“I don’t know about you,” the navigator said as he began to walk down the steps, “but I’m hungry.”

The driver removed his earpiece, stuffed the cord inside, then folded the case back together.

“Then let’s eat,” the driver said.

The navigator reached the landing and flicked on a tiny flashlight. “We can’t ask our hosts what’s good,” he said. “They’re in sleepyville.”

“And by the time they wake up,” the driver said, “we’ll be long gone.”

The two men made their way to the kitchen, but nothing looked good. So they walked back to the van, drove through town to the casino and ordered a meal of ham and eggs.

15

SUNRISE on Good Friday, March 25, 2005, was at 6:11 A.M.

On the decks of the sampans in the inner harbor, the Chinese traders began to stir. Along Avenida da Amizade in front of the Hotel Lisboa, a dozen women dressed in cotton shifts with conical hats lashed around their necks began washing the sidewalk with soapy water splashed from tin buckets. Dipping straw brooms into the buckets, they erased the debris from both the winners and the losers from the night before. A few diehards stumbled from inside and squinted at the light from a sun just beginning her day.

A few small three-wheeled motorized rickshaws plied the avenue, their drivers stopping for strong black coffee served in small cups, then continuing on to deliver packages or people to their destinations. At a small restaurant two hundred yards northwest of the casino, the owner finished a cigarette then walked inside. On the stove in the rear was a pot of caldo verde, the Portuguese stew of potatoes, sausage and locally grown greens. He stirred the mixture, then set the long wooden spoon onto a counter and started to prepare chickens marinated in coconut milk, garlic, peppercorns and chilies by rubbing them with rock salt. Later, the poultry would be slid onto skewers and slow-cooked on a rotisserie.

Across the water, Hong Kong was hidden by a haze of humidity and smog, but the sound of the first highspeed ferry leaving port could be heard. The first few jets of the day, mainly cargo planes, streaked across the blue sky and made ready for landing at the airport. A Chinese naval vessel left its moorage below A-Ma Temple and started out for a patrol, while a large luxury yacht with a helicopter perched on her fantail called on the radio for the location of her slip.

A lone cargo ship, decades past her prime, started into port to deliver a cargo of bicycles from Taiwan. On another cargo ship, this one appearing old and decrepit, a man with a blond crew cut was sitting at the table in his stateroom reading.

Juan Cabrillo had been awake for hours.

He was running every possible scenario through his head.

A light knock came at the door, and Cabrillo stood up and walked over and opened the hatch.

“Somehow I knew you’d be awake,” Hanley said.

Hanley held a tray of plates covered by metal lids, steam escaping from under them.

“Breakfast,” he said as he walked inside.

Cabrillo cleared a space on the table and Hanley off loaded the contents. Next he pulled the lid off a dinner sized plate and smiled.

Cabrillo nodded and pointed to a seat.

Hanley slid into the seat and poured two cups of coffee from a thermal carafe, then removed the lid from another plate.

“Anything unusual happen overnight?” Cabrillo asked.

“No,” Hanley said easily, “everything is still according to plan.”

Cabrillo sipped his coffee.

“There’s a lot here that could go wrong,” he said.

“There always is.”

“That’s why we get the big money.”

“That’s why we get the big money,” Hanley agreed.

“SO, do you know when I lost my virginity?” the brunette flight attendant asked. “You seem to know everything else.”

“That’s too personal.” The blond-haired man laughed.

“But my failed relationships and credit card bills aren’t?” The attendant grinned.

“Sorry about the intrusion into your privacy. The group I work with has a thing for detail.”

“Sounds like you’re a spy,” the attendant noted.

“Oh, heck no,” the blond-haired man said, “we just work for them.”

“Tax-free income enough so I can retire?”

“Everyone’s dream,” the blond-haired man admitted.

The brunette attendant glanced around the forward cabin. She was really nothing more than a glorified waitress on a restaurant in the sky.

“How can I say no?” she said finally.

“Good,” the blond-haired man said, rising.

“Where are you going?” she asked.

“I have to go kill the pilot,” the blond-haired man said lightly.

The look on the brunette flight attendant’s face was priceless.

“Just kidding,” the blond-haired man said. “I have to pee. I’m qualified in 737s, but I think Mr. Fabulous would think it odd if I disappeared.”

“Who areyou people?” the attendant muttered as the blond-haired man slipped into the lavatory.

“ARE you sure this beast will make it to the border and back?” Carl Gannon asked.

Gannon was staring at a decrepit old two-and-a-halfton truck parked under a tree alongside a stone building on a side street in Thimbu, Bhutan. Sometime in the past the truck had been painted an olive drab color, but most of the paint was gone and now it showed mostly a light dusting of hairy rust. The two-part windshield was cracked on the passenger side, and all six of the tires were worn past any margin of safety. The hood, which had a strip down the center so the sides could be flipped open to work on the engine, was bent and had been welded more than once. The running boards were wooden slats. The exhaust pipe hung down from the undercarriage and was held in place with rusted wire.

Gannon walked to the rear and stared into the bed. Some of the planks that formed the floor were cracked and some were missing, and the canvas flaps that covered the sides were in roughly the same condition as a World War II pup tent.

“Oh, yes, sir,” the Bhutanese owner said easily. “She has a strong heart.”

Gannon continued his walk around. Climbing onto the passenger running board, he peeked into the cockpit. The long bench seat was worn, with portions of the springs underneath visible, but the few gauges on the dash were not cracked and appeared functional. He climbed down, then walked over to the hood and lifted the passenger side, which he folded up and over. The engine was surprisingly clean. It smelled strongly of thick grease and fresh oil. The belts and hoses, while not new, were serviceable, and the electrical wires and battery looked good. Gannon climbed down.

“Can you start her up?”

The man walked around, opened the door and climbed into the driver’s seat.

After pulling out the choke, he pumped the gas pedal, then twisted the key. After turning over a few times, the engine roared to life. Smoke drifted out of a rusted hole in the exhaust pipe, but the engine settled into an idle. Gannon listened carefully. There was no tapping from the valves, but he placed his hand over the covers just to be sure. Nothing was amiss.

“Rev her up,” he shouted.

The owner depressed the gas pedal, then left off. He did this four times.

“Okay,” Gannon said, “you can shut her off.”

The owner turned off the engine, pocketed the key, and then climbed from the cockpit. He was small, a shade over five feet tall, with tanned skin and slightly almond-shaped eyes. Smiling at Gannon, he awaited the verdict.

“Do you have spare belts and hoses?”

“I can find some,” the man told him.