Syren's Song by Claude G. Berube Page A

know. All of the security cameras in the harbor were, as Dr. Warren noted, fried.”
    â€œDid you search any of the ships that had entered the ports before the warning was issued?” Stark asked.
    â€œUnfortunately, we were not looking inward before the attacks, Captain. We closed off the ports and looked outward for the attackers. Once the attack was over, of course, we no longer had ships to conduct an investigation.”
    â€œOkay,” Stark said. “At least we have something. We’ll proceed to Trincomalee so Dr. Warren can conduct some tests in the harbor, and then we’ll begin our search.
    â€œYes, Captain. There is one issue before we begin.”
    â€œWhat’s that, Commander?”
    â€œYour papers, sir, registering this vessel under the flag of the nation of Sri Lanka.” Ranasinghe pulled the papers from his bag and handed them to Stark, who browsed through them quickly.
    â€œThank you. The XO will show you to your stateroom. Why don’t you get some rest now? I have a feeling we have a lot of long days ahead.”
    â€œThank you, Captain, but there is one other thing.” From a pocket in his coverall Ranasinghe pulled out the ensign of his nation. “Now that you are registered under our nation, you are to fly this ensign instead of yours.”
    Stark was taken aback. But it was true. Syren was no longer operating under the flag of Saint Andrew. For the next month she would be a Sri Lankan vessel. That fact made him even more uncomfortable than he had been when he accepted the assignment in India.
    Singapore
    They had disarmed him, handcuffed him, and thrown a bag over his head when they put him in the car. The detention facility was a short ride away, though it didn’t take long to get anywhere in Singapore, particularly if you were riding in a police car. The proximity of large-body jets as they slowed at their destination told Golzari that he was in the new Changi prison complex run by the Singapore Prison Service. The last time he had visited a Singapore prison it was to question an inmate who was hanging nude over a medieval-lookingrack while the police completed caning him. Americans didn’t realize that caning strips the skin and flesh off the person’s buttocks. Golzari was hoping for a luxury suite in the prison instead of the rack. But he had just killed five people in a public place.
    The police guided him down a corridor and into a room before they removed the sack from his head. He looked around as an officer patted him down to make sure they hadn’t missed anything when they seized him at Raffles. He was clearly in an interrogation room. The table and two chairs made that clear. A policeman pulled him toward one of the chairs.
    â€œEasy,” Golzari said defiantly as the man tugged on his jacket. “I don’t have time to see one of your city’s excellent tailors this trip.”
    The police officer ignored him and pushed him into a seat opposite a well-dressed Asian man just as two other men in suits walked in. Each of the two wore an earpiece and had a PR-21 side-handle baton at his side and a holstered .38-caliber revolver. The man at the table had only an earpiece and was better dressed. The homicide detective , Golzari thought. The room was several degrees warmer than the outside temperature. He recognized the old trick: make the interrogation room uncomfortable for the detainee. It wouldn’t work.
    Golzari spoke quickly, as if he were in charge. “Good afternoon, gentlemen. I would like my weapon and credentials returned to me.”
    â€œFirst, we ask questions, Agent Golzari,” said the detective as the other two men took up places in front of the door.
    â€œOf course. I’m happy to cooperate.”
    â€œYou killed five people at Raffles. It is a very popular tourist destination. That will cost us money.”
    â€œScrew the money,” Golzari said sitting ramrod straight. “You are