The Stone Monkey (2 page)

There was not a single thing about the voyage that would arouse the suspicion of the U.S. authorities. "How did the Coast Guard do it?" the captain asked.

"What?" the Ghost responded absently.

"Find us. No one could have. It's impossible."

The Ghost straightened up and pushed outside into the raging wind, calling back, "Who knows? Maybe it was magic."

"We're right on top of 'em, Lincoln. The boat's headin' for land but are they gonna make it? Nosir, nohow. Wait, do I hafta call it a 'ship'? I think I do. It's too big for a boat."

"I don't know," Lincoln Rhyme said absently to Fred Dellray. "I don't really do much sailing."

The tall, lanky Dellray was the FBI agent in charge of the federal side of the efforts to find and arrest the Ghost. Neither Dellray's canary yellow shirt nor his black suit, as dark as the man's lustrous skin, had been ironed recently—but then no one in the room looked particularly well rested. These half-dozen people clustered around Rhyme had spent the past twenty-four hours virtually living here, in this improbable headquarters—the living room of Rhyme's Central Park West town house, which resembled not the Victorian drawing room it had once been but a forensics laboratory, chock-full of tables, equipment, computers, chemicals, wires and hundreds of forensics books and magazines.

The team included both federal and state law enforcers. On the state side was Lieutenant Lon Sellitto, homicide detective for the NYPD, far more rumpled than Dellray—stockier too (he'd just moved in with his girlfriend in Brooklyn, who, the cop announced with rueful pride, cooked like Emeril). Young Eddie Deng, a Chinese-American detective from the NYPD's Fifth Precinct, which covered Chinatown, was present too. Deng was trim and athletic and stylish, sporting glasses framed by Armani and black hair spiked up like a hedgehog's. He was serving as Sellitto's temporary partner; the big detective's usual coworker, Roland Bell, had gone down to his native North Carolina for a family reunion with his two sons a week ago and, as it turned out, had struck up a friendship with a local policewoman, Lucy Kerr. He'd extended his vacation another few days.

Assisting on the federal portion of the team was fifty-something Harold Peabody, a pear-shaped, clever middle manager who held a senior spot at the Immigration and Naturalization Service's Manhattan office. Peabody was close-lipped about himself, as are all bureaucrats narrowing in on their retirement pension, but his far-ranging knowledge of immigration issues attested to a lengthy and successful stint in the service.

Peabody and Dellray had faced off more than once during this investigation. After the
Golden Venture
incident—in which ten illegal immigrants drowned after a smuggling vessel of that name ran aground off Brooklyn—the president of the United States had ordered that the
FBI
take over primary jurisdiction from the INS on major human smuggling cases, with backup from the CIA. The immigration service had far more experience with snakeheads and their human smuggling activities than the FBI and didn't take kindly to yielding jurisdiction to other agencies—especially one that insisted on working shoulder-to-shoulder with the NYPD and, well,
alternative
consultants like Lincoln Rhyme.

Assisting Peabody was a young INS agent named Alan Coe, a man in his thirties with close-cropped dark red hair. Energetic but sour and moody, Coe too was an enigma, saying not a word about his personal life and little about his career aside from the Ghost case. Rhyme had observed that Coe's suits were outlet-mall chic—flashy but stitched with obvious thread—and his dusty black shoes had the thick rubber soles of security guard footwear: perfect for running down shoplifters. The only time he grew talkative was when he'd give one of his spontaneous—and tedious—lectures on the evils of illegal immigration. Still, Coe worked tirelessly and was zealous about collaring the Ghost.

Several other underlings, federal and state, had appeared and disappeared over the past week on various errands relating to the case.

Goddamn Grand Central Station, Lincoln Rhyme had thought—and said—frequently in the past day or so.

Now, at 4:45 A.M. on this stormy morning, he maneuvered his battery-powered Storm Arrow wheelchair through the cluttered room toward the case status board, on which was taped one of the few existing pictures of the Ghost, a very bad surveillance shot, as well as a picture of Sen Zi-jun, the captain of the
Fuzhou Dragon,
and a map of eastern Long Island and the ocean surrounding it. Unlike during his bedridden days of self-imposed retirement after a crime scene accident turned him into a C4 quadriplegic, Rhyme now spent half of his waking hours in his cherry red Storm Arrow, outfitted with a new state-of-the-art MKIV touchpad drive controller that his aide, Thom, had found at Invacare. The controller, on which his one working finger rested, gave him far more flexibility in driving the chair than the older sip-and-puff controller.

"How far offshore?" he called, staring at the map.

Lon Sellitto, on the phone, glanced up. "I'm finding out."

Rhyme frequently worked as a consultant for the NYPD but most of his efforts were in classic forensic detection—criminalistics, as the jargon-happy law enforcement world now preferred to call it; this assignment was unusual. Four days ago Sellitto, Dellray, Peabody and taciturn young Alan Coe had come to him at his town house. Rhyme had been distracted—the consuming event in his life at the moment was an impending medical procedure—but Dellray had snagged his attention by saying, "You're our last hope, Linc. We got us a big problem and don't have a single idea where else to turn."

"Go on."

Interpol—the international clearinghouse on criminal intelligence—had issued one of its infamous Red Notices about the Ghost. According to informants, the elusive snakehead had surfaced in Fuzhou, China, flown to the south of France then gone to some port in Russia to pick up a load of illegal Chinese immigrants—among whom was the Ghost's
bangshou,
or assistant, a spy masquerading as one of the passengers. Their destination was supposedly New York. But then he'd disappeared. The Taiwanese, French and Russian police and the FBI and INS could find him nowhere.

Dellray had brought with him the only evidence they had—a briefcase containing some of the Ghost's personal effects from his safehouse in France—in hopes that Rhyme could give them ideas where his trail might lead.

"Why all hands on deck?" Rhyme had asked, surveying the group, which represented three major law enforcement organizations.

Coe said, "He's a fucking sociopath."

Peabody gave a more measured response. "The Ghost's probably the most dangerous human smuggler in the world. He's wanted for eleven deaths—immigrants
and
police and agents. But we know he's killed more. Illegals're called 'the vanished'—if they try to cheat a snakehead, they're killed. If they complain, they're killed. They just disappear forever."

Coe added, "And he's raped at least fifteen women immigrants—that we know of. I'm sure there're more."

Dellray said, "Looks like mosta the high-level snakeheads like him don't make the trips themselves. Th' only reason he's bringing these folk over personally is 'cause he's expandin' his operation here."

"If he gets into the country," Coe said, "people're going to die. A lot of people."

"Well, why
me?"
Rhyme asked. "I don't know a thing about human smuggling."

The FBI agent said, "We tried ever-thing else, Lincoln. But we came up with nothin'. We don't have any personal info 'bout him, no good photos, no prints. Zee-row. 'Cept that." A nod toward the attaché case containing the Ghost's effects.

Rhyme glanced at it with a skeptical expression. "And where exactly did he go in Russia? Do you have a city? A state or province or whatever they have over there? It's a rather big country, so I'm told."

Sellitto replied with a lifted eyebrow, which seemed to mean: We have no idea.

"I'll do what I can. But don't expect miracles."

Two days later Rhyme had summoned them back. Thorn handed Agent Coe the attaché case.

"Was there anything helpful in it?" the young man asked.

"Nup," Rhyme replied cheerfully.

"Hell," muttered Dellray. "So we're outta luck."

Which had been a good enough cue for Lincoln Rhyme. He'd leaned his head back into the luxurious pillow Thorn had mounted to the wheelchair and spoke rapidly. "The Ghost and approximately twenty to thirty illegal Chinese immigrants are on board a ship called the
Fuzhou Dragon,
out of Fuzhou, Fujian Province, China. It's a seventy-two-meter combination container and break-bulk cargo ship, twin diesels, under the command of Sen Zi-jun—that's
last
name Sen—fifty-six years old, and has a crew of seven. It left Vyborg, Russia, at 0845 hours fourteen days ago and is presently—I'm estimating now—about three hundred miles off the coast of New York. It's making for the Brooklyn docks."

"How the hell'd you figure that out?" Coe blurted in astonishment. Even Sellitto, used to Rhyme's deductive abilities, barked a laugh.

"Simple. I assumed that they'd be sailing east to west—otherwise he would have left from China itself. I've got a friend on the Moscow police—does crime scene work. I've written some papers with him. Expert in soils by the way, best in the world. I asked him to call the harbor masters in ports in western Russia. He pulled some strings and got all the manifests from Chinese ships that left port in the past three weeks. We spent a few hours going over them. By the way, you're getting a very obese bill for the phone calls. Oh, and I told him to charge you for translation services too. I would. Now, we found that only one ship took on enough fuel for an 8000-mile trip when the manifest reported it was making a 4400-mile one. Eight thousand would get them from Vyborg to New York and back to Southampton, England, for refueling. They weren't going to dock in Brooklyn at all. They were going to drop off the Ghost and the immigrants then scoot back to Europe."

"Maybe fuel's too expensive in New York," Dellray had offered.

Rhyme had shrugged—one of the few dismissive gestures his body allowed him—and said sourly, "Everything's too expensive in New York. But there's more: the
Dragon's
manifest said she was transporting industrial machinery to America. But you need to report your ship's draft—that's how far the hull sinks into the water, if you're interested—to make sure you don't run aground in shallow ports. The
Dragon's
draft was listed at three meters. But a fully loaded ship her size should draw at least seven and a half meters. So she was empty. Except for the Ghost and the immigrants. Not offended by calling the ship 'she,' anyone? It
is
customary. Oh, I say twenty to thirty immigrants because the
Dragon
took on enough fresh water and food for that many, when—like I said—the crew was only seven."

"Damn," offered the otherwise stiff Harold Peabody with an admiring grin.

Later that day, spy satellites had picked up the
Dragon
about 280 miles out to sea, just as Rhyme had predicted.

The Coast Guard cutter
Evan Brigant,
with a boarding party of twenty-five sailors backed up by twin fifties and an 80mm cannon, had gone to ready status but kept its distance, waiting until the
Dragon
had sailed closer to shore.

Now—just before dawn on Tuesday—the Chinese ship was in U.S. waters and the
Evan Brigant
was in pursuit. The plan was to take control of the
Dragon,
arrest the Ghost, his assistant and the ship's crew. The Coast Guard would sail the ship to the harbor at Port Jefferson, Long Island, where the immigrants would be transferred to a federal detention center to await deportation or asylum hearings.

A call was patched through from the radio of the Coast Guard cutter closing in on the
Dragon.
Thorn put it on the speakerphone.

"Agent Dellray? This is Captain Ransom on the
Evan Brigant."

"I'm readin' you, Captain."

"We think they've spotted us—they had better radar than we thought. The ship's turned hard for shore. We need some direction on the assault plan. There's some concern that if we board, there'll be a firefight. I mean, considering who this particular individual is. We're worried about casualties. Over."

"Among who?" Coe asked. "The undocumenteds?" The disdain in his voice when he used the word that described the immigrants was clear.

"Right. We were thinking we should just make the ship come about and wait until the Ghost surrenders. Over."

Dellray reached up and squeezed the cigarette he kept behind his ear, a memento from his smoking days. "Negative on that. Follow your original rules of engagement. Stop the ship, board it and arrest the Ghost. The use of deadly force is authorized. You copy that?"

After a moment of hesitation the young man responded, "Five by five, sir. Out."

The line went dead and Thom disconnected the call. Electric tension flowed into the room on the heels of the silence that followed. Sellitto wiped his palms on his forever-wrinkled slacks then adjusted his service pistol on his belt. Dellray paced. Peabody called INS headquarters to tell them he had nothing to tell them.

A moment later Rhyme's private line rang. Thom took the call in the corner of the room. He listened for a moment then looked up. "It's Dr. Weaver, Lincoln. About the surgery." He glanced at the roomful of tense law enforcers. "I'll tell her you'll call her back."

"No," Rhyme answered firmly. "I'll take it."

The winds were stronger now, the waves arcing high over the sides of the intrepid
Fuzhou Dragon.

The Ghost hated water crossings. He was a man used to luxury hotels, to being pampered. Human smuggling voyages were dirty, oily, cold, dangerous. Man has not tamed the sea, he thought, and never will. It is an icy blanket of death.