Numa Files: Ghost Ship Part 21

"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 skysc.r.a.per, where the party would be held. The fifty-two-story gla.s.s-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 gla.s.s 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 s.p.a.ces, 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.

"h.e.l.lo?"

"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 a.s.sume 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.

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. Amba.s.sadors 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 n.o.bleman 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 cla.s.ses seemed to be paying off.

"Perhaps you'd like to wait in the garden, sir?" Kurt asked, speaking in the tone of an a.s.sistant.

"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 gla.s.s 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, curacao, 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-cla.s.s 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 a.s.sistant," 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.

On the elevator ride to the top floor of Than Rang's building, Joe continued discussing the art of Degas with Acosta, relaying facts and anecdotes with ease. By the time they reached the fifty-second floor, Acosta seemed impressed.

The elevator opened and let them out into a large foyer. A man with one hand met them there. He was Caucasian.

"Kovack," Acosta said. "This is Arturo Solano."

Joe nodded and Kovack offered him a brief glance. "Than Rang is waiting."

"Excellent."

Together, the three of them made a short trip to Than Rang's private office.

Than Rang was already there, still dressed in his indigo robe, looking out over the lights of Seoul through the floor-to-ceiling windows.

"We have arrived," Acosta announced. "It's time for the exchange."

Than Rang turned. "a.s.suming your experts pa.s.s their final examination."

Joe glanced around. The office was sprawling and included a conference room behind smoked gla.s.s, but the room was dark, and he saw no sign of the hackers. Wherever they were sequestered to do their final exam, it wasn't on the fifty-second floor.

"They will pa.s.s every test you can devise," Acosta insisted. "Of that I a.s.sure you."

"Then you will have your prize."

Than Rang extended a hand toward the far wall. There, guarded by two additional men, was a small easel. At the center of the easel sat a painting not much larger than a standard sheet of paper. It was surrounded by a gilded frame and bathed in a soft warm light.

"First, we'll run our own tests," Acosta said confidently.

"As you wish."

Acosta led Joe toward the easel. "I'm sure this won't take long."

Joe went to set up, but the guards didn't budge.

"Do you mind?" Joe asked. "I need some room to work."

The guards stepped back a few feet.

With some room to breathe, Joe set his case down and studied the painting in the low light. Fortunately, he recognized it. The painting was a Manet. It was known as the Chez Tortoni.

Joe ran through what he knew about it in his mind. Oil on canvas, painted by Manet over a period of several years and finished sometime in 1880. It depicted a French gentleman with a high top hat sitting in a cafe that the artist himself was known to frequent.