Flood Tide dp-14

by Clive Cussler

  “To know me is to love me.” The mirth lines around his eyes crinkled, and he gave a tilt of his head toward the bar. “All this talk makes me thirsty.”

  They strolled across the crowded floor to the bar and casually sipped the offered champagne. Then they wandered to the buffet table and filled their plates. Pitt was profoundly surprised to find a large platter of fried abalone, a shellfish that was on the verge of extinction. He spotted an empty table by the fireplace and commandeered it. Julia could not keep her eyes from exploring the throng in the immense room. “I see several Chinese men, but I can't tell which one is Qin Shang, Peter failed to give me a description of him.”

  “For an investigative agent,” said Pitt between bites of lobster, “your powers of observation are sadly lacking.” “You know his appearance.”

  “Never laid eyes on him. But if you look through the doorway on the west wall, guarded by a giant dressed in a dynastic costume, you'll find Qin Shang's private audience room. My guess is he sits in there and holds court.”

  Julia began to rise to her feet.

  “Let's get this over with.”

  Pitt held out a hand and restrained her.

  “Not so fast. I haven't had my after-dinner cognac yet.”

  “You're impossible.”

  “Women are always telling me that.” A steward took thek plates, and Pitt left Julia momentarily for the bar, returning in a few minutes with two crystal snifters containing a fifty-year-old cognac. Slowly, very slowly, as if he hadn't a care in the world, he savored the smooth flavor. As he held the snifter to his lips, he saw a man, reflected in the crystal, approach their table.

  “Good evening,” he said in a soft voice. “I hope you're enjoying yourselves. I am your host.”

  Julia froze as she looked up into the smiling face of Qin Shang. He looked nothing like what she imagined. She did not envision him as tall and stout. The face was not that of a cruel, cold-blooded murderer with vast power. There was no hint of authority behind the friendly tone, and yet she could sense an underlying coldness. He stood immaculate in a beautifully cut tuxedo embroidered with golden tigers.

  “Yes, thank you,” said Julia, barely able to remain polite, “It truly is a magnificent affair.”

  Pitt rose to his feet slowly in a conscious effort not to appear patronizing. “May I present Ms. Julia Lee.”

  “And you, sir?” asked Qin Shang.

  “My name is Dirk Pitt.”

  There it was. No skyrockets, no drumroll. The guy has style, Pitt had to give him that. The smile remained fixed. If there was surprise at finding Pitt alive and breathing, Qin Shang didn't show it. The only detectable response was a slight shift of the eyes. For long moments jade-green eyes locked with opaline-green, neither man willing to break off. Pitt knew damned well it was stupid and saw no purpose in the staredown other than egotistical satisfaction by the winner. Gradually, his gaze lifted to Qin Shang's eyebrows, then forehead, lingered and moved to the hair. Then Pitt's eyes widened a fraction as if he found something, and his lips broke into a slight grin.

  The ruse worked. Qin Shang's concentration was broken. He involuntarily raised his eyeballs to look upward. “May I ask what you find so amusing, Mr. Pitt?”

  “I was just wondering who your hairstylist was,” Pitt answered innocently.

  “She is a Chinese lady who attends me once a day. I'd give you her name, but she is in my private employ.”

  “I envy you. My barber is a mad Hungarian with palsy.”

  There came a brief icy stare.

  “The photo of you in your dossier does not do you justice.”

  “I applaud a man who does his homework.”

  “May I have a word with you in private, Mr. Pitt?”

  Pitt nodded toward Julia. “Only if Ms. Lee is present.”

  “I'm afraid our conversation may not be of interest to the lovely lady.”

  Pitt realized that Qin Shang did not know Julia's credentials. “On the contrary. Rude of me not to mention that Ms. Lee is an agent with the Immigration and Naturalization Service. She was also a passenger on one of your cattle boats and had the misfortune of enjoying your hospitality at Orion Lake. You are familiar, I trust, with Orion Lake. It's in the state of Washington.”

  For an instant there was a red glare in the jade eyes, and then it was just as quickly extinguished. Qin Shang remained as impenetrable as marble. His voice came even and calm. “If you both will please follow me.” He turned and strode away, knowing unquestionably Pitt and Julia would trail in his wake.

  “I think the time has come,” said Pitt as he helped Julia from her chair.

  “You crafty dog,” she murmured. “You knew all along he would seek us out.”

  “Shang didn't get where he's at without a healthy dose of curiosity.”

  Obediently, they followed Qin Shang through the milling congregation until he came to the costumed giant who opened the door for him. They entered a room unlike the heavily furnished and decorated one they just left. This room was modest and austere. The walls were merely painted in a soft blue. The only furnishings were a settee, two chairs and a desk whose surface was barren except for a telephone. He motioned for them to sit on the settee as he took his place behind the desk. Pitt was amused to see that the desk and chair were slightly elevated so that Qin Shang looked down at his visitors. “Forgive me for mentioning it,” Pitt said offhandedly, “but the bronze incense burner in the main entry. From the Liao dynasty, I believe.”

  “Why yes, you are quite correct.”

  “I assume you know that it's a fake.”

  “You are most observant, Mr. Pitt,” said Qin Shang without taking offense. “The piece is not fake, but a well-executed replica. The original was lost in nineteen forty-eight during the war when the People's Army of Mao Tse-tung crushed the forces of Chiang Kai-shek.”

  “The burner is still in China?”

  “No, it was on a ship with many other ancient treasures stolen from my country by Chiang that were lost at sea.”

  “The ship's final resting place is a mystery?”

  “A mystery I have worked many years to solve. To find the ship and its cargo is my life's most passionate desire.”

  “It's been my experience that shipwrecks are never found until they want to be found.”

  “Very poetic,” Qin Shang said, pausing to glance at his watch. “I must return and tend to my guests so I'll be brief before I have my security people escort you to the door. Please tell me the purpose behind your uninvited presence.”

  “I thought the purpose was transparent,” Pitt replied conversationally. “Ms. Lee and I wanted to meet the man we're going to hang.”

  “You're very succinct, Mr. Pitt. I appreciate that in an adversary. But it is you who will be a casualty in the war.”

  “What war is that?”

  “The economic war between the People's Republic of China and the United States. A war for extraordinary power and wealth for the winner.”

  “I have no ambitions on that score.”

  “Ah, but I do. That's the difference between us and between our countrymen. Like most of the rabble in America, you lack determination and zeal.”

  Pitt shrugged his shoulders. “If greed is your god, then you possess very little of true value.”

  “You think of me as a greedmonger?” Qin Shang asked pleasantly.

  “I've seen little of your lifestyle that persuades me otherwise.”

  “All the great men of history were driven by ambition. It goes hand in hand with power. Contrary to public opinion, the world is not divided by good and evil, but between those who do and those who do not, the visionaries and the blind, the realists and the romanticists. The world does not turn on good deeds and sentiment, Mr. Pitt, but on achievement.”

  “What do you ultimately hope to gain in the end besides a pretentious edifice over your coffin?”

  “You misunderstand me. My goal is to help China become the greatest nation the world has ever kno
wn.”

  “While you become even more filthy-rich than you already are. Where does it end, Mr. Shang?”

  “There is no end, Mr. Pitt.”

  “You'll have a tough fight on your hands if you think China can surpass the United States.”

  “Ah, but the deed is done,” Qin Shang said matter-of-factly. “You country has died a slow death as a world power while my country is in its ascendancy. Already we have passed the United States to become the largest economy in history. Already we have passed your trade deficit with Japan. Your government is impotent despite its nuclear arsenal. Soon it will be unthinkable for your leaders to intervene when we assume control of Taiwan and the rest of the Asian nations.”

  “So what does it really matter?” asked Pitt. “You'll still be playing catch-up to our standard of living for the next hundred years.”

  “Time is on our side. Not only will we erode America from the outside, but with the help of your own countrymen we will eventually cause it to crumble from within. If nothing else, future division and internal race wars will seal your fate as a great nation.”

  Pitt began to see Qin Shang's direction. “Aided and abetted by your doctrine of illegal immigration, is that it?”

  Qin Shang looked at Julia. “Your Immigration and Naturalization Service estimates that nearly a million Chinese enter America and Canada legally and illegally each year. Actually, the figure is closer to two million. While you concentrated on keeping out your neighbors to the south, we have been flooding masses of my countrymen across the sea and across your shoreline. One day, sooner than you think, your coastal states and the Canadian provinces will be an extension of China.”

  To Pitt the concept was inconceivable. “I'll grade you with an A for wishful thinking and an F for practicality.”

  “Not as ridiculous as you may think,” Qin Shang said patiently. “Consider how the boundaries of Europe have changed in the past hundred years. Migration through the centuries has shattered old empires and built new, only to have them fall again from new waves of migrants.”

  “An interesting theory,” said Pitt. “But a theory nonetheless. The only way for your scenario to become reality is for the American people to lie down and play dead.”

  “Your countrymen have slept through the nineteen nineties,” Qin Shang replied, a visceral, even menacing quality in his voice. “When they finally wake up, it will be a decade too late.”

  “You paint a grim picture for humanity,” said Julia, visibly shaken.

  Pitt went silent. He did not have the answer nor was he Nostradamus. His brain told him that Qin Shang's prophecy might indeed come to pass. But his heart refused to reject hope, He came to his feet and nodded at Julia. “I think we've heard enough of Mr. Shang's meaningless drivel. It's plain to see that he's a man who loves to hear himself talk. Let's clear out of this architectural monstrosity and its phony decor and breathe fresh air again.”

  Qin Shang leaped to his feet. “You dare mock me,” he snarled.

  Pitt moved to the desk and leaned across the surface until his face was bare inches away from Qin Shang's. “Mock you, Mr. Shang? That's putting it mildly. I'd rather have my Christmas stocking filled with cow dung than listen to your retarded philosophy on future affairs.” Then he took Julia's hand. “Come on, we're out of here.”

  Julia made no effort to move; she appeared dazed. Pitt had to pull her along behind him. At the doorway he paused and looked back.

  “Thank you, Mr. Shang, for a most provocative evening. I enjoyed your excellent champagne and seafood, especially the abalone.”

  The Chinese's face was tight and cold, twisted in a mask of malevolence. “No man speaks to Qin Shang in this manner.”

  “I'm sorry for you, Shang. On the surface you are fabulously rich and almighty, but underneath you're only a self-made man who worships his inventor.”

  Qin Shang fought to regain control of his emotions. When he spoke, his voice came as though out of an arctic mist. “You have made a fatal error, Mr. Pitt.”

  Pitt smiled thinly. “I was about to say the same about the two cretins you sent to kill me earlier this evening.”

  “Another time, another place, you may not be so fortunate.”

  Pitt said coldly, “Just so we keep a level playing field, please be advised that I have hired a team of professional assassins to terminate you, Mr. Shang. With luck, we'll never meet again.”

  Before Qin Shang could respond, Pitt and Julia were walking through the mass of guests toward the front entrance. Julia discreetly opened her purse, held it close to her face as though searching for cosmetics and spoke into the tiny radio.

  “This is Dragon Lady. We're coming out.”

  “Dragon Lady,” said Pitt. “Is that the best you could dream up for a code name?”

  The dove-gray eyes gazed at him as if he was thick between the ears. “It fits,” she said simply.

  If Qin Shang's paid killers had any plans of following the Duesenberg and blasting its occupants at the first stoplight, they were quickly laid to rest as two unmarked vans fell into a convoy behind the big car.

  “I hope they're on our side,” said Pitt.

  “Peter Harper is very thorough. The INS protects its own with specialists outside the service. The people in the vans are from a little-known security force that supplies teams of bodyguards on request from different branches of government.”

  “A great pity.”

  She looked at him quizzically. “Why do you say that?”

  “With all these armed chaperons watching our every move, I can't very well take you to my place for a nightcap.”

  “Are you sure a nightcap is all you had in mind?” Julia replied in a sultry voice.

  Pitt took one hand off the wheel and patted her bare knee. “Women have always been an enigma to me. I had hoped you might forget you were an agent of the government and throw caution to the winds.”

  She moved across the leather bench seat until her body was pressed against his and slid her hands around his arm. She found the muffled roar of the engine and the smell of the leather sensual. “I went off duty the minute we walked out of that scumbag's house,” she said lovingly. “My time is your time.”

  “How do we get rid of your friends?”

  “We don't. They're with us for the duration.”

  “In that case, do you think they'd mind if I took a detour?”

  “Probably,” she said, smiling. “But I'm sure you'll do it anyway.”

  Pitt went silent as he shifted gears and drove the Duesenberg effortlessly through traffic, watching in the rearview mirror with a touch of pride at seeing the vans struggle to keep pace. “I hope they don't shoot out my tires. They don't come cheap for a car like this.”

  “Did you mean what you said when you told Qin Shang you'd hired a team of hit men to kill him?”

  Pitt grinned wolfishly. “A big, fat bluff, but he doesn't know that. I take great satisfaction in tormenting men like Qin Shang who are too used to having people jump at their beck and call. Do him good to stare at the ceiling nights and wonder if someone is lurking outside waiting to put a bullet in him.”

  “So what's with the detour?”

  “I think I found the chink in Qin Shang's armor, his Achilles' heel if you'll pardon the cliche. Despite the seemingly impenetrable wall he's formed around his personal life, he has a vulnerable crack that can be pried open a mile wide.”

  Julia pulled her coat tightly around her bare legs to ward off the late-evening chill. “You must have divined something from what he said that escaped me.”

  “As I recall, his words were, 'My life's most passionate desire.' ”

  She looked curiously into his eyes, which never left the road. “He was talking about a vast cargo of Chinese art treasures that vanished on a ship.”

  “The same.”

  “He possesses more wealth and Chinese antiques than anyone else in the world. Why should a ship with a few historical objects be of serious interest to him?�
�

  “Not a mere interest, gorgeous creature. Qin Shang is obsessed like all men down through the centuries who have searched for lost treasure. He won't die a happy man no matter how much wealth and power he's accumulated until he can replace every one of his art replicas with the genuine pieces. To own something no other man or woman on earth can own is the ultimate fulfillment to Qin Shang. I've known men like him. He'd trade thirty years of his life to find the shipwreck and its treasures.”

  “But how does one go about searching for a ship that vanished fifty years ago?” Julia asked. “Where do you begin to look?”

  “You start,” Pitt said casually, “by knocking on a door about six blocks up the street.”

  PITT STEERED THE BIG DUESENBERG OVER A NARROW DRIVE-way between two homes with brick walls entirely blanketed with climbing ivy. He stopped the car in front of a spacious carriage house that fronted an expansive courtyard that was now roofed over.

  “Who lives here?” asked Julia.

  “A very interesting character,” Pitt replied. He motioned toward a large bronze knocker on the door cast in the shape of a sailing ship. “Give it a rap, if you can.”

  “If you can?” Her hand reached for the knocker hesitantly. “Is there a trick to it?”

  “Not what you're thinking. Go ahead, try to lift it.”

  But before Julia could touch the knocker, the door was swept open, revealing a huge, roly-poly man dressed in burgundy paisley silk pajamas under a matching robe. Julia gasped and took a step backward, bumping into Pitt who was laughing.

  “He never fails.”

  “Fails to do what?” demanded the fat man.

  “Open the door before a visitor knocks.”

  “Oh, that.” The big man waved airily. “A chime sounds whenever someone comes up the drive.”

  “St. Julien,” said Pitt. “Forgive the late visit.”

  “Nonsense!” boomed the man, who weighed four hundred pounds if he weighed an ounce. “You're welcome any hour of the day or night. Who's the lovely little lady?”

  “Julia Lee, may I present St. Julien Perlmutter, gourmet, collector of fine wines and possessor of the world's largest library on shipwrecks.”