Her words were more hurtful than intended, but before Kate could apologize, her father naturally got defensive—which, for the likes of Christian Gamble, meant going on the offensive.

  “How do you know I can’t deliver what they want?”

  “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.”

  “Try me,” he said, digging in for the sake of his own dignity. “Exactly what is the kidnapper demanding from Buck?”

  “Code.”

  “What code?”

  “All I know is what Patrick told me on the phone.”

  “Patrick’s super smart, but there’s no way he recited code from memory.”

  “No. I mean the words he used to describe it.”

  “Project Naïveté?”

  “No. Code Six.”

  His expression went blank. “I guess you made your point. Never heard of it. But that doesn’t dilute my point. The thing that really drives Jeremy nuts is that people think we have the same security clearance. Which, of course, makes certain people think that if they want to bring down me and my company, all they have to do is steal my credentials.”

  Kate was pretty sure who he meant by “people.”

  “You mean Sandra Levy?”

  “No,” he said, pausing for an instant, as if not sure he should continue. “I mean your mother.”

  Kate’s mouth was agape. “Mom stole your credentials?”

  “No. But she tried.”

  “Why?”

  “I call it the sequel to her call to nine-one-one.”

  “She just wanted to hurt you?”

  He sighed at the size of the question. “Kate, in any marriage, there are two sides to every story. I don’t see a malicious woman who was just trying to hurt me. I see an alcoholic—someone with a diseased mind—expressing herself in the most desperate way possible and saying, ‘Hey, remember me? I’m your wife.’”

  “What happened with her breach of security?”

  “We handled it internally. That’s all I can tell you. But I can assure you that she got nowhere near this Code Six, whatever it is.”

  “If it makes you feel any better, Mr. Peel has never heard of Code Six, either.”

  “Or he simply won’t admit to it.”

  “I’m fairly certain he’s not feigning ignorance.”

  Her father shook his head. “With his security credentials? Don’t kid yourself. He’s telling you that because, whatever Code Six is, he can’t deliver it as Patrick’s ransom.”

  “That’s why I have to be the one to go to Cali.”

  “To do what?”

  “Make the exchange.”

  “What exchange? I understand you want them to hand over Patrick. But you have nothing to give them.”

  “I’ll have something. Patrick and I will have something.”

  Her father looked at her soulfully, searchingly. He seemed to understand that she was asking for his trust, not his blessing, and that she was going to Cali with or without the latter.

  “You and I,” he said in a halting voice. “All the family we have left is each other.”

  “I know. I’ll be careful.”

  “There’s a member of my security team,” he said. “Enrique. Former special ops. Speaks perfect Spanish. Take him with you.”

  She reached out and took her father’s hand. “Thank you,” was all she said.

  He smiled sadly. “You know, honey, this is ‘above and beyond the call of duty’ for a former babysitter.”

  Kate shared his smile for a moment, then turned serious. “There’s so much more to it, Dad.”

  Chapter 50

  Patrick was on cleanup duty, wiping, swiping, and wringing a bloody rag into a bucket of red-tinted water.

  Javier’s body was on the floor, covered by a canvas tarp. His killer had stepped out after the shooting and returned with the tarp, cleaning supplies, and a duffel bug. He left Olga chained to the pole but put Patrick to work, watching over him like an armed prison guard. It occurred to Patrick that thousands of people made an honest living this way, day after day, cleaning walls and floors, wiping up blood and body fluids at crime scenes all over the world. All things considered, Patrick would have much rather swabbed the poop deck. Or even walked the plank.

  “Don’t think about what you’re doing,” Olga said under her breath, trying to help him through it.

  Patrick was dealing with a particularly nasty stain on the white wall. The blast had literally removed the top of Javier’s head.

  “Finished,” said Patrick.

  “You missed a spot,” said Liu.

  Patrick wiped away a clump of hair and rinsed his rag in the bucket.

  “Nice work,” said Liu. He was technically still nameless, but the movie-star moniker had stuck, at least in Patrick’s mind.

  “Can I wash my hands, please?”

  He tossed Patrick a clean rag. “Later.”

  Patrick wiped away as much of the mess as possible and returned to his place on the floor. Liu chained him to the pole and went to the duffel bag on the counter. It had sat there, unopened, since Liu’s return with the cleaning supplies, as if he were inviting his hostages to guess what might be inside. Body parts? Weapons? Instruments of torture?

  “No shortage of supplies on this ship,” said Liu, as he removed an empty paint can and a gasoline can from his bag. He placed the paint can on the countertop and poured in some gasoline. Next from his bag were chunks of a Styrofoam cooler, which he broke into even smaller pieces before mixing with the gasoline.

  “What are you going to do with that?” Olga asked with trepidation.

  “Amateur pyromaniacs stop as soon as the Styrofoam dissolves in the gasoline, which basically gives you a sticky gel that burns. But I’m no amateur. So I’m going to add the key ingredient. Not everyone can get their hands on it, but if you know where to look, you can find it on just about any ship.

  “Benzene,” he said, stirring the liquid into the can. “With this, I get essentially the same ‘super napalm’ used by the U.S. military in Vietnam.”

  He stepped toward Olga and removed the stick from the can. A big glob of gel clung to it. “This burns at about a thousand degrees centigrade,” he said.

  “Keep it away from me,” she said.

  “I will. As long as your boyfriend tells me everything I need to know. If not,” he said, letting the glob of goo drop onto her thigh, “I’m going to ignite this hot mess and burn a hole right through your leg.”

  Patrick spoke up. “There’s no need to hurt anyone.”

  “You’re absolutely right. Let’s you and I talk. About Code Six.”

  “Obviously, you’ve been listening to Javier’s phone conversations,” said Patrick.

  “For quite some time. Started long before you mentioned Code Six.”

  “What do you want to know about it?”

  “I want to know if Code Six is what you left out the first time.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about. What ‘first time’?”

  Liu walked around to the other side of the pole, spooned another glob of goo from the can, and let it fall on Patrick’s leg. It stung, even unlit.

  “Keep playing dumb,” said Liu, “and this will end badly for both of you.”

  Patrick wasn’t playing, but Liu’s perception of reality was the only reality that mattered. The sting on his leg intensified, and Olga was actually blowing on her thigh to cool the gel.

  “Can you get that stuff off her, please?” asked Patrick.

  “I’m okay,” she said, but she clearly wasn’t.

  Liu didn’t care, his laser-like gaze locking onto Patrick. “Algorithms grow and evolve over time. We can agree on that much, right?”

  “Sure,” said Patrick.

  “In fact, an algorithm can make so many adaptations over time that the person who created it in the first place might eventually find his creation unrecognizable.”

  Liu was touching on a complicated and controversial subject. Buck was on the cutting edge of the algorithmic process of evolution, a virtual Darwinism of sorts, in which existing code improves every generation with little human interaction, effectively training itself based solely on experience with vast amounts of data.

  “It’s possible,” said Patrick.

  “By the same token, an algorithm that fails to adapt, that stays completely the same as the virtual world changes around it, could eventually become worthless.”

  “In some situations.”

  “So, even if I paid ridiculous sums of money, the code would be worthless if someone at Buck Technologies tweaked the virtual DNA, so to speak, and robbed it of any ability to self-improve.”

  “If you’re suggesting that I altered code that is proprietary to Buck, you’ve got the wrong hostage.”

  “I don’t care if it was you who altered it,” said Liu. “I want to know if Code Six is what was missing from the code I bought the first time.”

  Liu’s question only raised more questions in Patrick’s mind. Bought from whom? What “first time”? But the sting of homemade napalm was making it hard for Patrick to think. Olga was in obvious pain, taking short, halting breaths.

  “Are you okay?” he asked.

  “Don’t worry about me,” she said, gritting it out.

  Liu kicked back the tarp just enough to expose Javier’s arm, and another glob of gel fell from his stick. It landed on the lifeless forearm. “Ever seen the photo of the napalm girl from Vietnam?” asked Liu.

  Patrick had. It was haunting—so horrific that when the New York Times printed the chilling image of nine-year-old Phan Thi Kim Phúc screaming and running from a napalm attack, it was a turning point of public opinion against the war.

  Liu put the can on the counter and pulled a pack of matches from his pocket. “Not a pretty sight, that napalm girl. Clothes burned off, running down the road naked, her burned flesh ready to fall from her body. This gel sticks to your skin, and you can’t get it off. It just keeps burning and burning, hotter and hotter.”

  He struck a match, lighting it.

  “Only your government is stupid enough to use it on entire villages for the whole world to see,” said Liu. “I’m more selective. Or ‘discreet,’ shall we say?”

  He dropped the match on Javier’s body. A foot-long flare shot up from the gel, which quickly reduced itself to a glowing, white-hot circle that burned with the intensity of a nuclear meltdown. The sickening smell of burning flesh filled the cabin.

  “If you force me to strike another match, I promise you’ll hear screams like you’ve never heard before.”

  Patrick could only guess at who this man was, why he’d paid someone so much money for Buck’s code, and how, apparently, he’d been swindled. But circumstances compelled only one answer to his question.

  “Yes,” said Patrick. “Code Six is all you need.”

  Liu put the pack of matches back in his pocket, took a rag, and wiped the gel from the hostages’ legs, first Olga, and then Patrick. He rolled the rag into a ball and held it under Patrick’s nose so that he could smell the concoction.

  “Javier was smart. He spoke the truth and got the bullet. If you’re lying to me, you’re going to wish you’d never been born.”

  Patrick stared back at him, trying to remain strong, but it was impossible to hide his fear. Liu seemed to enjoy the smell of burning flesh, and he seemed genuinely disappointed that Javier was already dead—that there were no screams to go with the sickening stench. Patrick would have never dreamed it possible, but there was no denying how he felt at that moment.

  He wished Javier were still in control.

  Liu grabbed his pistol and took aim at Patrick’s forehead. “I’m going to unchain you now, take you to the latrine, and let you wash your hands. Then we are going to prepare for your next call with Kate Gamble.”

  “My next call?”

  “You’re going to do all the talking.”

  “What am I supposed to say about Javier?”

  “Nothing. Not a single, solitary word about him. Or about me.”

  “So you want them to think Javier is still alive?”

  “Meet the new kidnapper,” he said, a smile creasing his lips. “Same as the old kidnapper.”

  Chapter 51

  Kate took a direct flight from Dulles and landed in Cali that evening. Enrique Salazar, her father’s most trusted bodyguard, was at her side. A driver met them at the airport. He greeted Enrique like an old friend and he offered much more than a ride to their hotel.

  “For the pretty lady, I have the Glock 27 concealed-carry pistol. Ten rounds of forty-caliber ammunition readily accessible in your pocket or purse. For Señor Enrique, the Glock 19 with shoulder harness for concealment. There are two extra magazines, nine-millimeter cartridges, fifteen rounds each.”

  Kate opened her purse, but Enrique stopped her before she could tuck the pistol away.

  “What did I tell you to do when someone hands you a gun?”

  Enrique was a former Green Beret with three tours of duty in Afghanistan. He was fearless but not reckless. They’d spent two hours at a firing range before their flight, including a crash course in gun safety.

  “Check the chamber,” she said, doing so, “and make sure the safety is on.”

  “Captain Salazar never changes,” said Diego.

  “Sounds like you two go way back,” said Kate, and she quickly got the story. Diego had served with Enrique in Afghanistan before joining the DEA. He was now an expat living in Cali doing private security.

  Kate’s hotel was in the San Antonio neighborhood, a twenty-minute ride from the airport. It was a misty night, typical of the September–November rainy season in Cali. Rainbow-like rings surrounded the glowing streetlamps. The whump-whump of the windshield wipers punctuated the silence.

  “Can we talk about the elephant in the backseat of the car?” asked Enrique.

  Kate knew the expression, usually expressed in connection with “the room,” but she wasn’t sure what he meant. He filled in the blank.

  “Is there a Code Six?”

  “There was.”

  “It doesn’t exist anymore?”

  “No. Thank God.”

  “Then what are you going to deliver to Patrick’s kidnappers to make the exchange?”

  “That’s not my problem. That’s Jeremy Peel’s problem.”

  “How is it his problem?”

  “You’ll see. I have a plan.”

  Enrique looked confused. “Does Mr. Peel know what Code Six is? Or was?”

  “He has no clue.”

  Enrique seemed even more puzzled. “But Patrick Battle knows?”

  “Yes. Patrick knows.”

  “How?”

  The mist was turning to rain. The whump-whump of the wipers quickened. Kate decided that if Enrique was willing to risk his life to protect her, he deserved to see at least part of the bigger picture.

  “I wrote a play.”

  “Your father told me. He’s very proud of you.”

  It warmed Kate’s heart to hear that. She wouldn’t have guessed it.

  “What’s the play about?” asked Enrique.

  She gave him the short version.

  “What’s it called?”

  “It doesn’t have a title. But I think I’m going to call it Code Six. It was Patrick’s idea.”

  “He read your play?”

  “No. Right before Patrick disappeared, the director took me on a research trip to the Holocaust Memorial. They have a Hollerith machine on display there. I thought Patrick would find it fascinating, so I went back a second time and brought him with me.”

  “Why is there a Hollerith machine at the Holocaust Memorial?”

  “Because virtually every aspect of the Holocaust was automated. It was the old punch-card technology, but it was technology, nonetheless.”

  “And Code Six was part of that technology?”

  “Yes.”

  “So, when Patrick told you to deliver Code Six as his ransom, he was—”

  “He was effectively saying, ‘Don’t give my kidnappers shit.’”

  “Why would he do that? I mean, it’s nice to see an employee who is loyal to his company. But company loyalty has its limits.”

  “Patrick has the highest level of clearance at Buck Technologies. Higher than my father’s. My guess is that the technology these people really want is a matter of national security.”

  Enrique’s eyes brightened. His chest swelled like a proud veteran. From where Kate was sitting, this man who’d put his own life on the line in service to his country was having a “lightbulb” moment.

  “He’s risking his life to protect technology that is of vital interest to the nation,” he said.

  “That’s about the size of it.”

  “The kid’s a fucking patriot.”

  “In my eyes, he is,” said Kate.

  Enrique’s expression turned deadly serious. Kate had never served, but she recognized that special “no soldier left behind” resolve when it was right in front of her.

  “We’re going to get that boy out of here,” he said like a man on a mission. “I guarantee it, Kate.”

  Chapter 52

  A package arrived for Christian Gamble at his home that evening. It was from Kate.

  He was worried about her, as any parent would be. He trusted Enrique with his own life—literally—but entrusting anyone with the life of your daughter was another level entirely. He went to the study, slit open the large envelope, and peered inside. Papers. It was perhaps a sign that he was more worried than he would have liked to admit, but his first thought was that she’d left a Last Will and Testament.

  Calm down, he told himself.

  He took a seat on the couch and slid the pages from the envelope. A cover letter was on top, and it occurred to him that he could count on one hand the number of handwritten letters he’d received from his daughter in his lifetime. Actual letters, not store-bought Father’s Day cards with a signature and hand-drawn heart. His mother, he’d learned after her death, had kept every letter he’d ever written to her. Technology was good. But not all good.