The Art of War: A Novel Read Free Page A

Greek buyer, with papers to prove it.
    Vanderhosen wasn’t frightened—he wouldn’t have slept in the captain’s chair if he felt the cold fingers of mortal terror—just tense, now that the sun was up. He knew the sled was out.
    “It goes well,” Zhang said, to mollify the man.
    “Umph.”
    “A few more hours…”
    Zhang saw the harbor patrol boat first. It was heading this way. The radio squawked to life. They were calling the yacht.
    Vanderhosen stepped to the mike and acknowledged.
    “You need to move your vessel to its assigned anchorage. You can’t stay there on the edge of the channel.”
    “We have had a problem in the engine room,” Vanderhosen replied matter-of-factly. “It will take several hours to set right.”
    “Do you need assistance?”
    “No. Our engineer is working on it.”
    The patrol boat swept on past. “Keep us advised. Move to your anchorage as soon as possible.”
    “Wilco, mate.”
    Vanderhosen hung the microphone in its bracket, then translated the English for Zhang, who was was watching the patrol boat motor away.
    When Zhang turned to face him, Vanderhosen said, “This is a nice little operation you’ve got here, mate. Maybe I could get some sort of permanent job with you people.”
    “Perhaps,” Zhang said. He grinned. The South African liked to see smiles and relaxed when he did.
    Zhang glanced again at his watch. The divers had been gone an hour.
    “Have the girls come up on deck and exercise,” he told the captain. “Tell them to wear tights.” Vanderhosen picked up the ship’s phone and dialed their stateroom.
    That should mollify the harbor patrol, Zhang thought. To maintain discipline, he had forbidden the women’s company to the crew. Vanderhosen and the first mate, however, had been making nocturnal visits to their compartment. He thought Zhang didn’t know about it.
    The Chinese naval officer permitted himself a tight, private smile, and lit another cigarette.
    *   *   *
    The fog cleared away, but the rain continued to drizzle. The half-open bridge door swung back and forth, back and forth, as the wind, now a gentle breeze, swept the bridge of cigarette smoke.
    The first mate replaced the captain on the bridge. His name was Lawrence. He had obviously been drinking heavily and was nursing a hangover. And he was nervous. He eyed Zhang, the water and the freighter.
    Lawrence had been involved with a Chinese gang in Hong Kong smuggling opium when the authorities caught on to his activities. He still thought he was involved with drug smuggling, but this time in an operation controlled by a high official in the Chinese government. After all, corruption was ubiquitous in the Orient, and he was promised a large sum of money, some of which had already been paid, so why not? He still had his mate’s ticket, so he looked good to port authorities the world over.
    The harbor was busy now, with boats coming and going, an occasional ship moving into or out of the pier area, cranes off-loading containers, the radio squawking at odd intervals, police boats patrolling. On the freighter the crew was moving about occasionally. A wisp of smoke came from her stacks.
    That freighter could be called to move at any time. That was the rub. Commander Zhang stood and watched everything, ignoring Lawrence, and waited. He was good at waiting. The captain and mate thought the man had no nerves. He did, but he had learned many years ago to keep his emotions tightly controlled. His one outlet was cigarettes.
    Out on the wing of the bridge he could see the women exercising on the fantail. They were wearing Lycra that showed off their legs and butts, and tight sweaters. They would have been cold if they hadn’t been working out. Zhang smoked his weed to the filter, flipped it into the harbor, and when back inside lit another. Lawrence was trying to drink coffee. His hands shook so badly that he slopped some onto the deck.
    The second hour came and went. The minute hand on Zhang’s