“I don’t know about you,” the navigator said as he began to walk down the steps, “but I’m hungry.”
The driver removed his earpiece, stuffed the cord inside, then folded the case back together.
“Then let’s eat,” the driver said.
The navigator reached the landing and flicked on a tiny flashlight. “We can’t ask our hosts what’s good,” he said. “They’re in sleepyville.”
“And by the time they wake up,” the driver said, “we’ll be long gone.”
The two men made their way to the kitchen, but nothing looked good. So they walked back to the van, drove through town to the casino and ordered a meal of ham and eggs.
15
SUNRISE on Good Friday, March 25, 2005, was at 6:11 A.M.
On the decks of the sampans in the inner harbor, the Chinese traders began to stir. Along Avenida da Amizade in front of the Hotel Lisboa, a dozen women dressed in cotton shifts with conical hats lashed around their necks began washing the sidewalk with soapy water splashed from tin buckets. Dipping straw brooms into the buckets, they erased the debris from both the winners and the losers from the night before. A few diehards stumbled from inside and squinted at the light from a sun just beginning her day.
A few small three-wheeled motorized rickshaws plied the avenue, their drivers stopping for strong black coffee served in small cups, then continuing on to deliver packages or people to their destinations. At a small restaurant two hundred yards northwest of the casino, the owner finished a cigarette then walked inside. On the stove in the rear was a pot of caldo verde, the Portuguese stew of potatoes, sausage and locally grown greens. He stirred the mixture, then set the long wooden spoon onto a counter and started to prepare chickens marinated in coconut milk, garlic, peppercorns and chilies by rubbing them with rock salt. Later, the poultry would be slid onto skewers and slow-cooked on a rotisserie.
Across the water, Hong Kong was hidden by a haze of humidity and smog, but the sound of the first highspeed ferry leaving port could be heard. The first few jets of the day, mainly cargo planes, streaked across the blue sky and made ready for landing at the airport. A Chinese naval vessel left its moorage below A-Ma Temple and started out for a patrol, while a large luxury yacht with a helicopter perched on her fantail called on the radio for the location of her slip.
A lone cargo ship, decades past her prime, started into port to deliver a cargo of bicycles from Taiwan. On another cargo ship, this one appearing old and decrepit, a man with a blond crew cut was sitting at the table in his stateroom reading.
Juan Cabrillo had been awake for hours.
He was running every possible scenario through his head.
A light knock came at the door, and Cabrillo stood up and walked over and opened the hatch.
“Somehow I knew you’d be awake,” Hanley said.
Hanley held a tray of plates covered by metal lids, steam escaping from under them.
“Breakfast,” he said as he walked inside.
Cabrillo cleared a space on the table and Hanley off loaded the contents. Next he pulled the lid off a dinner sized plate and smiled.
Cabrillo nodded and pointed to a seat.
Hanley slid into the seat and poured two cups of coffee from a thermal carafe, then removed the lid from another plate.
“Anything unusual happen overnight?” Cabrillo asked.
“No,” Hanley said easily, “everything is still according to plan.”
Cabrillo sipped his coffee.
“There’s a lot here that could go wrong,” he said.
“There always is.”
“That’s why we get the big money.”
“That’s why we get the big money,” Hanley agreed.
“SO, do you know when I lost my virginity?” the brunette flight attendant asked. “You seem to know everything else.”
“That’s too personal.” The blond-haired man laughed.