Rembrandt's Ghost (15 page)

“I’ve already talked to the shipping agent. She’s due to dock in Jurong Harbor at midnight. I think we should be there to meet her.”

At just after eleven p.m., the
Batavia Queen
waited in the eastern approaches of Singapore Strait, a mile or so off Sentosa Island, prudently staying just outside the main shipping lane to the container port at Keppel Harbor. Keppel was one of half a dozen docking facilities that made up the Port of Singapore from Jurong in the west to Marina Bay in the east. Once upon a time it had even been possible for break-bulk ships like the
Queen
to navigate through the Johor Strait between Singapore Island and the Malaysian mainland, but the construction of the Johor-Singapore Causeway in the 1920s closed the strait to navigation.

“I can’t stay out here much longer,” said Briney Hanson, standing by the starboard rail of the ship. “We’ll have the Harbor Police sniffing around if we don’t watch out.” He scanned the night. The darkness was absolute. The sea was a gently undulating pool of inky blackness and the stars were blotted out by a layer of overcast. There was no moon. The only light came from the condos and hotels on Sentosa Island and the garish lights of Singapore beyond.

“Patience, Captain,” said Lazlo Aragas, standing at his side. He was dressed as he had been when they met: white suit, glistening shoes, and the Borsalino Panama set squarely on his head. The only thing missing was the sunglasses. They had been replaced by an antiquated pair of horn-rims that were somehow even more sinister. A pair of Russian-made night-vision binoculars hung from a leather strap around his neck. Beside the two men the Slazenger crates had been hoisted onto the deck. Above them, on the bridge, Eli Santoro stood watch, ready to call on McSeveney to give them full steam ahead if necessary.

“Easy enough to say,” responded Hanson. “But I’m not sure I like the idea of going to Changi Prison for trying to smuggle your tennis balls.”

“You won’t be going to Changi,” said Aragas. “At least not yet, and not because of me.” He lifted the night-vision glasses and peered into the darkness. “Ah,” he said softly. “They’re coming.” Aragas turned to Hanson and smiled. “Would you like to have a look?”

Hanson nodded. Aragas lifted the binoculars, careful not to disturb the Panama as he brought the strap over his head. In the six days since sailing from Mariveles he’d never seen Aragas without it. He took his meals in his cabin, and according to Bazooki, the Samoan steward and cook’s assistant, the Borsalino was in place even there.

Hanson lifted the night glasses. The world turned a lurid green. Three hundred yards off the starboard bow he could see the shape of a fast boat, its sharp bow leaving a broad green slash in its wake. Even in the night glasses the boat’s lines were distinctive and so was the broad dark stripe down the side: Singapore Police Coast Guard, one of their half dozen Rodman 55 Jet boats. There was no point in getting on the blower to McSeveney; the Rodman could do thirty-five knots in a calm sea and the
Queen
would be lucky to make half that. They’d been screwed.

He lowered the glasses and turned to Aragas. “Bastard.”

“Betrayal is a wonderful thing, no?” Aragas said.

Hanson felt his insides knot. It was all over. “I could toss your sorry little ass overboard right now.” He pulled the Curry Lockspike out of his pocket and snapped the blade open. “But first I’d open up an artery for the sharks to work on.”

“Don’t be silly, Captain. That boat has a fifty-caliber machine gun mounted on the deck and my men are all armed as well. The boat is also equipped with four medium Whitehead acoustic torpedoes. Your ship would be turned to scrap metal within a minute and a half. You’d be dead before the first shark took a bite.”

The patrol boat was getting closer. A searchlight on the bow flashed on, bathing the entire flank of the
Queen
in brilliant light. Eli came out onto the flying bridge and called anxiously down to Hanson.

“We get a problem, boss?”

“I’ll let you know,” yelled Hanson. Eli went back into the deckhouse. Hanson turned to Aragas. “So you’re some kind of cop?”

“Indeed, Captain, I am some kind of cop. Have you ever heard of CISCO?”

“Private spooks,” answered Hanson. CISCO stood for Commercial and Industrial Security Corporation, a privatized sector of the Singapore Police Force, usually dealing in industrial crime and intelligence.

“A specialist. Antiterrorism.”

“Isn’t everyone these days?” Hanson snorted. “You’d think there was no other crime.”

“In my case there isn’t,” replied Aragas. “Terrorism is an expensive business for all concerned. Drugs are generally what finances it.”

“So what are we doing here?” Hanson asked.

“Just as I told you in the first place,” said the dapper little man.

“Shipping tennis balls,” said Hanson, jerking his chin toward the pile of crates with the leaping leopard logo on the side.

“That’s right.” Aragas smiled. The patrol boat came alongside, searchlight blazing, and within a few seconds, uniformed men were swarming up the companionway ladder Hanson had ordered to be lowered to accommodate whoever came out from Sentosa Island. The men all carried CIS drum-fed machine guns and Sphinx 3000 nine-millimeter automatic pistols. They looked extremely efficient.

Aragas nodded to the lead officer, a three-striper with a face that looked like it had been dragged along a dirt road, and gestured toward the stack of crates.
“Membuka dia!”
he ordered. The man with the jackhammered face stepped forward and smashed the butt of his weapon into one of the crates. The wood splintered and he tore the box open. Aragas went to the box and removed one of the familiar dark blue Slazenger tubes. He brought it back to where Hanson stood at the rail and pulled open the vacuum-sealed top. There was a slight hiss and four bright yellow tennis balls dropped out of the tube and hit the deck of the
Batavia Queen
. As the ship rolled slightly they drifted off toward the bilges.

“Tennis balls,” said Aragas. “Slazenger Ultra Vis.”

“What’s the story?” Hanson asked, staring.

“The story is the oldest one in the world, Captain Hanson,” said Aragas. “We have established precisely what you will do for a price. In this case you proved yourself both corruptible and intelligent. These are two assets I expect to find very useful in the future.”

“Isn’t this all entrapment?”

“Entrapment is an American word from their police movies, Captain Hanson. It doesn’t apply in the real world. We have a half dozen official witnesses who will swear that you have been caught illegally bringing items into the sovereign state of Singapore. The fact that it is tennis balls is irrelevant. The crime is the same: cocaine or coconuts, heroin or handguns,
shabu
or Shetland ponies. You can be convicted of smuggling anytime I see fit—do you understand?”

Hanson understood that the slimy little bastard had him by the short hairs and that he was in no position to negotiate; his livelihood, his very life, hung in the balance. Somewhere in the distance a ship’s horn sounded. Water lapped against the hull in a flat, unending rhythm. “What do you want?”

“Your cooperation.”

“Which means?”

“Your vessel has been sold to new owners. Two young people—an American woman and her companion,a British subject of some aristocratic rank—have inherited this ship as part of one of Boegart Shipping Lines trust agreements.”

Hanson nodded. “They’re supposed to be meeting us in Singapore.”

“Yes,” said Aragas. “I am also informed that a man named Khan has shown a decided interest in these two people. You know the name?”

“Of course, everyone in this line of business does. You’re talking about the pirate.”

“He does not think of himself as a pirate. Pirates are easy to deal with. They are motivated only by greed and greed is an easy thing to feed. Our Khan fashions himself a revolutionary, an idealist, a zealot. Like our friend Mr. bin Laden, Jackson Abang Abdul Rauf thinks he has God on his side. There is nothing more dangerous than a true believer, Captain Hanson, take it from me. Such men cannot be dealt with simply by giving them an envelope filled with cash.” Aragas paused and turned toward the three-striper. He snapped his fingers and the sergeant started barking orders to the other men who had boarded the
Batavia Queen
. They began taking the crates down the companionway ladder to the patrol boat alongside.

“What are you saying?”

“Khan is the leader of an organization with a very long reach, Captain Hanson. He tried to have your new owners kidnapped in London and then tried to eliminate them again in Holland. No doubt he will try again now that these two people have arrived in Singapore.”

“Why?”

“Indeed. That is the question I would like answered myself.”

“So I’m supposed to find out for you?”

“If you’d be so kind, Captain Hanson. It would be of interest to me to know why these two people are important enough to pose a threat to a man like Khan.”

“And if I find out anything?”

“Report back to me.”

“How? You want me to send it out on the radio? Khan monitors all the maritime frequencies. That’s how he knows what ships to go after. He’s also got spies in every one of the major shipping agency offices.” He gestured at the men loading the crates. “I’ll bet he’s got people in your operation as well.”

“The Coast Guard Police aren’t my operation as you call it, Captain Hanson. You might say I am my own operation.” He turned and snapped his fingers again. The gravel-faced sergeant stepped forward and stood to attention in front of Aragas. He held out his hand. The sergeant reached into the pocket of his jacket and took out a palm-sized telephone unit with a slightly larger than usual antenna wand. He handed the phone to Aragas, who in turn held it out to Hanson. “This is a Hughes 9505A iridium satellite telephone. It has a restricted memory, which means the only person it will call is me. Switch it on, press the number one, and you will be connected automatically. Is that too difficult for you, Captain?”

The men in the Police Coast Guard uniforms removed the last crate of tennis balls and manhandled it down the companionway stairs.

“No, I suppose I can manage that,” said Hanson, taking the phone. It was extremely heavy for its small size. There was no use in trying to bluster his way out of the situation he was in; Aragas had played him perfectly. “Do you have any idea what Khan is looking for? Drugs? Weapons? What?”

“There is a rumor…” Aragas glanced across the deck. The last crate was gone along with the police. The sergeant stood alone at the head of the companionway leading down to the waiting patrol boat. Aragas made a small gesture with his hand and the sergeant turned away and went down the stairway. “There is a rumor that Khan searches for a great treasure from the war.”

“There’s a lot of those rumors going about,” said Hanson. “There’s been rumors like that for years. Japanese loot from the occupation of the Philippines, gold coins dumped in Singapore Harbor just before the invasion. Then there’s that rumor about the Brooklyn Bridge being for sale.”

Aragas ignored the comment. “Have you ever heard of a Japanese submarine,
I-52
?”

“I read
National Geographic
. It was supposed to be filled with gold and opium. The Brits sank her in mid-Atlantic. Three miles down.”

“There is some question about the submarine’s actual identity. The Japanese are many things, Captain, but they are not stupid. Some people would call them devious, in fact. Khan has discovered information that might lead one to believe that there were two
I-52
transport submarines.”

“I’m not sure I see the point.”

“One was a decoy. It was the one that sunk. The second one, the real
I-52
, vanished before it even left the China Seas.”

“Where?”

“They were under strict radio silence, but according to the information Khan has received she was last seen by a fishing boat on January first, 1944, off the northeast coast of Palawan.”

“Is there some significance to that date?”

“It’s two months earlier than the official date for
I-52
’s departure from Japan. It is also the beginning of what came to be called the New Year Typhoon. The official name was Typhoon Amy. Japanese and Allied operations were shut down for the better part of ten days. The fishing boat said it appeared to them that
I-52
was running for safety.”

“Why didn’t she just submerge?”

“Who knows? She was a C-3 transport, one of only three ever built. A new design. Perhaps they were having problems. Maybe the fishing boat was right. The captain was seeking shelter.”

“Where?”

“Perhaps that is what Khan has discovered,” said Aragas softly. “And perhaps it is what your new owners have discovered as well.”

“And I’m caught in the middle.”

“So it would seem, Captain Hanson. So it would seem.” Aragas patted Hanson on the shoulder and smiled. “Sometimes being in the middle can have its advantages. It’s much harder for people to sneak up on you.” He patted Hanson’s shoulder again, then headed for the companionway. He turned and paused just before stepping down toward the waiting patrol boat. “Do keep in touch,” he said. “I’ll be expecting your call.” He gave a little wave and disappeared.

There was a dull, decelerating roar from overhead and Hanson looked up. The lights from a big wide-body flashed above him as it descended toward Changi International.

He looked up at the bridge and saw the glow of Eli’s cigarette in the darkness. He held up his hand and gave a thumbs-up. A few moments later, he heard the dull, strained rumblings of the engines taking hold as McSeveney put the
Batavia Queen
to half ahead and Eli turned them toward the distant lights of Singapore. Hanson looked down at his watch. It was getting on toward midnight.