For a moment Gordian sat staring out the office's floor-to-ceiling window at the San Jose skyline, and the vague humps of the mountains off to the southeast. Then he shifted his attention back to Dan.
"What about the Foreign Trade Commission?" he said. "Setting our sights on the future, I'm wondering if anybody there eventually could be nudged toward at least some of our positions."
"Never happen," Parker said. "Olivera, the head of the organization, is a militant free-trader. More important, he's a Ballard appointee who's been brown-nosing the President since they were poli-sci majors at the University of Wisconsin. Not for all the Chapstick in the world would he tear his lips away from the President's backside. Nor would he allow his underlings to stray."
"Somebody in Congress, then. Preferably the NSC."
Parker shook his head. "I know of several men on the panel who are privately sympathetic, and one who actually views Morrison-Fiore as a poison seed in our national defense system. But all come from states where the software industry has tremendous clout, and where people are afraid of losing jobs because of an inability to enter foreign markets." He smiled ruefully. "Do you have any idea what my opposition to the bill has cost me in votes? Being the representative from Silicon Valley? I'd probably have alienated fewer constituents if I got bagged for armed robbery… with an Uzi and the stolen goods in hand."
Gordian looked outside again, past the broad stretch of Rosita Avenue, to where the Diablos went marching up to Mount Hamilton, its distant flank barely visible through a thin veil of smog. Closer by, one could still see a few of the aging food-processing plants and plastic factories that had once formed the industrial base of the city… but they were really nothing more than relics. Technological research and development had been San Jose's lifeblood for over twenty years; its economic survival was dependent on the hardware and software outfits that gave a huge chunk of the population their employment. Dan Parker was deliberately understating the price he would have to pay for standing by his principles… and by his friend. In doing so, he had quite possibly committed political suicide.
Gordian turned from the window and ran his eyes around the table, letting them settle briefly on each face, each member of the coalition that had gathered around him. Parker was immediately — almost physically — struck by the realization that some of the old steel had returned to his gaze.
"We should discuss our travel arrangements for the trip to Washington," Gordian said. "I think we're ready for the next round."
Chapter Five
FROM THE STRAITS TIMES:
Investigation of "Phantom" Freighter Continues
Authorities Increasingly Look Toward Piracy As Explanation for Crew's Disappearance
Singapore — Nearly 48 hours after the freighter Kuan Yin was mysteriously abandoned by its crew in Sembawang Harbor, its undelivered cargo remains in the possession of local customs officials, who have revealed that they are consulting with their Malaysian counterparts and the Piracy Center in Kuala Lumpur regarding the possibility of a hijacking at sea.
According to Tai Al-Furan, a spokesman for the Customs Ministry, the vessel is licensed to Tamu Exports, a commercial shipper based in East Malaysia. Mr. Al-Furan confirmed that it left Kuching Harbor sometime on the evening of Sept. 15 with a manifest of general wholesale goods designated to arrive in Singapore that same evening. No other stops were scheduled in transit. It was also revealed that the ship was fully laden when found at anchorage early on the morning of the 16th, adding questions about the motive for a pirate raid to deepening concerns about the present whereabouts of its crew, which is said have consisted of almost a dozen seamen.
"The shipowner is being very cooperative and has provided our investigators with a complete list of those who were legitimately aboard the Kuan Yin when it set sail," Mr. Al-Furan told reporters.
While Mr. Al-Furan acknowledged fears that the crew members may have been forced to evacuate at sea by a hostile boarding party — giving rise to speculation that the vessel was commandeered as a means of gaining the perpetrators false documents and illegal entry into Singapore — he expressed optimism that a more routine explanation might be found for their disappearance.
"We are keeping open minds about what may have happened to them, and see no reason to jump to any conclusions at this point," he stated.
Mr. Al-Furan would neither confirm nor deny rumors that signs of armed violence, including apparent bullet holes, have been discovered by police in the vessel's lower deck.
Despite joint efforts by the Association of Southeast Asian Nations (ASEAN) to combat maritime crime, the frequency of pirate attacks in China and throughout the region— many of them sponsored by underworld syndicates — has increased by more than 50 % over the past decade, with their level of violence also escalating. Last year alone over 400 seamen were either assaulted or killed by pirates, an alarming figure in light of recent improvements in the equipment and interdiction methods used by counter-piracy patrols….
They had been following the woman for two days. According to their information, the American would likely appear tonight. And it would be tonight that they struck. Otherwise, it might be another week before they had their chance, a week during which the investigation of the Kuan Yin hijacking would broaden and escalate into a manhunt, and the assumed identities of the ship's crew would become increasingly useless to Xiang and his men. They wanted to be long gone from Singapore by then.
The guest house they had been staying in was a shuttered, run-down building crammed between two other dilapidated structures in a twisty l. Arong not far from Fat B's. They had booked three rooms at a cheap rate, and though the accommodations in each were limited to a few sagging cots, a shaky corner table ringed by some equally lopsided chairs, and a washbasin with a dripping faucet, the out-of-the-way location and sordid atmosphere discouraged tourists and other meddling transients from seeking the place out, which was Xiang's only real requirement.
In fact, comfort was the last thing on his mind this evening.
His tattooed chest bare, he sat with both arms on the table, having wedged a small piece of cardboard under one of its legs to steady its irritating wobble. On its surface before him was a photograph of Max Blackburn. To his right was a candle he had set to burning in a flat metal ashtray. Beside the candle was a long, thin needle with a round ceramic handle. Across the room from Xiang, two of his men, Sang and Kamal, had pushed their cots to one side and given themselves space for the supple, tiger-style martial arts exercises of karena matjang. The shades were drawn and the electric fixtures in the room were off, and the candlelight projected their weaving shadows onto the walls and ceiling.
Thrown loosely across one of the cots were the clothes they would be wearing when they took Blackburn and the woman later on that night. Nondescript khakis, denims, and long-sleeved cotton shirts. The clothes of soft, weak people who lived safe and easy lives.
I suggest you get something to wear that will let you blend in, the peacock at the bar had said. His advice had been well taken, though he'd thought Xiang too witless to detect the mockery behind his neutral expression. Perhaps assuming size and stupidity went hand in hand. It was a mistake people often made in dealing with the Iban. And it only played to his advantage.
Now Xiang reached out with his large right hand, lifted the needle off the table, and held its carefully sharpened end into the flame. Let the others practice their kata. He had his own special method of preparation, of steeling himself for what lay ahead of them.