“Where does it connect?”

“To the main Southern Pacific line.”

The muddy waters were beginning to clear. Pitt didn't say anything for several moments as he sat there, staring off into space. The wake he had observed behind the Sung Lien Star showed an unusual, yet defined roll beneath the churned surface that was not normal for the basic hull design of a cargo ship. It seemed to him the hull either displaced more water than was consistent with the ship's design, or carried a second, outer hull. In his mind he began to visualize a separate vessel, perhaps a submarine, attached to the keel of the container ship. Finally he asked, “Is there a name for the landing?”

“Used to be called Bartholomeaux after the man who built the mill back in nineteen-oh-nine.”

“In order to get close enough to check out Bartholomeaux without raising suspicion, I'll need to charter some type of fishing boat.”

The old fisherman stared across the table at Pitt and then he gave a little shrug and smiled. “I can do better than that. What you fellows need is a shantyboat.”

“A shantyboat?”

“Some call them campboats. People use them to wander up and down the waterways, mooring in the bayous beside towns or farms before moving on again. Often they're left moored in the same location and used as vacation cabins. Not many people live full-time on them anymore.”

“A shantyboat must be like a houseboat,” said Pitt.

“Except a houseboat doesn't usually travel about under its own power,” said the gray-bearded fisherman. “But I have a boat that's livable and has a good engine tucked away inside the hull. It's yours if you think it's suitable. And since you intend to use it for the good of the country, you can have it at no charge. Just so long as you bring it back as good as you found it.”

“I think the man has made us an offer we can't refuse,” said Giordino, who had wandered over from the bar and was eavesdropping on the conversation.

“Thank you,” Pitt said sincerely. “We accept.”

“You'll find the shantyboat about a mile up the Atchafalaya tied at a dock on the left bank called Wheeler's Landing. Nearby is a small boatyard and a grocery store run by an old friend and neighbor, Doug Wheeler. You can buy your provisions from him. I'll see that the fuel tank is filled. If anybody questions you, just say you're friends of the Bayou Kid. That's what some people call me around here. Except for my old fishing pal, Tom Straight, the bartender. He still calls me by my given name.”

“Is the engine powerful enough to move it upriver against the current?” asked Pitt naively.

“I think you'll find she can do the job.”

Pitt and Giordino were elated and grateful for the old fisherman's significant cooperation. “We'll bring your shantyboat back in the condition we found it,” Pitt promised.

Giordino reached across the table and shook the old man's hand. When he spoke it was with uncharacteristic humility. “I don't think you'll ever know how many people will benefit from your kindness.”

The fisherman stroked his beard and waved an airy hand. “Glad to be of help. I wish you fellas luck. The illegal business of smuggling, especially that of human beings, is a rotten way to make money.”

He watched thoughtfully as Pitt and Giordino left Charlie's Fish Dock and stepped into the night outside. He sat and finished his beer. It had been a long day, and he was tired.

“Did you learn anything at the bar?” Pitt asked Giordino as they walked from the dock down an alley to a busy street.

“The rivermen aren't real friendly toward Qin Shang Maritime,” answered Giordino. “The Chinese refuse to use local labor or boat companies. All towboat and barge traffic out of Sungari is conducted by Chinese boats and crews who live at the port and never come into Morgan City. There is an undercurrent of anger that just might erupt into a small-scale war if Qin Shang doesn't begin showing more respect to St. Mary Parish residents.”

“I doubt if Shang ever cultivated an affinity for dealing with peasants,” commented Pitt drolly.

“What's the plan?”

“First we find a local bed and breakfast. Then, soon as the sun comes up, we'll board the shantyboat, travel upriver and canvass the canal to nowhere.”

“And Bartholomeaux?” Giordino persisted. “Aren't you curious to see if that's where the barge dumps human cargo?”

“Curious, yes. Desperate, no. We're not working under a deadline. We can size up Bartholomeaux after we check the canal.”

“If you want to conduct an underwater search,” said Giordino, “we'll need diving equipment.”

“Soon as we're settled in, I'll call Rudi and have him ferry our gear to wherever we're staying.”

“And Bartholomeaux?” Giordino continued. “Should we prove the old sugar mill is a staging and distribution depot for smuggled aliens, then what?”

“We'll turn the chore of conducting a raid over to INS agents, but only after we give Admiral Sandecker the satisfaction of informing Peter Harper that NUMA has uncovered another one of Qin Shang's illicit operations without his help.”

“I believe that is what you call poetic justice.”

Pitt grinned at his friend. “Now comes the hard part.”

“Hard part?”

“We have to find a taxi.”

As they stood on the curb Giordino turned and looked back over his shoulder at the bar and grill. “Did that old fisherman look familiar to you?”

“Now that you mention it, there was something about him that struck a chord.”

“We never did get his name.”

“Next time we see him,” said Pitt, “we'll have to ask if we've ever met.”

Back in Charlie's Fish Dock restaurant and bar, the old fisherman glanced up at the bar as the bartender yelled across the room at him.

“Hey, Cussler. You want another beer?”

“Why not?” The old man nodded. “One more brew before I hit the road won't hurt.”

“OUR HOME AWAY FROM HOME,” SAID GlORDINO AT HIS FIRST look of the shantyboat he and Pitt were borrowing from the old fisherman. “Hardly bigger than a North Dakota outhouse.”

“Not fancy but functional,” Pitt said as he paid the taxi driver and studied the ancient boat that was moored at the end of a rickety, sagging dock that extended from the riverbank on waterlogged pilings. Inside the dock, several small aluminum fishing boats bobbed in the green water, their outboard motors showing rust and grease from long, hard use.

“Talk about roughing it,” Giordino groaned as he unloaded their underwater equipment from the trunk of the taxi. “No central heating or air-conditioning. I'll bet this tub doesn't have running water or electricity to operate lights and a television.”

“You don't need running water,” said Pitt. “You can bathe in the river.”

“What about a toilet?”

Pitt smiled. “Use your imagination.”

Giordino pointed to a small reception dish on the roof. “Radar,” he muttered incredulously, “It has radar.”

The shantyboat's hull was broad and flat with easy rakes, much like that of a small barge. The black paint was heavily scarred from a hundred sideswipes against dock pilings and other boats, but the bottom that could be seen below the water-line appeared scraped clean of marine growth. A square box with windows and doors, which was the house, rose about seven feet, its weathered blue walls nearly flush with the sides of the hull. A small, roofed-over veranda sporting lawn chairs stretched across the bow. Above, centered on the house roof, as if it was an afterthought, sat a low, raised bridgelike structure that acted as a skylight and a small pilothouse. On the roof lay a short skiff with paddles lashed upside down. The black chimney pipe from a wood-burning potbellied stove stuck up from the aft end of the house.

Giordino shook his head sadly. “I've slept on bus benches that had more class than this. Kick me the next time I complain about my motel room.”