“Right. My bookie,” said Kate.

  “Done.” The techie handed Kate her phone, then gave her and Peel each a new encrypted phone that would receive the forwarded calls from Patrick’s kidnapper. “No more wiretap worries,” he said. “At least not on the forwarded calls.”

  Peel dismissed him and, when he left the room, addressed Kate. “Keep the encrypted phone with you at all times. As will I. When the call comes, we’ll both be on. The FBI won’t be.”

  It was exactly the result Kate had orchestrated, but a partnership of any sort with Peel, especially one of necessity, made her uneasy. “Just to be clear on the rules, my father gave me the name of a private security consultant. It’s my choice whether I use him or not, and to what extent I use him. You have no say on that.”

  “Fine by me. And I’ll choose my own advisor.”

  “If you’re planning to get your own, you need to move fast. The kidnapper said the next call would come this morning.”

  As if on cue, Kate’s cell rang. So did the pair of encrypted phones. She checked the caller ID.

  “It’s him,” said Kate. “I have to take it.”

  “I’m not talking,” said Peel.

  “You have to talk. He needs to know you’re on the line.”

  The phone rang a second time.

  “I’m not talking, unless you promise not to say a word about our arrangement to your father.”

  “Don’t pull this crap on me.”

  Peel folded his arms and said, “I’m not talking.”

  The third ring. Kate was in a jam, but she couldn’t let it go to voicemail. Kate answered, using the encrypted phone.

  “This is Kate.”

  “Good morning, Kate. Is Mr. Peel on the line?”

  “I can get him.”

  “Be quick about it.”

  “I need thirty seconds.”

  “Fifteen,” he said.

  Kate hit mute and looked at Peel. “I need you on the line now.”

  “Not a word about this to your father.”

  “Fine.”

  “I want a signed nondisclosure agreement.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me.”

  Time was ticking. “Okay. You’ll get your NDA.”

  “Of course the NDA needs teeth.”

  “I’ll agree to a liquidated damages clause.”

  “Not money. I mean real teeth that will make you feel real pain. If you breach, here’s the penalty: You assign to me the copyright of that play you’re doing with Irving Bass.”

  Kate wasn’t sure how he knew about the play, but she was so fed up with Irving Bass, she didn’t even care about the rights.

  “Fine. I’ll sign.”

  Peel smiled with satisfaction and picked up his phone. “This is Jeremy Peel.”

  “I need proof it’s you.”

  “I don’t know how to prove that to you.”

  “Answer this question for me: What was Olga wearing the first time you laid eyes on her?”

  Kate showed no reaction, but clearly her instinct had been right: Peel had told her less than everything about Olga.

  “A white string bikini,” Peel said with a begrudging look on his face.

  A chuckle came over the line. “I’ll bet she didn’t wear it for long, did she?”

  “Is that what this call is about?” asked Peel. “Embarrassing me in front of my partner’s daughter?”

  “No. This is all about the code you’re going to direct Buck Technologies to deliver to me.”

  Kate reestablished herself as negotiator. “We’re listening,” she said. “Go ahead.”

  “I’m not even going to try,” he said. “There’s only one person on this end of the line who can put this demand into words that leave no room for misunderstanding.”

  Kate assumed he meant Patrick, but she wanted more than just his technical description of the ransom, which for all she knew was a recording. She needed confirmation that he was alive as of that very moment.

  “One thing before we get into tech speak. You asked Mr. Peel a question to make sure it was him. I need to do the same with Patrick.”

  “Fair enough. Ask away. I’ll get the answer.”

  Kate would have preferred to hear it straight from Patrick’s mouth, but this would suffice.

  “Ask him what his favorite breed of dog is.”

  A good guess would have been a St. Bernard or Scottish shepherd, given that the company logo was based on the mixed breed in Jack London’s novel. But guessing would have been futile. Only Patrick could answer this question. Kate waited, and the kidnapper was back on the line.

  “The Shiba Inu,” he said.

  It made Kate’s heart sing. The Shiba Inu was the breed behind the meme that spawned the cryptocurrency Dogecoin. Patrick, of course, had gotten in on the ground floor as a teenager, turning a seventy-five-dollar investment into God only knew how much money.

  “Satisfied?” he asked.

  “Yes. Definitely.”

  “That’s your one and only question. I’m putting Patrick on the line now. He will tell you exactly what you are to deliver as ransom, and he will say no more. Don’t encourage him to talk, or it will be at the expense of his health and well-being. Understood?”

  “Yes.”

  A few seconds of silence followed. Kate waited with anticipation. Then Patrick’s voice was on the line.

  “I could go on and on,” he said. “But let me keep this simple and put it in terms you can understand. He wants Code Six. Got it, Kate? Code Six. That’s the whole enchilada.”

  The kidnapper was back on the line. “Well, if the smart-ass had just told me it could be described in two words, I would have done it myself. But there you have it, and you know he’s alive. Next call is in twenty-four hours. Be in Cali by then. Have the code on a flash drive.”

  “I can’t go to Cali.”

  “You can. And you will—if you want El Rubio back. This exchange is not going to take place in your backyard. It will be in mine.”

  The call ended. Kate put the phone away, her thoughts racing. The words Patrick had chosen, and the way he’d spoken to her by name, were not lost on her.

  “What the hell is Patrick talking about?” asked Peel. “I have no idea what Code Six is.”

  For once, Kate had no reason to doubt him. “I know you don’t,” she said.

  Kate grabbed her phones—old and new—and started toward the door.

  “Hey,” said Peel, stopping her. “You’re not going anywhere until you sign that NDA. This is all our secret.”

  “I don’t sign anything under duress, Mr. Peel. And Patrick just changed the whole ball game with Code Six.”

  “Do you know what Code Six is?”

  She smiled thinly. “I know this much. Patrick Battle is the most courageous young man I’ve ever met.”

  Kate turned and hurried out of the room.

  Chapter 48

  Patrick couldn’t breathe. He was seated on the cabin floor, knees to his chest, his spine firmly against the pole, his hands bound behind his back. Javier’s grip was like a clamp around his throat, his mouth inches from Patrick’s nose.

  “Don’t you ever make me look stupid on the phone!”

  Patrick had expected him to be angry over Code 6, but he hadn’t figured on a volcanic eruption. The tirade continued.

  “You spent thirty minutes explaining the code to me in words I could never remember. Then I put you on the line, and you describe it in two words! Why?”

  Patrick needed air. Javier wouldn’t allow it, not even to get an answer to his question.

  “Let him breathe!” said Olga. “He’s turning blue!”

  She was chained to the other side of the pole, also on the floor. Javier snarled at her but released his grip. Patrick gasped, thankful to be alive and breathing.

  “Explain yourself,” said Javier.

  Patrick was still struggling for air. He took a moment, then answered. “I didn’t think Mr. Peel would actually be on the line.”

  “What does that have to do with it?”

  He took another breath. “Kate would have no idea what Code Six is. The shorthand reference could only make sense to Peel. I gave you the long version so you could tell Kate exactly what you want, and there would be no mistake about the ransom.”

  Lying didn’t come naturally to Patrick. But he would do what needed to be done.

  Javier stared into Patrick’s eyes, a penetrating gaze, as if he were conducting some sort of telepathic lie detector test. “Code Six better be real,” he said.

  “It’s the most real thing the tech industry has ever seen.”

  Javier seemed to accept it—at least for the moment. “I guess we’ll find out.”

  “I need to use the bathroom,” said Olga. “It’s been hours.”

  Patrick appreciated the well-timed change of subject. “My bladder is calling, too.”

  Javier seemed annoyed, but acquiesced. “Hookers first,” he said, and he unchained Olga from the pole. Her back cracked as she straightened and stood up. He left Patrick on the floor, his wrists bound to the pole. At gunpoint, he led Olga to the door.

  “Don’t get all Houdini on me and try to slip out of those chains,” he said to Patrick.

  “I don’t think you need to worry about that.”

  “I’m not worried. If you’re not here when we get back, it’s Olga who pays.”

  It was a pointless warning, as there was no escaping, but Javier never missed an opportunity to intimidate Olga. The door closed, and their footfalls faded as they crossed the deck to the bathroom. Outside, the rain had stopped, and the remaining drops on the porthole glistened in the morning sun. Patrick focused on one drop, in particular, as it slowly made its way down the glass. He wondered if it would trickle all the way to the bottom, or if it would evaporate first, like a river run dry. Passing the time in solitary confinement made for small thoughts. He felt lucky to have Olga to talk to most of the day, though “lucky” probably wasn’t the right word.

  The click at the door caught Patrick’s attention. The handle had dropped to the open position, no longer parallel to the floor. Slowly, the door opened, but only halfway. It was too soon for Olga’s return from the bathroom. And Patrick didn’t believe in ghosts. At least he didn’t think he did.

  “Is someone there?”

  The possibility of rescue crossed his mind, but so did the memory of his last encounter with strangers, which had ended in kidnapping. He stared at the half-open door, waiting for a response. None came, but he could almost feel the presence of a visitor.

  He tried in Spanish: “Quien está?”

  The door opened a little more, and suddenly a man entered. He put a finger to his lips, shushing Patrick, as he quickly but quietly closed the door.

  He looked Asian, though Patrick figured it was hardly unusual to see Chinese, Japanese, and countless other non-Hispanics in Colombia’s Pacific ports. His dark, piercing eyes glimmered in the low, natural light, and he wore a tight black turtleneck that complemented his lean, muscular physique. His hair was hidden beneath a black knit beanie.

  “Who are—”

  Again, he shushed Patrick before he could finish the question, moving across the cabin with catlike quickness. It was feeling less and less like a rescue to Patrick. The man seemed to be looking for something. Or someone.

  “I won’t leave here without my friend,” said Patrick, meaning Olga.

  The man stopped. “Shut—your—mouth,” he said, giving each word emphasis, speaking quietly but so firmly that it still gave Patrick chills.

  The clap of footfalls on the poop deck followed. Olga and Javier were returning from the bathroom break. The man shot Patrick a look that said, Not another word from you. Then he stepped behind the counter and hid from view. The door handle turned, and the door swung open. Olga entered first, followed by Javier, who closed the door behind them.

  “Back to the pole,” said Javier.

  Olga went to her spot on the floor, and Javier chained her hands behind her back.

  Patrick didn’t know what to do. The intentions of the man behind the counter surely were not good, but there was no way to warn Olga without tipping off Javier, too.

  “All right, El Rubio. Your turn.”

  Patrick had almost forgotten that he’d joined Olga’s request for a bathroom break. But he had no intention of leaving Olga in the cabin alone—or, rather, in the cabin with a stranger who might be worse than the devil they knew.

  “I don’t need to go anymore,” said Patrick.

  “Last chance,” said Javier. “I’m leaving and won’t be back until dark.”

  “You’re not going anywhere, Javier,” said the man behind the counter, no longer hiding.

  All heads turned. He was standing in the marksman’s tactical pose: forward leaning, arms straight out, and shoulders square to his target. The sights were at eye level, and the black pistol was aimed directly at Javier. Patrick noted the silencer affixed to the muzzle, as he felt Olga’s fingernails digging into his forearm. They were back-to-back, so he couldn’t see her, but he could feel her fear.

  And then it suddenly occurred to Patrick that the intruder had addressed “Javier,” even though Patrick had never identified his kidnapper.

  “Relax, Olga. You’re going to be just fine.”

  Patrick was even more confused. He hadn’t mentioned Olga’s name, either.

  “Put the gun away,” said Javier, but his voice betrayed him, cracking with fear.

  The gunman smiled a little, and with that little flash of personality, he reminded Patrick of Simu Liu. It surely wasn’t him—though, at least in Patrick’s mind, it wasn’t completely outside the realm of possibility that a Chinese-born Canadian actor who played the son of Korean immigrants on TV and a new avenger in a Marvel Cinematic Universe film would have a secret life as a hit man in Colombia.

  “I hear you’ve been talking directly to Jeremy Peel.”

  Peel—another name Patrick had never mentioned to the Simu Liu lookalike. Things just kept getting weirder.

  “Is that true?” the man asked.

  Javier was crumbling before Patrick’s eyes. It was a side of his captor he’d never seen before.

  “I can explain,” said Javier.

  “I asked a simple question. Are you negotiating with Jeremy Peel?”

  “I—”

  “Yes or no?”

  There was silence. Javier looked too terrified to answer.

  “I asked a question!” the man shouted. “Are you negotiating with Peel?”

  “Please, I was just—”

  “Answer me!”

  Javier swallowed the lump in his throat. “Yes.”

  The gunman’s expression relaxed a bit, but he seemed no less determined to finish the job.

  “Well done, Javier. I already knew the answer. But for being truthful, you shall be rewarded. Olga? Should he live or die?”

  Patrick felt her arms stiffen, her elbows burrowing into his back in reflex-like reaction to a question no person should be forced to answer, even if it was the worthless life of a sex trafficker hanging in the balance.

  “Ah, never mind,” the man said. “There’s no option here. I’m afraid this is not going to end well for you, Javier. But truth telling has its virtues. So I’ll make this quick.”

  Patrick heard the distinctive discharge of a silenced projectile, saw the slight recoil in the shooter’s hands, and gasped at the sight of Javier’s head snapping back, blood and gray matter splattering against the wall behind him as Javier’s lifeless body fell to the cabin floor.

  Olga screamed. Patrick didn’t know what was coming next. But this was definitely no “rescue.”

  “Be quiet, Olga,” he said, as he relaxed from his stance and lowered his pistol.

  Her screams dissolved into muffled sobbing.

  The man came out from behind the counter and stood over Javier’s body, admiring his work. Then he looked at Patrick.

  “Just another day in lo-co-lombia,” he said, his Spanish-language wordplay on “crazy Colombia” not nearly as clever as he seemed to think.

  Chapter 49

  The Uber driver dropped Kate at her father’s house in Georgetown. He was on a Zoom video conference when she arrived. Kate didn’t technically interrupt, but she waited right outside the French doors to his study, making herself visible, repeatedly checking her watch, and all but tapping her foot to get him to wrap things up. Whatever his conference was about, it couldn’t have been more important than the reason for her visit. She gave him five minutes and then opened the door, stuck her head into the room, and said, “Dad, I’m going to Cali.”

  He stopped in midsentence and looked at her as if she’d just announced a trip to the moon.

  “Guys, I need to call you back,” he said to his virtual guests, and the rectangles of talking heads vanished from his screen like popping bath bubbles. At his invitation, which sounded more like an order, Kate took a seat on the couch.

  “I assume this is about Patrick,” he said.

  “And Jeremy Peel.”

  In five minutes she told him all that he needed to know—or, at least, as much as Kate thought he needed to know. He considered it for a minute, then spoke.

  “No surprise that it was Jeremy who shipped him off to the Andes and put him out of the DOJ’s reach. I swear, sometimes he thinks that because we’re part-owned by the CIA, we can act like the CIA.”

  “What about the kidnapping?”

  “What about it?”

  “Do you believe he had nothing to do with it?”

  “The man has been my business partner for twenty years, Kate. He’s a lot of things—chief among them, a royal pain in the ass. But he’s not a kidnapper.”

  “Why do you defend him? He hates you.”

  “He doesn’t hate me.”

  “Dad, I see it in the way he looks at you. I hear it in his voice.”

  “There’s resentment, no question about it. But not hatred.”

  “Call it what you want. It’s irrational. It borders on sociopathic.”

  “Let’s not get carried away.”

  “He knows things at Buck Technologies that are dark to you. And yet, he resents you. That’s a sociopath. Even Patrick’s kidnapper knows that, to get the code he wants, he needs to talk to Jeremy Peel.”