would have been free and clear. Arcturus pledged allegiance to no government and, in fact, possessed no ruling body of its own. It was simply a hodgepodge of unregulated commerce, where rules were few and the inhabitants policed their own problems in whatever manner they saw fit. For someone in Ganz’s chosen line of work, where transactions relied on avoiding the scrutinizing eye of watchful governments, possessing contacts on Arcturus was vital to any sort of prolonged success.

The Valinor’s captain had committed a grievous error in allowing his ship to be intercepted and boarded in Federation space. If the man had not already been under arrest, Ganz likely would have put a bounty on his head.

“I’ll need a complete manifest,” Ganz said as he crossed the room back toward his desk, “and we need to get a message to the buyers. Let them know we’ll have to work out an alternative arrangement.”

“They’re not going to like that,” Zett said. “You know how they are.”

Nodding, Ganz dropped into his chair and took another sip of his drink. “They’re jumpy, but they’ll have to learn to live with this one. If the Federation is breathing down our necks, we’re all going to have to play things a bit smarter for a while.” He did not like failing to honor the deals he brokered, not because of any sense of fair play but because it was simply bad business.

“Some of our competitors may not see the need for such patience,” Zett offered, flicking at a piece of lint that had found a temporary home on his left lapel.

“Then we’ll have to teach them patience, one way or another,” Ganz replied before upending the glass and finishing the drink.

The sound of his door chime caught his attention, and he looked up as the door slid aside to admit Neera, his most trusted companion and his lover. The sensuous Orion woman was dressed in a beige gown with a plunging neckline and slits on both sides that exposed her legs all the way to her hips. The rest of the gown hugged her figure like a second skin. She glanced toward Zett, and Ganz recognized her attempt, almost yet not quite successful, to hide her disdain for the Nalori. Without a word of greeting to the assassin, she leveled a stern glare at Ganz.

“You have a visitor. The admiral Starfleet sent to replace Reyes is here and wishes to speak with you.”

Zett said, “Well, that’s certainly interesting.”

“Indeed,” Neera replied. “Should I tell him to schedule an appointment?”

Leaning back in his chair, Ganz nodded. According to his sources, the ship transporting the human admiral from another Starfleet outpost had arrived the previous evening. Surely, the person now assigned to command Starbase 47 had more pressing matters demanding his attention than coming here?

“No,” Ganz said. “I’ll see him now. Show him in.” A glance down at his desk reminded him of the remnants of the crushed data slate still lying there, but he shrugged at the sight of them. There was nothing illegal or untoward about destroying his own private property, after all. Otherwise, nothing damning was to be seen in his private office.

Confident with that assessment, he was in the midst of fixing himself another drink when the door again slid open, this time to allow entry to the Starfleet admiral. To Ganz’s surprise, the human appeared to have come alone. Was it a gesture of trust, an attempt to demonstrate that this was not to be a confrontation, or was the man simply a reckless idiot?

Reckless idiots don’t get to be Starfleet admirals.

Standing a few paces inside the door, the human turned to regard him. In Ganz’s estimation, this admiral was a diminutive specimen even by Terran standards. The lines in his face bore mute testimony to a long career, as did the easy, self-assured manner in which he seemed to carry himself.

“Mr. Ganz, is it?” the admiral said by way of greeting, though Ganz noted that he did not move to shake hands as so many humans always did. Instead, he kept his hands at his sides. “I’m Admiral Nogura, now in command of this station. Thank you for seeing me on such short notice.”

“My pleasure, Admiral,” Ganz replied, turning from the bar. “May I offer you something to drink?”

Nogura shook his head. “No, thank you. I don’t wish to take up too much of your time. My reason for being here won’t take long.”

“An attitude I can certainly appreciate,” Ganz said as he moved toward his desk, glancing toward Zett as he did so. The Nalori’s expression, as was often the case, was unreadable.

Indicating the detritus on the desk with a wave of one hand, Nogura said, “Technical problems?”

“The warranty expired,” Ganz replied, once more taking his seat. There was no other chair in the office and therefore no reason to invite Nogura to sit. “What brings you to my ship this morning, Admiral?”

Nogura’s expression wavered not one iota. “I’m here to tell you that life as you know it is over.”

The blunt statement caught Ganz almost by surprise. At the last instant, he was able to school his features and his body language to reveal no reaction to the admiral’s words. He even forced himself not to blink as he processed what he had just heard. “I beg your pardon?”

“Your days of running about unchecked and using Starfleet’s good graces as cover to manage your various enterprises are over,” Nogura replied, maintaining his own steadfast bearing. “A new sheriff in town means new rules. My rules.”

Ganz’s first thought was that he could crush the puny human’s windpipe with one hand with little effort. His second thought was that Zett could cut the man’s throat and be back standing beside the deck before the first spray of arterial blood. Finally, he decided that either of those scenarios would require disposing of a body that likely would be reported missing in short order.

Nogura seemed to entertain similar thoughts. “I’ve been around the galaxy a time or two in my day, Mr. Ganz, and I’m aware of the sorts of ‘accidents’ that can happen to people aboard Orion pleasure ships like this one. So, don’t think I walked in here on my own. I have a security detail ready to storm this vessel if I’ve not returned to the station ten minutes after I first boarded. By my count, we have slightly over six minutes.”

“This ship is sovereign Orion territory,” Ganz said, despite himself. “My government would not appreciate you seizing it under force of arms.” He generally was not one to tolerate such arrogant behavior from anyone, let alone anyone standing within his inner sanctum. Only the braid on the admiral’s sleeve and the promise of what it represented kept the Orion seated and maintaining a civil demeanor.

For the first time, Nogura adjusted his posture and crossed his arms, and his eyes never left Ganz’s. “We both know that the Orion government prides itself on maintaining its neutrality. If the Federation files a protest alleging illegal activities carried out by an Orion citizen while in Federation space, your government will drop you like a hot rock. Either way, you’d be stuck dealing with Starfleet.” He moved forward, just a couple of steps but enough that Ganz sensed Zett tensing in anticipation.

“However, it might be your lucky day. I have a proposition for you.”

Of course,Ganz thought, now allowing a small smile. “I thought you might.”

Nogura said, “We both know that civilian ships have easier access to areas that ordinarily don’t react well to the presence of Starfleet vessels. Arcturus,for example.” The added emphasis on the planet’s name spoke volumes of its own, though once again, Ganz forced himself not to react.

“Besides,” the admiral continued, “with the political landscape shifting the way it is these days, it helps to have contacts on these worlds where we might not otherwise be welcomed. There’s something to be said for people willing to do certain types of favors or enter into mutually agreeable business arrangements that, although unseemly or unrefined, are still occasionally necessary.”

Ganz set his drink down on his desk before clasping his hands and interlacing his fingers. “The sort of arrangement you’re describing often ends up costing people in my line of work a lot of money. It sometimes gets them killed.”

“All true,” Nogura countered, nodding. “On the other hand, if such a relationship were in place, one could find oneself enjoying an increased profit margin, to say nothing of the hassles you’d avoid, such as having your freighters filled with contraband cargo seized by border-patrol ships. That actually happened to some poor bastard just the other day.” He made a show of shaking his head in mock grief. “Terrible. Simply terrible.”

All right,Ganz decided. He’s definitely not an idiot.In fact, Nogura seemed to be one shrewd bastard, with an air of arrogance that belied his tiny frame. There were only two good reasons to display such bravado: either you were bluffing, or you knew you held the winning hand. If Nogura was as clever as he seemed to think he was, then this was no bluff.

“Even if I were to consider something of this nature,” Ganz said, now working to maintain his composed façade and present the appearance that nothing Nogura had said to this point was a shock, “I’d need certain assurances.”

“You have my assurance,” Nogura replied, “that if you don’t accept this arrangement, your ship, your crew, and your own fat ass will be off my station before lunch.”

Ganz forced down his rising ire. He paused to ensure that his response would be measured before replying. “I’d need time to think about it.”

Nogura shrugged. “Take your time. You’ve got ten seconds.”

Now, Ganz stood. “Admiral, I’ve been most cordial with you this morning, but I’m not used to being talked to in this manner aboard my own ship. I advise caution at this juncture.” Glancing to Zett, behind whose eyes he knew lurked a desire to put this insufferable human in his place, he added, “For everyone.”

If Nogura was worried about the Nalori, he revealed no hint of his fear. “Time’s up. What’s your answer?”

“If I were even suspected of assisting Starfleet with anything,” Ganz replied, “every one of my rivals would paint a target on my back. I’d be signing my own death warrant. Even being docked at your station wouldn’t save me from that.” The truth was that he could see the advantages on several levels that would come from such an arrangement, but he could not allow himself to be browbeaten into accepting the offer as extended by this human. Such action would send the wrong message, which definitely would be bad for business.

This also was a matter of pride, Ganz admitted. It could not happen in this manner. Not here, aboard his own ship, in the presence of a subordinate—Zett, of all people. Ganz simply could not allow it.

“That’s a no, I take it?” Nogura asked.

There was no choice. “Correct.”

The admiral nodded. “So be it. You have two hours to be off my station and on your way out of its sensor range, or I’m seizing it and everything and everyone aboard.” With that, he turned and headed for the door, exiting the office without another word and leaving Ganz in the grips of anger threatening to explode from within him.