“I find it hard to believe, with that history, that Halak would have been allowed into the Academy.”

Sivek spoke. “A masterful forgery, Captain. As I recall, this type of subterfuge isn’t exactly unknown. Wasn’t there an incident only two years ago where a young man tried to hide the fact that a great-aunt was Cardassian?”

“Yes, but that was discovered.”

“Only because the young man’s forgeries were poorly made. Think, Captain. It stands to reason that, logically, for every person Starfleet catches, there must be others who slip by simply because their forgeries are more expert.”

“Or they have powerful contacts,” said Burke. “In fairness to SI, Captain, we didn’t know about Halak until after the Ryn incident. There were enough questions about exactly what happened for Starfleet Intelligence to take a good hard look at the commander. After we concluded that his records were a forgery, we started inquiries. We discovered that the commander was and has been lying for a very long time. Sivek?”

Sivek ordered the computer to display another case file. The screen filled with a full frontal and profile shot of a man who looked to be in his mid-forties and who Garrett saw at once had to be Halak’s father. There was the same set of the jaw, the same jet-black eyes.

“Najm al Din el-Malk, deceased,” said Sivek. “Halak’s father changed the family name when they went to Deneb V. Prior to that, records indicate that he was arrested on trafficking charges but released for lack of evidence. Then el-Malk disappeared. Years later, a man named Nu’man al-Halak died when his ship fell into the Deneb sun. How he ended up so close to the sun is a mystery. Nu’man al-Halak was rated an excellent pilot.”

“If he burned up, there’s no body for DNA comparison,” said Garrett. “How do you know they’re the same man, or that Halak’s related?”

Sivek acknowledged Captain Garrett’s point with a nod of his sleek head. “We don’t have definitive proof. There is nothing on either el-Malk, or Nu’man al-Halak in Federation databases. Their records appear to have been erased.”

Garrett frowned. “No records at all? That’s almost inconceivable. You’re talking influence at the highest levels for that to happen.”

“That is one conclusion. Interestingly, at the same time that Nu’man al-Halak dies, another individual, much younger, shows up in our records.”

Sivek called up another file and Nu’man’s face dissolved into the face of a young man with the same cast of his jaw and fierce set to his eyes. “Baatin al-Halak.”

“Who is he?”

“Was. He was murdered in a gang-style killing. And he was your commander’s older brother.”

Despite the bombshell, Garrett’s expression was neutral. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Halak put a hand to his brow. “But, of course, you have no corroborating proof because his DNA isn’t on file, am I right?”

Sivek conceded the point with a nod of his head. “My hypothesis, however, is sound. Mahfouz Qadir, Nu’man al-Halak’s employer, had Baatin assassinated when Qadir learned that Baatin was dealing with the Orion Syndicate. Baatin must have been alerted. Before he died, he provided his younger brother—your first officer—with false documentation, provided by the Orion Syndicate. That way, no one would ever suspect Halak’s connection to Qadir, or Farius Prime.”

“And why would the Syndicate be so helpful?”

Burke picked up the thread. “Because the Syndicate knew that Halak would avenge his brother’s death, and the Syndicate, as the Qatala’s fiercest rivals, was only too happy to oblige. I know that Commander Batanides filled you in on our latest intelligence regarding the Orion Syndicate. Now, what I’m going to show you next, Captain, occurred when Commander Halak and Lieutenant Batra were on Farius Prime.”

Burke called up a computer record, and in another instant, an image blurred then cohered on the viewscreen. The scene had clearly been recorded at night; wedges of light fanned doorways to structures that looked to Garrett like warehouses.

She heard Halak straighten in his chair. Sparing him a quick glance, she saw that his eyes were wide, and an expression of dumbfounded amazement played over his features.

She turned back to Burke. “Where is this?”

“Tajora Street, the warehouse district right off the Galldean Sea. Those structures are all Qatala-owned.”

“Did you take these?”

“No. I’ve never been to Farius Prime, Captain. We have our sources, of course. But everything we need to hang Commander Halak is in his records, and right here. Computer, magnify.”

The computer complied, and Garrett saw a quartet of figures clustered near the entrance to one of the warehouses. She frowned as she realized that one figure’s skin was blue—the Bolian, Matsaro.

“Computer, enhance,” said Burke.

The figures wavered into focus. The image was grainy, and there were many shadows cutting across, but the figures were unmistakable. Halak. Batra. A woman, about Batra’s age, dressed in a hooded black cloak. And the Bolian.

“Who’s the woman?” asked Stern.

“Her name is Arava. She’s a highly placed member of the Asfar Qatala. Only she’s double-dealing. She’s really an Orion Syndicate operative.” Burke tapped the viewscreen with a finger. “And that’s yourfirst officer, Captain. Make no mistake. We have every reason to believe that Halak’s plan has been to hide in plain sight, knowing that, eventually, he would come into a position of trust and authority. What’s more, he’d have free run of Federation worlds. Armed with this advantage, he went back to Farius Prime: not to help anyone, or visit an old woman who doesn’t exist. No, he went back to make contact with Baatin’s people—Orion Syndicate operatives like Arava—planted throughout Qadir’s organization. Undoubtedly, part of his plan was to map out shipments of red ice, most likely to underprotected Federation outposts, just as he tried, and failed to do in Ryn space. But his aim is to take over the business, taking down Qadir and helping the Orion Syndicate. This is a personal vendetta, Captain, and I’m sorry to say that Starfleet’s been his cover.”

Burke turned from Garrett to Halak. They locked eyes. “And as for visiting a woman,” Burke said, “the only woman Halak came to see was Arava because, you see, Arava was—and is—Halak’s lover.”

Suddenly, Garrett felt her knees buckle. Groping, she found the nearest chair, dropped. She was acutely aware of every sensation at that moment: the tiny pops and crackles of her knees; the friction of her clothing around her wrists, her throat; the way her mouth was drier than sand.

In the silence, Garrett heard Stern’s murmured, “Oh, Lord.” If Tyvan had any reaction, he kept it to himself.

Then someone said, “That’s crazy.” Halak. “That’s crazy,” he said again. His head was in his hands, and his voice was muffled, strangled and he sounded as if he were either on the verge of tears, or a nervous breakdown. His fingers clutched at his hair as if he wanted to yank it out by the roots. “Crazy, you’ve got it all wrong.”

Burke opened her mouth, but Garrett put up a hand. “What did they get wrong, Halak? Which part of the story?”

“So much of it, so much of it.”

“But not all of it?”

And then Halak looked up. His eyes were sunken and his face drawn and hollowed out, as if he’d aged a century in the last hour. “Captain,” he began, and stopped.

“Halak?”

But Halak was already shaking his head. “I’m sorry, Captain, please forgive me,” he said, finally. His black gaze locked on Garrett. “But I respectfully decline to respond as my answers may incriminate me.”