Su Zhong, Qin Shang's personal secretary, was sitting at a desk inside his large armored bus, which he entered after concluding his meeting with the President. As soon as he settled into a leather chair behind a desk covered with a battery of telephones and computer systems, she handed him several messages that had arrived by fax and satellite phone. Qin Shang had developed a code to frustrate any agents, government or commercial, who attempted to eavesdrop on his personal business. He ran the messages through a scanner that instantly translated them.
“Any word yet from Zhu Kwan?”
Su Zhong recited a synopsis of the reports as her boss scanned the translations. “Only that he is attempting to track down the location where it was rumored the Princess Dou Wan sank. He claims the pieces do not fit together as constructed.”
“If anyone can find the whereabouts of the ship, Zhu Kwan can,” Qin Shang said confidently. “What else do you have?”
“The purchase of four Russian oil tankers has been concluded. Our company crews are in flight to Sevastopol to take command of the ships. They are scheduled to reach your yard in Hong Kong for refitting by the middle of next month.”
“Progress on the new cruise ship?”
“The Evening Star?” said Su Zhong. “Four months from completion. Our promotion department has produced preliminary art for her introduction as the largest and most luxurious cruise ship in the world.”
“And the United States. What is the latest on her status?”
“She has entered the Head of Passes at the mouth of the Mississippi River and is in transit to New Orleans. That part of your operation is going as planned.”
“Anything else I should know about?” asked Qin Shang warily. “Any incidents at Sungari, perhaps?”
Su Zhong shook her head. “Not Sungari.”
He could tell from the way she avoided his eyes the news was bad. “What is the story?”
“Federal agents have raided and closed down the staging depot at Bartholomeaux, Louisiana. Three hundred and forty-two immigrants were apprehended.”
“Our people?”
“Ki Wong is dead. Jack Loo of the Dragon Triad is dead. His assistant, May Ching, is in the custody of INS agents.”
Qin Shang merely shrugged. “No great loss, any of them. Jack Loo was only one cog in the American-Chinese syndicate. His death and the raid, no doubt brought about by his lax security and stupidity, offers me an excellent opportunity to renegotiate my agreement with the Dragon Triad.”
“A more profitable agreement in your favor, of course,” said Su Zhong.
“Of course,” Qin Shang said, smiling. “I would have ordered Bartholomeaux closed down in thirty-six hours anyway, once I realized my goal of making Sungari the premier shipping port on the Gulf.”
“The last report will not be to your liking,” Su Zhong murmured reluctantly.
“No review?”
“Perhaps you should absorb it with your own eyes, Qin Shang.” She nodded at the message containing a report detailing the destruction of the security post on the Mystic Canal.
As Qin Shang scanned the report his eyes shifted from somber to wrathful, especially when he reached the message from Pitt. “So Mr. Pitt wonders if I still stoop to pick up bananas. He seems to take great delight in taunting me.”
“The accursed devil should have his tongue torn out,” Su Zhong said loyally.
“I have had many enemies in my time,” Qin Shang said quietly. “Most were business competitors. But none were as challenging as Pitt. I must say, I relish his pathetic attempts at sarcastic wit. A worthy opponent?” Qin Shang shook his head wearily. “Not really. But an opponent to be savored, not like fine caviar, but more like an American hamburger—coarse, common and primitive.”
“If he but knew where to look he would be able to view the pitiful remains of those who wished you ill and tried to obstruct your ambitions.”
“Pitt will be eliminated,” Qin Shang said in a cold voice. “So far he has merely thwarted a pair of minor projects that can be easily restored. My only concern with him now is why is he in Louisiana when my sources here in Washington informed me that NUMA was taken off all investigations involving immigrant smuggling? His dogged persistence in annoying me is a mystery.”
“A misguided vendetta against you, perhaps?”
“Pitt is what the Americans call a righteous do-gooder,” said Qin Shang with a rare flash of humor. “And therein lies his flaw. When he makes a mistake, as he surely will, his demise will come because he took a moral road. He has never learned that money and power, when arranged in appropriate designs, cannot lose.” He paused to pat her on the knee. “Do not trouble yourself over Dirk Pitt, my little songbird. He will die very soon.”
April 29, 2000 The Lower Mississippi River
TWENTY MILES SOUTH OF THE HEAD OF PASSES, THAT PART OF the lower Mississippi that branches into three major channels leading into the Gulf of Mexico, two large helicopters took turns dropping onto the open stern deck of the United States and discharging their cargo of men and equipment. Then they lifted into the air again and flew west toward the port of Sun-gari. The operation lasted little more than fifteen minutes while the ship continued moving at a speed of twenty-five knots, as dictated by her automated control systems.
A tight unit of heavily armed men from Qin Shang's private security forces, led by a former colonel from the Chinese People's Liberation Army, dressed in work clothes usually worn by the men who worked the river, and carrying automatic weapons and portable missile launchers, dispersed throughout the decks as maritime crewmen went to the engine room and wheelhouse, where they took manual command of the ship's systems. Before reaching the Southwest Pass, the channel most often used by oceangoing vessels entering the river, the great liner slowed as it was met by the boat carrying the pilot who would navigate the ship upriver to New Orleans.
The pilot was a heavy man with a beer belly. He was sweating heavily and dabbing a red bandanna across his balding head after climbing the rope ladder when he stepped into the wheelhouse. He gave a wave and walked up to Captain Li Hung-chang, who until two days before had commanded the Sung Lien Star.
“Howdy, Captain, Sam Boone. I got lucky and won a lottery of river pilots for the honor of taking this here monstrosity up to New Orleans,” he proclaimed, pronouncing Orleans as Auwlans.
“That won't be necessary,” said Hung-chang without bothering to introduce himself. He pointed toward the short Chinese man standing at the helm who was the rudder master. “My first officer will do the job.”
Boone looked at Hung-chang queerly. “You're funnin' me, right?”
“No,” answered Hung-chang. “We are quite capable of running the ship to our destination under our own command.” He nodded at two guards who were nearby. They took Boone by the arms and began leading him away.
“Now wait just a damned minute,” snorted Boone, fighting off the guards. “You're violating maritime law. You're headin' for a calamity if you're dumb enough to try navigatin' it yourself. You don't know the river like an experienced pilot. We have rigorous standards. I've been taking ships up and down the delta for twenty-five years. It might look easy to you, but believe you me, it ain't.”
Hung-chang nodded at the guards. “Lock him up. Knock him unconscious if you have to.”
“You're crazy!” Boone shouted over his shoulder as he was dragged away. “You'll ran her aground sure as hell!”
“Is he right, Ming Lin?” Hung-chang asked the rudder master. “Will you run us aground?”
Lin turned and smiled a narrow smile. “I've taken this ship upriver over two hundred times in computer-generated virtual reality in three dimensions.”
“Have you ever run aground?” Hung-chang persisted.
“Twice,” replied Ming Lin without taking his eyes off the river channel. “The first two times I tried it, but never after.”