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  He glanced at his watch - where was his security chief? As though on command, the intercom on his desk buzzed. He pressed the button.

  “Yes.”

  “Major Zhu is here, Senior Colonel.”

  “Send him in.”

  The door clicked open, and Zhu Lanqing entered the room carrying several manila folders.

  “Good morning, Senior Colonel. May I congratulate you on your promotion?”

  James waved him toward a chair in front of his desk.

  “Give me a full status report on the American prisoner,” he said.

  “She’s secure in the laogai on Turtle Island,” Major Zhu said, searching for the right folder. “No confession as yet, but we’ll have one before long.”

  “I know all that. Tell me about the counter-intelligence measures. Bring me up to date,” he said, probing for something, not certain what.

  “Yes, Senior Colonel.” Major Zhu opened a folder. “As you know, we have several agents in the U.S. State Department.”

  James nodded. The CCP sent promising young men and women to America as college students with the express purpose of becoming government agents. Known as chen diyu, deep-sinking fish, they were encouraged to become naturalized U.S. citizens and seek high-visibility jobs in government. As a member of the selection committee, he’d recognized a few of his chen diyu on the campus at Stanford.

  “One of our people recently overheard a conversation in which the name Elizabeth Grayson was mentioned,” Major Zhu said. “We assigned an agent to the official she suggested we watch. We followed him, a black man named Clifford Howard, until he made contact with an agent from the Central Intelligence Agency, a woman named Susan Elliott. A team of agents has since followed them everywhere, before they left Washington and after.”

  The State Department and the CIA. No surprise after his revealing conversation with his aunt.

  “And?”

  “We failed to see any connection with the American prisoner,” Major Zhu said. “We concluded that it was a false alarm.”

  “Did you?” James said. “Where did they go?”

  Major Zhu looked at his notes. “While in Washington, they had lunch or drinks with several naval officers. Their only other contact was a meeting at the Pentagon with the Chief of Naval Operations.”

  Odd. Why would they go to see the Chief of Naval Operations? Surely they weren’t planning on sending the Navy in to rescue his cousin. The Americans were arrogant, but they weren’t stupid.

  “Where did they go from there?”

  Major Zhu retrieved a sheet of paper from his folder and handed it to James.

  “Here’s a list of their stops.”

  James ran his eye down the list. United Airlines flight 881 from Dulles to O’Hare, then flight 895 to Hong Kong International, then China Air flight 628 to Kaohsiung. James shook his head. Kaohsiung was a shithole of a town. Other than boasting the largest seaport in Taiwan, there was nothing there. He looked at Major Zhu.

  “Why did they go to Kaohsiung?”

  Major Zhu looked at his notes. “They stayed at the Linden Hotel on Sszuwei Third Road, separate rooms-”

  “I don’t care where they stayed. Who did they see?”

  “They went aboard a ship, the . . . let me see . . . the CoMar Explorer.”

  “Did the ship sail?”

  “No, Senior Colonel, they left after one hour and twelve minutes.”

  “What nationality is the ship?”

  “Panama. It had a Panamanian flag.”

  “That’s a flag of convenience, that means nothing,” James said. “Who’s the owner?”

  “The ship has a questionable title,” Major Zhu said. “A major financial backer is a lying thief known as Gray Wolf, a Taiwanese gangster involved in gun-running, smuggling, and loan-sharking. Head of the Great Wall Triad.”

  Ah yes, the triads. Chinese organized crime that went back centuries. They could be useful, but in an outlaw province like Taiwan, they’d spread like flies. The first thing the Communist party would do when they retook the island would be to round them up. Keep the ones who could do them some good and exterminate the rest.

  “I don’t see the connection,” James said. “Who did they see aboard the ship?”

  Major Zhu turned a page. “According to our agent, they met with a man believed to be the ship’s captain. An American. One Matthew Baines Connor.”

  An American. Why would agents from the State Department and the CIA take the long trip from Washington for a one-hour meeting with an American ship captain in Taiwan?

  “You don’t know what was discussed?”

  “No, Senior Colonel. Our listening devices wouldn’t penetrate the steel of the ship.”

  “What do we know about the captain?”

  Major Zhu turned the page. “Former U.S. naval officer. Resigned in disgrace. Expatriate to Taiwan. Unable to return to the U.S. because of a tax lien against his ship.”

  Not surprising. He was exactly the kind of outlaw scum that belonged on Taiwan. Water seeks its own level.

  “What else do you know about him?”

  “He was related by a former marriage to the American Chief of Naval Operations,” Major Zhu said.

  Related to the Chief of Naval Operations. Curious. Perhaps a coincidence, but his experience told him that any time something came up twice in the same conversation, it was no coincidence.

  “Interesting,” James said. His instincts told him there was something there, but he couldn’t quite see it. They stared at each other, neither speaking. Grasping at straws, he said, “What kind of ship is it, a freighter or a passenger ship?”

  “Neither, Senior Colonel,” Major Zhu said. “It’s an ocean-salvage ship.”

  James felt the blood drain from his face. He picked up his daily briefing report and started flipping pages, his mind racing. His aunt’s call. Their knowing where Beth was. An American captain. Former naval officer. Related to the CNO. Expatriate to Taiwan. Ocean-salvage ship. The footnote he’d just read. A U.S. flag vessel run aground on an island near the prison.

  He threw the report across the desk, striking Major Zhu in the face.

  “You idiot! Don’t you see what they’re doing?”

  Major Zhu jumped to his feet. “Please, Senior Colonel. I don’t understand what-”

  “Of course you don’t.” James pushed himself up from his chair and began to pace behind his desk. It was crystal clear to him what the Americans were doing, and his half-witted security chief still didn’t see it. He could be wrong - he could be adding two and two and getting five - but he couldn’t take a chance. There was too much at stake.

  He was in enough trouble with his father for bringing his American cousin over in the first place, then having her thrown in prison. To now admit that her security had been breached would send him over the edge. On the other hand, if the Americans were successful in reaching her . . . He dared not think about the consequences, especially after what he’d just done.

  “Where’s the ship?”

  “Right now?”

  “Yes, you fool, right now.”

  “I don’t know, sir, but I’ll find out.”

  Major Zhu began stabbing out phone numbers. After several minutes of working the phone, he hung up, his face ashen.

  “The ship sailed from Kaohsiung Harbor last night at high tide, approximately eleven forty-five p.m.”

  “Which direction?”

  “On a course toward Macau.”

  That confirmed it. He was right. Calm down and think. He looked out the window, hands behind his back. He had to find a way to circumvent this, all without his father finding out. He couldn’t rely on his incompetent security chief, who still didn’t realize what was going on. He was on his own.

  His first impulse was simply to move his cousin from the island, but if spies had reported her location once, they’d do so again. Besides, if he moved her, his father would know that her security had been compromised and he’d be even angrier. Tha
t was not an option. The only other course was to stop the Americans in their tracks. With the launch only ten days away, the U.S. wouldn’t have time to react, to put another mission together.

  That was the answer, but how to do it? Sink the ship? Even with the rank of senior colonel, he couldn’t order it on his own, but he might be able to order it by invoking his father’s name. The only problem was, his father would be sure to find out. Besides, sinking a ship commanded by an American, even if he was an expatriate, could cause an international incident that would focus too much attention on China. The ship had to be stopped, but it had to be stopped quietly.

  He watched an ancient Chinese junk crawl across the harbor below like a slow-moving water bug, inching its way toward a luxury liner.

  In an instant, he knew what to do. A strategy his father was fond of quoting came back to him: When weak, appear strong; when strong, appear weak.

  Yes. He knew exactly what to do.

  Matt jerked awake, drenched in sweat. He’d heard that dreams only last a few seconds, a minute at most, but he didn’t believe it. His personal nightmare had returned with a vengeance, playing over in an endless loop for what seemed like hours. The same terrified faces melted into the same roaring flames. The same anguished eyes stared at him, pleading for him to save them. And as always, he stood rooted to the spot, unable to move, no matter how hard he tried.

  He covered his eyes with his forearm, still numb from the green and white capsules Doc had given him. He felt like he hadn’t slept at all, but it served him right. He didn’t deserve sleep. In spite of everything, he hadn’t learned. Without asking anyone, he’d just committed his entire crew to break someone out of a Chinese prison, for God’s sake. How many men would die on his watch this time?

  He raised his arm and squinted at the beam of sunshine streaming into his sea cabin. The angle of the rays told him it was way past the time he’d told Francisco to call him. He brought his watch into focus. Almost ten. Damn. He came upright in his bunk and scrubbed his face with his hands. His first impulse was to skin Francisco alive for not calling him, but he couldn’t blame the cook. He should have had the discipline to wake on his own.

  He sat on the edge of his bunk for a minute and cleared his head, breathing in the stale air of his sea cabin. He glanced up at the porthole. He knew he’d opened it last night - he had to have a steady supply of fresh air - but Francisco must have closed it after he’d gone to sleep. He shook his head. His new cook had a mind of his own.

  He stretched and yawned and told himself to concentrate on being at sea again, away from the chaos of Kaohsiung. Out here he was lord and master, captain of his own ship, the purest form of dictatorship on earth. He glanced at his watch again. More than guilt for sleeping in, he felt a little jealous that the ship seemed to be functioning well without him. He could tell by the vibration in his feet that the pitch on the props was optimized and that all four engines were running smoothly. Based on the rate of swell passing by the porthole, he estimated CoMar Explorer’s speed at around fourteen knots, her cruising speed.

  With the light of day pushing the shadows of doubt back, the plan suddenly seemed to make sense. His crew would understand that he’d had no choice, that this was the only option left open to him to keep Connor Marine together. And this time, he’d make damn sure that everyone came back alive. He should relax and enjoy the ride. The sea was calm, the winds were fair, the sun was up, and he was on his way to a job that could solve all his problems.

  Traveller lay curled up in his usual spot. He opened one eye and looked at Matt.

  Matt slapped his thigh, and the dog sauntered over, stretched, yawned, and laid its muzzle in Matt’s lap. The poor old mutt still looked terrible, but he’d come a long way since Matt had found him, emaciated and near death, on the dock in Kaohsiung. Matt scratched the dog’s ears and looked into the depths of its black eyes.

  “So, what do you think, Trav? Think we’re going to like being rich?”

  Today was the eleventh of June. If everything went according to schedule, he’d pick Elizabeth Grayson up on the north shore of the island on midnight of the thirteenth and have her safely back in Kaohsiung within two days or so, Gray Wolf and his conspiracy theories notwithstanding. He’d personally put her on a plane, escort her to Cambridge, Massachusetts, and accept $5 million from the grateful parents.

  End of story. No negotiating with Lloyds, no arbitration period, no waiting for months for a check, as he would have had to do with a normal salvage job. After that, he’d pay Gray Wolf off, get clear title to CoMar Explorer, and begin a search for a second salvage ship. Sam was ready for command, and a second ship would be an extension of himself, covering parts of the Pacific he couldn’t reach in time to beat out his larger competitors.

  But first, there was the little matter of briefing his crew on the mission and getting everyone to agree. He knew he’d meet with some opposition, and he knew exactly who’d lead it. Matt had wanted to brief his obnoxious chief engineer first to keep him from spooking the rest of the crew, but after sleeping in, there was no time. It wasn’t fair to withhold the mission from the crew any longer. And now he’d missed breakfast. He hated thinking about Scootchy Carter on an empty stomach.

  He came to his feet, dropped, and did fifty push-ups. An old habit from his Navy days, but he’d noticed lately that they were getting harder to do. Breathing hard, he ran a hand through his hair and pulled on the pair of khakis he’d draped over a chair. He’d taken a quick shower before he crashed at 0200, and he never bothered to shave when they were at sea, so he was good to go.

  The pistol Gray Wolf had given him was still sitting on the chair where he’d placed it. He hefted it once, then slipped it into his hip pocket. He’d pitch it over the side tonight when he was on watch. He picked up a clean tee shirt from a stack in his closet, pulled it on, then heard a rap at the door.

  “Come.”

  The door to his sea cabin opened a crack, and Francisco’s round face peered in.

  “Hey, Boss-man, time to-”

  “You’re a little late, Francisco. I told you to call me at 0600.”

  “Too early. Four hour sleep not enough. Boss-man need sleep, now Boss-man need food.”

  “No time for that,” Matt said, rummaging in his closet for a sweatshirt.

  “Boss-man need food.” Francisco pushed the door open and walked in with a tray.

  Matt stared at him. “Don’t you ever follow orders?”

  “Why should I?”

  “Well, it’s like this,” Matt said. “I’m the captain of a ship, and you’re a member of my crew.”

  “Baloney.”

  “And another thing. How many times have I told you? Stop calling me Boss-man. Makes me sound like an overseer on a southern plantation.”

  “Okay, Boss-man.”

  Matt shook his head. He’d been having the same argument with the Filipino since he’d taken him on as ship’s cook during a stop in Manila. Francisco had been executive chef of an upscale restaurant in Cavite City that had burned down under mysterious circumstances. He’d seemed to be in a hurry to get out of town and had never been at sea before, but Matt needed a cook and hired him in spite of his misgivings.

  His instincts had turned out to be correct. Francisco was the most insubordinate crewman he’d ever known, but even if he’d wanted to, there wasn’t much he could do about it now. The crew of CoMar Explorer had fallen in love with the wily Filipino. He always made extras of his Filipino pastries as cumshaw for the crew when they passed by the galley. The men pretended to filch the goodies and Francisco pretended not to see, always with a sly smile on his face.

  Now he shoved paperwork to one side and set the tray on Matt’s desk.

  “You eat now.”

  The ship took a slight roll, and Francisco froze with a stricken look on his face.

  Matt grinned. “How do you feel?”

  “Death would be merciful.”

  Matt glanced out the porthole. It was
one of those halcyon days when the South China Sea looked like a sheet of green glass, but he didn’t want to tell Francisco that.

  “You’ll get used to it.”

  “Like earthquake that never stop.” Francisco pressed a napkin to his forehead and poured coffee. “Men want to know where we go, what job is,” he said. “Everybody ask.”

  “There’ll be a meeting in the crew’s lounge in fifteen minutes,” Matt said, pulling on a faded 49ers sweatshirt. He punched a button on his speakerphone.

  “Bridge,” Sam’s resonant voice came over the speaker.

  “Morning, Sam. How’s everything going?”

  “No problems, Skipper. We’re right where we’re supposed to be.”

  “How’s the number four?”

  “Scootchy’s got the watch. Says it sounds like a sewing machine.”

  “Good,” Matt said. With Scootchy Carter in the engine room, he might be able to brief the crew without being interrupted every five seconds. “Tell him to stay there and keep an eye on it, I’ll brief him later. Pass the word over the PA system. There’ll be a meeting at ten-thirty in the crew’s lounge for all hands not on watch. Have Jason relieve you. I want you there.”

  “Aye aye, Skipper.”

  Matt switched off the speakerphone. A lot was riding on this meeting, and his brain still felt numb. He felt mildly hungry but didn’t want to be slowed down with a heavy breakfast. Thinking he should at least have some coffee to clear his head, he picked up the cup Francisco had poured and took a sip. Jesus. No one made coffee like Francisco. The pungent flavor of the coffee on his tongue sharpened his appetite. His nostrils caught a scent of the aroma drifting up from the tray. He lifted the cover. Steam rose from a cheese omelet drizzled with Madeira sauce and thin slices of polenta, fried golden brown and still sizzling. He picked up the plate and took a bite of the omelet.

  “Hey, what’s a matter? You no like my scones?” Francisco picked up a wicker basket and drew back the white linen cover.

  Matt picked up a freshly baked scone embedded with walnuts. Insubordination be damned. This guy can cook.