"How the hell'd you figure that out?" Coe blurted in astonishment. Even Sellitto, used to Rhyme's deductive abilities, barked a laugh.
"Simple. I assumed that they'd be sailing east to west--otherwise he would have left from China itself. I've got a friend on the Moscow police--does crime scene work. I've written some papers with him. Expert in soils by the way, best in the world. I asked him to call the harbor masters in ports in western Russia. He pulled some strings and got all the manifests from Chinese ships that left port in the past three weeks. We spent a few hours going over them. By the way, you're getting a very obese bill for the phone calls. Oh, and I told him to charge you for translation servic
es too. I would. Now, we found that only one ship took on enough fuel for an 8000-mile trip when the manifest reported it was making a 4400-mile one. Eight thousand would get them from Vyborg to New York and back to Southampton, England, for refueling. They weren't going to dock in Brooklyn at all. They were going to drop off the Ghost and the immigrants then scoot back to Europe."
"Maybe fuel's too expensive in New York," Dellray had offered.
Rhyme had shrugged--one of the few dismissive gestures his body allowed him--and said sourly, "Everything's too expensive in New York. But there's more: the Dragon's manifest said she was transporting industrial machinery to America. But you need to report your ship's draft--that's how far the hull sinks into the water, if you're interested--to make sure you don't run aground in shallow ports. The Dragon's draft was listed at three meters. But a fully loaded ship her size should draw at least seven and a half meters. So she was empty. Except for the Ghost and the immigrants. Not offended by calling the ship 'she,' anyone? It is customary. Oh, I say twenty to thirty immigrants because the Dragon took on enough fresh water and food for that many, when--like I said--the crew was only seven."
"Damn," offered the otherwise stiff Harold Peabody with an admiring grin.
Later that day, spy satellites had picked up the Dragon about 280 miles out to sea, just as Rhyme had predicted.
The Coast Guard cutter Evan Brigant, with a boarding party of twenty-five sailors backed up by twin fifties and an 80mm cannon, had gone to ready status but kept its distance, waiting until the Dragon had sailed closer to shore.
Now--just before dawn on Tuesday--the Chinese ship was in U.S. waters and the Evan Brigant was in pursuit. The plan was to take control of the Dragon, arrest the Ghost, his assistant and the ship's crew. The Coast Guard would sail the ship to the harbor at Port Jefferson, Long Island, where the immigrants would be transferred to a federal detention center to await deportation or asylum hearings.
A call was patched through from the radio of the Coast Guard cutter closing in on the Dragon. Thom put it on the speakerphone.
"Agent Dellray? This is Captain Ransom on the Evan Brigant."
"I'm readin' you, Captain."
"We think they've spotted us--they had better radar than we thought. The ship's turned hard for shore. We need some direction on the assault plan. There's some concern that if we board, there'll be a firefight. I mean, considering who this particular individual is. We're worried about casualties. Over."
"Among who?" Coe asked. "The undocumenteds?" The disdain in his voice when he used the word that described the immigrants was clear.
"Right. We were thinking we should just make the ship come about and wait until the Ghost surrenders. Over."
Dellray reached up and squeezed the cigarette he kept behind his ear, a memento from his smoking days. "Negative on that. Follow your original rules of engagement. Stop the ship, board it and arrest the Ghost. The use of deadly force is authorized. You copy that?"
After a moment of hesitation the young man responded, "Five by five, sir. Out."
The line went dead and Thom disconnected the call. Electric tension flowed into the room on the heels of the silence that followed. Sellitto wiped his palms on his forever-wrinkled slacks then adjusted his service pistol on his belt. Dellray paced. Peabody called INS headquarters to tell them he had nothing to tell them.
A moment later Rhyme's private line rang. Thom took the call in the corner of the room. He listened for a moment then looked up. "It's Dr. Weaver, Lincoln. About the surgery." He glanced at the roomful of tense law enforcers. "I'll tell her you'll call her back."
"No," Rhyme answered firmly. "I'll take it."
Chapter Three
The winds were stronger now, the waves arcing high over the sides of the intrepid Fuzhou Dragon.
The Ghost hated water crossings. He was a man used to luxury hotels, to being pampered. Human smuggling voyages were dirty, oily, cold, dangerous. Man has not tamed the sea, he thought, and never will. It is an icy blanket of death.
He scanned the rear of the ship but could not find his bangshou anywhere. Turning toward the bow, he squinted into the wind and could see no land either, just more restless mountains of black water. He climbed to the bridge and pounded on the window of the rear door. Captain Sen looked up and the Ghost gestured for him.
Sen pulled a knit cap on his head and dutifully walked outside into the rain.
"The Coast Guard will be here soon," the Ghost shouted over the raging wind.
"No," Sen replied, "I can get close enough to off-load before they intercept us. I'm sure I can."
But the Ghost turned his still eyes on the captain and said, "You will do this. Leave those men on the bridge and you and the rest of the crew go below with the piglets. Hide with them, get everyone out of sight in the hold."
"But why?"
"Because," the Ghost explained, "you're a good man. Too good to lie. I'll pretend to be the captain. I can look a man in the eye and he will believe what I tell him. You cannot do that."