In my right hand I carried a brushed, unsealed titanium diplomatic briefcase, which contained Dr.'s certified genetic records. Salinas.
Around my neck, leaning against my collarbone, hung my grandfather’s original solid gold stopwatch: a clock that contained an encrypted and isolated biometric transponder, connected directly to the SPY-6 radar of the guided missile destroyer **USS *Arleigh Burke* (DDG-51)**, which maintained a silent surveillance position three miles off the coast of Miami.
From the top of the main walkway of *Sovereign Tide*, four armed mercenaries descended forming a compact and protective diamond.
Behind them, walking with a slow, measured and distinguished step, was the retired four-star general Arthur Caldwell**.
He was seventy-six years old, tall, broad-shutt and silver-white hair cut, according to military rules. He wore an impeccable charcoal-colored cashmere coat made over a three-piece suit, holding a Cuban cigar without lighting between his fingers and his cold, penetrating blue eyes radiated the supreme and hypnotic arrogance of a man who had manipulated international governments for half a century.
Alongside Caldwell walked **Arthur Vance**, Diego’s father, pale and nervous-looking, clutching a heavy leather briefcase.
And behind Arthur Vance, dragged with heavy steel handcuffs by two mercenaries, were **Diego Vance** and **Paula Sterling**.
Diego’s face was bruised, swollen and stained with dry tears. His designer shirt was broken and his hands trembled violently, with uncontrollable spasms, while looking at me across the dock, under the sunset light.
Paula was crying in silence, prey to a catatonic terror; her cream-colored cashmere sweater was ruined by oil and dirt.
