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  “Governments seldom preempt anything,” Gray Wolf said. “Nations always wait until they’ve been attacked and then react. Preemptions, throughout history, have almost always been done by solitary individuals. Like you, Matthew.”

  Matt looked into Gray Wolf’s eyes, and it hit him. The underworld leader had been grooming him from the start for something like this, some unknown mission that an ex-naval officer and a team of ex-warriors could pull off, something that would serve his vast interests.

  “I’ll be damned. So that’s it. That’s why you wanted me to speak Chinese. Why you financed me.”

  “I invest in many people who I think may one day be useful,” Gray Wolf said. “Most never are. Fate has chosen you, Matthew. It’s your joss.”

  He gazed at Gray Wolf, amazed that he hadn’t seen his true motivations before and amused by his conspiracy theory. Joss included a whole panoply of forces, both good and evil, that came to bear on one’s life, a superstitious mixture of fate and luck. Matt didn’t believe in either. Fate and luck were what you made them. Call it joss if you like, my friend, but I’m going for the gold. He placed his teacup on the table. “In that case, I’d better get started.”

  Gray Wolf smiled gently. “I knew you’d come to the right decision. Is your ship armed?”

  Matt shrugged. “Couple of rifles to keep the sharks at bay when our divers are down. That’s about it.”

  “I thought as much. I’ve arranged to have a few items delivered that may be useful, they should be there by the time you return.” He picked up the small gray box that had been lying on the table and handed it to Matt. “This is for you.”

  Matt opened the lid. An automatic pistol, very small, dark and menacing, lay in its green velvet liner.

  “It’s a custom nine-millimeter, made by an acquaintance in Shanghai. It’s loaded with hollow-point ammunition. Small but quite powerful. The pistol and the ammunition are made of materials that won’t be revealed by a metal detector. It’s unique, one of a kind. The group that ordered it managed to blow themselves up before it was picked up. I thought you might find it useful.”

  Matt didn’t believe such a thing could exist. Out of curiosity, he picked it up and ejected the magazine. The cartridges appeared to be made of some space-age material he’d never seen before. He’d seen pistols made of polymers, like the Glock, but he’d never even heard of ammunition made of anything other than metal. He hadn’t thought it was possible. It was an airline pilot’s worst nightmare. Maybe Gray Wolf was right; maybe there were things going on in the world he wasn’t aware of. He snapped the clip back in place with the heel of his hand.

  “I can’t accept such a generous gift.”

  “It would please me if you’d accept.”

  Matt didn’t want it, but he’d rather have the pistol than see it in the hands of some terrorist group. Once they were at sea, he’d throw it over the side.

  “Thank you.”

  They both came to their feet. Gray Wolf extended his hand.

  “Go and find the young woman, Matthew. But remember, she’s not important. Only what she knows is important. The first thing you must do when you make contact is find out what she knows. No matter what happens to her, you must bring back the information.”

  Bullshit. With a $5-million reward on her head, there was no way he wasn’t going to bring the senator’s daughter back. He tucked the pistol inside his shirt, under his belt.

  “I’ll bring her back.”

  Gray Wolf walked him out to the van, giving him tremendous face. Popeye Zhang and his soldiers, who’d been sitting on their haunches around the van, came to their feet.

  “I sent these men to protect you,” Gray Wolf said in Mandarin. “I ordered them to be courteous and treat you with respect.”

  Popeye Zhang and his soldiers looked shaken. Why was their great leader speaking to this barbarian? Everyone knew the kwai lo couldn’t talk.

  Matt didn’t react. He didn’t especially want these goons to know he spoke Mandarin.

  “Did they comply with my wishes?” Gray Wolf said, again in Mandarin.

  The color seemed to drain from Popeye Zhang and his men. They stared at Matt, mouths open, waiting for the answer that could cost them their heads.

  Matt paused for a long moment. Gray Wolf must be outing him as a way to make Zhang and his men keep their mouths shut. “These honorable soldiers?”

  “These miserable sons of whores.”

  “Now that you ask, they made me feel . . .”

  Matt could see Zhang tense up.

  “. . . really welcome.”

  After Gray Wolf’s warm send-off, Popeye Zhang and his men drove Matt back to the ship in silence. They sat slumped in their seats like beaten dogs, avoiding any eye contact. The driver raced down streets that were now dark, eager to be rid of the foreign devil who’d nearly gotten them killed.

  The van slid to a stop near the gangway of CoMar Explorer. Popeye Zhang hopped out and opened the side door. He looked at Matt as he stepped out onto the dock. There was a new look in his one good eye: respect, and a grudging speck of gratitude. He’d lost much face, but he still had his head.

  Matt looked at him and saw that they both understood: You owe me.

  The doors slammed shut, and the van roared off. The sound of Popeye Zhang shrieking at his men, shifting the blame to them for not knowing the waiguoren could talk, faded down the docks as they drove away.

  He looked up at CoMar Explorer. The tide was coming in and she rode high against the dock, cranes towering above her. It was dark now, and floodlights lit the ship with a carnival atmosphere. He felt a surge of pride. With her sleek lines and water cannons forward and aft, she looked more like a ship-of-the-line than an ocean-salvage vessel. He took a long last look at her, sobered to know that he was risking everything on one roll of the dice. Depending on the success or failure of this venture, it would either be the beginning of a fleet of such ships, or the end of the line.

  Elizabeth Grayson awoke face down across the straw mat in her cell, her forearm throbbing with pain. Her eyelids felt stuck together. She blinked them open. A smoky orange light, the first hint of dawn, came through the slit in the wall. She rolled over and freed her pinned arm. Her hand was clenched into a fist. The note. Was it real or had she just been dreaming? She opened her hand. The tiny scroll, damp with perspiration, was still there. She glanced at the cell door, then unrolled the note and brought it into focus.

  Stay strong. We are leaving soon.

  The note was real. Real and dangerous. She leaned her head against the wall and closed her eyes, the lids trembling. She should have gotten rid of the note last night, but couldn’t bring herself to destroy it.

  She looked at it again. What did “we” mean? One thing was certain. It wasn’t a negotiated release. It had to be a rescue attempt of some kind. Who was behind it? Her father? Her uncle Lao? Her uncle Wang? Her cousin James?

  It had to be James. He was responsible for bringing her over, and he was close by, in Hong Kong. James was a few years older and had always been an odd sort, but they’d been close as children, playing at her parent’s summer home on Martha’s Vineyard. He’d even had a crush on her. Poor guy. He’d made a few clumsy attempts to be kissing cousins, but she wouldn’t go there. He’d evolved into a real loner as an adult, but it now seemed clear that he loved his American cousin and wouldn’t rest until he got her out. She could understand what had taken so long. James was the type to follow all the procedures. He’d exhausted all the proper channels and had struck out. Somehow he’d found out where she was being held and was now doing the only thing he could - sending someone to rescue her.

  She wondered who it would be. Someone she knew? God. Would anyone even recognize her? She hadn’t looked in a mirror in three months, but she could tell by her ribs she was skin and bones. She felt her hair, stiff with grime, scrape against the wall like a brush. The weekly two-minute shower in cold water barely got the dirt off. But whoever came through th
at door would probably be expecting the worst.

  The light breaking through the window grew brighter. She braced herself for the dawn when the gates of hell would open. Trumpets would blare and gongs would sound, calling the penitents to the fields to atone for their crimes. Four Finger Tang would hammer on the door, strut into her cell, and cover every inch of it, poking her with his bamboo stick, shouting slogans, looking around. She wanted to keep the note, but if Tang found it, she’d be finished. They’d take her off the island, into the Chinese interior, and she’d never be heard from again.

  But without the note, it would all be a dream. Still . . . She tore the rice paper note into four tiny pieces, placed them under her tongue, and let them dissolve in her mouth. She could feel her body absorb the strength of the words. She leaned her head against the wall, closed her eyes, and drifted off into a nether world, neither asleep nor awake, dreaming of home, fantasizing about her rescue.

  A trumpet blaring through a tinny loudspeaker knocked her out of her reverie. It was the opening blast in a cacophony of drums, cymbals, and gongs, guards shouting, inmates groaning, cell doors clanging. She heard the bolt on her cell door snap open, felt the same sharp pain in her abdomen.

  “Reform through labor, reform through labor,” Four Finger Tang said, bursting into her cell.

  “Must work, must work, must reconstruct socialism with two hands,” his shadow, Big Ears Wu, said. Elizabeth wondered how long it had taken this dimwit to memorize such a long slogan. It must have taxed his brain because it was the only thing he ever said.

  They walked around her cell, looking over every nook and cranny, even picking up her bucket and looking beneath it. Satisfied, Four Finger Tang shoved her out the door. She fell into the long gray line of skeletal prisoners shuffling by in silence, stretching stiff limbs, hawking and spitting, steeling themselves for another twelve-hour day in the withering sun.

  “Look, the west-ocean mongrel from the Golden Country is still alive,” the prisoner in front of her said. “Another day and you lose your bet, old Wang.”

  “Eh, she won’t live another day,” the man behind her said. He appeared to be in his late sixties, with a face the color of an old saddle. “Look at her. She’s as bony as a carp.”

  “And just as pale and smelly,” the young man in front said. “But she will live another day. Each night I enter her jade gate with my jade spear and fill her with life. I only do her to win the bet, of course.”

  “Diu neh loh moh.” Do your mothers.

  A stunned silence came over the prisoners surrounding her. It was the first time she’d spoken Chinese in front of them. Probably a mistake, but she couldn’t help herself. She’d listened to an unending stream of vulgarities and insults for three months. Besides, the note had given her hope that she’d be leaving soon. There was no longer any need to practice the fine art of what the Chinese called jia chi bu dian, playing stupid while being smart.

  The line shuffled out into the daylight and snaked around to a steam table and huge cauldron. She didn’t have to wonder what was being served for breakfast. It was the same meal, twice a day, seven days a week. Mantou and tangmian. Plain steamed buns and heavily salted noodle soup. Every Friday, during the evening meal, a chunk of stewed pork fat was plopped into the soup with great ceremony. The prisoners ate it with relish, but Elizabeth was repulsed by it. She was most popular then. The others clustered around, waiting for her to leave the greasy, flabby lump, then fought over it.

  She took her morning ration and sat on a pile of leaves, away from the others, and forced herself to eat. She looked around at the human discards squatting in the dirt. Mostly political prisoners, along with a handful of drug dealers, vagrants, murderers, rapists, thieves, and embezzlers. The two men she’d just shut down were sitting as far away from her as they could get.

  She noticed a prisoner she hadn’t seen before moving in her direction with his tin cup and steamed bun. He disappeared behind some shrubs briefly and then reappeared beside her, squatting behind the bush on her right, out of sight of most of the others.

  “Dong Zhongwen-ma?” he said. Do you understand Chinese?

  Elizabeth glanced at him sideways. He was young - late twenties, maybe - and soft-spoken. He looked well fed and in good condition, like someone who had only just arrived. Her instincts told her he meant no harm.

  “Dong,” she said. I do.

  “They didn’t tell me,” he said in English.

  “Who didn’t tell you?” Elizabeth said. “Who are you?”

  “A friend. I liked the way you nailed those jerks, but don’t speak any more Cantonese. If you feel compelled to say something, tell them to get stuffed in English, like you did Professor Lee last night.”

  “You were there?”

  He nodded. “I was afraid you were near your breaking point. I had to get word to you to hold on.”

  Elizabeth gasped. “My God. It was you, last night, you touched my foot.”

  He looked embarrassed. “Sorry. I wasn’t trying to be familiar.”

  “Please don’t be sorry.” Women’s feet were considered erotic to Chinese men, for reasons Elizabeth had never figured out. This guy could touch her foot any time he wanted. “Who sent you?” she said. “My cousin James, right?”

  “Who sent me’s not important. That note could get us killed. I hope you disposed of it.”

  She touched her chest. “I swallowed it.”

  “Good girl. The next time you see me, do exactly as I say. We’ll go together. I’ve been here three days, and I can’t stomach any more of this slop.” He poured his soup into the bushes, then offered his steamed bun.

  She shook her head, too excited to eat. “No, thanks. When will that be? When will I see you?”

  He broke the bun in half, sniffed it, made a face, and took a bite. “It’s best if you don’t know.”

  “How will we get off the island?”

  “Best not to know. When I show up, just do as I say. You’ll be in safe hands.”

  “What’s your name? I have to know your name.”

  “My friends call me Charlie,” he said. “Charlie Chan.” He grinned and then he was gone.

  James Lao sipped his morning latte and dabbed at his forehead with a napkin. He looked at the damp paper. Was it the coffee or was it nerves? No one could blame him for being nervous. He’d just activated Phase II of his plan. Everything had been prearranged. All it had taken was a simple phone call, but he’d reached for the phone three times and pulled back three times before he’d finally had the balls to go through with it. There could be no pulling back now. He glanced at his calendar. June 11. L minus ten. If his plan was discovered before the launch, it would mean his death. But with only ten days to go, he felt the risk was virtually nonexistent.

  The intercom on his desk buzzed. He looked at his watch. It was early for a call. He pressed the button.

  “Yes?”

  “Good morning, Senior Colonel,” his secretary said in English. “Your Aunt Amelia on line one.”

  Oh, Christ. Not again. Beth’s mother was the last person on earth he wanted to talk to right now. He thought about making an excuse, then picked up the handset and pressed the flashing yellow button.

  “Good morning, Auntie. What a pleasant surprise.”

  “Don’t ‘Auntie’ me. What have you done to get my daughter out of that dunghole of a prison she’s in?”

  “Now, Auntie, I told you yesterday, we’re doing everything we can. These things take time. We-”

  “Time? You’ve had three months. How long do you think a young woman as refined as your cousin can live in a place like that?”

  “I know it’s dreadful. But we’re making progress. I just spoke with my father about it yesterday.”

  “Your father. Humph. He won’t take my calls anymore. My sister tells me he won’t even take hers!”

  “That’s because he’s very busy working for her release. As I said, these things take time. We’re still trying to find out whe
re she’s being held.”

  “Even I know that.”

  “You . . . do?”

  “Of course. I overheard my husband say she’s being held in a laogai on a small island off the coast of Macau. Turtle Island, he called it.”

  James managed to hold back a groan. How the hell did the senator know where she was? “That’s only a rumor, Auntie. We’ve heard that she’s being held in a dozen places.”

  “This is no rumor. This has been confirmed.”

  “By whom?”

  “By the CIA.”

  James swallowed. “Are you certain?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “That’s wonderful news,” James said. “That will help us immensely. I’ll transmit the information to my father. I have to go, Auntie, an important call.”

  He hung up the phone, his mouth dry. So they know she’s on Turtle Island. Goddamn it. He’d kept her location top secret. There had to be a leak somewhere. No matter. The launch was still only ten days away. It would all be over before anyone could react. Still, the leak bothered him. He pressed a button on his intercom.

  “Yes, Senior Colonel?”

  “Ask Major Zhu to come in.”

  “At once, Senior Colonel.”

  James finished off his coffee and flipped through his morning briefing report, waiting for his chief of security to arrive. He skipped past the launch details and turned to the security section of the report. Everything appeared to be in order. A footnote caught his eye. A freighter had run aground on an island near the laogai on Turtle Island. Not unusual. There were treacherous currents around the islands that made the laogai escape-proof. The currents had pulled more than one ship into the islands when their engines failed or someone was asleep on watch. A U.S. flag vessel. That was unusual. There weren’t many of those left, thanks to America’s greedy labor unions. Nevertheless, because it was a U.S. flag vessel, it would take special handling. Something to take into account.