"It seems half the population of Washington and British Columbia is Chinese," commented the stranger.
"The Chinese have poured into the Pacific Northwest like a flood tide since the Communist government took over Hong Kong. They already own half of downtown Seattle and most of Vancouver. No telling what the population will look like in another fifty years." Colburn paused and punched the TOTAL lever on the cash register. "With the fishing permit, that'll be seventy-nine-thirty-five."
The stranger pulled his wallet from a hip pocket, handed Colburn a hundred-dollar bill and waited for the change. "The Chinaman you mentioned-what sort of business is he in?"
"All I heard is that he's a wealthy shipping tycoon from Hong Kong." Colburn began sacking the groceries while gossiping away. "Nobody has ever seen him. Never comes through town. Except for drivers of big delivery trucks, nobody goes in or out. Strange goings-on, if you ask most of the folks around here. He and his cronies don't fish in the daytime. You can only hear boat motors at night, and they don't run lights. Harry Daniels, who hunts and camps along the river, claims he's seen an odd-looking work boat traveling the lake after midnight, and never under a moon."
"Everybody loves a good mystery."
"If I can do anything for you while you're in the neighborhood, just ask. My name's Dick Colburn."
The stranger showed white, even teeth in a broad grin. "Dirk Pitt."
"You be from California, Mr. Pitt?"
"You'd do Professor Henry Higgins proud," said Pitt lightheartedly. "I was born and grew up in Southern California, but for the past fifteen years I've lived in Washington."
Colburn began to smell new ground. "You must work with the U.S. government."
"The National Underwater and Marine Agency. And before you misreckon, I came to Orion Lake strictly to relax and unwind. Nothing more."
"If you'll pardon me for saying so," said Colburn sympathetically, "you look like a man who could use some rest."
Pitt grinned. "What I really need is a good back rub."
"Cindy Elder. She tends bar over at the Sockeye Saloon and gives a great massage."
"I'll keep her in mind." Pitt took the grocery sacks in both arms and headed for the door. Just before stepping outside, he stopped and turned. "Out of curiosity, Mr. Colburn, what is the Chinaman's name?"
Colburn looked at Pitt, trying to read something in the eyes that wasn't there. "He calls himself Shang, Qin Shang."
"Did he ever say why he purchased the old canning factory?"
"Norman Selby, the real-estate agent who handled the transaction, said Shang wanted a secluded area on water to build a fancy retreat where he could entertain affluent clients." Colburn paused and looked positively belligerent. "You must have seen what he did to a perfectly good cannery. Only a matter of time before the State Historical Commission would have named it as a historic site. Shang turned it into a cross between a modern office building and a pagoda. An abortion, I say, a damned abortion."
"It does have a novel look about it," Pitt agreed. "No doubt Shang, as a neighborly gesture, invites the town citizens to parties and golf tournaments?"
"Are you kidding?" said Colburn, venting his anger. "Shang won't even allow the mayor and city council within a mile of his property. Would you believe he even erected a ten-foot chain-link fence with barbwire on the top around most of the lake?"
"Can he get away with that?"
"He can and did, by buying off politicians. He can't keep people off the lake. It belongs to the state. But he can make it hard for them to get on."
"Some people have a fetish for privacy," said Pitt.
"Shang's got more than a fetish. Security cameras and armed goons crawl through the woods all around the place. Hunters and fishermen who accidentally wander too close are hustled off the land and treated like common criminals."
"I must remember to stay on my side of the lake."
"Probably wouldn't be a bad idea."
"See you in a few days, Mr. Colburn."
"Come again, Mr. Pitt. Have a nice day."
Pitt looked up at the sky. Not much of the day was left. The late-afternoon sun was partially shaded by the tops of the fir trees rising behind Colburn's store. He set the grocery bags on the rear passenger seat of his rental car and climbed behind the wheel. He turned the ignition key, shifted into drive and pressed the accelerator. Five minutes later, he turned off the asphalt highway onto a dirt road leading to the Foley cabin on Orion Lake. For two miles the road meandered through a forest of cedar, spruce and hemlock.
At the end of a quarter-mile straight, he came to a fork, each road skirting the shore of the lake in opposite directions until meeting up again on the far side, which happened to be Qin Shang's extravagant retreat. Pitt could not help but agree with the grocer's description. The former cannery had truly been transformed into an architectural miscarriage, totally inappropriate for a beautiful setting on an alpine lake. It was as though the builder had begun a modern structure of copper-tinted solar glass intermingled with exposed steel beams, then changed his mind and turned it over to a fifteenth-century Ming-dynasty contractor who topped the building with a golden tile roof straight off the majestic Hall of Supreme Harmony in the Forbidden City at Beijing.
After being told that the owner was cloistered by an elaborate security system, Pitt, while enjoying the solitude of the lake, now assumed his movements were being observed. He turned onto the road bearing left and continued for another half-mile before stopping beside a wooden stairway leading to a porch that ran around an attractive log cabin overlooking the lake. He remained sitting in the car for a minute, gazing at a pair of deer that were feeding in the woods.
The soreness had gone out of his injuries, and he could exercise movement almost as well as he could before the tragedy. The cuts and burns had for the most part healed. It was his mind and emotions that were taking longer.
He was ten pounds lighter and not making a concerted effort at putting the lost weight back on. He felt as if he had lost all sense of purpose. It was a case of actually feeling worse than he looked. But deep down there was a spark that was fanned by an inherent urge to peer into the unknown. The spark burst into flame soon after he carried the groceries inside the cabin and set them on the kitchen sink.
Something did not seem right. He couldn't put his finger on it, but it quietly gnawed at his mind, some unfathomable sixth sense that told him something was wrong. He stepped into the living room. Nothing out of the ordinary there. He cautiously entered the bedroom, glanced around, checked the closet and moved into the bathroom. And then he had it. The toiletry items from his shaving kit-razor, cologne, toothbrush, hairbrush-were always placed in neat order on the sink after he arrived at his destination. They were right where he had set them, all except the shaving kit itself. He distinctly recalled holding it by the outside strap and pushing it onto a shelf. Now the strap was facing the rear wall.
He went through the rooms now, carefully studying every loose object. Somebody, probably more than one person, had been over every inch of the cabin. They had to be professionals but became indifferent when they concluded that the resident was not a secret agent or a hired assassin but merely a guest of the cabin's owner enjoying a few peaceful days of relaxation. From the time Pitt left for town until he returned, they had a good forty-five minutes to do the job. At first the reason behind the search escaped Pitt, but then a light began to glow in the dim reaches of his brain.
There had to be something else. To an expert spy or gold-badge detective, the answer would be immediately transparent. But Pitt was neither. A former Air Force pilot and longtime special projects director for NUMA, his specialty was troubleshooting the agency's underwater projects, not undercover investigation. It took him a good sixty seconds to solve the dilemma.
He realized that the search was secondary. The real purpose was to install listening devices or miniature cameras. Someone doesn't trust me, Pitt thought. And that someone must be the chief of Qin Shang's se
curity network.
Because listening bugs were no larger than pinheads they would be difficult to find without an electronic snooping device. But since Pitt had only himself to talk to, he decided to concentrate on the cameras. Assuming he was under surveillance and his every movement was being observed by someone sitting in front of a TV monitor on the other side of the lake, he sat down and pretended to read a newspaper while his mind churned. Let them see what they want in the living room and bedroom, he reasoned. The kitchen was another matter. That would be his war room.
He put down the paper and began putting away the groceries in the cupboards and refrigerator, using the activity as a distraction while his eyes darted into every nook and cranny. He found nothing conspicuous. Then he began casually glancing at the log walls of the cabin, peering into the cracks and chinking. He finally hit paydirt when he spotted a tiny lens pressed into a wormhole, burrowed when the log was the trunk of a growing tree. Playing the role of an actor in front of a camera, which indeed he was, Pitt swept the floor with a broom. When he was finished he turned the broom upside down and leaned the sweeper part against the wall directly in front of the camera.
As if given a shot to spur his adrenaline, he brushed off any feelings of fatigue and tension and stepped outside, walking thirty paces away from the cabin into the woods. He pulled a Motorola Iridium phone from the inside pocket of his jacket. After dialing a number, his signal was bounced over a network of sixty-six satellites around the world and down to the private line of the person he was calling at the NUMA headquarters in Washington, D.C.
After four rings, a voice with a slight New England twang answered. "This is Hiram Yaeger. Be brief, time is money."
"Your time isn't worth a dime stuck in gum on the bottom of a shoe."
"Am I the subject of mockery by NUMA's special projects director?"
"You are."
"What are you doing that's not worth repeating?" asked Yaeger facetiously. Yet his voice betrayed a trace of concern. He knew Pitt was still recovering from injuries suffered during a volcanic eruption on an island off Australia only the month before.
"I haven't time to leave you breathless with my daring adventures in the north woods. But I do need a favor."
"I'm drooling with anticipation."
"See what you can dig up on a Qin Shang."
"How's it spelled?"
"Probably like it sounds. If my limited knowledge of Chinese menus serves me correctly, the first name begins with a Q. Shang is a Chinese shipping magnate who operates out of Hong Kong. He also owns a private retreat on Orion Lake in Washington State."
"Is that where you're at?" asked Yaeger. "You never told anyone where you were going when you up and disappeared."
"I'd just as soon Admiral Sandecker was kept in the dark."
"He'll find out anyway. He always does. Just what is it that intrigues you about Shang?"
"You might say I'm irritated by nosy neighbors," replied Pitt.
"Why don't you go over and borrow a cup of sugar, have a few laughs and challenge him to a fast game of mah-jongg."
"According to the locals, no one can get within ten city blocks of his place. And at that, I doubt if he's at home. If Shang is like most wealthy celebrities, he has several different houses around the world."
"Why does this guy consume you with curiosity?"
"No upstanding citizen has a mania about security unless he has something to hide," said Pitt.
"Sounds to me like you're bored, lying around the primeval forest, watching moss grow on the rocks. You've missed one of life's pleasures if you haven't tried to outstare a moose for forty-five minutes."
"I've never been turned on by apathy."
"Any other requests while I'm in the mood?" asked Yaeger.
"Now that you mention it, I do have a wish list of Christmas goodies I'd like boxed and sent out tonight so I can have them no later than tomorrow afternoon."
"Fire away," said Yaeger. "I've turned on the recorder and will print them out when you're finished."
Pitt described the articles and equipment he required. When he finished, he added, "Throw in a Department of Natural Resources chart of Orion Lake showing bathymetric data and fish species, underwater wrecks and obstructions."
"The plot thickens. For a guy who was battered to a pulp and just released from a hospital, don't you think you're overdoing it?"
"Play along with me and I'll mail you five pounds of smoked salmon."
"I hate being a weenie," Yaeger sighed. "Okay, I'll take care of your toys before I make inquiries through proper and unproper channels on Qin Shang. With luck, I'll give you his blood type."
Pitt knew from experience that data buried and secreted in classified files was not immune to Yaeger's ferretlike talents. "Set those fat little fingers flying over your keyboard and call me at my Iridium number when you turn up something."
Yaeger hung up the phone, leaned back in his chair and stared thoughtfully at the ceiling for several moments. Yaeger looked more like a street-corner panhandler than he did a brilliant computer-systems analyst. He kept his graying hair in a ponytail and dressed like an aging hippie, which he was. Yaeger was head of NUMA's computer-data network, which contained a vast library on every book, article and thesis, whether scientific, historical fact or theory, ever recorded on the world's oceans.
Yaeger's computer domain took up the entire tenth floor of the NUMA building. It had taken years to put together the massive library. His boss had given him a free hand and unlimited funding for accumulating every recorded bit of knowledge on ocean science and technology so it could be available to ocean-science students, professional oceanographers, marine engineers and underwater archaeologists around the world. The job carried enormous responsibility, but it was a job Yaeger loved with a passion.
He turned his gaze on the expansive computer he had designed and built himself. "Fat fingers on a keyboard, hah!" There was no keyboard and no monitor. As with virtual reality, images were projected in three dimensions in front of the user. Instead of typing on keys, commands were spoken. A caricature of Yaeger, enhanced and fleshed out, stared back at him.
"Well, Max, you ready to go cruising?" Yaeger asked the image.
"I am prime," replied a disembodied voice.
"Acquire all available information on a Qin Shang, a Chinese shipping-company owner, whose main office is in Hong Kong."
"Data insufficient for a detailed report," said Max in a monotone.
"Not much to go on, I admit," said Yaeger, never quite getting the hang of talking to a nebulous image produced by a machine. "Do the best you can. Print out your findings when you've exhausted all the networks."
"I will get back to you shortly," droned Max.
Yaeger stared at the space vacated by his holographic likeness, his eyes narrow and questioning. Pitt had never asked him to research and build a file unless he had good reason. Something, Yaeger knew, was running around in his friend's head. Quandaries and enigmas followed Pitt around like puppy dogs. He was drawn to trouble like salmon to their spawning grounds. Yaeger hoped Pitt would reveal the mystery. He always did, he always had to when his projects went beyond the mere realm of casual interest.
"What in hell is the crazy bastard up to this time?" Yaeger muttered to his computer.
3
ORION LAKE was shaped like a slender teardrop whose lower end gently tapered into a small river. Not a large body of water but alluring and mystical, its shores were bordered by an ocean of dense green forests that sloped up the gray rock bluffs of the majestic, cloud-shrouded Olympic Mountains. Vividly colored spring wildflowers bloomed beneath the trees and in small meadows. Meltwater from high-country glaciers fed into the lake through several streams, carrying minerals that gave the water a crystal blue-green color. The cobalt sky above was garnished with fast-moving clouds, all reflecting off the water, which gave them a light turquoise tint.
The flow of water that drained from the lower tip of the teardrop was appr
opriately called the Orion River. Running peacefully through a canyon sliced between the mountains, the river traveled sixteen miles before emptying into the upper end of a fjordlike inlet called Grapevine Bay. Carved by an ancient glacier, Grapevine Bay opened into the Pacific Ocean. The river, once traveled by fishing boats that unloaded their catch at the old cannery, was now only used by pleasure boats and fishermen.
The next afternoon after his trip to town, Pitt stepped from the cabin onto the porch and inhaled. A light rain had come and passed, leaving the air like perfume to the lungs, pure and intoxicating. The sun had fallen behind the mountains, its final rays angling down through the ravines between the peaks. It was a timeless scene. Only the abandoned homes and cabins gave the lake a haunted look.
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