“That’s it. That’s my answer.”

“Surely there’s something I can say that will change your mind.”

“I’m flattered, but this has to be somebody else’s problem. I’m sorry.”

Sanchez didn’t seem angry, merely puzzled. “I see.” The disarming smile returned. “Well, I had to ask.”

She rose to her feet, everyone else following suit. Now it was Peter’s turn to be surprised; he realized he’d expected her to put up more of a fight. At the door, she shook his hand in parting.

“Thank you for taking the time to meet with me, Peter. The offer stands, and I hope you’ll reconsider. You could do a lot of good. Promise me you’ll think about it?”

There seemed no harm in agreeing. “I’ll do that.”

“General Apgar can show you out.”

So that was it. He felt a little amazed, and wondered, as one always did when a door closed, if he had made the right choice.

“Peter, one last thing,” Sanchez said.

He turned at the threshold. The woman had returned to her desk.

“I was meaning to ask. How old is your boy?”

The question seemed harmless enough. “He’s ten.”

“And it’s Caleb, yes?”

Peter nodded.

“It’s a wonderful age. His whole life ahead of him. When you stop to think about it, it’s the children we’re really working for, isn’t it? We’ll be long gone, but our decisions in the next few months will determine the kind of world they’re going to live in.” She smiled. “Well. Food for thought, Mr. Jaxon. Thank you again for coming.”

He followed Gunnar out the door. Halfway down the hall, Peter heard the man chuckling under his breath.

“She’s good, isn’t she?”

“Yeah,” said Peter. “She’s good all right.”

* * *

10

Michael had three things in his bag. The first was the newspaper. The second was a letter.

He had found it in the breast pocket of the captain’s uniform. The envelope was unmarked; the man had never intended to send it. The letter, less than a page, was written in English.

My darling boy,

I know now that you and I are never to meet in this life. Our fuel is nearly exhausted; our last hope of reaching the refuge is gone. Last night, the crew and passengers took a vote. The result was unanimous. Death by dehydration is a fate none desires. Tonight will be the last we share on earth. Entombed in steel, we will drift in the currents until such time as almighty God chooses to take us to the bottom.

I obviously have no hope that these last words will reach you. I can only pray that you and your mother have been spared the devastation and somehow survived. What awaits me now? The Holy Quran says: “To Allah belongeth the Mystery of the heavens and the earth. And the Decision of the Hour of Judgment is as the twinkling of an eye, or even quicker: for Allah hath power over all things.” Surely we are His and to Him we shall return. In spite of all that has happened, I have faith that my immortal soul will pass into His hands, and that when at last we meet, it shall be in paradise.

My final thoughts in life are with you. Baraka Allahu fika.

Your loving father,

Nabil

Michael mused on these words as he made his way through the streets of H-town. He was accustomed to scenes of abandonment and devastation; he had crossed ruined cities that contained skeletons by the thousands. But never before had the dead spoken so directly to him. In the captain’s quarters, he had found the man’s passport. His full name was Nabil Haddad. He had been born in the Netherlands, in a city called Utrecht, in 1971. Michael found no further evidence of the boy in the cabin—no photographs or other letters—but the emergency contact named in his passport was a woman named Astrid Keeble, with a London address. Perhaps she was the boy’s mother. Michael wondered what had happened between the three of them, that the captain never should have seen his son. Perhaps the boy’s mother wouldn’t allow it; perhaps for some reason the man did not feel worthy. Yet he had felt the need to write to him, knowing that in a few hours he would be dead and the letter would travel no farther than his own pocket.

But that wasn’t all the letter told him. The Bergensfjord had been going somewhere; it had had a destination. Not “a refuge,” “the refuge.” A safe haven where the virus could not reach them.

Hence the third thing in Michael’s bag, and his need for the man they called the Maestro.

If the man had a real name, Michael didn’t know it. The Maestro also had the habit of speaking in disconcertingly butchered sentences while always referring to himself in the third person; it took some getting used to. He was quite old, possessing a sinewy twitchiness that made him seem less like a man than some kind of overgrown rodent. He had once been an electrical engineer for the Civilian Authority; long retired, he had become Kerrville’s go-to man for electronic antiquities. Crazy as a caged bird, and not a little paranoid, but the man knew how to make an old hard drive confess its secrets.

The Maestro’s shed was unmissable; it was the only building in H-town with solar panels on the roof. Michael knocked loudly and stepped back for the camera; the Maestro wanted a good look at you first. A moment passed, and then a series of heavy locks opened.

“Michael.” The Maestro stood in a narrow wedge of open door, wearing a work apron and a plastic visor with flip-down lenses.

“Hello, Maestro.”