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The computer calculated for a second, scouring billions upon billions of records, cross-referencing them and looking for any link, connection, or bit of data they might have missed. Finally, it spoke:
“No meaningful influence on this project can be derived from Daniel Watterson’s post-1905 actions,” it said. “One statistical improbability detected.”
Yaeger turned toward the main screen. “What would that be?”
“According to obituary records, Daniel Watterson and General Harold Cortland both died on the same day. Their deaths occurred in separate states and from different causes. However, both obituaries were exactly fifty-one words in length and contained identical phrasing, except for the name of the deceased, cause of death, and location. Statistical probability of that occurring, considering the difference in their ages, occupations, and domiciles, computes to less than.01 percent.”
Pitt and Yaeger exchanged glances. “Sounds like I’ll be nudging the NSA’s database,” Yaeger said.
“Sometimes, it’s easier to apologize than get permission,” Pitt noted.
Yaeger nodded. “Remind me of that when we’re breaking rocks at Leavenworth.”
TWENTY-TWO
Pacific Voyager
2,400 miles southwest of Perth
Patrick “Padi” Devlin stood on the black-painted deck of the sailing abomination that had once been the Pacific Voyager. The wind was bitterly cold as it whipped around the front of the ship. Sleet had begun spitting from the steel gray sky, and mist in the air had reduced visibility to less than a mile for the past few hours.
Devlin pulled his coat tight, shoved his hands deep into his pockets, and wished mightily for a scarf. Still, he didn’t want to go back inside.
“Thank you for letting me out on deck,” he said to a figure, hovering behind him: Janko Minkosovic, his old crewmate and current jailer.
“I can’t see any harm in it. Not like you’re going to swim back to Jakarta.”
“I noticed you didn’t extend the same courtesy to the others in the hold.”
“There are twenty-six of them,” Janko said. “They come from a pair of vessels we hit. Together, they could be a danger.”
Devlin considered that. Did it mean Janko had only a small crew on board?
The wind gusted and the
sleet intensified. From the temperature and the cobalt blue of the sea, Devlin guessed they’d been traveling south. He couldn’t see the sun, but he guessed they were well into the Roaring Forties now, maybe even farther south. It looked like a storm was brewing.
“Remind you of anything?” Janko asked.
“The day this hulk went down,” Devlin replied.
“The day you cut us loose.”
“You know that was the captain’s choice,” Devlin shot back. “I begged him to hold on.”
“Stop blaming him,” Janko said. “For that matter, stop blaming yourself, Padi. Look at you. You’re a worse wreck than this ship. And you thought you’d make captain someday.”
Devlin cut his eyes at Janko.
“There was nothing any of you could have done,” Janko said. “We set it up that way. If you hadn’t released the cable, we’d have cut through it ourselves.”
“Who?” Devlin asked sharply. “Who’s we? And why? To fake the ship’s destruction? She was already a derelict. She wasn’t even insured.”
“The man I work for bought her,” Janko explained, “years before. All that time in dry dock at Tarakan, he had people working on her. Making changes. When the moment came, he needed her to disappear. So he ordered us to tow her into the storm.”
Devlin stared at Janko. “But you were part of the crew. Our crew!”
“For six months, along with the other two. He arranged that with your employer.”
