The automatic identification system was a praiseworthy attempt by the International Maritime Organization to have every ship on the seven seas broadcast an identification number to be picked up and monitored by satellite. This was a good idea for shippers, who could track their cargos around the world, and a great idea for pirates, because anyone with a fifty-dollar receiver from Radio Shack could also monitor them and identify the most lucrative targets.

He followed their current voyages via their AIS numbers through a satellite tracking firm that had proved reliable in the past. Most of this information would be discarded as he whittled down the list, but Noort-man was nothing if not thorough.

In the end, he had ten prospects, of which he eliminated seven on the grounds that their owners were too easily identifiable, if only to him. Of the three remaining, one ship looked very promising, registered out of Niue, an island nation in the South Pacific, one of whose very few viable industries was registering offshore firms wishing to avoid filing financial statements and paying taxes, owned through a Panamanian company with headquarters in Liberia and a parent company incorporated in the Bahamas controlled from Amsterdam and bankrolled out of Switzerland, where the trail ended abruptly in a Byzantine layer of partnerships and limited-liability corporations. He was so delighted with the artistry inherent in this industrial-strength obfuscation of lawful accountability that he promised himself he would trace the ship’s owner to the top of the food chain after the job was done.

It was at present leased to a Russian corporation. One of the attractions of this particular ship was that it was scheduled for maintenance next month in its home port. Since the Wall came down in 1989, pretty much everything in Russia could be had for the asking in exchange for currency of any solvent Western nation. Noortman chose a dock, contacted a local expediter, and bought a local customs agent. In all it took about an hour, and the total cost would be the lowest expense on this operation’s balance sheet.

The deck-top cargo took a little longer and cost a great deal more, but it would be loaded out of the same port. Pitiful, really, and no challenge at all for a man of his skill and experience.

The cargo from China required a little more finesse, although with the precipitous drop in the price of Chinese steel over the past two years he was able to negotiate a price that would not only give them enough ballast for a reasonably smooth ride but also ensure a more than reasonable profit on the other end.

Always assuming Mr. Smith and Mr. Jones had any interest in selling. Which he was fairly confident they did not. He arranged for lading and customs in Shanghai and then went to the market to buy fresh fish for the sashimi he would make that evening for the handsome young lawyer he hoped would become his next lover.

Seven weeks after they had met with the Koreans in Thailand, he called Fang and reported in.

There was a long silence. “What?” he said.

“I’m worried about this one,” Fang said.

“Why?”

“Perhaps it is our customer.”

Noortman was no fool, and he gave Fang’s concern due consideration. “They don’t leave witnesses, do you mean?”

“No, not that-less refuse for me to dispose of. No, what bothers me is that they are fanatics.”

Noortman shrugged. “They are customers. They pay us, we provide a service.”

“I don’t trust people with causes. They are not rational, and therefore they are dangerously unpredictable.”

“They have given us a very large sum of money. Without haggling over the price. This argues a very strong commitment.”

“That may be what worries me most,” Fang said.

Noortman laughed. Fang didn’t. “What?” Noortman said.

“How do we get off?”

“Mr. Smith said he has made arrangements.”

“You are very confident for someone who won’t be along for the ride. I’d like a few more details.”

“Mr. Smith seems to be very security conscious.”

“He certainly does,” Fang said.

When Noortman’s phone rang next it was Smith. Noortman, mindful of the respect due an employer with a bankroll the size of Smith’s, sat up straight and gave a sober precis of his progress to date.

“That is acceptable,” Smith said. He stayed on the line.

“There was something else?” Noortman said cautiously.

“Yes. I have another task for you. You alone.”

Translated, this meant Fang was not to be told. After a moment, Noortman said, “What is this task?”

When Smith finished speaking, Noortman was silent.

“Well?” Smith said. “Are we agreed?”

Fang would show no mercy if he knew that Noortman was cutting deals behind his back. Still, Noortman wasn’t a fool, he knew that Fang was thinking of retiring. Even if Fang survived this trip, doubtful now that he knew of this second of Smith’s requirements, Noortman would very probably be looking for employment elsewhere.

But perhaps it was time for Noortman to step out on his own, to prove his own abilities to future associates. He made up his mind and, conscious of the acceleration of his heartbeat, said, “It will be very expensive.”

“It always is,” Smith said.

When they completed their business, Noortman hung up the phone and looked at his palm. It was damp.

One thing Fang was right about. Fanatics were dangerously unpredictable.

HIS SPIRIT WILL WANDER,“ Jones said. ”Why, because we weren’t here when he died?“ Smith said, and snorted. ”Superstitious nonsense.“

They stood at the foot of the grave. It was mounded in traditional fashion to prevent water seepage, but there was no headstone. The caretaker had had to give them directions to their father’s grave.

“What did he die of?” Jones said.

Smith shrugged. “An infection that could have been cured by a nonprescription drug available over the counter in any Western pharmacy.” His hands tightened into fists. When he became aware of it, he loosened them, deliberately relaxing one finger at a time. He breathed in and out again. “We will change this.”

Jones was less certain. “Will we?”

Smith had no doubts. “We will,” he said firmly.

“Will the Americans even pay attention?”

Smith gave a thin smile. “They will have no choice.” Jones wasn’t so sure, but he didn’t want to start a fight, at least „ on a less than international scale. They stood side by side at the foot the grave, staring at the mound of dirt. “Perhaps we’ll be back in time for sosang.”

“Perhaps,” Jones replied, but neither of them believed it. By the first anniversary of their father’s death his two sons would be dead or imprisoned in a land far away from this cemetery, and they both knew it. He turned. “Come. Uncle has a bed for us.”

THERE WASN’T A BED but there was a roof. It was chilly because there was no heat, and dark because the local electric utility had run out of fuel and had no money to buy more, but cold water still ran from the one tap and their uncle had managed to beg, borrow, or steal a few ounces of real beef, which he offered boiled in grass soup. Afterward he served them a traditional Korean tea, pouring boiling water from a tin saucepan dented almost but not quite past the point of function into a heated clay teapot. He poured more boiling water over the outside of the teapot as the tea brewed. He poured out the first two brews in ceremonial fashion, and everyone pretended not to notice that there were no tea leaves in either.

To the third brew he added the leaves, although so few the resulting liquid was still mostly water. It was hot, though, and warmed them as it went down. They drank it slowly, conversing in quiet tones, also from tradition but also because they didn’t want their uncle’s neighbors to learn that he had company and turn him in for harboring fugitives in exchange for a handful of rice.