“Our Shado-3 satellite watches Chinese satellites,” Viens said. “When they move, it tracks them. They just saw one shift from Taiwanese shipping lanes in the South China Sea to an area of the Celebes.”

“What area?” Hood asked.

“The coordinates are one-hundred and thirty degrees longitude, five degrees latitude,” Viens told him.

“That’s where Lowell Coffey is,” Hood said, “along with Australian and Singaporean naval vessels. Why the hell would China be watching two small naval ships?”

“How would they even know the ships were out there?” Viens asked. “Flyover?”

“Maybe,” Hood said.

It was unlikely that the Chinese would be dealing in third-party nuclear material. They had enough of their own to sell, much of it to Pakistan.

“Stephen, when you were at the NRO, did you come across any cooperative satellite use?” Hood asked.

“You mean would another nation have access to the Chinese satellite?” Viens asked.

“Right.”

“Allies like the Vietnamese or North Koreans asked Beijing for intelligence,” Viens said. “But China controlled the hardware.”

“All right, Stephen, thanks,” Hood said. “Let me know if you get any other information about this.”

“Will do,” Viens said.

Hood hung up. He looked at his computer clock. He needed to call someone. Someone who had not been returning his calls. But right now it was the only person who might be able to get him the information he needed.

Hood picked up the phone and placed one of those calls he was comfortable making. One he was good at. One where the fate of nations, and not the fate of Paul Hood, was at risk.

TWENTY-FOUR - The Celebes Sea Friday, 10:33 P.M.

TWENTY-FOUR

The Celebes Sea Friday, 10:33 P.M.

Raja Adnan bin Omar and his radio operator stood in the small dark cabin of the fishing boat. The radio operator was standing beside a shortwave set on a shelf.

The radio operator’s legs were bent slightly to help him stand on the rocking deck. Bin Omar was at the wheel. Both men were dressed in heavy black pullovers. Their heads were uncovered, their hair and beards well groomed. A wet wind hissed against the windows. It punched through the old wood of the cabin walls. The two men were accustomed to it. So were the two other fishermen aboard the thirty-footer. One of them was bin Omar’s twenty-seven-year-old son. They were below, putting fish in large ice lockers and repairing the nets. They had caught more fish during their zigzagging delay. When they were finished, they ripped the nylon strands on purpose so they would have something to do. In case they were ever boarded, bin Omar wanted them to be busy. Idle men looked guilty, even if they were not. The lockers were stored in a closet at the stern of the vessel. Two of them were made of lead. They were not designed to hold fish.

Automatic weapons were also stored below in case they were needed.