The frigid water was cresting at twenty-five feet that morning on the Drake Passage. The sky was the same color as the sea, like dirty bathwater.

Lee Clark never felt more helpless.

"You have to call in on the emergency radio if you have a communications breakdown. That's in the rules."

"Yes. That's right," Clark said.

"We'll do it together," Remo said. He accompanied Clark belowdecks, into a cramped helm behind a narrow window.

"Not much room to stretch your legs," Remo commented.

"After eight, nine weeks at sea you get used to it," Clark said.

"Eight weeks? That explains the smell."

Clark raised an eyebrow. "What smell?"

Remo pointed at the emergency radio, in a tiny, water-resistant plastic case mounted near the ceiling. Clark opened it and turned it on. The unit fed off the sailboat's generator power, so the batteries were always fully charged. It didn't take long to get a reply to his hail. Remo had already warned Clark of unspecified consequences if he strayed from the script.

"What's your situation, Lee? We got mighty worried when we saw your data feed go down."

"I'm fine, base. Just a generator problem. One of my cable clamps busted and it just fell right off. I'll have another put on soon enough. Meanwhile, I'll leave the emergency unit on to receive."

"Good to hear it."

Clark signed off and looked expectantly at Remo.

"I told you I am not the killer."

"Where's your boat?"

"I jumped in."

"You parachuted onto a sailboat going eighteen knots

in twenty-five-foot seas? Without me noticing? You expect me to believe that?"

"You ask too many questions."

"And in that getup?" Clark gestured at Remo's attire.