207.142.131.247
“It’s an IP address,” Fisher said.
An IP, or Internet Protocol, address is a unique identifier assigned to any network device — from routers to servers to desktops to fax machines.
“A gold star for Mr. Fisher,” Grimsdottir said. “This is the best clue we could have gotten. This particular IP led me to a service provider in Hong Kong, which in turn led me to an e-mail account, which finally led me to a mother company called Shinzhan Network Solutions based in Shanghai. Shinzhan specializes in wireless satellite Internet service.
“According their records, this account beams a broadband five-megabyte signal to an island off the coast of China called Cezi Maji.” At this, Grimsdottir paused and looked at each of them in turn. “Nothing? That name doesn’t ring any bells?”
Fisher and Lambert both shook their heads.
“Cezi Maji is the island that Bai Kang Shek allegedly disappeared to fifteen years ago.”
Fisher leaned forward. “Say again?”
“Bai Kang Shek. That’s his island — or so the legend goes.”
Fisher was as surprised to simply hear a Chinese name reappear in the puzzle as he was to hear that name in particular.
Bai Kang Shek had been called the Howard Hughes of China. In the late 1930s, Shek’s father had owned a small fleet of tugboats in Shanghai. After World War II, as China tried to restart its devastated economy and infrastructure, Shek Senior had gone to the government with a proposal: Give me exclusive salvage rights on all shipping sunk during the war in the East and South China Seas. In return, Shek Senior would sell back to China the scrap metal it so desperately needed.
A bargain was struck and the Shek family went to work, including young Bai Kang, who served first as a deckhand aboard his father’s tug, then as a mate, then finally as a captain at the age of sixteen.
By the time Shek Senior retired and handed over the reigns to Bai Kang in 1956, the empire had expanded from salvage work into transport, manufacturing, arms production, agriculture, and mining.
For the next forty years, Shek stood at the helm of Shek International as the business grew. In 1990 Shek’s personal net worth was estimated at six billion dollars. Then, one year later, as if someone had flipped a switch, Bai Kang Shek changed.
His behavior became erratic. He was prone to outbursts; he decreed that board members must wear hats during meetings; he began moving from place to place, staying in one of his dozens of homes for precisely eleven days before moving on to the next; he was said to have given up solid food, taking his meals only in blended form. The list went on.
Several times the board tried to wrest control of the the business from him, but despite his growing eccentricities, he remained formidable and able. Though his personal behavior grew more bizarre by the day, his mind for business never faltered as Shek International continued to show record profits.
And then suddenly in 1991, Shek called a rare press conference. Dressed in a long-tailed tuxedo and carrying a cane, Shek announced to the world that he was retiring to pursue “spiritual endeavors” and that he had sold his stake in Shek International to the board for what amounted to sixteen U.S. dollars. Then he clumsily turned his cane into a bouquet of flowers, bowed to the assemblage, and left. The last time he was seen or photographed was as he climbed into his limousine and was driven away.
For the past fifteen years the rumors and tales of conspiracies surrounding Bai Kang Shek had grown to mythic proportions, but through them all was a common thread: He was still alive, sequestered from the world in some private sanctuary.
“Don’t get me wrong,” Fisher said. “I’m glad we’ve finally got something that supports my hunch, but the idea that our best suspect is someone who used to wear gold-sequined swim goggles in public makes me a little nervous.”
“Ditto,” Lambert said.
Grimsdottir spread her hands. “All I can give you are the facts: The engines aboard the
“Which in turn may or may not be home to a recluse, who may or may not be insane, and who may or may not be alive,” Fisher said.
“That’s about the size of it,” Grimsdottir said. “Except one last detail.” She clicked the remote at a nearby flat-screen; the image of a heavily jungled island appeared. “According to reliable reports, Cezi Maji has a security system worthy of a military base: patrol boats, sensors, armed guards, and fences. Whether that’s Bai Kang Shek out there or not, I don’t know, but somebody’s pretty serious about their privacy.”
Fisher stared at the image for a few seconds, then said, “Sounds like an invitation to me.”
38
Three hours and one midair refueling after leaving Kadena Air Force Base in Okinawa, the Pave Low’s pilot slowed the craft to a hover. The vibration that had been been jarring Fisher’s butt and back for the last six hundred miles diminished to a tremor. The pilot’s voice came over Fisher’s subdermal. “Sir, we’re at the rendevous point.”
“Radio contact?”
“None. We’ll wait them out. You know how squids are; probably got lost.”
“Play nice, Major.” Fisher checked his watch. They were on time; the submarine was late. “How’s your fuel?”
“We’re good. Thanks to whatever mojo you’re carrying, we’ve got a Comet all to ourselves.”
“Comet” was short for Vomit Comet, the nickname for the KC-135 Stratotanker, which did double duty as an in-flight refueling aircraft and a zero-g simulator for astronauts — the latter achieved through rapid climbs and sudden dives that left the occupants weightless and often violently nauseous. Currently, a Stratotanker from Kadena was orbiting above them at 35,000 feet, waiting to top off the helo should it become necessary.
Seated across from him on the bench were the Pave Low’s two gunners/specialists. As they had been for the last hour, they were engrossed in a game of gin. Accustomed to ferrying dangerous men into dangerous areas, Pave Low crew members took everything in stride and didn’t ask questions. Aside from a nod as Fisher had climbed aboard, neither man had paid him any attention.
The MH-53J Pave Low was a special operator’s dream. Designed to covertly insert soldiers into denied areas, and then extract them out again, it was fast, quiet, and equipped with an avionics package that left nothing to chance: FLIR (Forward-Looking Infrared Radar), inertial global positioning system (GPS), terrain-following and terrain-avoidance radar.
Fisher glanced out the window. The helo’s navigation strobes were turned off, but thanks to a full moon he could see the ocean twenty feet below, its surface chopped into mist by the rotor wash. This was another Pave Low specialty — the hover coupler, which, in conjunction with the GPS, could keep the helo fixed precisely over a spot on the earth, give or take six inches.
Ten minutes later, the pilot was back in Fisher’s subdermal: “We’ve got company, sir. Marlin is on station, ready for pickup.”
“Roger,” Fisher said. “Tell them five minutes.”
“What’s your pleasure?”
“Ten feet will do. Don’t wait around.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yep, go home. Thanks for the ride.”
He caught the attention of the two specialists, then pointed to himself and jerked a thumb downward. They went into action. The cabin lights were switched to red and life vests were donned. The first crewman motioned for
