Текст книги "The Wheel of Darkness"

Автор книги: Lincoln Child

Соавторы: Douglas Preston
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Текущая страница: 17 (всего у книги 22 страниц)

Her career was over. All she could hope for now was the command of a middling-size cruise ship, one of the shabbier ones that tooled aimlessly around the Mediterranean or the Caribbean, stuffed with fat, white, middle-class seniors on a floating excursion of eating and shopping. Never seeing blue water, running from every storm.

Cutter

. What better way to exact revenge than to take his ship from him, rip its guts out, and send it to the bottom of the Atlantic?

58

FOR SEVERAL MINUTES, CONSTANCE WATCHED AS PENDERGAST paced back and forth across the living room of the Tudor Suite. Once he paused as if to speak, but he merely began pacing again. At last, he turned to her. “You accuse me of selfish behavior. Of wishing to save myself at the expense of others on board the Britannia. Tell me something, Constance: exactly who on board ship do you consider worth saving?”

He fell silent again, waiting for an answer, the light of amusement lurking in his eyes. This was the last thing Constance had expected to hear.

“I asked you a question,” Pendergast went on, when she didn’t answer. “Who among the vulgar, greedy, vile crowd on board this ship do you deem worthy of being saved?”

Still, Constance said nothing.

After a moment, Pendergast scoffed. “You see? You have no reply—because there is no reply.”

“That’s not true,” Constance said.

“Truth? You’re fooling yourself. What is truth? said jesting Pilate, and would not stay for an answer.From the moment you boarded this vessel, you yourself were revolted by the wretched excess, appalled by the smarmy self-satisfaction of the rich and pampered. You yourself noted the shocking inequity between the serving and the served. Your behavior at dinner on that very first night, the ripostes you made to those unbearably gauche philistines we were forced to dine with, showed you had already pronounced judgment on the Britannia. And you were right to do so. Because I ask you again, another way: is not this very ship a floating monument to man’s cupidity, vulgarity, and stupidity?Is not this palace of crass concupiscence richly deserving of destruction?”

He spread his hands as if the answer was obvious.

Constance looked at him in confusion. What he was saying did strike her as true. She had been repulsed by the bourgeois airs and pork-belly gentility of most of the passengers she’d met. And she was shocked and outraged by the brutal working and living conditions of the crew. Some of the things Pendergast was saying rang an uncomfortable chord in her, arousing and reinforcing her own long-held misanthropic impulses.

“No, Constance,” Pendergast went on. “The only two people worth saving are ourselves.”

She shook her head. “You’re referring to the passengers. What about the crew and staff? They’re just trying to make a living. Do they deserve to die?”

Pendergast waved his hand. “And they, for their part, are expendable drones, part of the great sea of working-class humanity that comes and goes from the shores of the world like the tide on the beach, leaving no mark.”

“You can’t mean that. Humanity is everything to you. You’ve spent your whole life trying to save the lives of others.”

“Then I’ve wasted my life on a useless, even frivolous, endeavor. The one thing my brother Diogenes and I always agreed on was there could be no more odious a discipline than anthropology: imagine, devoting one’s life to the study of one’s fellow man.” He picked up Brock’s monograph from the table, flipped through it, handed it to Constance. “Look at this.”

Constance glanced at the open page. It contained a black-and-white reproduction of an oil painting: a young, ravishing angel bending over a perplexed-looking man, guiding his hand over a manuscript page.

“

Saint Matthew and the Angel

,” he said. “Do you know it?”

She glanced at him, puzzled. “Yes.”

“Then you know there were few images on this earth more sublime. Or more beautiful. Look at the expression of intense effort on Matthew’s face—as if every word of the Gospel he’s writing was struggling up from the very fiber of his being. And compare it to the languid approach of the angel assisting him—the way the head lolls; the half-naïve, half-coy posturing of the legs; the almost scandalously sensual face. Look at the way Matthew’s dusty left foot kicks out at us, almost breaking the plane of the painting. No wonder the patron refused it! But if the angel seems effeminate, we only need to glimpse the power, the glory in those magnificent wings, to remind us that we are in the presence of the divine.” He paused a moment. “Do you know, Constance, why—of all the reproductions in this monograph—this one is in black and white?”

“No, I don’t.”

“Because no color photograph of it exists. The painting was destroyed. Yes—this magnificent expression of creative genius was bombed into oblivion during World War II. Now, tell me: if I had to choose between this painting or the lives of a million useless, ignorant, ephemeral people—the humanity you say is so important to me—which do you think I’dchoose to perish in that conflagration?” He pushed the image toward her.

Constance stared at him in horror. “How can you say such a vile thing? And what gives you the

right

to say it? What makes you so different?”

“My dear Constance! Don’t think for a minute that I believe I’m better than the rest of the horde. I’m as guilty of the fundamental flaws of bestial man as anyone. And one of those flaws is self-interest. I am worth saving because I wish my life to continue—and I’m in a position to do something about it. This is not just the thin end of the wedge anymore: we are sailing toward catastrophe at flank speed. And on a practical level, how could I possibly save this ship? As in any catastrophe, it’s every man for himself.”

“Do you really think you could live with yourself if you abandoned all these people to their fate?”

“Of course I could. And so could you.”

Constance hesitated. “I’m not so sure,” she murmured. Deep down, a part of her found something deeply seductive in his words—and that is what disturbed her most of all.

“These people mean nothing to us. They are like the dead you read about in the newspapers. We will simply leave this floating Gomorrah and return to New York. We shall lose ourselves in intellectual pastimes, philosophy, poetry, discourse: 891 Riverside is exceedingly well furnished as a place of retirement, reflection, and seclusion.” He paused. “And was this not the way of your own first guardian, my distant relation, Enoch Leng? His crimes were far more heinous than our little moment of self-interest. And yet he managed to devote himself to a life of physical comfort and intellectual satisfaction. A long, longlife. You know this to be true, Constance: you were there with him, all along.” And he nodded again, as if this were the killing stroke of his argument.

“It’s true. I wasthere. I was there to see the pangs of conscience slowly eat through his peace of mind like worms through rotten wood. In the end there was so little left of a brilliant man it was almost a blessing when . . .” She could say no more. But her mind was made up now: she knew she could not be persuaded by Pendergast’s nihilistic message. “Aloysius, I don’t care what you say. This is horribly wrong. You’ve always helped others. You’ve devoted your entire career to it.”

“Precisely! And to what advantage? What has it ever profited me other than frustration, regret, alienation, mortification, pain, and reprimand? If I were to leave the FBI, do you think my absence would be mourned? Thanks in part to my own incompetence, my only friend in the Bureau died a most unpleasant death. No, Constance: I have at lastlearned a bitter truth. All this time, I’ve been laboring pointlessly—the fruitless labor of Sisyphus—trying to save that which, ultimately, is unsalvageable.” With that he eased himself down again in the leather armchair and picked up his teacup.

Constance looked at him in horror. “This isn’t the Aloysius Pendergast I know. You’ve changed. Ever since you came back from Blackburn’s stateroom, you’ve been acting strangely.”

Pendergast took another sip of tea, sniffed dismissively. “I’ll tell you what happened. The scales finally fell from my eyes.” Carefully, he placed the teacup back on the table and sat forward. “ Itshowed me the truth.”

“It?”

“The Agozyen. It’s a truly remarkable object, Constance, a mandala that allows you to see through to the realtruth at the center of the world: the pure, unadulterated truth. A truth so powerful that it would break a weak mind. But for those of us with strong intellects, it is a revelation. I knowmyself now: who I am, and—most importantly– what I want.”

“Don’t you remember what the monks said? The Agozyen is evil, a dark instrument of vengeance, whose purpose is to cleanse the world.”

“Yes. A somewhat ambiguous choice of words, isn’t it? Cleansethe world. I, of course, will not put it to such purpose. Rather, I will install it in the library of our Riverside Drive mansion, where I can spend a lifetime contemplating its wonders.” Pendergast sat back and picked up his teacup again. “The Agozyen will thus accompany me into the flotation device. As will you– assumingyou find my plan to be a palatable one.”

Constance swallowed. She did not reply.

“Time is growing short. The time has come for you to make your decision, Constance—are you with me . . . or against me?”

And as he took another sip, his pale cat’s eyes regarded her calmly over the rim of the teacup.

59

LESEUR HAD DECIDED THAT THE BEST WAY WAS TO GO ALONE.

Now he paused before the plain metal door to Commodore Cutter’s quarters, trying to calm his facial muscles and regulate his breathing. Once he felt as composed as possible, he stepped forward and knocked softly, two quick taps.

The door opened so quickly that LeSeur almost jumped. He was even more startled to see the commodore in civilian dress, wearing a gray suit and tie. The ex-master stood in the doorway, his cold stare affixed somewhere above and between LeSeur’s eyes, his small body projecting a granitelike solidity.

“Commodore Cutter,” LeSeur began, “I’ve come in my authority as acting captain of the ship to . . . ask for your assistance.”

Cutter continued to stare, the pressure of his gaze like a finger pushing on the middle of LeSeur’s forehead.

“May I come in?”

“If you wish.” Cutter stepped back. The quarters, which LeSeur had not seen before, were predictably spartan—functional, neat, and impersonal. There were no family pictures, no naval or nautical knick-knacks, none of the masculine accessories you normally saw in a captain’s quarters such as a cigar humidor, bar, or red leather armchairs.

Cutter did not invite LeSeur to sit down and remained standing himself.

“Commodore,” LeSeur began again slowly, “how much do you know about the situation the ship is in now?”

“I know only what I’ve heard on the PA,” said Cutter. “Nobody has visited me. Nobody has bothered to speak to me.”

“Then you don’t know that Captain Mason seized the bridge, took over the ship, increased speed to flank, and is intent on driving the

Britannia

onto the Carrion Rocks?”

A beat, and he mouthed the answer.

No.

“We can’t figure out how to stop her. She locked down the bridge with a Code Three. We strike the rocks in just over an hour.”

At this, Cutter took a slight step backward, wavered on his feet, then steadied. His face lost a little of its color. He said nothing.

LeSeur quickly explained the details. Cutter listened without interruption, face impassive. “Commodore,” LeSeur concluded, “only you and the staff captain know the cipher sequence for shutting down a Code Three alert. Even if we managed to get on the bridge and take Mason into custody, we would still have to stand down from Code Three before we could gain control of the ship’s autopilot. You know those codes. Nobody else does.”

A silence. And then Cutter said, “The company has the codes.”

LeSeur grimaced. “They claim to be looking for them. Frankly, Corporate is in utter disarray over this situation. Nobody seems to know where they are, and everybody is pointing fingers at everyone else.”

The flush returned to the captain’s face. LeSeur wondered what it was. Fear for the ship? Anger at Mason?

“Sir, it isn’t just a question of the code. You know the ship better than anyone else. We’ve got a crisis on our hands and four thousand lives hang in the balance. We’ve only got seventy minutes until we hit Carrion Rocks. We needyou.”

“Mr. LeSeur, are you asking me to resume command of this ship?” came the quiet question.

“If that’s what it takes, yes.”

“Say it.” “I’m asking you, Commodore Cutter, to resume command of the

Britannia

.”

The captain’s dark eyes glittered. When he spoke again, his voice was low and resonating with emotion. “Mr. LeSeur, you and the deck officers are mutineers. You are the vilest kind of human being to be found on the high seas. Some actions are so heinous they can’t be reversed. You mutinied and turned my command over to a psychopath. You and all your backstabbing, toadying, conniving, skulking lickspittles have been planning this treachery against me since we left port. Now you’ve reaped the whirlwind. No, sir: I will not help you. Not with the codes, not with the ship, not even to wipe your sorry nose. My remaining duty consists of only one thing: if the ship sinks, I will go down with it. Good day, Mr. LeSeur.”

The flush on Cutter’s face deepened still further, and LeSeur suddenly understood that it was not the result of anger, hatred, or apprehension. No—it was a flush of triumph: the sick triumph of vindication.

60

DRESSED IN THE SAFFRON ROBES OF A TIBETAN BUDDHIST MONK, Scott Blackburn drew the curtains across the sliding glass doors of his balcony, shutting out the grayness of the storm. Hundreds of butter candles filled the salon with a trembling yellow light, while two brass censers scented the air with the exquisite fragrance of sandalwood and kewra flower.

On a side table, a phone was ringing insistently. He eyed it with a frown, then walked over and picked it up.

“What is it?” he said shortly.

“Scotty?” came the high, breathless voice. “It’s me, Jason. We’ve been trying to reach your for hours! Look, everyone’s going crazy, we need to get ourselves to—”

“Shut the fuck up,” Blackburn said. “If you call me again, I’ll rip your throat out and flush it down the toilet.” And he gently replaced the receiver in its cradle.

His senses had never felt so keen, so alert, so focused. Beyond the doors of his suite he could hear shouting and cursing, pounding feet, screams, the deep boom of the sea. Whatever was happening, it did not concern him, and it could not touch him in his locked stateroom. Here he was safe—with the Agozyen.

As he went through his preparations, he thought about the strange trajectory of the last several days, and how his life had transcendentally changed. The call out of nowhere about the painting; seeing it for the first time in the hotel room; liberating it from its callow and undeserving owner; bringing it aboard ship. And then, that very same day, running into Carol Mason, staff captain on the ship—how strange life was! In the first flush of proud possession, he had shared the Agozyen with her, and then they had fucked so wildly, with such total abandon, that the coupling seemed to shiver the very foundations of his being. But then he had seen the change in her, just as he had seen the change in himself. He’d noticed the unmistakable, possessive hunger in her eyes, the glorious and terrifying abandonment of all the old and hidebound moral strictures.

It was only then he realized what he should have realized before: he had to be transcendentally careful to safeguard his prize. All who saw it would desire to possess it. Because the Agozyen, this incredible mandala-universe, had a unique power over the human mind. A power that could be liberated. And he, above all others, was in the perfect position to liberate it. He had the capital, the savvy, and—above all—the technology.With his graphical push technology he could deliver the image, in all its exquisite detail, to the entire world, at great profit and power to himself. With his unlimited access to capital and talent, he could unlock the image’s secrets and learn how it wrought its amazing effects on the human mind and body, and apply that information to the creation of other images. Everyone on the earth—at least, everyone who mattered even in the least degree—would be changed utterly. He would own the original; he would control how its likeness would be disseminated. The world would be a new place: hisplace.

Except that there was another who knew about the murder he’d committed. An investigator who—he was now convinced—had pursued him onto the ship. A man who was employing every possible means, even housekeepers on the Britanniastaff, to take from him his most precious possession. At the thought, he felt his blood pound, his heart quicken; he felt a hatred so intense that his ears seemed to hum and crackle with it. How the man learned about the Agozyen mandala, Blackburn didn’t know. Perhaps Ambrose had tried to sell it to him first; perhaps the man was another adept. But in the end it didn’t matter how the man had learned of it: his hours were severely numbered. Blackburn had seen the destructive work of a tulpa before, and the one he had summoned—through sheer force of will—was extraordinarily subtle and powerful. No human being could escape it.

He took a deep, shivering breath. He could not approach the Agozyen in such a state of hatred and fear, of material attachment. Trying to fulfill earthly desires was like carrying water to the sea; a never– ending task, and an ultimately useless one.

Taking deep, slow breaths, he sat down and closed his eyes, concentrating on nothing. When he felt the ripples in his mind smooth out, he stood again, walked to the far wall of the salon, removed the Braque painting, turned it over, and unfastened the false lining, exposing the thangka beneath. This he drew out with exquisite care and—keeping his eyes averted—hung it by a silken cord on a golden hook he had driven into the wall nearby.

Blackburn took his place before the painting and arranged himself in the lotus position, placing his right hand on his left, the thumbs touching to form a triangle. He bent his neck slightly and allowed the top of his tongue to touch the roof of his mouth near his upper teeth, his gaze unfocused and on the floor before him. Then, with delicious slowness, he raised his eyes and gazed upon the Agozyen mandala.

The image was beautifully illuminated by the glittering candles arrayed on silver platters, yellow and gold tints that played like liquid metal over the thangka’s surface. Gradually—very gradually—it opened to him. He felt its power flow through him like slow electricity.

The Agozyen mandala was a world unto itself, a separate universe as intricate and deep as our own, an infinite complexity locked on a two-dimensional surface with four edges. But to gaze upon the Agozyen was to magically liberate the image from its two dimensions. It took shape and form within the mind; the painting’s strange, intertwined lines becoming as so many electric wires flowing with the currents of his soul. As he became the painting and the painting became him, time slowed, dissolved, and ultimately ceased to exist; the mandala suffused his consciousness and his soul, owning him utterly: space without space, time without time, becoming everything and nothing at once . . .

61

THE HUSH THAT HAD FALLEN OVER THE DIMLY LIT SALON OF THE Tudor Suite belied the undercurrent of tension in the stateroom. Constance stood before Pendergast, watching as the agent calmly took another sip of his tea and placed the cup aside.

“Well?” he asked. “We don’t have all day.”

Constance took a deep breath. “Aloysius, I can’t believe you can sit there, so calmly, advocating something that’s against everything you’ve ever stood for.”

Pendergast sighed with ill-concealed impatience. “Please don’t insult my intelligence by protracting this pointless argument.”

“Somehow, the Agozyen has poisoned your mind.”

“The Agozyen has done no such thing. It has

liberated

my mind. Swept it clean of jejune and hidebound conventions of morality.”

“The Agozyen is an instrument of evil. The monks knew as much.”

“You mean, the monks who were too fearful to even gaze upon the Agozyen themselves?”

“Yes, and they were wiser than you. It seems the Agozyen has the power to strip away all that is good, and kind, and . . . and moderatein those who gaze upon it. Look what it did to Blackburn, how he murdered to get it. Look what it’s doing to you.”

Pendergast scoffed. “It breaks a weaker mind, but strengthens the stronger one. Look what it did to that maid, or to Captain Mason, for that matter.”

“What?”

“Really, Constance, I expected better of you. Of course Mason has seen it—what other explanation could there be? How, I don’t know and don’t care. She’s behind the disappearances and murders—very carefully escalated, you’ll notice—all to effect a mutiny and get the ship to divert to St. John’s, on which heading she could contrive to run it up onto the Carrion Rocks.”

Constance stared at him. The theory seemed preposterous—or did it? Almost despite herself, she could see some of the details begin to lock into place.

“But none of that is important anymore.” Pendergast waved his hand. “I won’t stand for any more delays. Come with me now.”

Constance hesitated. “On one condition.”

“And what is that, pray tell?”

“Join me in a Chongg Ran session first.”

Pendergast’s eyes narrowed. “Chongg Ran? How perverse—there isn’t time.”

“There

is

time. We both have the mental training to reach

stong pa nyid

quickly. What are you afraid of? That meditation will bring you back to normality?” This was, in fact, her own most fervent hope. “That’s absurd. There’s no turning back.”

“Then meditate with me.”

Pendergast remained motionless for a moment. Then his face changed again. Once more, he grew relaxed, confident, aloof.

“Very well,” he said. “I shall agree. But on one condition.”

“Name it.”

“I intend to take the Agozyen before leaving this ship. If Chongg Ran does not work to your satisfaction, then you will gaze on the Agozyen yourself. It shall free you, as it did me. This is a great gift I am giving you, Constance.”

Hearing this, Constance caught her breath.

Pendergast gave a cold smile. “You’ve named your terms. Now I’ve named mine.”

For a moment longer, she remained silent. Then she found her breath, looked into his silver eyes. “Very well. I accept.”

He nodded. “Excellent. Then shall we begin?”

Just then, a knock sounded on the front door of the suite. Constance stepped over to the entryway and opened it. Outside in the hallway stood a worried-looking Marya.

“I’m sorry, Ms. Greene,” she said. “No doctor to be found. I search everywhere, but this ship go crazy, crying, drinking, looting—”

“It’s all right. Will you do me one last favor? Could you wait outside the door for a few minutes, please, and make sure we’re not disturbed?”

The woman nodded.

“Thank you so much.” Then, shutting the door softly behind her, she returned to the living room, where Pendergast had settled himself cross-legged on the carpet, placed the backs of his wrists on his knees, and was waiting with perfect complacency.

62

COREY PENNER, INFORMATION TECHNOLOGY MATE SECOND CLASS, sat in the glow of the central server room on Deck B, hunched over a data access terminal.

Hufnagel, the IT chief, leaned over Penner’s shoulder, gazing at the display through filmy glasses. “So,” he said. “Can you do it?”

The question was accompanied by a wash of sour breath, and Penner tightened his lips. “Doubt it. Looks pretty heavily defended.”

Privately, he was sure he could do it. There were few, if any, systems on the Britanniahe couldn’t hack his way into—but it didn’t pay to advertise that, especially to his boss. The more they thought you could do, the more they’d ask you to do—he’d learned that the hard way. And the fact was he didn’t really want anybody to know just how he traversed the ship’s off-limits data services during his leisure hours. Close attention to the Britannia’s pay-for-play movie streaming, for example, had allowed him to amass a nice private library of first-run DVDs.

He tapped a few keys and a new screen came up:

HMS BRITANNIA – CENTRAL SYSTEMS

AUTONOMOUS SERVICES (MAINTENANCE MODE)

PROPULSION

GUIDANCE

HVAC

ELECTRICAL

FINANCIAL

TRIM / STABILIZERS

EMERGENCY

Penner moused over GUIDANCE and chose AUTOPILOT from the sub-menu that appeared. An error message came onto the screen: AUTOPILOT MAINTENANCE MODE NOT ACCESSIBLE WHILE SYSTEM IS ENGAGED.

Well, he’d expected that. Exiting the menu system, he brought up a command prompt and began typing quickly. A series of small windows appeared on the screen.

“What are you doing now?” Hufnagel asked.

“I’m going to use the diagnostic back door to access the autopilot.” Just how he was going to get access, he wouldn’t say: Hufnagel didn’t need to know everything.

A phone rang in a far corner of the server room and one of the technicians answered it. “Mr. Hufnagel, call for you, sir.” The technician had a strained, worried look on his face. Penner knew he’d probably be worried, too, if he didn’t have such a high opinion of his own skills.

“Coming.” And Hufnagel stepped away.

Thank God. Quickly, Penner plucked a CD from the pocket of his lab coat, slid it into the drive, and loaded three utilities into memory: a systems process monitor, a cryptographic analyzer, and a hex disassembler. He returned the CD to his pocket and minimized the three programs just before Hufnagel returned.

A few mouse clicks and a new screen appeared:

HMS BRITANNIA—CENTRAL SYSTEMS

AUTONOMOUS SYSTEMS (DIAGNOSTIC MODE)

SUBSYSTEM VII

CORE AUTOPILOT HANDLING SUBSTRUCTURE

He thought he’d ask a question before Hufnagel started in again. “When—I mean, if—I transfer control of the handling routines, what next?”

“Deactivate the autopilot. Kill it completely, and switch manual control of the helm to the aux bridge.”

Penner licked his lips. “It isn’t really true that Captain Mason seized the—”

“Yes, it is. Now get on with it.”

Penner felt, for the first time, a stab of something like apprehension. Making sure that the process monitor was active, he selected the autopilot and clicked the “diagnostics” button. A new window opened and a storm of numbers scrolled past.

“What’s that?”

Penner glanced at the process monitor, sighing inwardly. Typical IT chief,he thought. Hufnagel new all the latest buzzwords like “blade farm load-balancing” and “server virtualization,” and he could double-talk the officers until he was blue in the face, but he didn’t know jack about the real nuts and bolts of running a complex data system. Aloud, he said, “It’s the autopilot data, running in real time.”

“And?”

“And I’m going to reverse engineer it, find the interrupt stack, then use the internal trigger events to disrupt the process.”

Hufnagel nodded sagely, as if he understood what the hell he’d just been told. A long moment passed as Penner scrutinized the data.

“Well?” Hufnagel said. “Go ahead. We have less than an hour.”

“It’s not quite that easy.”

“Why not?”

Penner gestured at the screen. “Take a look. Those aren’t hexadecimal commands. They’ve been encrypted.”

“Can you remove the encryption?”

Can a bear shit in the woods?Penner thought. Quite suddenly, he realized that—if he played this right—he’d most likely get himself a nice fat bonus, maybe even a promotion. Corey Penner, IT mate first class, hero hacker who saved the Britannia’s ass.

He liked the sound of that—it even rhymed. He began to relax again; this was going to be a piece of cake. “It’s going to be tough, real tough,” he said, giving his tone just the right amount of melodrama. “There’s a serious encryption routine at work here. Anything you can tell me about it?”

Hufnagel shook his head. “The autopilot coding was outsourced to a German software firm. Corporate can’t find the documentation or specs. And it’s after office hours in Hamburg.”

“Then I’ll have to analyze its encoding signature before I can determine what decryption strategy to use on it.”

As Hufnagel watched, he piped the autopilot datastream through the cryptographic analyzer. “It’s using a native hardware-based encryption system,” he announced.

“Is that bad?”

“No, it’s good. Usually, hardware encryption is pretty weak, maybe 32-bit stuff. As long as it’s not AES or some large-bit algorithm, I should be able to crack—er, decrypt it—in a little while.”

“We don’t

have

a little while. Like I said, we have less than an hour.”

Penner ignored this, peering closely at the analyzer window. Despite himself, he was getting into the problem. He realized he didn’t care any longer if his boss saw the unorthodox tools he was using.

“Well?” Hufnagel urged.

“Just hold on, sir. The analyzer is determining just how strong the encryption is. Depending on the bit depth, I can run a side-channel attack, or maybe . . .”

The analyzer finished, and a stack of numbers popped up. Despite the warmth of the server room, Penner felt himself go cold.

“Jesus,” he murmured.

“What is it?” Hufnagel asked instantly.

Penner stared at the data, confounded. “Sir, you said less than an hour. An hour until . . . what, exactly?”

“Until the

Britannia

collides with the Carrion Rocks.”

Penner swallowed. “And if this doesn’t work—what’s plan B?”

“Not your concern, Penner. Just keep going.”

Penner swallowed. “The routine’s employing elliptic curve cryptography. Cutting-edge stuff. 1024-bit public key front end with a 512-bit symmetric key back end.”

“So?” the IT chief asked. “How long is it going to take you?”

In the silence that followed the question, Penner suddenly became aware of the deep throb of the ship’s engines, the dull slamming of the bow driven at excessive speed through a head sea, the muffled rush of wind and water audible even over the roar of cooling fans in the windowless room.