of this. But he certainly didn’t look Caucasian anymore, either.
The most shocking thing about his appearance, though, was the long, ragged line of stitches stretched across his neck. All Mace had done was put harmless, if painful, sutures into his skin. But looking at them now—puffed out and intentionally untreated—the result was monster-ish. Nolan looked like someone who’d barely survived a brutal throat slashing.
Before Nolan’s world came to an end at Tora Bora, before he was even commissioned as an officer, his picture had appeared on Army recruiting posters. His image had been selected because he embodied everything the Army wanted its recruits to think signing up was all about: You become all-American and handsome, heroic and hunky. That’s how ruggedly good-looking Nolan had been.
Now, not only wasn’t he all-American-looking—he was actually grotesque.
In other words, his disguise was complete.
He was ready to murder Sunny Hi.
12
THE OCEAN SONG sailed into Shanghai Harbor just after sunset the next day.
It glided past the newer parts of the city’s sprawling downtown, heading for an older section of the bustling port. Ships of all shapes and sizes passed on each side of the repainted freighter. From junks to huge container ships, no one gave it a second look.
Until, that is, a military patrol boat intercepted them about halfway to their goal. It was heavily armed and carried one of Shanghai’s many harbormasters. A curt radio call ordered the freighter’s crew to get their papers in order, including a summary of their cargo. They were about to be boarded.
The Ocean Song slowed to a halt and the harbormaster and an officer of the Chinese Navy came aboard. The Senegals greeted them, displaying false transit papers forged by the SAS and brought aboard by Stevenson and Mace. The papers claimed the ship was registered in Kuala Lumpur under a Honduran flag. The sugar, they said, came from Santos, Brazil.
The harbormaster studied the paperwork—but it was only a cursory inspection. Wrapped up inside was a bundle of cash: five thousand dollars in new U.S. twenty-dollar bills. The visitors were soon gone, and the Ocean Song was once again on its way.
Passing the last of new Shanghai, its towering buildings looking more futuristic than anything else in this part of Asia, the freighter floated further up the Yangtze, finally reaching Old Harbor. This area resembled Shanghai of the 1930s: dark, dank, shadowy, crowded—and very dangerous. A few similar-sized ships were at anchor here; others were tied up to the creaky, decaying docks nearby. A low mist hung over everything, and foghorns bayed a mournful tune.
Beyond the docks was the ancient walled city of Old Shanghai. The thick harbor mist had spilled over to its extremely narrow streets and innumerable back alleys. Lines of electrified Chinese lanterns hung everywhere, strung from dull, gas-fired streetlights. But only the glow from the numerous neon bar signs was able to cut through the fog, and then just barely.
It was now 7 P.M. on Friday and the streets were crowded as usual. The many saloons along the docks were already in full throat. Occasionally the sound of a drunken laugh or a pleasant squeal rose above the dull roar, issuing from either the bars or the brothels many housed upstairs.
The Ocean Song quietly tied up at an isolated spot along the old pier.
Phase One was now complete.
* * *
“REMEMBER, YOU MUST not talk,” Batman said to Nolan. “You cannot say a word. You’re supposed to be someone who’s had his vocal cords severed. You’ve got to stay in character or this whole thing will be screwed.”
They were all sitting in the ship’s galley: the five members of Team Whiskey, the two SAS doctors and the Senegals. As the operation’s commander, Batman was conducting one last briefing before launching the strange mission. He was hammering home the details like a football coach before the big game.
“I know you can understand a little Chinese,” he told Nolan. “But, if you let one word slip, English or otherwise, they’ll hear your American accent and that will be a death sentence. Any kind of talking will also screw up that radio in your tooth. It might be worth about a million dollars, but we won’t be able to hear anything else if you’re talking while it’s transmitting, because your voice will overwhelm its tiny microphone. And if we can’t hear anything else, we won’t know what’s happening. Understand? So, no talking—no matter what.”
Nolan nodded, but numbly. He could barely talk as it was. His mouth, his eyes, his