“I stand rebuked.”

Unable to remain quiet, the driver snapped over his shoulder. “You two pretty boys think you're smart.”

“We do what we can,” said Pitt lightly.

Having done their dirty work and advertised the fact that they had not fallen off a pumpkin wagon, Pitt and Giordino remained silent as the van drove onto a pier of a shipping terminal. Smith dodged around huge overhead cranes and stacked freight, finally stopping opposite an opening in a railing along the pier's edge. Without a word of instruction, he stepped from the vehicle and walked toward a ramp leading to a launch that was tied to a small floating dock. The two NUMA men obediently followed and climbed into the launch. The sailor standing at the helm in the stern of the boat was a concert in black—black pants, black T-shirt and black stocking cap pulled down over the ears despite the tropical heat and humidity.

The launch eased away from the wooden pilings and turned her bow toward a ship that lay anchored about two-thirds of a mile from the terminal. Around her were the lights from other ships waiting for their turn to load or unload cargo under the great cranes. The atmosphere was as clear as cut glass, and far across Manila Bay the colored lights of fishing boats sparkled like gemstones against the black sky.

The shape of the ship began to rise in the night, and Pitt could see that she was not the typical tramp steamer that plowed the South Seas from island to island. He correctly identified her as a Pacific Coast lumber hauler with clean, unencumbered holds and no amidships superstructure. Her engine room was in the stern below the crew's quarters. A single stack rose just aft of the wheelhouse and behind it, a tall mast. A second, smaller mast rose from the forecastle on the bow. Pitt guessed her at somewhere between four and five thousand tons with a length of just under three hundred feet and a forty-five-foot beam. A vessel her size could have carried nearly three million board feet of lumber. Her time had long come and gone. Her sister ships, which had carried the product of saw mills, had settled into the silt of the boneyard almost fifty years earlier, having been replaced by more modern towboats and barges.

“What's her name?” Pitt asked Smith.

“The Oregon.”

“I imagine she carried a goodly amount of lumber in her day.”

Smith looked at Pitt across the launch, inspecting him closely. “How could a pretty boy like you know that?”

“When my father was a young man, he crewed on a lumber ship. He made ten runs between San Diego and Portland before finishing college. He has a picture of the ship on his office wall.”

“The Oregon sailed from Vancouver to San Francisco for close to twenty-five years before she was retired.”

“I wonder when she was built.”

“Long before you or I were born,” said Smith.

The helmsman swung the launch alongside the hull, once painted a dark orange but now discolored by rust, as revealed by the running lights on the masts and the glow from the starboard navigation light. There was no gangway, only a rope boarding ladder with wood rungs.

“After you, pretty boy,” said Smith, gesturing topside.

Pitt went first, trailed by Giordino. On the way up, Pitt wiped his fingers across a large scale of rust. The patch felt smooth, and no smudge dirtied his fingertips. The hatches on the deck were closed and the cargo booms sloppily stowed. Several large wooden crates stacked on the deck looked like they had been secured by untrained chimpanzees. To all appearances the crew ran what was often called “a loose ship.” None of them were seen, and the decks seemed deserted. The only indication of life was a radio playing a Strauss waltz. The music was inconsistent with the ship's overall appearance. Pitt thought an ode to a trash dump would have been more appropriate. He saw no sign of the Sea Dog II. “Did our submersible arrive?” Pitt asked Smith. “She's stowed in that large crate just behind the forecastle.” “Which way to the captain's cabin?” The mangy escort lifted a plate in the deck that revealed a ladder leading into what seemed a cargo compartment. “You'll find him down there.”

“Ship captains aren't generally quartered in concealed compartments.” Pitt looked up at the superstructure on the stern. “On any ship I've known the captain's cabin is below the wheelhouse.”

“Down there, pretty boy,” Smith repeated. “What in hell has Sandecker gotten us into,” murmured Giordino suspiciously as he turned his back to Pitt's and instinctively went into a fighting crouch.

Calmly, as if it was the most natural thing in the world, Pitt laid his tote bag on the deck, unzipped a pocket and retrieved his old .45 Colt. Before Smith knew what was happening the muzzle was jammed under his chin. “Forgive me for not mentioning it, but I blew the head off the last jerk who called me pretty boy.”

“Okay, pal,” Smith said without a hint of fear. “I recognize a gun when I see one. Not one in mint condition, but obviously well used. Please point it somewhere else. You wouldn't want to get hurt now, would you?”

“I don't think it's me who's going to get hurt,” Pitt said conversationally.

“You might be wise to look around you.”

It was the oldest trick in the book, but Pitt had nothing to lose. He glanced around the deck as men stepped out of the shadows. Not two men, nor four, but six men every bit as disreputable as Smith, each holding automatic weapons pointed at Pitt and Giordino. Big, silent men dressed as mangily as Smith.

Pitt pulled back the hammer and pressed the Colt another quarter inch into the flesh under Smith's chin. “Would it matter if I said, if I go, you go with me?”

“And allow your friend to be killed too?” said Smith with an ungodly grin. “From what little I know about you, Pitt, you're not that dumb.”

“Just what do you know about me?” “Put the gun away, and we'll talk.” “I can hear you perfectly well from where I stand.” “Relax, boys,” said Smith to his men. “We must show a little class and treat our guests with respect.”

Incredibly, the crew of the Oregon lowered their guns and began laughing. “Serves you right, skipper,” one of them said. “You said they were probably a couple nerds from NUMA who drank milk and ate broccoli.”

Giordino smoothly joined the act. “You guys got any beer on this tub?”

“Ten different brands,” said a crewman, slapping him on the back. “Glad to have passengers with a little guts on board.”

Pitt lowered the gun and eased the hammer back in the safety position. “I get the feeling we've been had.”

“Sorry to inconvenience you,” said Smith heartily, “but we can't let our guard down for even a moment.” He turned to his men and issued an order. “Weigh anchor, boys, and get under way for Hong Kong.”

“Admiral Sandecker said this was a singularly uncommon ship,” said Pitt, replacing the automatic in his tote bag. “But he didn't say anything about the crew.”

“If we can dispense with the theatrics,” said Smith, “I'll show you below.” He dropped down the ladder through the narrow hatch and disappeared. Pitt and Giordino followed, finding themselves in a brightly lit, carpeted hallway whose walls were painted in pastel colors. Smith opened a smoothly varnished door and nodded inside. “You can share this cabin. Stow your gear, get comfortable, use the head and then I'll introduce you to the captain. You'll find his cabin behind the fourth door on the port side aft.”

Pitt stepped inside and switched on the light. This was no Spartan cabin on a decrepit freighter. It was every bit as swank as any stateroom on a luxury cruise ship. Ornately decorated leading to a private veranda. The only suggestion of the outside world was a porthole painted black. “What,” exclaimed Giordino, “no bowl of fruit?”

Pitt stared around the cabin in fascination. “I wonder if we have to dress formal when we dine with the captain.”