Ghost Ship

THIRTY-TWO

The passengers of Air France Flight 264 from Paris to Seoul gathered their things in the orderly but eager fashion of those who’d been cooped up in a metal tube for too long, as if the eleven hours on the aircraft were more easily endured than the five minutes it took to unload and escape into the terminal.

An announcement that the Jetway had malfunctioned was met with a universal groan. But the opening of the rear doors allowed fresh air into the cabin, and soon the passengers were streaming down the stairs at the rear of the aircraft.

This odd method of emptying the aircraft meant that the passengers in the rear went first while those in first class had to endure the interminable delay.

In the very first row, in seat 1A, Arturo Solano did little to hide his displeasure. The only solace was a few more minutes staring at the shapely American woman who sat next to him. They’d spoken all too briefly during the flight, but as the other first-class passengers filed out she turned his way.

He knew the look. A few words about art and parties and most women went weak in the knees. She was going to ask him if she might attend the party or perhaps even meet privately for dinner.

With a mischievous eye, she watched the last of the firstclass passengers disappear through the curtain and then smiled.

“I know what you want,” he said in his best English.

“Do you?” she replied.

“Of course,” he said. “I’d be delighted to put you on the guest list.”

“I’m flattered,” she said, glancing forward as the front cabin door opened. “But since you won’t be going, there’s no need for me to attend.”

Solano felt a moment of confusion. It grew deeper as three Korean men in dark suits appeared, entering through the supposedly broken Jetway. He stood up, indignant and suspicious, but the woman jabbed him with something. He felt a shock go through his body and then became rapidly drowsy. He fell into her waiting arms and began to doze even as she laid him down on the cabin floor.

Shortly before he passed out, another man entered. This man wore a white linen suit, identical to Solano’s own. His hair was coiffed in the same nouveau pompadour style and his face sported a goatee. In fact, as this new arrival stared down at him, Solano felt as if he might be looking in a mirror.

“Who… are… you?” Solano managed to whisper. “I’m you,” the man replied.

Baffled and too drowsy to form another thought, Solano closed his eyes and fell asleep.

Two of the Korean men dropped down beside him and pulled him upright. As they folded his unconscious body into a cart disguised as a catering trolley, the woman in the business suit took Joe by the arm.

“Time for us to exit,” she said. “Acosta sent a driver to pick Solano up. Say as little to him as possible. We’ll get Solano talking and get you some audio to listen to so you can mimic his voice.”

“No problem,” Joe said. He grabbed Solano’s briefcase and followed the woman toward the aft end of the plane.

Minutes later, he was in the terminal, meeting with Acosta’s driver, who picked up the rest of Solano’s luggage and led him to a waiting limo.

“What hotel?” Joe asked, using accented English.

“Shilla Hotel,” the driver insisted. “Five stars. Monsieur Acosta has spared no expense and is very excited to see you.”

Joe only nodded and sat back in the plush seat until the driver shut the door. He wasn’t concerned. He knew that the CIA and the South Korean security forces were listening in. They would track him and, when they were certain the coast was clear, they would contact him. Until then there was nothing to do but enjoy the ride.

Miles away, Kurt Austin was less relaxed. What had begun as a personal mission in search of answers had now become an international operation that had put his best friend at the tip of the spear.

Kurt spent hours studying the schematics of Than Rang’s skyscraper, where the party would be held. The fifty-two-story glass-and-steel building was a marvel of engineering. It rose like a monolith in the heart of Seoul. Eleven floors up, one side was cut away, and an ornate garden and outdoor terrace offered some of the best views in the city.

Kurt noticed that the garden was protected by a glass atrium, the rest being open to the elements. He learned that the elevators ran through a central column and that there were stairwells at all four corners. He found that access corridors ran behind certain walls and that there were many narrow spaces, designed for pipes and electrical conduits, that had entry and exit points to allow maintenance access.

Having learned all he could about Than Rang’s building, he turned to other distractions: looking over the photos he’d taken of Acosta’s yacht and zooming in on the faces of those who’d been caught in the snapshots.

Acosta’s bulbous head was clearly visible in several photos, as was the blond woman Acosta had spoken to out on the deck.

As Kurt studied her features, he began to think she looked familiar. Her cheekbones were high. Her eyes were a dark brown and her eyebrows darker still. She wasn’t a blonde at all, he thought.

He zoomed in closer and realized who it was. “A woman in disguise,” he said, recognizing the face of the mystery intruder he’d fought with in Acosta’s cabin.

He plugged the camera into a computer terminal. With a few keystrokes he uploaded the shot. That done, he picked up the phone and dialed a Washington number. The phone rang a half dozen times before a grumpy voice answered.

“Hello?”

“Hiram, this is Kurt.”

“I hope I’m dreaming this,” Hiram Yaeger said. “Do you have any idea what time it is?”

Kurt had almost forgotten the fourteen-hour time differential from Seoul to D.C. “I’ve always heard time is a relative concept,” he replied.

“Not in this case,” Yaeger grumbled. “But I assume it’s important. What do you need?”

“I’m sending you a photo of a pretty woman.”

“My wife might not appreciate that.”

“I think it’s the mystery woman from the yacht. Only, she’s wearing a blond wig. It’s a clear shot through the zoom lens. Maybe you can run it through your magical machine and figure out who she is. Unless that’s beyond what the system can handle.”

Yaeger scoffed at the notion. “I’m hurt that you would even doubt us,” he replied. “Our facial recognition technology has advanced by leaps and bounds in the last few years. If it’s a clear shot and there’s any record of her anywhere, we can figure it out. You throw in dinner at Citron and I’ll give you her preferred drink, a list of her likes and dislikes, and where she went to school.”

Kurt laughed. He figured the best way to get Hiram fired up was to challenge him. “It’s a deal. I heard about the computer virus on the Condor,” Kurt said. “Are you sure Max is secure?”

Max was the name of Hiram’s own supercomputing system. Built from scratch, to Hiram’s exacting specifications, Max was undoubtedly one of the most advanced and powerful computers in the world — and certainly the most unique. It had a high level of artificial intelligence and its own, distinctly female personality.

“Are you purposely trying to annoy me?” Hiram said. “Of course Max is secure. I built her from the ground up and programmed her myself. No one else in the world has even the most rudimentary understanding of her source code, and, without that, a machine can’t be compromised. In fact, if everybody built their own computers instead of buying them off the shelf, the world would be a far more secure place.”

“Okay, fine,” Kurt said, not meaning to denigrate Hiram or his machine. “So I don’t need to print this out and send it FedEx?”

“No,” Hiram said. “Just use the secure line the CIA has set up for you. I’ve scanned their software with ours. It’s clear.”

“Okay,” Kurt said. “Sending now. Let me know what you find out.”

“Will do.”

Yaeger hung up, and Kurt had no doubt that the inquisitive computer genius was already crawling out of bed to get the research going immediately. He almost felt guilty, but he had a feeling time was not on their side.