David Dun - The Black Silent

"Get him out of here. He's under arrest for interfering with an investigation."

Crew couldn't cover his shock.

"Cuff him and remove him," Frick said.

Sam saw Frick's hand move to the semiautomatic hol-stered on his belt.

"If you'd just go out and wait by the car, I'll stay here with Haley," Crew said to Sam.

"I'd like to have a word with Officer Frick."

As the tension between Crew and Frick grew, Sam nodded to Haley. Sam walked through the door and waited just around the corner, in the hall. Being out of sight would work in his favor. It was always better to enter a fight on your own terms.

More important, he figured he was about to learn more about Frick and Crew.

It had taken some doing for Ben Anderson to make it to his boat. He'd had to stab a man with a letter opener on the roof of the Sanker Foundation and watch him plunge to the ground, then use the balcony at the far end of the building to get himself down to safety.

Now Ben was to meet his friend Lattimer Gibbons here at the marina at the far south end of Friday Harbor at 1:00 p.m. sharp, and there was nothing he could do until Gibbons showed.

From his position low in the cockpit of the boat, he glanced at his watch, impatient to cast off before he was caught. In recent months, Ben had taken many precautions, to avoid the detection of all of his activities. One of the things he'd done was to "sell" this boat. In reality, he had simply moved it to the far end of Friday Harbor and signed it over to the Arc Foundation, changing its name to Alice B., apropos of nothing in particular. Documentation was now in the name of a corporation owned by a friend.

They changed the canvas colors on the flybridge and the dinghy, scuffed up her sides, and made her look like any other badly used Carver.

He had dive gear aboard and the keys in the ignition. He started the motors to let them warm, centered the rudders, watched the oil pressure, and glanced back at the exhaust.

Then he turned on the electronics, including a sophisticated graphic display depth sounder and forward-looking sonar uncommon on most private yachts. He switched on the GPS and chart plotter and pulled up the Nobeltec bathyscaphe chart for the sometimes treacherous President Channel. One of his biggest concerns remained that he could not reach Haley. As he imagined her anxiety, the pain of it was almost more than he could bear.

Soon he would find a way to make contact. Another call on her cell produced only the voice mail. With his cell phone nearly out of battery power, he called Sarah and got no answer. It was too dangerous to tell her how to meet him by voice mail. There wasn't another phone that he dared use until he reached his destination.

It was of some comfort to him that Haley had a friend like Sam. Sam had been into very heavy things in life. Ben didn't know the details, but he understood the general gist.

Without ever having had a terribly explicit discussion, Ben knew that Sam would protect Haley with his life. But where is Lattimer?

Ben made another check of the dock. Two men were walking toward him in heavy parkas and casual slacks-odd wear for a November afternoon on this part of the dock.

There weren't that many sizable boats and these guys didn't look quite dressed for a wintertime ride in a runabout. Furthermore, they seemed fixed on the Alice B. and that made him nervous. He hadn't time to cast off the lines and motor out; moreover, he needed Lattimer to drop him off.

The men invited themselves right up and into the cockpit. One man was broad and heavy, like an NFL linebacker. The other seemed more wiry but still oversize and broad-shouldered, plenty big enough to enforce his will. There would be no wrestling match between them and Ben Anderson that lasted longer than ten seconds.

"Hello there," said the big man. "You Ben Anderson?" "Yes."

"I'm Special Agent Stu Farley and this is Special Agent Len Morrison. We'd like a word with you."

Ben went weak in the knees. He wasn't liking this, and right after being a near murder victim, he trusted no one unless he knew for certain whom he was talking with.

Climbing down from the bridge, he kept his cool and shook hands affably.

They showed him badges that said Federal Bureau of Investigation. It would be illegal to impersonate a federal officer, but that wouldn't stop someone who was onto Ben's research.

"What can I do for you fellas?"

The bigger one, Farley, continued to do the talking. "We understand that you have some insight into some things that concern the United States government."

"You'll have to be more specific, I'm afraid. That statement would apply to just about anyone, wouldn't it?"

"Not everyone's a molecular biologist whose work has national-security implications."

Government or not, they knew what they were talking about. Ben chose a direct approach. "Well, my work doesn't concern the government very much or else the government would be responding to my requests."

"From what we understand," said Farley, "the government was corresponding with you about your research and hit kind of a sticking point. We'd like to talk to you about that."

"My research or your hypothetical sticking point?"

"Both, I'd say."

"Are you officially investigating me?"

"Investigating. Negotiating. Following up. Call it what you want."

"I want a lawyer."

"What we're asking for, Dr. Anderson, is your help."

"I gave my stipulations for a discussion of our information," said Ben, "and so far the government can't seem to comply."

"We understand that you're into all sorts of things that could affect national security.

The government can't merely 'comply' in such a case. You were asked to meet with the director of Homeland Security. And the assistant director of the FBI and the head of NOAA. And if that weren't enough, you were promised a meeting with the National Security Advisor-if it were determined that you knew what you were talking about."

"I gave my conditions."

"Your conditions might take an act of congress." Farley's voice remained calm. "We are a government of laws. The executive branch can't just issue proclamations."

Ben knew he should just shut up, but he couldn't resist giving them a piece of his mind, now that he had government representatives in person. "The government didn't just want a talk. They wanted me to give them hard information. Facts, figures, the substance of my work. I'm not signing over my half of the research and all my rights until I have certain assurances, for the benefit of the public."

"You're playing poker with the government, Dr. Anderson, and we've got all the chips.

With everything you're into, you must have broken some law someplace." Farley's voice deepened subtly. "We don't want to negotiate that way, but if you force us, we'll have to."

"Gentlemen," Ben said with finality, "I know you've got a job to do and I appreciate the government's concern. I'm sure we'll work it out and build a consensus, but it will take time. I'm not ready to talk until the government meets my terms or equivalent terms that provide the same protections."

At that, Morrison, the smaller agent, who still stood over six feet tall, spoke with the authority of the person really in charge. "I'm afraid we're going to have to insist. We want you to take us to your gathering place over on Orcas. We understand you have some work to do over there."

Ben's gut tightened at the information contained in that statement. He thought for a moment, and he didn't like the conclusion.

"You're not from the government."

"We are," said Phillips. "It's just that the government is concerned, and we're not exactly going to play by the rule book on this one."

"You're impersonating federal officers. Now, both of you, get off the boat."