Текст книги "Flood Tide"

Автор книги: Clive Cussler

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Текущая страница: 15 (всего у книги 35 страниц)

“I want to thank you,” said Cabrillo. He could feel himself getting faint from loss of blood, and he wanted to get it in.

“You fooled both me and the Chinese boarding party with your fake-hands-in-the-air routine. If you hadn't taken them out, the outcome might have been different.”

“I had help from four good men,” Pitt said as he knotted the tourniquet on Cabrillo's leg.

“It took a ton of guts to ran across that shell-swept deck to man the Oerlikons.”

Having done all he could until Cabrillo could be carried to the ship's hospital, Pitt sat back and stared at the chairman of the board. “I believe they call it temporary insanity.”

“Still,” Cabrillo said in a weak voice, “you saved the ship and everyone on it.”

Pitt looked at him tiredly and smiled. “Will the corporation vote me a bonus at the next board-of-directors meeting?”

Cabrillo started to say something, but he passed out just as Giordino, followed by two men and a woman, entered the ravaged wheelhouse. “How bad is he?” asked Giordino.

“His lower leg is hanging by a thread,” said Pitt. “If the ship's surgeon is as skilled and professional as everyone else on this ship, I'm betting he can reattach it.”

Giordino looked down on the blood seeping through Pitt's pants at the hip. “Did you ever consider painting a bull's-eye on your ass?”

“Why bother?” Pitt retorted with a twinkle in his eyes. “They'd never miss it anyway.”

UNKNOWN TO MOST VISITORS OF HONG KONG ARE THE OUTLYing islands, 235 of them. Considered the other face of the bustling business district across from Kowloon, the old fishing villages and peaceful open countryside are embellished by picturesque farms and ancient temples. Most of the islands are less accessible than Cheung Chau, Lamma and Lantau, whose populations run from 8,000 to 25,000, and many are still uninhabited.

Four miles southwest of the town of Aberdeen on Repulse Bay, Tia Nan Island rises from the waters of the East Lamma Channel across a narrow channel from the Stanley Peninsula. It is small, no more than a mile in diameter. At its peak, jutting from a promontory two hundred feet above the sea, stands a monument to wealth and power, a manifestation of supreme ego.

Originally a Taoist monastery built in 1789 and dedicated to Ho Hsie Ku, one of the immortals of Taoism, the main temple and its surrounding three smaller temples were abandoned in 1949. In 1990 it was purchased by Qin Shang, who became obsessed with creating a palatial estate that would become the envy of every affluent businessman and politician in southeast China.

Protected by a high wall and well-guarded gates, the enclosed gardens were artistically designed and planted with the world's rarest trees and flowers. Master craftsmen replicated ancient design motifs. Artisans from all over China were brought in to remodel the monastery into a glorious showplace of Chinese culture. The harmonious architecture was retained and enhanced to display Qin Shang's immense collection of art treasures. His thirty-year hunt netted art objects from China's prehistory to the end of the Ming dynasty in 1644. He pleaded, cajoled and bribed People's Republic bureaucrats into selling him priceless antiques and artwork, any cultural treasure he could get his hands on.

His agents combed the great auction houses of Europe and America, and scoured every private collection on every continent for exquisite Chinese objects. Qin Shang bought and bought with a fanaticism that stunned his few friends and business associates. After an appropriate time span, what could not be purchased was stolen and smuggled to his estate. What he couldn't display because of lack of space, or was documented as stolen, he stored in warehouses hi Singapore and not Hong Kong because he didn't trust bureaucrats of the People's Republic government not to decide someday to confiscate his treasures for themselves.

Unlike so many of his superrich contemporaries, Qin Shang never settled into a “lifestyle of the rich and famous.” From the time he hustled his first coin until he made his third billion, he never stopped working at extending his thriving shipping operations, nor did he cease his maniacal, unending drive to collect the cultural riches of China.

When he bought the monastery, Qin Shang's first project was to enlarge and pave the winding foot trail leading up to the temples from a small harbor so that construction materials and later his artwork and furnishings could be carried up the steep hill by vehicles. He wanted more than to rebuild and remodel the temples, much more; he wanted to create a stunning effect never achieved in a private residence or any other edifice so dedicated to the accumulation of cultural art by an individual, except perhaps the Hearst Castle at San Simeon, California.

It took five years from start to finish before the grounds inside the walls were lushly landscaped and the decor inside the temples was completed. Another six months passed before the art and furnishings were set in place. The main temple

became Qin Shang's residence and entertainment complex, which included a lavishly decorated billiard room and a vast heated indoor/outdoor swimming pool that meandered in a circle for over a hundred yards. The complex also sported two tennis courts and a short nine-hole golf course. The other three smaller temples were turned into omate guesthouses. In the end, Qin Shang called it the House of Tin Hau, the patroness and goddess of seafarers.

Qin Shang was an extremist when it came to perfection. He never ceased fine-tuning his beloved temples. The complex seemed in a constant state of activity as he redesigned and added costly details that enriched his creation. The expense was enormous, but he had more than enough money to indulge his passion. His fourteen thousand art objects were the envy of museums around the world. He was constantly besieged with offers by galleries and other collectors, but Qin Shang only bought. He never sold.

When completed, the House of Tin Hau was grand and magnificent, looming over the sea like a specter guarding Shang's secrets.

An invitation to visit the House of Tin Hau was always accepted with great pleasure among Asian and European royalty, world leaders, society people, financial tycoons and movie stars. Guests, who generally arrived at Hong Kong's international airport, were immediately flown by a huge executive helicopter to a landing pad just outside the temple complex. High state officials or those of a special elite status were carried by water on Qin Shang's incredible two-hundred-foot floating mansion, actually the size of a small cruise ship, which he designed and built in his own shipyard. Upon arrival the guests were met by a staff of servants who would direct them to luxurious vans for the short drive to their sleeping quarters, where they were assigned their own private maids and valets during their stay. They were also informed about dinner schedules and asked if they preferred any special dishes or particular wine.

Properly awed by the scope and splendor of the rebuilt temples, the guests relaxed in the gardens, lounged around the swimming pools or worked in the library, which was staffed with highly professional secretaries and specially equipped with the latest publications, computers and communications systems for businessmen and government officials so they could remain in convenient contact with their various offices.

Dinners were always formal. Guests gathered in an immense antechamber that was a lush tropical garden with waterfalls, reflection ponds filled with vividly colored carp and a light perfumed mist that filtered from jets in the ceiling. Women, to protect their hairstyles, sat under artistically dyed silk umbrellas. After cocktails, they gathered in the great hall of the temple that served as a dining room and sat in massive chairs exotically carved with dragon legs and armrests. Flatware was optional—chopsticks for Oriental guests, gold-plated utensils for those used to Western tastes. Instead of the traditional long rectangular table with the host seated at its head, Qin Shang preferred a huge circular table with the guests comfortably spaced around the outer circumference. A narrow aisle was cut in one section of the table so gorgeous, svelte Chinese women in beautiful, form-fitting silk dresses with thigh-high slits in the skirts could serve a multitude of national dishes conveniently from the inside. To Qin Shang's creative mind, this was far more practical than the time-honored method of serving over a guest's shoulder.

After everyone was seated, Qin Shang made his appearance in an elevator that came up through the floor. He usually wore the expensive silk robes of a mandarin lord and sat on an ancient throne elevated two inches above the chairs of his guests. Irrespective of status or nationality, Qin Shang acted as if every meal was a ceremonial occasion and he was the emperor.

Not surprisingly, ranking guests loved every minute of a stylishly staged dinner that was actually more of a feast. After dinner, Qin Shang led them to a lavish theater where they were shown the latest feature films flown in from around the world. They sat in soft, velvet chairs and wore earphones that translated the dialogue into their native language. By the end of the program it was close to midnight. A light buffet was laid out, and the guests mingled among themselves while Qin Shang would disappear into a private sitting room with a selected guest or two to discuss world markets or negotiate business deals.

This evening Qin Shang requested the presence of Zhu Kwan, the seventy-year-old scholar who was China's most respected historian. Kwan was a little man with a smiling face and small, heavily lidded brown eyes. He was invited to sit in a thickly cushioned wooden chair carved with lions and offered a small Ming-dynasty china cup of peach brandy.

Qin Shang smiled. “I wish to thank you for coming, Zhu Kwan.”

“I am grateful for your invitation,” Zhu Kwan replied graciously. “It is a great honor to be a guest in your magnificent home.”

“You are our country's greatest authority on ancient Chinese history and culture. I requested your presence because I wanted to meet you and discuss a possible venture between us.” “I must assume you want me to do research.” Qin Shang nodded. “I do.” “How can I be of service?”

“Have you taken a close look at some of my treasures?” “Yes indeed,” answered Zhu Kwan. “It is a rare treat for a historian to study our country's greatest artworks firsthand. I had no idea so many pieces of our past still existed. It is thought many of them were lost. The magnificent bronze incense burners inlaid with gold and gemstones from the Chou dynasty, the bronze chariot with life-size driver and four horses from the Han dynasty—”

“Fakes, replicas!” Qin Shang snapped in a sudden display of torment. “What you consider masterworks of our ancestors were re-created from photographs of the originals.”

Zhu Kwan was astonished and disillusioned at the same time. “They look so perfect, I was completely fooled.”

“Not if you had time to study them under laboratory conditions.”

“Your artisans are extraordinary. As skilled as those a thousand years ago. On today's market your commissioned works must be worth a fortune.”

Qin Shang sat heavily in a chair opposite Zhu Kwan. “True, but reproductions are not priceless like the genuine objects. That is why I'm delighted you accepted my invitation. What I'd like you to do is compile an inventory of the art treasures that were known to exist prior to nineteen forty-eight, but have since disappeared.”

Zhu Kwan eyed him steadily. “Are you prepared to pay a great sum of money for such a list?” “I am.” “Then you shall have a complete inventory itemizing every known art treasure that has been missing in the last fifty to sixty years by the end of the week. You wish it delivered here or at your office in Hong Kong?”

Qin Shang looked at him quizzically. “That is quite an exceptional commitment. Are you sure you can fulfill my request in so short a time?”

“I have already accumulated a detailed description of the treasures over a period of thirty years,” explained Zhu Kwan. “It was a labor of love for my own personal satisfaction. I only require a few days to put it in readable order. Then you may have it free of charge.”

“That is most gracious of you, but I am not a man who asks for favors without compensation.”

“I will accept no money, but there is one provision.”

“You have but to name it.”

“I humbly ask that you use your enormous resources in an attempt to locate the lost treasures so they can be returned to the people of China.”

Qin Shang nodded solemnly. “I promise to use every source at my command. Though I have only spent fifteen years to your thirty on the search, I regret to say I have made little progress. The mystery is as deep as the disappearance of the bones of the Peking man.”

“You have found no leads either?” inquired Zhu Kwan.

“The only key to a possible solution my own agents have turned up is a ship called the Princess Dou Wan.”

“I remember her well. I sailed on her with my mother and father to Singapore when I was a young boy. She was a fine ship. As I recall, she was owned by Canton Lines. I searched for clues to her disappearance myself some years ago. What is her connection with the lost art treasures?”

“Shortly after Chiang Kai-shek looted the national museums and plundered the private collections of our ancestors' art treasures, the Princess Dou Wan sailed for an unknown destination. She never reached it. My agents have failed to trace any eyewitnesses. It seems many of them also disappeared under mysterious circumstances. No doubt lying in unmarked graves, courtesy of Chiang Kai-shek, who wanted no secrets about the ship to leak to the Communists.”

“You think Chiang Kai-shek tried to smuggle the treasures away on the Princess Dou Wan?”

“The coincidence and odd events lead me to believe so.”

“That would answer many questions. The only records I could find on the Princess Dou Wan suggested that she was lost on the way to the scrappers at Singapore.”

“Actually, her trail ends somewhere in the sea west of Chile, where a distress signal was reported received from a ship calling herself the Princess Dou Wan before she sank with all hands in a violent storm.”

“You have done well, Qin Shang,” said Zhu Kwan. “Perhaps now you can solve the puzzle?”

Qin Shang shook his head dejectedly. “Easier said than done. She could have gone down anywhere within a four-hundred-square-mile area. An American would compare it to looking for a needle in a field of haystacks.”

“This is not a quest to cast aside as too difficult. A search must be conducted. Our most priceless national treasures must be recovered.”

“I agree. That's why I built a search-and-survey ship precisely for that purpose. My salvage crew has been crisscrossing the site for six months and has seen no indication of a hulk on the seabed matching the size and description of the Princess Dou Wan.”

“I pray you do not give up,” Zhu Kwan said solemnly. “To discover and return the artifacts for display in the People's museums and galleries would make you immortal.”

“The reason I've asked you here tonight. I wish for you to put forth your greatest effort in finding a clue to the ship's final whereabouts. I will pay you well for any new information you discover.”

“You are a great patriot, Qin Shang.”

But any expectation Zhu Kwan had that Qin Shang was on a noble quest for the people of China was quickly dashed. Qin Shang looked at him and smiled. “I have achieved great wealth and power in my lifetime. I do not search for immortality. I do it because I cannot die unfulfilled. I shall never rest until the treasures are found and retrieved.”

The veil shrouding Qin Shang's evil intentions was ripped away. The billionaire was no moralist. If he was fortunate enough to find the Princess and her priceless cargo, he had every intention of keeping it for himself. Every piece, no matter how large or small, would become part of a hidden collection that only Qin Shang would enjoy.

Qin Shang was lying in bed studying financial reports on his far-flung business empire when the phone beside his bed chimed softly. Unlike most unmarried men in his position, he usually slept alone. He admired women and summoned one when he occasionally felt desire, but business and finance were his passion. He thought smoking and drinking wasted time, as did seduction. He was too disciplined for a common affair. He felt only disgust for men of power and wealth who wasted themselves with dissipation and debauchery. He picked up the phone. “Yes?”

“You asked me to call you regardless of time of night,” came the voice of his secretary, Su Zhong.

“Yes, yes,” he said impatiently, his train of thought interrupted. “What is the latest report on the United States?”

“She left her dock at seven o'clock this evening. All automated systems are functioning normally. Unless she encounters heavy storms at sea, she should make Panama in record time.” “Is a crew standing by to board and to take her through the canal?”

“Preparations have been made,” answered Su Zhong. “Once the ship enters the Caribbean, the crew will reengage the automated systems for her journey to Sungari and disembark.”

“Any word on the intruders at the shipyard?” “Only that it was a very professional operation using a highly sophisticated submersible.” “And my underwater security team?” “Their bodies have been recovered. None survived. Most appear to have died from concussion. The patrol boat was found at the Harbor Authority dock, but the crew has vanished.”

“The Iranian-registered freighter that was moored nearby the shipyard—has she been boarded and investigated?”

“Her name is the Oregon. She departed slightly ahead of the United States. According to our sources at Naval Command, it was overtaken at your request by Captain Yu Tien of the cruiser Chengdo. His last message said that the freighter had heaved to and he was sending a boarding party of marines to inspect her.”

“Nothing from Captain Yu Tien since then?” asked Qin Shang. “Only silence.”

“Perhaps his boarding party found incriminating evidence and he has seized the ship and disposed of the crew under strict secrecy.”

“No doubt that is the situation,” agreed Su Zhong.

“What else do you have for me?”

“Your agents are also questioning the guard at the main gate who claimed that three men, one of them wearing the uniform of a security officer, presented stolen credentials and entered the shipyard in a Rolls-Royce. It was thought they drove directly to the United States, but this cannot be verified since all guards were ordered off the dock just prior to her sailing.”

“I want answers,” Qin Shang said angrily. “I want to know what organization is responsible for spying on my operations. I want to know who is behind the intrusion and the deaths of our security people.”

“Do you wish Pavel Gavrovich to head up the investigation?” asked Su Zhong.

Qin Shang thought a moment. “No, I want him to concentrate on eliminating Dirk Pitt.”

“At last report, Pitt was in Manila.”

“The Philippines?” Qin Shang said, his composure slipping away. “Pitt was in the Philippines, just two hours away from Hong Kong by air? Why wasn't I told of this?”

“Word only came hi from Gavrovich an hour ago. He trailed Pitt to a dockyard in Manila, where he and his partner, Albert Giordino, were observed being taken aboard an Iranian cargo ship.”

Qin Shang's voice became quiet and vicious. “The same Iranian freighter that stood off the United States?”

“A positive match has not yet been confirmed,” said Su Zhong. “But every indication suggests that they are one and the same.”

“Somehow, Pitt is mixed up in this affair. As the National Underwater and Marine Agency's special projects director, it stands to reason he can operate and pilot a submersible. But what possible interest can NUMA have in my operations?”

“His involvement at Orion Lake appears to be accidental,” said Su Zhong. “But perhaps he is now working with another United States investigative agency such as the INS or CIA?”

“Very possible,” said Qin Shang, the latent hostility reflected hi his voice. “The devil has proven far more destructive than I ever conceived.” A few seconds passed hi silence. Then he said, “Inform Gavrovich that he is to be given full authority and an unlimited budget to uncover and stop any covert operation against Qin Shang Maritime.”

“And Dirk Pitt?”

“Tell Gavrovich to postpone killing Pitt until he returns.”

“To Manila?”

Qin Shang was breathing quickly, his mouth a thin white line. “No, when he returns to Washington.”

“How can you be sure he'll go straight to the American capital?”

“Unlike you, Su Zhong, who can read people from photographs, I've studied the man's history from the time he was born until he devastated my operation at Orion Lake. Trust me when I say he will return to his home at the first opportunity.”

Su Zhong shuddered slightly, knowing what was about to come. “Are you speaking of the aircraft hangar where he lives with his old car collection?”

“Exactly,” Qin Shang hissed like a serpent. “Pitt will watch in horror as his precious automobiles go up in flames. I may even take the time and watch him burn with them.”

“Your calendar does not put you in Washington next week. You're scheduled for meetings with your company directors in Hong Kong and government officials in Beijing.”

“Cancel them,” Shang said with an indifferent wave of one hand. “Set up meetings with my friends in Congress. Also arrange a meeting with the President. It's time I soothed any misgivings they might have about Sungari.” He paused, and his lips tightened in a sinister smile. “Besides, I think it appropriate that I be on hand when Sungari becomes the premier shipping port in North America.”

AS THE SUN ROSE THE OREGON BOUNDED ACROSS A CALM SEA under clear skies at a speed of thirty knots. With her ballast tanks pumped dry to raise her hull out of the water to reduce drag, she made a strange sight with her stern dug deep in water thrashed white by wildly turning screws, her bows lifted nearly free of the troughs before bursting aside the crest of the next rolling swell. During the night the cargo deck had been cleared of debris while the ship's surgeon worked nonstop to bind wounds and operate on those who were seriously injured. The Oregon lost only one man, who had the misfortune of being struck hi the head by fragments from the hundred-millimeter shell when it smashed into the upper section of the stern. None of the wounded were critical. The surgeon also managed to save all but six of the Chinese marines. Both officers had died and were dropped over the side with their men who had not survived.

The women who served aboard the Oregon quickly turned into angels of mercy, assisting the surgeon and tending to the wounded. Pitt's unlucky curse held tight. Instead of an attractive nurse to bandage his hip wound, his luck of the draw was the ship's quartermaster or mistress (her actual title in Cabrillo's corporate structure was supply and logistics coordinator), who stood six feet and weighed two hundred pounds if she weighed an ounce. Her name was Monica Crabtree, and she was as bright and resourceful as they came.

After she finished, she gave Pitt a slap on his exposed tail. “All finished. And may I say that you've got a nice set of buns.”

“Why is it,” Pitt said, pulling up his boxer briefs, “women always take advantage of me?”

“Because we're smart enough to see through that steely exterior and know that inside beats the heart of a sentimental slob.”

Pitt looked at her. “Do you read palms, or more correctly, buns?”

“No, but I'm a whiz with tarot cards.” Crabtree paused and gave him a come-hither smile. “Come over to my quarters sometime and I'll give you a reading.”

Pitt would have rather rushed off for a root canal. “Sorry, knowing the future might upset my stomach.”

Pitt limped through the open doorway to the chairman's cabin. No bunk for the chairman of the board. Cabrillo was lying in a king-size bed with a Balinese carved headboard on top of clean green sheets. Bottles on a stand containing clear fluids flowed into him through tubes. Considering his ordeal, he looked reasonably healthy as he sat propped up by pillows reading damage reports while smoking a pipe. Pitt was saddened to see that his leg had been amputated below the knee. The stump was elevated on a pillow, a red stain having spread through the bandage.

“Sorry about your leg,” said Pitt. “I had hoped the surgeon might have somehow reattached it.”

“Wishful thinking,” said Cabrillo with extraordinary grit. “The bone was too shattered for the doc to glue it back on.”

“I guess there is no sense in asking how you feel. Your constitution seems to be firing on all cylinders.”

Cabrillo nodded at his missing limb. “Not so bad. At least it's below the knee. How do you think I'd look with a peg leg?”

Pitt looked down and shrugged. “Somehow I can't picture the chairman of the board stomping about the deck like some lecherous buccaneer.”

“Why not? That's what I am.”

“It's obvious,” Pitt said, smiling, “that you don't need any sympathy.”

“What I need is a good bottle of Beaujolais to replace my blood loss.”

Pitt eased into a chair beside the bed. “I hear you've given orders to bypass the Philippines.”

Cabrillo nodded. “You heard correct. All hell must have broken loose when the Chinese learned we sank one of their cruisers along with its crew. They'll use every arm-twisting scheme in the diplomatic book to have us arrested and the ship impounded the minute we sail into Manila.”

“What then is our destination?”

“Guam,” answered Cabrillo. “We'll be safe in American territory.”

“I'm deeply sorry about the death and injuries to your crew and damage to your ship,” said Pitt sincerely. “The blame belongs on my shoulders. If I hadn't insisted you delay your departure from Hong Kong to search inside the liner, the Oregon might have gotten clear.”

“Blame?” Cabrillo said sharply. “You think you're the cause of all that's happened? Don't flatter yourself. I wasn't ordered by Dirk Pitt to covertly search the United States. I made a contract with the U.S. government to fulfill a mission. All decisions relating to the search were mine and mine alone.”

“You and your crew paid a high price.”

“Maybe so, but the corporation was damn well rewarded for it. In fact, we're already guaranteed a fat bonus.”

“Still—”

“Still, hell. The mission would have been a bust if you and Giordino hadn't learned what you did. To someone, somewhere in the hallowed halls of our intelligence agencies the information will be considered vital to the nation's interest.”

“All we really learned,” said Pitt, “is that a former ocean liner, gutted of every nonessential piece of equipment and owned by a master criminal, is sailing without a crew to a port in the United States owned by the same master criminal.”

“I'd say that's quite a store of information.”

“What good is it if we've yet to fathom the motivation?”

“I have confidence you'll divine the answer when you get back to the States.”

“We probably won't learn anything solid until Qin Shang tips his hand.”

“The Ancient Mariner and the Hying Dutchman had ghostly crews.”

“Yes, but they were works of classic fiction.”

Cabrillo set his pipe in an ashtray; he was beginning to look tired. “My theory about the United States blowing up the Panama Canal might have held water if you'd found her bowels filled with high explosives.”

“Like the old lend-lease destroyer during a commando raid at Saint-Nazaire, France, in World War II,” said Pitt.

“The Campbeltown. I remember. The British packed her with several tons of explosives and rammed her into the big dry dock at the Saint-Nazaire shipyard so the Nazis couldn't use it to refit the Tirpitz. With the help of a timing device, she blew to pieces several hours later, destroying the dry dock and killing over a hundred Nazis who came to stare at her.”

“You'd need several trainloads of explosives to blow a ship the size of the United States out of existence and everything within a mile around her.”

“Qin Shang is capable of most anything. Could it be he got his hands on a nuclear bomb?”

“Suppose he did?” suggested Pitt. “What's his upside? Who'd waste a good nuclear bomb unless you've got a target of conspicuous magnitude? What could he gain by leveling San Francisco, New York or Boston? Why spend millions reconverting a nine-hundred-and-ninety-foot ocean liner into a bomb carrier when he could have used any one of a thousand old obsolete ships? No, Qin Shang is not a fanatical terrorist with a cause. His religion is domination and greed. Whatever his grand design, it has to be devious and brilliant, one that you and I wouldn't have thought of in a million years.”

“You're right,” Cabrillo sighed. “Devastating a city and killing thousands of people is a no-win situation for a man of wealth. Especially when you consider that the bomb carrier could be traced back directly to Qin Shang Maritime.”

“Unless,” Pitt added.

“Unless?”

Pitt gave Cabrillo a distant look. “Unless the scheme called for a minimal amount of explosives.”