"And the landing craft?"
"You'll have to settle for fewer than requested."
"How many?"
"Three, perhaps four."
Kersik pinched the bridge of his nose. "The assault rifles, they've never been fired?"
Zhiu knew he was thinking about their integrated silencers, which quickly became ineffective with use.
"They are factory-new Type 85's."
Kersik continued to look thoughtful. "We must be guaranteed prompt delivery. As you know, our window of opportunity is quite small."
"Any date we agree upon will be firm," Zhiu said. "You have my word."
Kersik drew a long breath.
"I'm concerned about how the reduced number of watercraft will effect our invasion capabilities," he said. "It means revising the entire operational plan."
"Perhaps not as drastically as you might think. The attack boats are heavily armed. And the amphibious craft can be refitted to hold larger complements. Insofar as available manpower, there would likely be no difference at all. If you want me to go over the specific modifications—"
"Later," Kersik said. He hadn't taken his eyes off Zhiu's face. "Your government. What is its position toward our venture?"
"Officially, nothing is known of it."
"And speaking practically?"
"I can tell you there will be no opposition at any level," Zhiu said, selecting his words with utmost care.
Kersik nodded with satisfaction.
"Yes," he said. "That much is good news."
Zhiu let his eyes roam around the table.
"I hope, then," he said, "that none of you will object to the terms of payment."
Luan pursed his lips, reacting with predictable wariness.
"Which are?" he said.
"I'm obliged to require the full sum in advance."
"What?" Nga said, his eyes flashing incredulously. "You can't be serious."
Zhiu remained very still.
"We are asking for a great deal on short notice," he said. "The suppliers have expenditures of their own. It is reasonable for them to expect hard currency in return for the risks they are taking."
"And what of our risks?" Nga said in a tight voice. "I've done much for you and the Zhongnanhai you represent. My bank's international position could be irreparably damaged if things go wrong."
"That is very much appreciated. But, regrettably, this isn't a situation in which my superiors can barter off a portion of the cost, or make any other concessions."
Nga bridled. "Forgive me, Zhiu, but it sounds to me as if you're offering up excuses for PLA profiteers. How can you expect us to—?"
"Enough," Kersik interjected. "I understand your frustration, Nga. But we are compelled by certain exigencies, and must acknowledge that our needs are rather special." He glanced at Luan. "What do you say?"
The Thai hesitated a moment, then shrugged his chunky shoulders.
"Attached as I am to my money, I nevertheless consider my portion of the expenses already spent, and suppose it makes little difference when I physically part company with it," he said. "Let's not bicker over what can't be changed, and instead move on to important matters of planning. We've been so focused on Sandakan and what comes after, that none of us are talking about the data-storage vaults in the United States. They are essential to our success and at least as highly guarded as—"
The door to the rice barn opened, surprising them. They fixed their attention upon Xiang as one of his pirates leaned through from the other side, addressed him in a low whisper, then withdrew into the barn, leaving the door ajar.
Xiang turned back around, looking straight at the Thai.
"The American's opened his eyes," he said.
The room went silent.
Luan smiled slightly and cast an eager glance around the table.
"Excuse me, brothers," he said, heaving his bulk off the chair. "I have to go to work."
He followed Xiang into the barn, pushing the door heavily shut behind him.
Chapter Twelve
Blackburn came to with a start, disoriented, bathed in sweat, clusters of black motes floating across his vision. His eyes were battered and swollen, his body throbbing with pain in a dozen places. Where was he? Why couldn't he move his arms?
He realized he was in a chair.. slumped forward in a hard, straight-backed chair… and jerked to an upright position. Too quickly. Dizziness washed over him and his stomach contracted. He fought to push back the nausea, the taste of vomit rising in his throat. For several seconds it was touch-and-go, but then the sickness began to recede.
He squeezed his pulsing eyes shut and sucked in breath after labored breath.
Okay. All right. Let's try it again. But slower
He rolled his head to relax the aching tendons of his neck, lifted it an inch or two — slow, slow — and opened his eyes again.
Better.
Blinking, he looked himself over.
His shirt was bloody and torn. Had he been shot? No, no, he didn't think so. There had been a bad tumble in the hotel stairway. Then that iron claw, or whatever it was, sinking into his arm. He'd been trying to get it out, and then somebody or something had hit him. And afterward…?
What had happened afterward?
Max gulped down another mouthful of air. Come on, come on, what happened? He got little besides brief, elusive flashes, and wondered if he'd sustained a concussion from the blow to his head, or maybe the fall down the stairs. There had been long periods of oblivion alternating with moments when he half awakened and took in confused snatches of reality.
At one point he'd been in a truck… the delivery truck outside the hotel. That was where he'd first been handcuffed, in the vehicle's rear compartment. There had been a body back there next to him. A dead man, probably the original driver. He had been stripped of his clothing, and a mixture of blood and some other, viscous fluid was oozing from his ear. Max remembered lying there beside the naked corpse on sheets wet with gore… and that was all. He didn't know how long he'd been kept in the truck or where he'd been taken afterward. Just had a vague sense of time slipping away. Then being lifted, carried a short distance, and dropped flat on his back.
More time passed. He'd been in a close space, registered monotonous rolling, pitching movements. It had been like that for a while. Then a strong, freshening wind gusted over him. There had been a salt breeze. An abrupt realization that he was on a boat, they were transporting him somewhere on a boat…
He'd slipped back into unconsciousness, awakened once somewhere else. Another truck? Another boat? It was no good, that part was almost entirely a blank. He could recall nothing about it except for having been moved yet again to what he supposed was his present location, a barn of some sort. It was wide and dim and stewingly hot with a thatch roof and steps rising to a loft. Both his wrists had been cuffed to the arms of the chair. The restraints were standard police-issue metal bracelets.
His watchdogs were anything but cops, though. He'd recognized a few from the bunch that had pursued him at the hotel, including the big one, the one he'd first seen waiting in the truck, and who had come at him through the service door….
Blackburn felt his head clearing. With each interval of consciousness more of what had happened came back to him, his scattered bits and pieces of memory weaving into a coherent thread and drawing him toward a full recognition of his predicament.
Here in the barn he'd been asked questions, mostly by the one who seemed to be in charge — Luan, that was his name. Asked questions and beaten hard when he refused to answer. But that hadn't been the worst of it. Not by far. He had been through brutal ordeals before, and believed he could have withstood their interrogation for quite some time.