Flood Tide dp-14

by Clive Cussler

  His receptionist's voice came over a small speaker on his desk. “You have a visitor arriving on your private elevator.”

  Qin Shang rose from behind his immense rosewood desk, raised on legs intricately carved hi the shape of tigers, and walked across the cavernous room toward the elevator. The office looked like the vastly expanded interior of a captain's cabin in an old sailing ship. Heavy oak planking was laid for the floor. Thick oak beams supported a skylighted ceiling with teak paneling throughout. Large builder's models of Qin Shang Maritime ships sailed on plaster seas inside glass cases on one side of the room while on the opposite wall a collection of old diver's suits with their lead boots and brass helmets hung suspended by their air hoses, as if they still contained the bodies of their owners. Qin Shang stopped in front of the elevator as its doors opened and greeted his visitor, a short man with dense gray hair. His eyes bulged as they protruded from fleshy pouches. He smiled as he came forward and shook Qin Shang's outstretched hand.

  “Qin Shang,” he said with a taut little grin. “Yin Tsang, always an honor to see you,” Qin Shang said graciously. “I did not expect you until next Thursday.”

  “I hope you'll forgive this unpardonable interruption,” said Yin Tsang, the minister of China's internal affairs, “but I wished to speak with you privately on a matter of some delicacy.”

  “I am always available anytime to you, old friend. Come and sit down. Would you like some tea?”

  Yin Tsang nodded. “Your own special blend? I'd like nothing better.”

  Qin Shang called his private secretary and ordered the tea. “Now then, what is this delicate matter that brings you to Hong Kong a week ahead of your scheduled visit?”

  “Disturbing news has reached Beijing concerning your operation at Orion Lake in the state of Washington.”

  Qin Shang shrugged carelessly. “Yes, an unfortunate incident beyond my control.”

  “My sources tell me the holding station for the immigrants was raided by the Immigration and Naturalization Service.”

  “It was,” Qin Shang freely admitted. “My best men were killed and our security people were captured in a lightning raid that was totally unexpected.”

  Yin Tsang looked at him. “How could this happen? I can't believe you failed to prepare for such a possibility. Didn't your agents in Washington, D.C., alert you?”

  Qin Shang shook his head. “I've since learned the raid did not originate in the INS national headquarters. It was a spur-of-the-moment operation conducted by the local district director, who took it upon himself to launch an assault on the holding station. I was given no warning by any of my agents within the American government.”

  “Your entire North American operation has been compromised. The Americans now have broken a link in the chain that will surely lead directly to you.”

  “Not to worry, Yin Tsang,” Qin Shang said calmly. “American investigators have no evidence that directly ties me to illegal immigrant smuggling. They may have their pitiful and insignificant suspicions, but nothing else. My other staging sites along the American coastline are still in operation and can easily absorb all future shipments programmed for Orion Lake.”

  “President Lin Loyang and my fellow ministers will be happy to hear you have everything under your control,” said Yin Tsang. “But I still have my reservations. Once the Americans scent a crack in your organization, they will hound you unrelentingly.”

  “You are afraid?”

  “I am concerned. Too much is at stake to allow a man more interested in profit than the aims of our party to remain in control.”

  “What are you suggesting?”

  Yin Tsang looked at Qin Shang steadily. “I shall recommend to President Lin Loyang that you resign from the smuggling operation and be replaced.”

  “And my contract to carry the bulk of national Chinese cargo and passengers?”

  “Revoked.”

  The expected response of surprise and anger did not materialize. Nor was there the slightest sign of annoyance. Qin Shang merely shrugged impassively. “You think that I can be that easily replaced?”

  “Someone with your special qualifications has already been selected.”

  “Anyone I know?”

  “One of your competitors, Quan Ting, chairman of China & Pacific Lines, has agreed to fill your shoes.”

  “Quan Ting?” Qin Shang's eyebrow rose a millimeter. “His ships are little better than rusting barges.”

  “Soon he will be in a position to launch new ships.” The words came with a veiled implication that Quan Ting would be financed by the Chinese government with Yin Tsang's blessing and endorsement.

  “You insult my intelligence. You have used the Orion Lake mishap as an excuse to cancel my association with the People's Republic of China so you can go into partnership on the sly and rake in the profits yourself.”

  “You are no stranger to greed, Qin Shang. You would do the same in my shoes.”

  “And my new facility in Louisiana?” asked Qin Shang. “Am I to lose that too?”

  “You will be compensated for your half of the investment, of course.”

  “Of course,” Qin Shang repeated acidly, knowing full well he would never receive a cent. “Naturally, it will be given to my successor and you, his silent partner.”

  “That will be my counsel at the next party conference in Beijing.”

  “May I inquire as to whom else you've discussed my expulsion with?”

  “Only Quan Ting,” answered Yin Tsang. “I thought it best to keep the matter quiet until the proper time.”

  Qin Shang's private secretary stepped into the room and moved to the sitting area with the grace of a Balinese dancing girl, which is exactly what she was until Qin Shang hired and trained her. She was only one of several beautiful girls who served as Shang's aides. Women he trusted more than men. Unmarried, Shang kept nearly a dozen mistresses—three lived in his penthouse—but he followed a policy of never becoming intimate with the women close to his business dealings. He nodded his appreciation as his secretary set a tray with two cups and two teapots on the low table between the men.

  “The green teapot is your special blend,” she said softly to Qin Shang. “The blue teapot is jasmine.”

  “Jasmine!” Yin Tsang snorted. “How can you drink tea that tastes like women's perfume when your special blend is far superior?”

  “Variety.” Qin Shang smiled. As a show of courtesy he poured the tea. Relaxing in his chair while he cradled the steaming cup in his hands, he watched as Yin Tsang sipped until his tea was gone. Then Qin Shang politely poured him another cup.

  “You realize, of course, that Quan Ting has no cruise ships available to carry passengers.”

  “They can either be purchased or leased from other cruise lines,” said Yin Tsang offhandedly. “Let us face the light. You have made immense profits over the past few years. You are not about to go bankrupt. It will be a simple matter for you to diversify Qin Shang Maritime Limited into Western markets. You are a shrewd businessman, Qin Shang. You will survive without the People's Republic of China's benevolence.”

  “The flight of a hawk cannot be accomplished with the wings of a sparrow,” said Qin Shang philosophically.

  Yin Tsang set down his cup and rose to his feet. “I must leave you now. My plane is waiting to fly me back to Beijing.”

  “I understand,” Qin Shang said dryly. “As minister of internal affairs, you are a busy man who must make many decisions.”

  Yin Tsang noted the contempt but said no more. His unpleasant duty performed, he gave a curt bow and entered the elevator. As soon as the doors closed, Qin Shang returned to his desk and spoke into the intercom. “Send me Pavel Gavrovich.”

  Five minutes later, a tall, medium-built man with Slavic facial features and thick black hair greased and combed back across his head with no part stepped from the elevator. He strode across the room and stopped in front of Qin Shang's desk.

  Qin Shang looked up at his chief enforce
r, once the finest and most ruthless undercover agent in all of Russia. A professional assassin with few equals in the martial arts, Pavel Gavrovich was offered an exorbitant salary to leave a high-level position in the Russian Defense Ministry to come to work for Qin Shang. Gavrovich had taken less than one minute to accept.

  “A competitor of mine who owns an inferior shipping line is proving to be an irritant to me. His name is Quan Ting. Please arrange an accident for him.”

  Gavrovich nodded silently, turned on his heels and reentered the waiting elevator, never having spoken a word.

  The following morning, as Qin Shang sat in the dining room of his penthouse suite alone and scanned several newspapers, foreign and domestic, he was pleased to discover a pair of articles in the Hong Kong Journal. The first read, Quan Ting, chairman and managing director of the China & Pacific Shipping Line, and his wife were killed late last night when their limousine was struck broadside by a large truck transporting electrical cable as Mr. Quan and his wife were leaving the Mandarin Hotel after dinner with friends. Their chauffeur was also killed. The driver of the truck vanished from the scene of the accident and has yet to be found by police.

  The second article in the newspaper read, it was announced in Beijing today by the Chinese government that Yin Tsang had died. The untimely death of China's minister of internal affairs, who succumbed to a heart attack while on a flight to Beijing, was sudden and unexpected. Though he had no known history of heart problems, all efforts to revive him failed, and he was pronounced dead upon arrival at the Beijing Airport. Deputy Minister Lei Chau is expected to succeed Yin Tsang.

  A great pity, Qin Shang thought wickedly. My special blend of tea must not have agreed with Yin Tsang's stomach. He made a mental note to tell his secretary to send his condolences to President Lin Loyang and set up a meeting with Lei Chau, who had been nurtured with the necessary bribes and was known to be not nearly as avaricious as his predecessor.

  Putting aside the newspapers, Qin Shang took a final sip of his coffee. He drank tea in public, but in private he preferred Southern-style American coffee with chicory. A soft chime warned him that his private secretary was about to enter the dining room. She approached and set a leather-bound file on the table beside him.

  “Here is the information you requested from your agent at the Federal Bureau of Investigation.”

  “Wait one moment will you, Su Zhong. I'd like your opinion on something.”

  Qin Shang opened the file and began studying the contents. He held up a photograph of a man standing beside an old classic car who stared back at the camera. The man was dressed casually in slacks and a golf shirt under a sport coat. A crooked, almost shy grin curled the lips on a face that was tanned and weathered. The eyes, laughter lines wrinkling from their edges, were locked on the camera lens and had a probing quality about them, almost as if they were measuring whoever peered at the photo. They were accented by dark, thick eyebrows. The photo was in black-and-white, so it was impossible to assess the exact color of the irises. Qin Shang wrongly guessed them as blue.

  The black hair was dense and wavy and slightly unkempt. The shoulders were broad and tapered to a slim waist and narrow hips. The data in the file gave his body size as six feet, three inches, 185 pounds. The hands looked like the hands of a field worker, the palms large with small scars and calluses, and the fingers long. The eyes, it was stated, were green and not blue.

  “You have an inner sense about men, Su Zhong. You can envision things others like me cannot see. Look at this picture. Look inside the man and tell me what you find.”

  Su Zhong swept her long black hair back from her face as she leaned over Qin Shang and gazed at the photograph. “He is handsome in a rugged sort of way. I sense a magnetism about him. He has the look of an adventurer whose love is exploring the unknown, especially what lies under the sea. No rings on his fingers suggests that he is unpretentious. Women are drawn to him. They do not consider him a threat. He enjoys their company. There is an aura of kindness and tenderness about him. A man you can trust. All indications of a good lover. He is sentimental about old objects and probably collects them. His life is dedicated to achievement. Little of what he has accomplished was for personal gain. He thrives on challenges. This is a man who does not like to fail but can accept failure if he has tried his best. There is also a cold hardness in the eyes. He also has the capacity to kill. To friends he is extremely loyal. To enemies, extremely dangerous. All in all, a most unusual man who should have lived in another time.”

  “What you're saying is that he is a throwback to the past.”

  Su Zhong nodded. “He would have been at home on the deck of a pirate ship, fighting in the crusades or driving a stagecoach through the deserts of the old American West.”

  “Thank you, my dear, for your extraordinary insight.”

  “My pleasure is to serve you.” Su Zhong bowed her head and quietly left the room, closing the door behind her.

  Qin Shang turned over the photograph and began reading the data in the file, noting with amusement that he and the subject were born on the same day in the same year. There, any similarity ended. The subject was the son of Senator George Pitt of California. His mother was the former Barbara Knight. He attended Newport Beach High School in California and then the Air Force Academy in Colorado. Academically, he was above average, finishing thirty-fifth in his class. Played on the football team and won several athletic trophies. After flight training, he achieved a distinguished military career during the closing days of the "Vietnam War. Rose to the rank of major before transferring from the Air Force to the National Underwater and Marine Agency. Later promoted to lieutenant colonel.

  A collector of old automobiles and aircraft, he kept them stored in an old hangar at the edge of Washington's National Airport. He lived in an apartment above the collection. His accomplishments at NUMA while serving as special projects director under his boss, Admiral James Sandecker, read like an adventure novel. From heading the project to raise the Titanic to discovering the long-lost artifacts from the Alexandria Library to stopping a red tide in the oceans that would have ultimately decimated life on earth, during the past fifteen years the subject was directly responsible for operations that either saved a great many lives or were of inestimable benefit to archaeology or the environment. The list of projects he directed to successful conclusions covered nearly twenty pages.

  Qin Shang's agent had also included a list of men Pitt reportedly had killed. Qin Shang was stunned by several of the names. They consisted of men who were wealthy and powerful as well as common criminals and professional murderers. Su Zhong was correct in her evaluation. This man could be an extremely dangerous enemy.

  After nearly an hour, Qin Shang laid aside the documents and picked up the photograph. He stared at the figure standing beside an old car intently, wondering what drove such a man. It became clearer with each passing minute that their paths would cross.

  “So, Mr. Dirk Pitt, you are the man responsible for the disaster at Orion Lake,” said Qin Shang, speaking to the photograph as though Pitt were standing in the room before him.

  “Your motive for destroying my immigrant staging area and yacht is as yet a mystery to me. But I have this to say to you: You have qualities that I respect, but you have come to the end of your career. The next addendum and final postscript to your file will be your obituary.”

  ORDERS CAME DOWN FROM WASHINGTON FOR SPECIAL AGENT Julia Lee to be flown immediately from Seattle to San Francisco, where she was placed in a hospital for medical treatment and observation. The nurse assigned to her audibly gasped when she removed the hospital gown so the doctor could make his examination. There was hardly a square inch of Julia's body that wasn't black-and-blue or marked by reddish bruises. The expression in the nurse's eyes also made it evident that Julia's face was still grotesque from the swelling and discoloration, reinforcing Julia's determination not to look at herself in a mirror for at least a week.

  “Did you know you
had three cracked ribs?” asked the doctor, a jolly, rotund man with a bald head and closely cropped gray beard.

  “I guessed from the stabbing pain every time I sat down and then stood after going to the bathroom,” she said lightheartedly. “Will you have to put a cast around my chest?”

  The doctor laughed. “Binding fractured ribs went out with leeches and bleeding. Now we just let them mend on their own. You'll suffer some discomfort when you make sudden movements for the next few weeks, but that will soon diminish.”

  “How about the rest of the damage? Is it reparable?”

  “I've already set your nose back in place, medication will soon reduce the swelling and all signs of bruising should disappear fairly quickly. I predict that by this time next month you'll be voted queen of the prom.”

  “All women should have a doctor like you,” Julia complimented him.

  “Funny,” he said, smiling, “my wife never says that.” He squeezed her hand reassuringly. “If you're feeling up to it, you can go home the day after tomorrow. By the way, there's a couple of important characters from Washington on their way up from the reception desk to see you. They should be stepping off the elevator about now. In old movies visitors in a hospital are always told not to stay too long. But to my way of thinking, going back to work speeds the healing process. Just don't overdo it.”

  “I won't, and thank you for your courtesy.”

  “Not at all. I'll look in on you this evening.”

  “Shall I stay?” asked the nurse.

  The doctor shook his head as two somber-looking men carrying briefcases entered the room. “Official government business. You'll want to talk with Ms. Lee in private. Right, gentlemen?”

  “Quite right, doctor,” said Julia's boss, Arthur Russell, director of the INS San Francisco district office. Russell was gray-haired, his body reasonably trim from daily workouts in a home exercise room. He smiled and looked at Julia through eyes warm with sympathy.