They climbed several flights, then entered the bridge through an open wing door. Like the rest of the ship, the expansive control room was empty of life. The ghostly sense was broken by the ship’s radio, which squawked with the voice of a Chilean Coast Guard operator hailing the vessel. Franco shut off the radio, then stepped to a center console and powered down the engines.

Pitt examined the helm. “The autopilot was set on a course of one hundred and forty-two degrees.”

“Makes no sense that they would abandon a moving ship.”

“Piracy is a more likely answer,” Pitt said. “The number five hold looks like it was emptied after she left port.”

“Taking the crew for ransom, I could see,” Franco said, rubbing his chin. “But robbing a bulk carrier of its cargo at sea? That’s unheard of.”

The captain noticed a dark splotch on the wall and similar stains on the floor—and his face turned pale. “Look at this.”

One glance at the stains told Pitt they were dried blood. When he rubbed a finger across the wall, the dry residue flaked off.

“Doesn’t look recent. Can we backtrack the ship’s navigation system to see where they came from?”

Franco stepped to the helm, glad to distance himself from the gore. He located a navigation monitor, which showed a tiny representation of the Tasmanian Star overlaid on a digital map of Valparaiso Harbor. He tapped on an embedded keyboard and reduced the scale. A yellow line traced the ship’s path off the top of the screen as Valparaiso receded into the coastline of Chile, which gradually receded into the continent of South America. The slightly angular line continued north before cutting sharply left off the west coast of Central America. Franco tracked the line across the Pacific, locating its origin in Australia.

“She came from Perth.” Then he zeroed back in on the point where the ship changed heading. He looked up at Pitt and nodded.

“Your assumption of piracy makes sense. She wouldn’t be crossing the Pacific with one of her holds empty.”

“Let’s see where that course change occurred,” Pitt said.

Franco adjusted the image. “Looks to be about seventeen hundred miles due west of Costa Rica.”

“A lonely spot in the ocean to stage a holdup.”

Franco shook his head. “If that’s where the crew left the ship, then the Tasmanian Star sailed herself over thirty-five hundred miles to Valparaiso.”

“Which means she was hijacked more than a week ago. That leaves a pretty cold trail to follow.”

Franco’s crewman suddenly burst through the bridge wing door. His face was flush, and he panted from sprinting up the companionway. Pitt noticed his hand trembled on the doorframe.

“The crew quarters are empty, sir. There doesn’t seem to be anyone aboard.” He hesitated. “I did find one man.”

“Dead?” the captain asked.