The younger Noortman’s leg healed, although he would walk with a slight limp for the rest of his life. He remained in Hong Kong doing contract work for various organizations, some legal, some not. A year after the events recorded here he was recruited by a Russian mafia don who wanted to expand his empire into maritime shipping. He never did track down the true owners of the Agafia.

PETER WOLF NEVER RETURNED to Odessa. There was a Pedro Lobo who surfaced in Rio de Janeiro a year later. He was joined by a ravishing young Russian woman who lavished affection on him and then disappeared with a substantial portion of his more liquid assets, including a handful of uncut diamonds from the wall safe, the combination of which he had been so unwise as to give her. He took it well. “At least she left me enough to live on,” he said, and was soon seen in the clubs with another, even more ravishing girl from the Philippines.

No evidence was ever found to connect the Ja brothers to the bombing of his office.

WHEN LAST HEARD FROM, Arlene Harte was in Anaktuvuk Pass, Alaska, writing a column about the annual migration of the Western Arctic caribou herd. Knight-Ridder has made an offer for a syndicated column, and she is considering it.

IN MAY ENSIGN HANK Ryan was promoted to lieutenant and given command of a one-hundred-ten-footer out of Pensacola, Florida. Ensign Robert Ostlund took early retirement with a medical disability. Ensign Reese was promoted to lieutenant, junior grade. Seamen Delgado and Lewis were promoted to petty officers. Chief Mark Edelen put in for retirement and invested in a marina in Corpus Christi.

FIVE YEARS LATER, LILAH Chase was diagnosed with a virulent case of pancreatic cancer. She died two weeks later, in great pain. Shortly thereafter Eli Chase was diagnosed with leukemia. He survived.

“IT REALLY IS OVAl,” Sara said, looking around her.

“Ye-ees,” the flunky said. “The president will be right with you, Commander, Admiral.”

“Thank you,” Sara said politely. She seemed incapable of being anything but these days. She limped forward with the aid of a cane. It turned out she had cracked her right fibula when the Sojourner Truth went aground on Fox Island, and in the press of business hadn’t noticed. It was taking a tiresomely long time to heal.

Admiral Elwood “Woodie” Long, commandant of the U.S. Coast Guard and no fool, gave her a penetrating look, and held his peace.

Sure enough, a few minutes later the president walked in and exchanged handshakes and backslaps with Admiral Long, who then introduced Sara. Sara accepted the president’s hand and stared at the face usually seen at the top of the hour on CNN and pretended to listen to his words of praise with a pleasant, attentive expression.

She became aware of silence and realized that the president had stopped speaking. “Thank you very much, sir,” she said gravely, and looked at the admiral, waiting for the signal to go.

“I mean it, Commander,” the president said, who seemed like a nice man, only very insistent on getting and keeping her attention. He smiled. “I heard you backed your cutter onto the beach. Is that true?”

“Yes, sir,” she said, still polite. “We lost the bow when we rammed the freighter. It was the only way.”

His smile widened. “An inspired solution.” He sighed, his smile fading. “I wish we could acknowledge your heroism, Commander, and that of your crew, but we feel at the present time that it would be most unwise to allow this story to be told. Later, perhaps, when the country is less unsettled…”

“I quite understand, sir,” Sara said, looking at the admiral again.

“Anything we can do, Commander,” the president said, “say the word.”

Sara smiled her bright, shiny smile and took the offer for what it was, a politeness, a courtesy, meaningless.

And then, halfway through the door, she turned. “Mr. President?”

He looked up from his desk, around which more flunkies had begun to gather like moths to a flame. “Yes, Commander?”

“There is something you could do for me.”

The admiral put his hand on Sara’s elbow. She shook it off.

The president missed these cues and smiled at them both. He really would like to do something for her. Yes, a nice man. “What’s that, Commander?”

“Fire your CIA director,” Sara said. “He’s too dumb to live.”

In the car, the admiral said heavily, “You just kissed your two-eighty goodbye, Commander.”

“Yes, sir,” Sara said.

“I’ll do what I can, but…”

“Yes, sir.”

THE BRITISH AIRWAYS 747 taxied up to the gate at Heathrow, and passengers, weary from five hours of sitting with their knees jammed up against the seatback in front of them, began to disembark, stumbling a little from sheer exhaustion.

Sara went through immigration, where the officer raised his eyebrows when he saw her Coast Guard identification. “A sailor, are you?” he said as he stamped her passport and handed it back to her.

“I was,” she said.

She got her luggage and walked unmolested through customs. At the arrivals gate, she paused, looking around. She had been told that she would be met.

“Hi, Sara.”

She turned. “Hugh.” She felt a glad rush, and put her face up to be kissed. He looked like she felt, older and by some indefinable measure less idealistic, as if he had lost his innocence.

He, too, was leaning on a cane. “Look,” he said, holding it up. “Matching outfits.”

“I thought you were in D.C. lobbying for a transfer to the U.S. embassy in London,” she said. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m meeting my wife. I told your office I’d pick you up.” He looked at her epaulets and whistled. “A full commander now, I see. Congratulations.”

“Thanks.”

“I’ve got a taxi. I bribed a security guard to let it wait for us out front. This way.” He gestured with his cane. “So,” he said, “the nation’s representative to the International Maritime Organization. That’s pretty impressive.”

“I wanted a ship,” she said.

“You always want a ship, Sara,” he said, holding the door.

The sun was shining outside, warm on their faces.

“Here,” he said, stopping by a black London taxi. The driver got out and helped stow her bags.

“This is going to cost a fortune,” she said.

“That’s okay. I’ve got plenty of money,” he said.

She looked at him. “Since when?”

“Since I quit and cashed out my retirement.”

They climbed into the cab and settled in behind their luggage. “Where to, mates?” the driver said looking in the rearview mirror, and Hugh gave him an address. “Righto,” the driver said happily, and they pulled into traffic.

All Sara could think to say was, “Why, Hugh? It was your dream job.

“Not much point in working for them if they won’t listen to me. Be cause, as you know, I’m always right.”

Another ghost of a smile. Encouraged, he said ruefully, “Besides, wasn’t getting all kinds of encouragement to hang around. The director seemed suddenly to have taken a dislike to me. I can’t understand it myself, but there it is.”

“What are you going to do?”

He smiled at her. “I’ll think of something.” He changed the subject. “Is it true that you told the president to shove it?”

She was honestly shocked. “No! Where did you hear that?”

“The O’Reilly Factor.”

She relaxed. “Oh. Well. Consider the source.”

“Also the New York Times, the Washington Post, the Chicago Tribune, the-”