“They must be firing at the cigarette boat,” Tristan said. “Otherwise we’d probably already be in the drink.”

The roar of the patrol boat’s engine grew louder as it bore down on the junk, but then it went by with a swoosh. The junk rocked again as the departing patrol boat’s wake hit the side.

“I never expected to be saved by the Chinese Communists,” Tristan said.

The wooden door to the deck crashed open again. One of the crewmen stood at the door. He stepped inside and yelled something.

“What now?” Tristan asked.

“He’s telling us all to get on deck on the double,” Bentley said.

“All of us, even the two refugees.”

As Marissa reached the deck again, she could see the patrol boat heading southeast. Far in front of it the cigarette boat was speeding away.

The captain bellowed out another order. Bentley blanched. Even the refugees were upset. Chiang Lam began speaking to the captain. He seemed quite frantic.

“What’s the matter now, mate?” Tristan asked.

“The captain has just ordered us to jump overboard,” Bentley said.

“What!” Marissa gasped. “Why?”

“Because he knows the PRC will be back and when they do, he doesn’t want to be caught with any contraband.”

Chiang was still addressing the captain. He’d grown hysterical and was yelling at the top of his lungs.

“What’s with the monk?” Tristan asked.

“He’s telling the captain that he cannot swim,” Bentley said.

The captain glared down at Chiang and pointed toward the shore. When Chiang continued his harangue, the captain pulled the AK47 off his shoulder and, without a moment’s hesitation, riddled the monk with bullets. The monk’s body smashed back against the railing before falling to the deck.

Marissa turned away. Tristan looked up at the captain in disbelief. Bentley climbed over the railing.

The captain yelled at one of his crew and the man rushed to the dead monk. Lifting the body from the deck, he tossed the corpse into the water.

Hastily, Tristan helped Marissa climb over the railing. Bentley went in first. Marissa and Tristan jumped together. Tse Wah was the last to leap.

As soon as Marissa was able to stop her downward plunge in the surprisingly icy water, she stroked to the surface. Turning around, she looked up at the junk. It was already moving, heading north, away from the direction of the PRC patrol boat.

“Take your shoes off,” Tristan suggested. “But don’t let go of them. Hold them in your hands. It’ll be much easier to swim.”

17
April 20, 1990
8:05 A.M.

Between the weight of her wet clothes and the shoes she held in her hands, Marissa found swimming an effort. Although she had been at it for some minutes, she hardly seemed to have moved closer to the shore. Bentley and Tse had swum ahead, but Tristan stayed alongside Marissa.