Page 61 (2/2)

Bo Pan nodded. He’d made several short, intense cell-phone calls about an angry uncle from Cleveland, which was his handler’s code name for navy s.h.i.+ps.

“Then we should wait,” Steve said. “The Platypus will reach our boat in a few hours. The military has to be scanning for any kind of communication. If we broadcast anything before the Platypus gets here, there’s a chance the military will pick off that signal.”

And if they did, what then? Could they triangulate, find the Mary Ellen Moffett? Steve was an American citizen … the thought had never crossed his mind before, but would he be tried for treason?

The moment of elation pa.s.sed. He’d achieved his objective, but what now? Bo Pan was standing right next to him. Bo Pan, the man with the gun. And as for beating the world’s superpower? Maybe they’d trace this back to him anyway, somehow, no matter how good he’d made his encryption.

Steve wanted to go back to the family restaurant. He wanted to see his mother, listen to his father talk about how hard things had been when he was a kid. Steve wanted to roll forks and knives in napkins, snap the heads off a thousand green beans. He didn’t want to go anywhere near his creation ever again.

“Bo Pan, when you have the container … can I go home?”

The old man laughed. “Soon, my young hero. Go tell the owners of this boat that as soon as the Platypus returns, we are leaving.”

Steve looked up at the smiling old man.

“Leaving? For Benton Harbor?”

Bo Pan shook his head. “No. For Chicago.”

GAMBLING

Clarence stood in the airlock of the control room, fumbling with the biosafety suit’s awkward seals and latches. He just wanted to get the thing off and sit down for a few minutes.

He’d carried the canister of yeast out of the living quarters, gone up the long stairs to the upper deck, all the while wearing the suit. Yasaka had positioned armed guards around him, even established a kill zone — approach Clarence Otto, and you would be shot. He’d carried the yeast to the helipad, handed it directly to a similarly suited man in a waiting Seahawk helicopter. That man had given Clarence something in return: a small, gray, airtight case.

Only when the Seahawk lifted off had Clarence looked around and taken in the dozens of men and women — all exposed to the open air — staring at him like he was a visitor from another world. He was even wearing a s.p.a.ce suit, so to speak. They stared because they knew that he was safe, and they were not.

New case in hand, Clarence had headed back down. Decon through the living quarters airlock, keep the suit on while entering the lab area, decon again, climb to the control room airlock, decon a third time, and finally he was free.

He fell more than sat into the console’s comfortable chair. The gray case still had some bleach and disinfectant beaded up on it. Clarence brushed the wetness away, then opened it.

Inside, a bulky cell phone.

“Aw, Murray, you shouldn’t have.”

He’d seen this kind before. The bulkiness came from the encryption hardware loaded inside. The phone bypa.s.sed all s.h.i.+p communication, used the normal cell-phone signal available this far from sh.o.r.e. Sometimes spy hardware used secret satellites, gear that cost millions, and sometimes it just used what was available.

<script>