Chapter 3

The gala continued around them like water closing over a stone.

Waiters moved between tables, refilling glasses, clearing plates. The string quartet had resumed playing something light and inoffensive, and the low murmur of conversation filled the ballroom like the hum of a generator. But at the center table, the air had changed. The officers who had been seated nearest the confrontation had gone quiet, and their conversations, when they spoke, were perfunctory, their eyes drifting back to the admiral and the colonel.

Drake had not moved. He sat with his hands flat on the tablecloth, the wine stain dried brown beneath his knuckles, his eyes fixed on the framed portrait at the center of the table. He looked like a man who had just watched a door close and was still trying to decide whether the lock had clicked.

Kessler watched him with the patience of a woman who had outlasted stronger men.

"I gave you until Friday," she said. "I meant it."

"Friday." Drake laughed, a hollow sound. "You think I can just—" He stopped, shook his head. "You don't know what you're asking."

"I'm asking you to tell the truth."

"The truth." Drake's voice turned bitter. "That's new."

Kessler did not respond. She had learned long ago that silence was a better instrument than argument.

Drake looked at the young captain, still standing behind Kessler's chair, still pale but no longer trembling. "You have any idea what you've done tonight, Captain?"

"Reports the truth I was required to recover, sir."

"Required." Drake repeated the word like it was a foreign language. "Your team found that log months ago. You sat on it. You waited until tonight. You waited until there was an audience."

Reyes did not look away. "I was awaiting a secure channel to report through, sir. My chain of command did not respond to my requests."

A beat of silence.

Drake's eyes narrowed. "Your requests."