Ghost Ship

THIRTY-THREE

Joe Zavala arrived at Than Rang’s building in a limo. He wore a tailored white suit and a silver tie straight from Solano’s wardrobe. Kurt traveled with him, wearing a more traditional black suit and carrying a small briefcase with the tools of Solano’s trade and a transmitter he and Joe hoped to secure on the hackers. As a last-minute precaution, Kurt’s silver hair had been cut short and temporarily dyed black in case Acosta had any surveillance footage of him from the yacht.

Stepping from the limo, they were directed to a private elevator by Than Rang’s security personnel and took a quick ride up to the eleventh floor, where they stepped out into a party that was already in full swing.

Spread out across a large ballroom and spilling out onto the rooftop garden were hundreds of South Korea’s most powerful and influential people. Industrialists, politicians, and celebrities mixed with poets, artists, and philanthropists. Ambassadors from five nations were there, along with dozens of trade representatives, including a group from the United States.

To kick the festivities into high gear, Than Rang appeared on a raised stage at the end of the ballroom. He wore a traditional Korean outfit known as a gongbok, which was an indigocolored robe of silk tied at the waist with a gray sash and fitted with a high collar. In the ancient dynasties of Korea the gongbok was the dress of a nobleman or a king. It told Kurt a lot about who Than Rang thought he was.

While there were a few others dressed similar to Than Rang, most of the guests wore Western clothing: suits and tuxedos for the men, all variety of bright formal wear for the women. It was a dizzying kaleidoscope of movement and color.“When do you meet up with Acosta?” Kurt asked.

“His message said he’d find me when he needed me and to enjoy the party until then.”

Kurt noticed Joe was speaking with a heavy accent even though he was using English. He’d been in character since they left the hotel room. The acting classes seemed to be paying off.

“Perhaps you’d like to wait in the garden, sir?” Kurt asked, speaking in the tone of an assistant.

“Yes,” Joe said, “I believe I would. Let’s enjoy the cool night air for a while.”

They made their way outside to the ornate garden that covered half the eleventh-floor rooftop. It was lit up by thousands of tiny lights, enough to compete with the glow of the city beyond. The other half of the building rose another forty-one stories into the night behind them.

Out in the garden it didn’t take long for a trio of women to catch Joe’s eye. He flashed a grin, his teeth as white as the jacket he wore. The women responded with smiles of their own, and the two boldest of them began to walk his way.

“Must be the suit,” Kurt whispered.

“I do make it look good,” Joe replied.

“You look like Mr. Roarke,” Kurt said. “They’re probably hoping for a trip to Fantasy Island.”

“That would make you Tattoo,” Joe whispered. “Let me know if you spot de plane.”

As the women came into range, Joe began to hold court, getting their names and their stories and discussing his position in the world of art. If they weren’t already weak-kneed from Joe’s looks and charm, hearing that he was an international art expert with a big hacienda on a stretch of Spanish beach made them positively melt.

As one of them sipped the last of her martini, Joe asked if she’d like another.

“I’d love one,” she said.

“So would I,” the second woman added.

Without a glance at Kurt, Joe sent him to the bar. “Two martinis and a Gin Rickey,” he said, ordering Solano’s favorite drink.

His friend was enjoying this, and Kurt could not so much as give him the evil eye. He would have to find a way to repay him later. “Yes, Mr. Solano,” he said, “right away. Do you require anything else?”

“No,” Joe replied with a light sigh. “I seem to have all I need right here.”

Kurt handed the briefcase over to Joe and made his way toward the center of the garden, where a circular bar made of glass shimmered with electric blue color where it was lit from within.

One of the many bartenders noticed Kurt immediately. As the man went to work, Kurt studied the surroundings, looking for Acosta. So far, he hadn’t seen him. But considering the number of guests, that was not a surprise.

The blue martinis arrived, made with vodka, curaçao, and an ounce of bitters. Shaken and poured, they were almost identical in color to the glowing bar. The Gin Rickey was another story: the bartender needed fresh limes.

As he went to retrieve them, Kurt’s gaze settled on a couple who’d eased up to the bar directly opposite him. The man he didn’t recognize, but the woman’s face was unmistakable at this point. It seemed the mystery woman from Acosta’s yacht had an invite to Than Rang’s party.

Her hair was copper-colored now and arrow straight. It shone like a new penny beneath the lights and was coiffed in an asymmetrical style that framed her face in a way that was both striking and yet well designed to disguise her features.

Despite that, Kurt had no doubt who he was looking at. He’d stared at the photo of her in the blond wig for hours after sending it to Hiram. He’d burned her features into his mind: the angle of her cheekbones, the narrow bridge of her nose, the arch of her eyebrows, and the little scar that ran through one of them like a part. All these things were easy to make out.

He noticed her bottom lip seemed to be swollen, almost beestung. Considering it had been bruised and bleeding four days prior, that did not surprise him. Nor did it surprise him that she was here. After all, they were chasing the same thing.

“Your drinks, sir.”

The bartender had returned.

“Thank you,” Kurt said. It was an open bar but Kurt believed in tipping. He handed over a fifty-thousand-won note. The equivalent of about forty dollars.

The bartender smiled intently. “Thank you, sir.”

“You’re welcome,” Kurt said, lifting the small tray on which the drinks had been placed. “Us working-class guys need to stick together.”

With the grace of a waiter, Kurt carried the drinks back to Joe, where the women continued to hang on his every word. As soon as the drinks were distributed, Joe handed the bag to Kurt.

Before Kurt could explain the latest complication, Acosta appeared. His arrival was enough to scatter the women like spooked doves.

The pleasantries were exchanged somewhat awkwardly. “My Spanish is not so good,” Acosta managed.

“Nor my French,” Joe replied. “Perhaps English is better?” “Not better,” Acosta grumbled, “but common.”

Acosta laughed at his own joke and then continued the conversation in accented English. Joe did likewise, doing his best to sound like Solano.

“Are you ready?” Acosta asked.

“Whenever you are,” Joe replied.

With that, Acosta and his bodyguards led Joe and Kurt to another elevator guarded by Than Rang’s men. As they reached the door, one of the guards pointed at Kurt and shook his head. “He’s my assistant,” Joe said.

“Do you need him?” Acosta replied.

“Of course not,” Joe said. “He is simply here to carry the bags.”

Joe snapped his fingers and made a Give it to me motion with his hand. Kurt dutifully handed the briefcase over. “Enjoy the festivities,” Joe said. “I’ll signal you when I return.”

The elevator door opened. Acosta and Joe stepped inside. As the door shut, Kurt heard the beginnings of a conversation centered on a collection of works by the artist Degas. He hoped Joe’s crash course in the world of art would hold up.

With little to do but wait, Kurt turned and went back to the bar. His main priority now was to avoid being recognized by one of Acosta’s guards or the mystery woman from the yacht. He decided the best way not to accidentally run into her was to follow her and keep an eye on her from a distance.

Tracking her was fairly easy, as the shimmer of her copper locks stood out in a crowd of mostly Korean women. Avoiding her gaze was a little more difficult as her eyes seemed constantly on the move. He only hoped his surveillance technique was better than Joe’s.