The Death and Life of Nicholas Linnear by Eric Van Lustbader Page B

layers of electronic surveillance.
    The mission of the five men was to override all these precautions, then lay packets of C4 in the engine room, the connecting corridor, and along the side of the LNG tank at the far end of the corridor.
    They worked with an almost telepathic concentration. Not a word passed between them; none was needed. The electronics expert bypassed one security system after another. He was quick but methodically careful not to make a mistake. When he was through, he lifted a thumb, and the others got to work. One man entered the engine room. He officiously presented his bogus I.D. to any legitimate crew members he encountered, and saw them turn away, their faces pale, tight as a fist. They were frightened of his power to keep them from leaving China, of throwing them into a Shanghai prison on whatever charges he chose to level. He was given a wide berth, and so was able to secrete the block of C4 in the shadows without the slightest difficulty.
    Every thirty seconds or so, one man, who was taller than the others and thin as a pipe, raised his pinched face from his work disabling the auto-locks on the doors in the corridor. His nostrils dilated as he turned his head this way and that, sniffing the air for any smell or vibration that might be out of place. Each time, satisfying himself, he returned to his job, concentrating with the ferocious energy of a rodent.
    As soon as he reached the ship, Nicholas was informed by the bursar of the five men from customs and immigration who had come aboard. Nicholas’s face betrayed none of the inner turmoil he felt. Three things were immediately clear to him: these were the men who had interred him, they were not from customs and immigration, and they were here to make certain the Justine never made it out of Shanghai’s harbor. His best guess was that the disruption would occur before the harbor pilot left the ship—that would implicate the company in the death of a Chinese national.
    Below deck, he found a shadowed spot behind a gangway. He took off his shoes and socks. Shrugging off his dinner jacket, he folded it fastidiously, then removed his starched white formal shirt and placed it on top of the jacket. Without a second look, he left the pile of clothes behind, silently descended to the lower deck. He not only owned this ship, but he had helped design it, periodically traveling to Sweden to watch over it as it was built. It was enormously expensive, and he was determined to ensure nothing went wrong.
    Nothing had, until now.
    There were six holding tanks set along the spine of the ship. Interspersed between were ballast tanks, cofferdams, and voids, effectively giving the ship a double-hull structure in the cargo area. Everything had been done to keep the liquid natural gas safe, but he knew full well that human ingenuity could always find a method to steal or destroy the best-guarded treasure.
    The Damascus steel blade extended from his left hand. His right hand hung at his side, the fingers pressed together, slightly curled. His breathing was slow—deep, even. Like a child asleep, he was perfectly calm, his mind flooded with the silver moonlight that revealed everything, even the men working in deep shadow. He heard them, smelled them, sensed precisely what they were doing and why.
    Hand-to-hand combat was no different than being on a battlefield of thousands or going to war with millions. As Ang had taught him, there were only three paths to victory and they all began and ended the same way: in no-mind. Assumptions, anticipation, reaction all took time away from no-mind. In no-mind you did not anticipate, you did not react; you simply were. And it was this almost mystical state of being that would gain you victory—no matter the odds.
    Nicholas was deep in no-mind as he came up behind the man affixing the C4 between sections of the engine housing. He was completely silent, caused no stir of air. He bent down, and in a tenth of a second had run the edge