He lowered the telescope a fraction and studied the dock that extended half the length of a football field into the waters of the lake. Two boats were tied alongside. Nothing fancy about the smaller one. The stubby twin catamaran hulls held a large, boxlike cabin with no portholes or windows. A wheel-house was perched on the roof, and the entire vessel was painted as black as a hearse, not a color often seen on the upperworks of a boat. The second could have qualified as a ship. She was a looker, an elegant motor yacht with a sky-lounge on a hull over 120 feet in length, the kind that stopped people hi their tracks. Pitt estimated her beam at nearly thirty feet. Designed for luxurious comfort, her classic lines enhanced

her from a mere yacht to a floating masterwork. Probably built either in Singapore or Hong Kong, Pitt guessed. Even with a shallow draft, it would take a good pilot to navigate her through the river running from the lake to open water.

As he watched, diesel smoke trailed from the stack of the work boat. In a few moments its crew cast off the mooring lines, and it began moving across the lake toward the river outlet. A very strange craft, Pitt thought. It looked like a wooden shipping crate on two pontoons. He could not begin to imagine what its builder had in mind.

On land, except for the maid and two golfers, the premises looked deserted. There was no hint of security systems. He could find no visible sign of mounted video cameras, but he knew they had to be there. No guards patrolling the grounds either, unless they had learned the art of invisibility. The only objects that seemed out of place with the landscape were several windowless structures built out of logs. Similar to the hostel-type huts used by hunters and hikers, they were spaced at strategic locations around the lake. He counted three and guessed that more were hidden in the woods. The third one seemed curiously mislaid. It floated at the end of the dock and looked like a small boathouse. As with the strange black boat, there were no windows or doors. He gazed at it for nearly a full minute, trying to fathom its purpose and speculate on what was inside.

A slight shift in the telescope, and the focal point of his interest was rewarded. Only a small piece showed from behind a stand of spruce. Not much, but enough to lay to rest his curiosity about the security setup. The roof of a neatly hidden recreation vehicle revealed a small forest of antennae and reception dishes. In a short clearing beyond, what appeared to be a small aircraft hangar sat beside a narrow runway that was only fifty yards in length. Definitely not the sort of layout that would facilitate the use of a helicopter. Ultralight aircraft, perhaps? Pitt conjectured. Yes, that had to be the answer.

“A state-of-the-art setup,” he muttered softly to himself.

And a state-of-the-art setup it was, too. He recognized the RV as a mobile command post of the type that presidential Secret Service agents often operated from when the President traveled away, from Washington. Pitt began to understand the purpose of the log huts. The next step was to provoke a response.

It seemed silly to go to so much effort out of bored inquisi-tiveness. He had yet to receive Yaeger's report. For all he knew, Shang was a humanitarian, a philanthropist and a spiritual inspiration, someone Pitt could respect. Pitt wasn't an investigator, he was a marine engineer. Most of his work took place beneath the sea. Why he even bothered was a mystery. But a tiny flag went up in his mind. Shang's lifestyle didn't hold water. This wouldn't be the first time Pitt had meddled in something that didn't concern him. The most compelling reason to jump in was that Pitt's intuition was almost always right on the money.

As if on cue, the tone on his Indium phone sounded. Only Hiram Yaeger knew his code. He stepped a safe distance outside the cabin before answering. “Hiram?”

“Your boy Shang is a real piece of work,” Yaeger said without preamble.

“What have you got on him?” asked Pitt.

“This guy lives like a Roman emperor. Huge entourage. Palatial homes around the world, yachts, a bevy of gorgeous women, jet aircraft, an army of security people. If ever someone qualified for Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous, it's Shang.”

“What did you learn about his operations?”

“Damned little. Every time Max—”

“Max?”

“Max is my buddy. He lives inside my computer.”

“If you say so. Go on.”

“Every time Max tried to get into a data file with Shang's name on it, computers from just about every intelligence agency in town blocked our inquiries and demanded to know our business. It seems you're not the only one interested in this guy.”

“Sounds like we opened a can of worms,” said Pitt. “Why would our own government throw a security lock around Shang?”

“My impression is our intelligence agencies are conducting a classified investigation and don't appreciate an outside probe slipping under their fence.”

“The plot thickens. Shang can't be pure as the driven snow if he's under a secret government investigation.”

“Either that or they're protecting him.”

“Which is it?”

“Beats me,” admitted Yaeger. “Until Max and I can carry out a heavy hacking project into the proper data sources, I'm in the dark as much as you are. All I can tell you is that he's not the second coming of the Messiah. Shang slithers around the world like an eel, making enormous profits from a myriad of what appear to be perfectly legal enterprises.”

“Are you saying you have no evidence that he's involved with an organized-crime group?”

“Nothing shows on the surface,” answered Yaeger. “Which doesn't mean he can't operate as an independent.”

“Maybe he's Fu Manchu reincarnated,” said Pitt lightly. “Mind telling what you have against him?” “His flunkies tossed my cabin. I'm not keen on strangers probing about my underwear.”

“There is one thing you'd find interesting,” said Yaeger. “I'm listening.”

“Not only do you and Shang have the same birthday, but you were born in the same year. Under his culture Shang was born in the year of the rat. In yours, under the sign of Cancer.”

“That's the best the finest computer whiz in the business can come up with?” Pitt said dryly.

“I wish I had more to offer,” Yaeger said regretfully. “I'll keep trying.”

“I can ask no more.” “What do you plan to do now?”

“There isn't much I can do,” said Pitt, “except go fishing.” He didn't fool Yaeger for an instant. “Watch your back,” Yaeger said seriously, “or you may find yourself up that famous foul-smelling creek without means of propulsion.” “I'll be my old, usual cagey self.”

He punched off the CALL button, reached up and set the Indium phone in the fork of a tree. Not the greatest of hiding places, but better than allowing it to lie around the cabin in the event of another search while he was away.

Pitt hated brushing off Yaeger's loyal concern, but it was better the head computer guru at NUMA knew as little as possible. For what Pitt was about to do he could get arrested. And if he wasn't careful, the probability was even greater of getting shot. He only hoped to God there were no unforeseen consequences. He had a leaden feeling in the pit of his stomach that if he made a mistake, his body might never be found.

There were two hours of daylight left when Pitt walked the dock to the boathouse. In his arms he carried a jumbo-sized ice chest and a large mounted salmon that had hung over the cabin's fireplace mantel. Once inside he opened the ice chest and lifted out a small autonomous underwater vehicle built by Benthos Inc., an undersea systems technology designer. Inside a black housing no more than twenty-five inches in length by six inches wide, the AUV held a high-resolution color video camera. Its battery power supply could propel two counter-rotating thrusters for slightly over two hours.