By the time he finished serving the Germans, the three men had been joined by a fourth, and he squared Gallic shoulders and marched back to take their orders. His murmured apology for the wait was waved away with a magnanimous hand by one of the newcomers, a younger man clearly of mixed eastern and western blood who carried himself with the assurance of one who had been born free in an Asian nation, which meant either Singapore or Hong Kong before the handover. There was some Norwegian or possibly some German mixed into his genetic pot, too. Something Teutonic, at any rate. He wore very good clothes, a loose-weave jacket over a T-shirt and casual slacks. The huaraches were hand-stitched leather and the bright red handkerchief peeping out of his jacket pocket was raw silk, probably also hand-stitched. The man smiled at him, a charming, slightly crooked smile, reminding the waiter of a photograph he had seen of a young Elvis Presley. He sighed a little.

The fourth man was Chinese, older and there was nothing to sigh over about him. His skin was burned a dark reddish brown from years in the sun, his narrow eyes made narrower by folds of enveloping wrinkles, his hands calloused and hard, his arms roped with muscle. He looked like a street fighter, an impression underlined by the scar that bisected his left eyebrow and a nose that had been either so thoroughly or so repeatedly broken that its bridge was almost flat against his cheekbones. A puckered scar showed briefly beneath the short sleeve of his shirt. A puncture wound of some kind, a knife perhaps? A bullet, more likely.

The Chinese saw the waiter looking and returned a flat, unblinking stare. There was something reptilian in that stare, without fear or feeling. For all his experience and sangfroid, the waiter had to make a conscious effort not to take a step back. He had to clear his throat before he could summon enough voice to ask them what they wanted. The younger man ordered Tiger Beer. The Chinese ordered green tea. The waiter left, more quickly than he had arrived, and regained his manhood by bullying a British couple into a table in a high-traffic area right next to the bar, and forcing them to order the bamboo martinis instead of the lager they had come in for.

The Singaporean pulled out a cell phone and placed it in the center of the table. The Chinese lit a cigarette from the end of the one he already had going.

The phone rang. The older Korean picked it up.

A pleasant voice speaking fluent English with a thick East European accent said, “Mr. Smith?”

“Yes.”

“Your Chinese guest is Mr. Fang. He holds a master’s certificate, has thirty years’ experience at sea, and will be responsible for putting together the crew and acquiring and operating the vessel. We have the highest confidence in his abilities.”

“Yes,” Mr. Smith said.

“The Singaporean is Mr. Noortman. In your initial contact with us, you stressed the need for someone who specialized in cargo.”

“Yes.”

“Mr. Noortman is, quite simply, a genius with international maritime shipping. He is also a full partner in Mr. Fang’s concern.”

“Yes.”

“Your fee was posted to our account in Geneva this morning. I believe this concludes our transaction. It has been a pleasure doing business with you. If you need help in finding the appropriate personnel for future ventures, please don’t hesitate to contact us.”

“Thank you.” The older Korean disconnected and put the phone in his pocket. “English?” he said, looking at Fang.

Fang inclined his head, as did Noortman.

The older Korean’s smile was noticeably lacking in either friendliness or humor. “My name is Smith.” He indicated the younger Korean. “This is Jones.”

Fang said, “I am told you need a ship.”

“Yes,” Smith said. “A ship of a specific kind.”

Fang suppressed a yawn. “How big?”

Smith slid a piece of paper across the table.

Fang read it and looked less bored. “This is… an unusual request.”

Smith said nothing.

Fang passed the slip of paper to Noortman. Noortman’s eyebrows went up and he exchanged a glance with Fang. Fang said, “Did you have a particular port in mind?”

“Petropavlovsk-Kamchatsky.”

Fang was impressed, and not favorably. “It will be expensive,” he said at last.

“The monies were deposited to your account this morning.”

“You seem to be extraordinarily well funded.”

Smith smiled again. “There is always money available to pursue the cause of righteousness.”

Fang meditated on this for a moment. The money was already in their account. And it was a large sum, enough, he decided, to quash his misgivings. “A crew of fifteen should be adequate.”

“We will not be boarding in the usual fashion. A crew of five, enough to operate the ship, will do. I and my men will provide any additional help that will be required.”

Fang shoved his glass to one side and leaned forward. “I don’t work with amateurs.”

A siren wailed in the distance and set the German table buzzing again with exclamations and murmurs. The plump woman produced a tiny digital camera from her handbag and asked the waiter to take her photograph, and then several more, just to be sure. With an air of infinite patience he complied and then at her request brought her another Budweiser.

“We’re not amateurs,” Jones said, speaking for the first time.

Fang’s lips tightened. “How are we boarding?”

Smith looked at Noortman. “I’m told you’re a genius in international maritime shipping.”

Noortman displayed no false modesty. “Yes.”

“You’ll need to be.” Smith told him why.

Beyond a slight widening of the eyes Noortman did not seem overly intimidated. Fang looked as if he wanted to leave the table, but he thought of the deposit and stayed where he was. “How long will we have to be inside?”

“That depends on how good your colleague really is.”

“And after your cargo has been delivered?” Fang said, hesitating only slightly between the last two words.

“Provision has been made for the crew to leave the scene in a safe and timely fashion.” Smith’s smile was brief and thin. “The plans will of course be ready for you to preview prior to our departure.”

Noortman, if anything, might have been excited by the challenge presented to him. “I will find you a ship that best suits your purposes, Mr. Smith, and determine how and where it stows its cargo. There is also the port. I’ll need to study ship traffic and to monitor cargo movement onshore and off.” He paused. “If all goes well, I should have a candidate and a plan of action for you to approve in two or three months. Possibly less. Possibly more. One must always allow for weather.”

“Three months,” Smith said. His face was so expressionless that it was difficult to tell if he was happy with Noortman’s estimate.

“And,” Noortman said, “it will, as Mr. Fang has told you, be very expensive indeed.”

“But it can be done.”

Noortman smiled widely. A gold tooth flashed from the right side of his mouth, and it was altogether a very different smile than Smith’s. “If you have enough money there is nothing and nowhere I can’t ship any cargo you care to name.”

Smith nodded. “I see. Very well. We are agreed. Mr. Jones and I have an appointment elsewhere.” He rose to his feet, Jones rising with him.

“Did you have a date of departure in mind?” Fang said.

Smith’s stare reproved Fang’s sarcasm. “Proceed with your preparations immediately. I wish to be operational by the fifteenth of January.”

“You’re not giving us a lot of time,” Fang said.

“But we are paying you a great deal of money,” Smith said gently. He saw no need to explain that the longer it took to put an action like this one in motion, the more susceptible it was of discovery by the authorities. Even the most inept government agent was liable to stumble across one of the many threads that would go into making the rope by which Smith meant to hang his target out to dry.