held even to the value of a cigar,” Clarise said grimly.
“My father is still ambitious,” Mersano went on, “but his ambitions exist now for their own sake. Wealth is only a means to an end with him. He’ll never be satisfied. And now he’s negotiating with outsiders who’ve promised him support if he stages a new assault on China.”
“These outsiders you mentioned…do they happen to travel under the name of the Millennial Consortium?” Kane intoned quietly.
Clarise’s eyes narrowed, her full lips creasing in a frown. “They do. Is it because of them you are here? To prevent that alliance?”
Kane dug into a pants pocket and produced a small button made of base metal. He flipped it toward Clarise, who snatched it out of the air. Holding it close to the flame of the candle, she examined the image inscribed upon it: the stylized representation of a standing, featureless man holding a cornucopia—a horn of plenty—in his left hand and a sword in his right, both crossed over his chest.
“Have you seen anyone wearing that button?” Kane asked.
Clarise nodded. Tossing aside her rain cloak, she turned out the lapel of her shirt and displayed an identical disk. “This should give you an idea of how deep the infiltration has become. Even Saragayn’s top officers are required to wear those buttons.”
“Who is the consortium emissary?” Grant asked.
“He goes by the name of Mr. Book. Obviously an alias.”
“Obviously,” Grant agreed. “Is he here now?”
The woman shook her head. “I don’t know. Perhaps he got wind of the insurrection and fled, with the idea of returning and cutting a deal with the winner.”
Kane smiled without humor. “Yeah, that’s the consortium’s strategy, all right.”
“I placed my men all along the waterfront,” Mersano said. “Even aboard the Juabal Hadiah. Scores of them are masquerading as laborers, fishermen, deckhands. We thought when the time came, we would strike all at once and seize power quickly.”
“We were betrayed,” Clarise said softly, bleakly.
“That’s all very interesting,” Grant stated, “but at this point all we care about is recovering our friend and getting out of here.”
“Captain Saragayn won’t let Baptiste go now,” Clarise replied.
Kane’s jaw muscles tightened into knots. “Why not?”
“For one thing,” Mersano said, “he might suspect she had something to do with the insurrection.”
“Or,” Grant interjected, “if she was spotted by the consortium agent and recognized, she could have been ratted out.”
“Or,” Clarise said, “there could be a simpler explanation—Saragayn wants her for himself. But whatever the reason, if you want Baptiste back, your only option is to ally yourselves with us. I’m sure you’ve heard the old bromide about the enemy of my enemy is my friend.”
“Yeah, we have.” Kane blew out a disgusted breath. “Too many damn times.”
Chapter 3
After the first warhead exploded, Brigid Baptiste plunged into the crowded emporium of vice, figuring Captain Saragayn wouldn’t think to look for her among the prostitutes, gambling tables and cockfighting arenas.
Brigid found it difficult to believe that the huge palace of lust and greed was confined within the hulls of a ship. As far as she had been able to learn, the Juabal Hadiah pandered to all tastes, however mundane or perverted. Gambling, drugs, women or even children, she reflected grimly.
Brigid crossed a casino swiftly, trying not to appear intent on leaving. The various gambling stations were decorated with colorful bunting and a band played a variety of musical instruments, blaring forth with a cacophony at a volume she found painful.
From the ceiling hung mirror balls that reflected distorted bird’s-eye views of the blackjack, roulette, paikow and fan-tan tables. The beeps, burps and bells of slot machines added to the clangor.
Barely audible over the noise rose the murmur of a dozen languages, as varied as the clothing styles worn by the men and women clientele—white jackets, saris, Malay sarongs and bajus.
Brigid felt distinctly underdressed in her black whipcord pants with the cuffs tucked into thick-soled combat boots. She wore a gray T-shirt that accentuated her full-breasted, willowy figure. Her bare arms rippled with hard, toned muscle.
A tall woman with a fair complexion, Brigid’s high forehead gave the impression of a probing intellect, whereas her full underlip hinted at an appreciation of the sensual. A mane of red-gold hair fell down her back in a long sunset-colored braid to the base of her spine. Her emerald eyes were narrowed behind the rectangular lenses of her wire-rimmed spectacles as she pushed through the crowd.
Brigid ignored a drink offered to her by a surprisingly buxom Asian woman in a topless outfit and circled a baccarat table. She didn’t think she was pursued by Saragayn’s security staff. She assumed—she hoped—they had other matters to occupy them. She just kept moving through the low-ceilinged gambling hall.
Her distinctly un-Asian features and coloring did not draw the attention of the patrons. Most of them were too engrossed in their own activities at the roulette wheel and blackjack tables to give her more than cursory glances. Still, she kept the TP-9 autopistol pressed against her right thigh as she walked.
Cages filled with colorfully plumed tropical birds hung on the walls and they screeched in agitation. They sensed the violence outside on the decks of the huge ship.
The smell of roasting meat drew her toward a small kitchen. Small, sweating men stripped to the waist labored over smoking grills. Cigarettes dangled from their lower lips, and the stench of marijuana mixed in with the odor of flame-seared fat.
Brigid swiftly moved through the kitchenette, barely avoiding being spattered by sizzling grease. She went through the door on the far side and found herself in a cool, dimly lit corridor. Soft red carpeting muffled her steps, and she paused to catch her breath.
Wincing, she flexed the fingers of her right hand, noting that they all moved despite the pain. She had punched Mr. Book in the face, but her knuckles seemed intact. She hoped the same thing could not be said for his jaw.
Reaching up behind her ear, Brigid activated the Commtact and opened the channel to Kane and Grant. She heard only the hiss and pop of static, and she guessed her partners were forced to retreat out of the reception range of the little comm unit. She tamped down the rise of fear, finding it hard to assemble her thoughts.
Kane had told her more than once there was a time to fight and a time to run for cover. She still didn’t know what had happened to Kane and Grant, since the situation developed with startling rapidity, but she had taken advantage of it nevertheless.
Upon arriving in Pandakar early in the afternoon, she, Grant and Kane had spent only a short time learning the lay of the land before entering the island’s only settlement. Definitely taller than most of the people in the noisy, narrow, crowded streets, the Cerberus warriors let themselves be carried along by the press of bodies, the conical straw hats
