Kismet’s hands flew to his pockets, desperate to silence the phone’s trilling, even though he knew it was already too late. The young pirate could not possibly have failed to hear the sound. His worst fears were confirmed as he saw the man stop in his tracks. Kismet’s hand tightened on the twin handle halves of the Balisong, squeezing just enough to release the spring-loaded latch.
The pirate took his cell phone from his front trouser pocket and pushed a button to receive the call, silencing the ring tone.
The sudden adrenaline dump made Kismet feel like throwing up. His personal cell phone was in his luggage along with everything else that would have been useful right then, but in the grip of panic he had forgotten that detail. As the pirate commenced chatting with a distant, unseen party, Kismet sagged in relief, biding his time in his place of concealment.
His grasp of the dialect spoken by the young man was insufficient for him to follow the conversation, but it seemed like a fairly casual exchange; a curious relative or girlfriend perhaps. It took Kismet a few moments to grasp the real significance of the phone call.
They’ve got coverage out here!
He had caught a glimpse of the pirate’s phone. It was a regular digital unit, almost small enough to disappear inside a closed fist, not a satellite phone receiver, which despite advances in miniaturization technology, would have been considerably larger. It seemed impossible that phone service existed in the middle of the South China Sea. Nevertheless, the young man carried on his conversation as naturally as if he were on a street corner in Singapore.
Kismet realized the cruise line must have established a satellite link for their passengers, allowing them to use their personal phones as they pleased — probably passing along a hefty surcharge for the privilege — which in turn had created a cell through which the pirate’s call had been routed. The particulars of the arrangement didn’t concern him; all he cared about was getting his hands on that phone.
The young Chinese man continued his conversation animatedly, speaking at seemingly random intervals as he leaned against the junk’s starboard railing. The exchange lasted an interminable sixty seconds before the pirate eventually pulled the receiver from his ear and hit the ‘end’ button. He contemplated the bright blue backlit display for a moment, and then moved to return the device to his pocket.
Kismet leapt forward, wrapping his left arm around the young man’s throat as he seized his right hand in order to prevent the loss of the phone. The pirate struggled in Kismet’s choke hold, but the latter had the advantage of surprise and superior physical strength. After a moment of struggle, the pirate went limp in Kismet’s grasp.
He quickly dragged his captive back to the niche where he had been concealed only a moment before. The young man was still breathing but had blacked out from the temporary disruption of the blood flowing to his brain through the carotid artery. Kismet hastily relieved the pirate of his weapon, and bound the man’s hands behind his back, using the cummerbund from his tuxedo as an impromptu rope. As an afterthought, he tugged his black bow-tie free and stuffed it into the captive’s mouth. Only then did he pluck the phone from the man’s slack grasp. He still had no idea whom to call.
He contemplated the numeric keypad a moment longer, then hit the zero key, making the universal summons for an operator. As soon as the connection was made, he spoke a single word: “English.”
The reply was incomprehensible, but a few moments later another voice came on the line, “May I help you, sir?”
“I need to make an international call from this phone, but I don’t know the country code for this network.”
“What country?”
“The United States.”
“Sir, the country code is ‘one.’ Simply dial one, and then enter the number you wish to call.”
Kismet thumbed the ‘end’ button then hastily entered the eleven digits that would connect him with the one person who would not only believe his wild tale of piracy on the high seas, but might actually be able to help. There was a long silence as his summons went out into the ether, then the ring tones sounded through a haze of scratchy static. After three trills, a voice from the other side of the world spoke: “This is Christian Garral. How may I help you?”
Kismet grinned at the familiar voice. “Hey, Dad. It’s Nick. I need a big favor.”
TWO
The Star of Muara was still afloat when Kismet lost sight of her. If it was indeed the intention of the pirates to sink her once their business aboard was complete, they did not remain to witness that outcome. Kismet hoped he was wrong about that prediction.
The raiders had returned to the junk and their various speedboats shortly after Kismet completed his call. He dared not look out from his place of concealment to observe them, but got the impression that they had taken only what could be easily carried; small relics, paintings, precious stones and so forth. Doubtless they had helped themselves to the cash and valuables of the passengers as well. Like all good opportunists, the pirates knew that the larger relics from the old Sultan’s collection would be far too difficult to move — both literally and with respects to resale — to make their theft worthwhile despite their extraordinary value. The costume jewelry worn by the women at the party would represent a pittance alongside those ancient wonders, but a smart thief only took what he could fence.
Still, it seemed like an awful lot of trouble for such a modest score. Why hit the collection at all if they planned to leave most of it behind?
Kismet did not know what would result from his hasty distress call. He only had time to relate the particulars of the crisis to his father and make a few suggestions as to who might best be summoned to rescue the passengers and crew of The Star of Muara, and bring the pirates to justice. Christian Garral was more of a world traveler than his adopted son could ever aspire to be; no doubt he would know exactly whom to contact in that part of the world in order to yield the quickest and most satisfactory resolution.
The junk had moved off, flanked by several of the cigarettes. The smaller jet boats languished under the burden of diminished speed, champing at the bit like thoroughbreds forced to trot alongside a pack mule. Kismet didn’t know what port the junk finally put into, but at a top speed of about twelve knots, it had proved to be a long journey over a short distance. Fortunately, it appeared that no one had missed the young man Kismet had waylaid.
As he had expected, the cell phone signal had failed when the ocean liner dropped below the horizon. The junk had motored almost due east, correcting marginally as the destination came into view.
The pirate base was located on a small jungle island, a partially overgrown pillar of igneous rock sprouting from the South China Sea. The cigarette boats broke off their escort duty and surfed over the reef into the sheltered lagoon. The junk plotted a more cautious course, but eventually threaded the coral and basalt gauntlet, mooring at a long wooden dock which extended like a pointing finger into the lagoon. Kismet removed his shoes and slipped over the side before the offloading commenced, treading water near the stern of the boat, careful to keep the AK-47 he’d appropriated from the Chinese pirate high and dry. The black fabric of his tuxedo provided adequate camouflage in the inky darkness and no one noticed him.
The towering promontory glistened in the perfect water, outlined by a sliver of moonlight. There was a structure atop the rock mass, a walled fortress from Malaysia’s colonial era, from which the silhouette of a roaming watchman was visible. Kismet took a deep breath and dove beneath the surface of the lagoon, stroking toward the wooden pier where he could rise without being spotted.