Zhou sensed, more than saw, the movement overhead. Then he looked up and saw the chamber dock lined with a dozen armed men, aiming M4 carbines at him and his crew. They were Navy sailors, deployed from the destroyer Spruance in the adjacent lock.

Zhou’s face expressed no alarm. “This is liable to create an awkward incident between our two countries,” he said.

“Would it?” Pitt asked. “Armed Chinese insurgents aboard a Guam-flagged ship apprehended while smuggling a murderous slave trader to safety? Yes, I suppose you are right. It would prove awkward to at least one of our countries.”

Zhou replied in a halting voice. “And if we return the plans?”

“Then I should think we shake hands and all go on our merry way.”

Zhou looked into Pitt’s green eyes, studying the friendly foe who had somehow gained the upper hand. He turned and spoke to one of his gunmen. The man slowly lowered his weapon and walked to the bridge. He returned a moment later with the sealed bin containing the Sea Arrow’s plans, which he reluctantly handed to Pitt.

Taking the bin, Pitt walked to the side rail and stopped. He returned to Zhou and stuck out his hand. Zhou stared at Pitt a moment before grasping his hand and shaking it vigorously.

“Thanks for saving my life,” Pitt said. “Twice.”

Zhou nodded. “I may come to regret the first instance,” he said with the faint hint of a smile.

Pitt returned to the rail and climbed up a ladder on the side of the chamber, carefully holding the bin. When he reached the top, he waved his thanks to the Navy sailors across the dock—and then was promptly arrested by the Canal Authority security force.

EPILOGUE: RED DEATH

EPILOGUE

RED DEATH

Chapter 82

82

LOOKS LIKE WE’VE GOT COMPANY, BOSS.”

Seated in a lounge chair under an umbrella, Al Giordino kicked open a cooler and tossed an empty beer bottle inside. He closed the lid, placed his bandaged leg atop the cooler for support, and eyed the approaching speedboat. He was dressed for a day at the beach in shorts and a Hawaiian shirt, although he was sitting on a barge in the middle of the Panama Canal.

“I hope it’s not another representative from the Canal Authority.” Pitt was kneeling on the deck nearby, checking an assortment of dive equipment.

“Actually, it looks to be our man from Washington.”

The speedboat pulled alongside, and Rudi Gunn hopped aboard the barge. With a travel bag hanging over his shoulder, he wore khaki pants and an oxford shirt and was drenched in sweat. “Greetings, canal wreckers,” he said. He embraced his old friends. “Nobody told me this place would be more miserable than Washington in August.”

“It’s not that bad,” Giordino said, fishing a cold beer out of the cooler for him. “The alligators are smaller here.”

“You didn’t really have to fly down and check on us,” Pitt said.