The Mandarin! she realized and jumped from the stool. Nothing to do now but hide, and that seemed so childish, so stupid that it could never work.

  All the brains in the world, and all I can think to do is hide.

  Let me tell you, Saoirse girl, said the ghost of her granddad, hiding beats dying every minute of the day and every day of the week.

  Amen, brother, said Tony Stark, who was getting very pally with her granddad all of a sudden.

  But they were both right, Saoirse knew. There was nothing to do but hide.

  She turned and scanned the bridge desperately for somewhere to stash herself—somewhere that might not be examined too closely.

  Her eyes landed on the stowage cabinet above the semicircular couch area on the port side. This was where the life jackets were traditionally kept. It would be a tight squeeze, certainly, but possibly a spot that would remain unchecked—and if the ship went down, at least she would have a life jacket.

  Saoirse opened the nearest cabinet door, then bounced a couple of times on the sofa until she had the altitude to get a grip on the bottom of the shelf. She hoisted herself up, wriggled inside, and nestled between the life jackets and sacks of junk. It was only when the Mandarin and his remaining warriors trooped onto the bridge that Saoirse remembered something.

  I forgot to reset the stool.

  Which would be a really stupid reason to get killed.

  Saoirse lay zigzagged in the storage cabinet, her body folded between the life jackets and seafaring detritus, waiting to be discovered and shot, which was not quite as cheery as waiting for Santa. Squinting through a crack in the door, she witnessed the Mandarin punch the television set, and she knew then that Tony Stark was alive and Cole Vanger had died in his attempt to assassinate the environmental ministers.

  In your fat lying face, Chen, or whatever your name is! she exulted internally, and then, Go, Tony, you egotistical capitalist.

  Once the exulting fever had passed, Saoirse got back to the business of staying alive, which mostly involved shallow breathing, ignoring itches, and resisting the impulse to cry out, “You idiots betrayed me!”

  She lay there and discovered that Spin Zhuk was claiming to have shot her. It crossed her mind that she should reveal herself just to get Spin in trouble, but this notion was as fleeting as it was idiotic, and Saoirse decided that she would keep up her shallow-breathing routine rather than get herself tossed overboard to prove a point.

  Her only sticky moment came when, moments later, Spin was left alone on the bridge and set about plotting the course to the small inlet north of Dublin city in which the Royal G nestled. Without looking at the stool, Spin pointed her own seat at its seat—or rather, where its seat should have been—but instead, she got bumped in the small of her back.

  “Huh?” she said thoughtfully, spinning the seat on its swivel. “I am not leaving it this way.”

  Inside the storage cabinet, Saoirse quailed and stopped breathing altogether, hugging a random sack of junk.

  But Spin Zhuk’s mind supplied an explanation for itself. “Stupid Leveque,” she said, “and his stupid little legs. Always he messes with my settings.” And she tugged at the adjustment lever until the seat dropped to her liking.

  Saoirse allowed herself a relieved exhale, but it was a quiet one, as though she were warming her hands, and she hugged the sack closer for comfort. Something about the contours of whatever was inside seemed familiar.

  “No way,” she whispered, or more accurately, she made the shapes of the words with her mouth.

  If what was inside the sack was what she thought was inside, then she might have found a way to contact Tony Stark.

  Tony Stark would not have been much use to Saoirse at that moment even if she had been able to contact him. He was lying on the operating table in his yacht’s sick bay, having both his legs operated on by robot arms that moved at dazzling speeds inside a blob of clear gel that covered Stark to his neck.

  Diavolo Conroy was watching the process with less amazement than might be expected under the circumstances.

  “I’m guessing, Tony boy,” said the Irish inspector, “that this treatment is not available on Medicare?”

  “And I’m guessing that your parents liked pizza, to name you Diavolo,” said Tony.

  “It’s a long story,” said Diavolo, “which normally I would love to tell you, but there are more pressing matters. Like those robots with lasers. Do they know what they’re doing?”

  “Pretty much,” said Tony. “Still a few bugs to iron out.”

  As if to prove his point, a robot arm sliced off one of Stark’s little toes, then hurriedly lasered it back on.

  “Holy mother of baby leprechauns,” exclaimed Conroy.

  Stark had felt not a thing. “What happened?”

  The robot arm at fault seemed to wink its laser eye at Conroy, asking him to keep this little misstep between them. “Nothing, Tony. I’m just amazed at your genius, that’s all.”

  Tony Stark had no problem accepting this. “I know. I’m a bit of a stunner in the mind field. This gel, for example, is made mostly from the excretions of a certain type of South American worm. Amazing healing-acceleration qualities.”

  “Magic worms, is it?” said Conroy doubtfully. “Would you be on some kind of medication, by any chance?”

  Stark laughed. “It’s hard to accept, I know. But the secrets to life are in the rainforests, and we’re hacking them to death.”

  Conroy poked the gel, watching the ripples spawn across its surface. His pal the robot arm shot him an evil laser glare and he hurriedly withdrew his finger.

  “Careful there, Inspector,” said Stark. “You don’t wanna introduce any contaminants to this environment or your hand is likely to get cut off.”

  Conroy thought back to the previous minute’s toe amputation. “You have no idea, Tony boy.”

  “Actually, you might want to step outside; this next part isn’t going to be pretty. Thing One and Thing Two are going to slice open my legs and glue the bones together. No time to wait for nature to take its course.”

  Conroy laughed. “Thing One and Thing Two? You named your robot doctors after Dr. Seuss characters?”

  “Yeah. I learned everything I know about human nature from The Cat in the Hat.”

  “I got most of my life lessons from The Hobbit,” admitted Diavolo Conroy.

  “So are you going outside?”

  “I thought I might record your operation,” said Conroy. “A fella would get a fair amount of likes from that kind of a video.”

  “Your phone won’t work in here,” Tony told him. “Static is all you’ll get. We’re running dark.”

  Conroy worked in a nice segue. “Static? You have no idea the static I’ll get back in the office. I am supposed to be bringing you in for questioning, not gallivanting around the high seas.”

  “First, we’re not gallivanting. We are hunting down an assassin and his captive.”

  “First? So what’s second?”

  “Second,” said Stark, smiling in spite of his contusions and breaks. “Second, nice segue. I appreciate the effort.”

  “You’re welcome,” said Conroy. “And now if you don’t mind, I think I will step up on deck.”

  The Irish inspector had grown up gutting fish after school and so had a strong stomach, but the combination of the thrumming engines and the sight of laser arms slicing through a man’s flesh was enough to generate a little queasiness in anyone.

  “Okay, Inspector,” said Tony. “Don’t fall overboard.”

  Conroy smiled. “Sure and if I do, your big scoop yoke will swing down and rescue me, isn’t that right?”

  Below Stark’s eye line, Thing 1 and Thing 2 were busy cutting and pasting his legs, working so fast that the worm gel rippled. Tony obviously could not feel any pain. “Not unless I tell it to,” he said.

  “Well then, Tony boy,” said Diavolo Conroy, “don’t fall asleep so.”

  Once Spin Zhuk had programmed a course, she slipped on a set of headphones and turned up AC/DC so loud that Saoirse could make out the tinny tune from where she was hiding.

  Thanks, Spin, she thought. That gives me a little wiggle room to investigate what’s in the bag.

  In fact she had very little actual wiggle room, as the space was built to contain whatever needed to be stored within easy reach of the control console and not to stow away teenagers with a grudge.

  A legitimate grudge, thought Saoirse. The Mandarin tried to make me an accessory to mass murder.

  Saoirse had always thought herself to be the smartest person in the room, but now she was realizing that there were different kinds of smart. She was a science genius, but the Mandarin was a master manipulator and had made it seem like she was recruiting him when in fact he was ensnaring her, making her an unwitting member of his murderous team.

  And even if I do somehow get my revenge on him, Liz is still in the hands of a gang of hoodlums.

  This particular thought threatened to drive Saoirse to the edge of crazy, so she decided to shut it away for the time being.

  One seemingly insurmountable problem at a time, she told herself. But I haven’t forgotten you, Liz.

  For now she needed to confirm that what she thought was in the bag was actually in the bag.

  Saoirse inched onto her side and felt around the heavy canvas until she located a zipper. She traced the zipper to its end, where her fingers found the slider, and then she tugged oh so carefully—tooth by tooth in fact—so as not to alert Spin Zhuk with a sharp series of clicks, which was just the type of noise that might penetrate the heavy metal music.

  Saoirse slid her hand inside the bag and felt something smooth and metallic, maybe the size of a large melon.

  Encouraging.

  Her suspicions were confirmed when her fingers slid into two rectangular eyeholes.

  “Hello, there,” she whispered, gently easing the Party Pack’s Iron Man helmet from the bag. It was cold and dead in her hands without a power source to run its systems, but Saoirse happened to know that the entire helmet was an induction smart plate that could drain power from almost any source, provided a person knew how to activate the system.

  As I do, thought Saoirse.

  She wiggled a finger underneath the jaw plate and pressed the RELEASE button. All she needed to do was get the helmet within six inches of a power source. The closer the helmet, the quicker the charge.

  Saoirse slid her head inside the helmet and tightened the seal around her throat. Wearing the helmet gave her the advantage of motion and thermal sensors, not to mention the possibility of getting a message out to Stark. She was now effectively soundproofed, but she would not test that out by laughing hysterically or indeed shouting abuse at Spin Zhuk. She would save her words for when they were absolutely necessary.

  She cleared a path for her head until the helmet clunked softly against a power cable that was threaded through the rear of the cabinet. Within seconds a battery symbol glowed softly—a solitary icon on an otherwise dead display.

  My North Star, thought Saoirse. You might not lead me home, but you will lead Stark to me.

  Nothing to do now but lie there in absolute silence, let the helmet suck juice from the boat’s batteries, and pray no one noticed the power drain. Pray, too, that none of her bodily functions betrayed her, for a tummy gurgle could prove fatal if Spin Zhuk turned down her tunes.

  Come on, Iron Man, she urged the helmet. Wake up and send me a hero.

  Was she really thinking of arrogant billionaire Tony Stark as a hero now?

  Well, perhaps not a hero exactly, but he had stopped Vanger in his flaming tracks, so there was potential.

  The Tanngrisnir

  Tony was floating in an anesthetic-induced stupor, half-dreaming and half-awake. And in that in-between place, his father came to him, looking as handsome as Tony remembered—aside from his eyes, which were all white. Tony knew he was dreaming and so was not alarmed by the creepy eyes. He was, however, interested in what his subconscious was trying to tell him.

  “Dad,” he said, “what’s up?”

  “Not you,” said his father. “You are certainly not up. This Mandarin character has brought you low.”

  “Yeah,” admitted Tony. “You got me there. But you should see the other guy, Vanger.”

  “Oh, I am seeing him,” said Howard Stark. “He’s here now, trying to reassemble his parts. Another body on the Stark ledger.”

  “No fair, Dad. He did that to himself. I saved a lot of people.”

  Howard shrugged and his white eyes flashed. “Saved, killed. It’s the business you’re in.”

  “Your business,” argued Tony.

  Howard closed his eyes, and for a moment those spooky white lights were shuttered. “I know, Son. I’ve had time to reflect. You were right. Absolutely right about everything. Duran Duran is a great band, and your hair always did look fabulous. What’s more, you’ve always made your mother and me so proud.”

  Tony was not falling for this. “You need to do better than that, subconscious. My father was not in the business of handing out compliments.”

  “You got me,” said Howard. “I was just telling you what you’ve always wanted to hear.”

  At one time this would have made Tony so happy, but now he needed more.

  “What about some insight? A few nuggets of wisdom from the afterlife?”

  Howard blinked and the white lights strobed. “That’s more difficult. We’re only allowed to give vague hints and riddles.”

  “Tell me what I’m supposed to do. I’ve been trying to clean up our family mess.”

  “Do you remember what I said about toys?”

  “Are you kidding? I’ll never forget.” Tony cleared his throat and put on his father’s deep voice and old-timey 1950s Noo Yawk accent. “There are no toys in this world, just unevolved weapons.”

  “In a nutshell, yes. And now here comes the riddle part. Listen closely, Son.”

  “Great,” said Tony. “Vagueness and riddles. I think I liked it better when you ignored me.”

  Howard turned the high beams of his eye lights directly on Tony and said:

  “Turnaround is fair play.

  What once was left

  Is right today.

  It is not enough

  To fill the hole.

  But climb the hill

  To win your soul.”

  Tony moaned. “Come on, Dad. That’s fortune cookie gibberish. We’re Starks. We don’t deal in abstracts. I’ve got stuff to do. Life-and-death business. Couldn’t you just spell it out for me?”

  Howard Stark sighed. “Tony, you need to get a little culture in your life.”

  “Dad, a hint, please. What hole? Is that a real hole somewhere? Or like, a metaphorical hole?”

  “Very well, my son. I shall give you a clue. Listen closely.”

  “Now you’re talking.”

  “The hole of which I speak is actually…a signal. We have a signal.”

  This didn’t help Tony one bit. “That’s worse than the riddle. What do you mean we have a signal?”

  Howard opened his eyes wide and blinding light filled Tony’s dream. “I mean we have a signal. Someone is trying to get in touch.”

  Tony sensed that his dream or vision or whatever was coming to an end. He had never seen his father in this way before and somehow knew that he wouldn’t again.

  “Dad, wait, please.”

  But Howard Stark was lost in the light and only his fading voice lingered. “Your mother says eat a sandwich, for heaven’s sake; you seem thin. And I say grow a real beard. You look like a backstreet loan shark.”

  And then Howard Stark was utterly gone, leaving Tony Stark alone, as he had been for so long.

  Tony opened his eyes to find himself in the Tanngrisnir’s sick bay. He was surprised to find that the dream did not fade like his dreams usually did but stayed in sharp focus.

  Later, he thought, I’ll build a Freud avatar and analyze myself. But for now…

  For now, the Mandarin was still out there.

  Diavolo Conroy was standing by the bed, looking down on Stark as though he were a zoo exhibit.

  “Look who’s awake,” said the Irish inspector. “The man himself. Robot boy.”

  Stark cleared his dry throat. “Did you say something about a signal?”

  “I did,” said Conroy. “And you called me Dad. I’m flattered and so forth. The wife and I would love to have a child, but I’d prefer one who was somewhat shorter and not quite so willful.”

  “Tell me about the signal, Inspector,” insisted Tony.

  “Ah, yes. Well, it’s probably a malfunction of some sort. I don’t have to tell you about malfunctions, what with the toe amputation and all that.”

  “What toe amputation?”

  Conroy coughed into his hand. “Nothing. It’s an old Irish saying, as in: ‘Sure you couldn’t be up to that fellow and his toe amputations.’ Its meaning is lost in the mists of time.”

  “The signal?”

  “Yes, of course. Well, the computer keeps trumpeting that you have a signal on the emergency frequency.”

  “From whom?”

  “That’s the thing,” said Diavolo, sweeping back a lock of blond hair from his face. “The computer said the signal is coming from your own head.”

  Tony threw back the blanket covering him and struggled onto his elbows.

  “My own head…” he said. “She cracked the induction and is drawing me in.”

  Conroy grimaced. “I know you’re some class of a genius, Stark, but not one word of that made a lick of sense.”

  Tony grabbed Conroy’s shoulder for support, dragging himself out of bed. His legs felt like they belonged to somebody else and he walked a few staggering Frankenstein’s monster steps, but at least he didn’t collapse.

  “What I need to do is see what the printer’s got in the basket,” he said to the mystified Conroy. “And you need to pilot the boat. Can you do that to save a young girl’s life?”

  “Can I pilot the boat?” said Conroy, fake miffed. “I’m from the island of Ireland. I was born piloting boats. And I’ll pilot this one to the moon and back to save a life. But if you’re taking advantage of my good nature, then I’ll pilot you straight into a special sitting of the European court.”