In this instance, it was Carol Morse. Who had been a trusted friend and confidant long before she became one of Fucillo’s primary appointments at Net Force. And who had just hours ago lost a man to a mysterious hit-and-run.

“Carol! How are you?”

“I’m fine, Marie...”

Fucillo was thinking she didn’t sound fine. She was also thinking Morse was not a hopeless insomniac like herself, and that her calling at this hour was anything but the norm.

“You’ve had a rough day,” Fucillo said.

“Not too many are easy lately,” Morse said. “A lot’s happening here. You’ll find out the details in your morning briefing. But I didn’t want to put off updating you.”

Fucillo nodded. “OK, shoot,” she said, and sat listening to everything Morse had to tell her about the Stalwart disappearance, Grigor Malkira, the kidnapping of Musil’s daughters, and the connection it all seemingly had to a container ship docked in Hawaii.

“Do you honestly think there’s something aboard that ship we should worry about?”

“We’ll find out,” Morse said. “But nothing feels right. The Chinese are definitely involved. The question is how? Is it their government? Or parties inside the government?”

“Which makes all the difference.”

“Yes.”

“Especially if those parties have ties to Russia.”

“And that’s how this fish smells.”

Fucillo was quiet a moment on the phone. “I wish we had hard evidence that Moscow’s somehow in the middle of this,” she said. “Something I could hold up to see how they react.”

“So do I. And maybe we can find it,” Morse said. “In the meantime, I’m thinking President Tsao might want to chat with his sister and brother-in-law. Whatever is going on, that couple is in it up to their necks.”

“Would you suggest I speak with Tsao about them?”

“If you’re really asking, I would advise it,” Morse said. “Both our countries have too much to lose if things play out badly.”

Fucillo nodded to herself.

“I’ll make the call,” she said, and paused. “Aside from all this—you’re really OK?”

Morse was quiet.

“Carol?”

“There’s some personal stuff,” she said.

Fucillo sat a moment, her forehead scrunching with concern.

“We should have lunch very soon,” she said.

Once aboard the Xingyun Liwu, Jochi led Grigor forward on the weather deck past tiers of containers stacked as high as four-story buildings. Washed with light, the latitudinal and longitudinal aisles between the stacks were wide enough for two cars driving side by side, and with ample clearance.

There were four deck hatches, one for each of the stowage holds running the length of the ship on its lower deck. All were covered with multiple steel panels controlled by pneumatic lifting mechanisms. Hatch Number One was behind the ship’s forepeak, just aft of the bow.