Seymour stood near the slip where the Sultan’s vessel was docked. He made sure that all buttons were securely fastened on his coat. He turned up his collar to block the wind.

“We need to leave before the storm intensifies,” the captain said.

“The package is nearly here,” Seymour said.

“I will give you five more minutes. Then we leave, package or no.”

Two minutes later, the van appeared with its precious cargo. Two large men hauled the box into the boat’s cargo hold then left without a word to Seymour. Another man handed Seymour a bag.

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“Disassembly is mandatory,” the man said, smiling.

Seymour nodded.

No sooner had the man left than the boat set sail. Two burly deck hands carried the box to the cargo hold.

“In which room should we place the cargo?” one man asked.

“Put her in the stateroom. I expect the Sultan this evening,” Seymour said.

The man nodded, and then proceeded with the task at hand.

Seymour looked out of a nearby porthole as snow began falling; he noticed that the waves were unusually calm for winter. With any luck, the Sultan would meet his prize tonight. Seymour felt a brief pang of regret. He’d told the girl the truth. He had a daughter. However, after a moment, the feeling had evaporated; he had emotions, but they rarely lasted long enough to warrant analysis. Seymour appreciated that the Sultan paid his bills, and he needed the money. He just hoped that delivery would be quick—before his urges returned. The ones that so often got him in trouble with the authorities. That time in D.C. was too close for comfort. Seymour shrugged off the dreadful memory.