The Golden Catch

by Roger Weston

  Frank nodded slightly with a stony face. He certainly couldn’t mention that he assassinated terrorist leaders for a former president, and that the CIA was in the dark. He couldn’t mention that he knew ruinous secrets about many politicians. No, the President wouldn’t stir up trouble, but Frank couldn’t elaborate.

  Abby watched him carefully, waiting for a response. She said, “Luckily, the United States is one of the few countries in the world which doesn’t carefully regulate archaeology. Many archaeologists consider the Federal Antiquities laws to be virtually unenforceable. Most of the state laws are fashioned after the federal laws and have an equally slim chance of being enforced. Alaska would fall into that category under normal circumstances. But we’re not talking about arrowheads and pots here.”

  A long roll of the boat disintegrated into a rumbling shudder and a wave splashed against the port hole.

  Abby watched the ocean play through the glass.

  Frank sat down on the edge of the bed and put his hand on her shoulder. “Litigation is a minefield that I won’t go through. We’ll call Dane back later and tell him I’ve decided to keep the treasure for my personal collection. That should get their attention.”

  “I don’t know, Frank. Even if they go along with your proposal, contracts aren’t honored in Korea the way they are in America.”

  “Who says contracts are honored in America? As long as they think it’s in their best interest to do so, they’ll honor the contract. I have no intention of giving them a choice in the matter.”

  Abby sighed.

  Frank folded the letter and pushed it into his pocket. “I have to get back up to the wheelhouse. Autopilots can’t be blindly trusted.” He started to get up--

  “Frank, I don’t mean to be rude, but I don’t understand why you just don’t give them what’s rightfully theirs? Why are you insisting on taking the treasure on a world tour?”

  He sat back down, uncomfortably aware that Abby was very close and very attractive. “This is just something I need to do. I can’t explain it all to you now. I hope someday you understand. I really have to get back to the wheelhouse. I need to check the radar for other vessels. If we have a collision out here, we’re in big trouble.”

  Frank was in the wheelhouse for only a few minutes when Clay arrived with his journal under his arm. His hair was white with frost. His face glowed red from the bitter cold. He was rubbing his hands together vigorously. He stood at the chart desk, facing the computer.

  “How are icing conditions out there?” Frank asked.

  “Not good, but manageable. I should have done this sooner.”

  “Done what?”

  “Tracked down the Pinisha on private computer networks.”

  Living in the remote Aleutians didn’t isolate Frank and Clay from the information age. Utilizing the Hector’s microwave uplink to orbiting communications satellites, they could interface with virtually any computer or network tied to the worldwide Internet. Clay was far more proficient in exploiting these resources than Frank was. A year before, just for the challenge, Clay developed a program that identified secret access codes, and he was gifted at navigating computer networks and their diverse software.

  Clay entered a number into the communications software and placed a call with the punching of another button.

  Topside a parabolic antenna—3 feet in diameter—locked onto a communications satellite that was in a subpolar orbit twenty-three thousand miles overhead. The dish was installed on a gyroscopically stabilized platform to prevent ship movements from interfering with its auto-tracking mechanism. To protect the satellite tracking dish against the harsh sea environment, a protective fiberglass radome fully covered it.

  Frank crossed the wheelhouse and watched the bow climb a big swell. As the Hector pushed on at 10 knots, the bow fell into the trough that followed, plowing into the next wave and drenching the decks with a cloud of spray.

  Below on deck, Brian was a dark, sinewy figure breaking up ice by lifting the long crowbar and letting the pointed end drop back down to chip away frozen chunks. After making some progress, Brian picked up the snow shovel and threw the ice overboard. Frank wished he was the one getting the exercise on deck, but knew his shift would come soon enough. He looked down at the radar glowing in the darkness. No other vessels.

  Even with the lights out, a gentle electronic radiance filtered through the darkness, and Frank glowed in the radar’s green halo. There was also the green glow of overhead VHF and sideband radio displays, the glass ball of the gyrocompass, and numerous other instruments. Multicolored depth sounders illuminated the consul near the captain’s seat along with satellite navigation displays. The automatic pilot clicked to starboard . . . starboard . . . starboard . . . holding her preset course against drift from current and waves. Clay was bathing in an effulgence behind the laptop at the chart desk. When Frank rejoined him, Clay said, “I’ve logged onto a computer network at Lloyd’s of London.”

  “They still in business?”

  “Yeah, and I’ve found a syndicate with the Pinisha on their register. Just wait a moment, here. . . . There it is.” Clay pointed to corporate name on the computer screen. “Sampoon Corporation. Owner of record.”

  “That was easy.”

  “What’s all this? . . .” The file on the screen was scrolling down.

  “A lot of technical information about the Pinisha’s capabilities,” Frank said.

  “Looks like more carriers listed here.”

  “Maritime insurers normally share the risk.”

  “I could get into their databases.”

  “More of the same. Any other options?”

  Clay downloaded the file onto a disk and printed the file.

  As he rerouted the terminal, he said, “The Korea Herald is an English newspaper. Their website might have references to Sampoon in the business section. Here we go.” He did a headline search. Nothing came up for Sampoon. “Odd.”

  “Maybe not,” Frank said. “All fingers point to Korean ownership and operation, but the Pinisha is a Russian-registered vessel.”

  “I have an idea.” Again Clay accessed the Lloyd’s syndicate. He opened the Pinisha’s policy and scrolled through documents, freezing the screen on Sampoon’s corporate address. “There it is: a post office box in Vladivostok. Uh-huh, Vladivostok is also the Port of Registry.”

  “Interesting.” Frank turned and while pacing across the wheelhouse, he said, “There’s a flourishing Mafia-run black market in Vladivostok.”

  Clay said, “While we’re in England, let’s stop in at the Baltic Exchange.”

  “You can do that?” Frank walked back to the chart desk and leaned toward the monitor. The Baltic was a membership of brokers who specialized in finding cargoes for ships and ships for cargoes. Brokers on the floor of the Baltic represented practically all the tramp-ship owners in the world, as well as principals seeking tonnage for their goods.

  Clay paged through his journal and found the code he was looking for. He logged onto the computer network at the Baltic and accessed transaction files on the Pinisha.

  “So this is how you keep up on the price of wool?” Frank said.

  “One of many ways.”

  “Might pay to look at Sampoon’s options and charter-parties. Be interesting to see who signed them. Negotiating charter-parties usually involves telephone negotiations confirmed with faxes and telexes. See if you can dig up fax and telex copies.”

  “This may take a few minutes, but I think I can manage it.”

  Frank wandered back to the window. Brian was chipping fervently at the thickening ice buildup. A lot of ships sank in the Bering Sea from excessive ice buildup. As the Hector plowed through successive swells, nets of spray puffed over her bows. She rose and fell . . . rose and fell. Faint voices broadcast over the single-sideband radio, the usual fishing chatter. Wind howled. Diesel engines grumbled.

  “Frank, take a look at this.” And when Frank joined him, Clay said, “I ran a historical
on the Pinisha: three years worth of information on cargoes and principals. This has charter-parties, cables, faxes, telexes, wire transfers, e-mail, you name it.”

  “Let’s take a look.”

  Clay scrolled down pages by the dozen, alternately stopping at names and signatures. All references were to Sampoon. Signatures were M.D.

  “Nothing helpful in any of this stuff,” Frank said. “These guys are good.”

  “Not so good.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Clay pointed at the screen. “Look right there. We have a fax number.”

  “What will that do for us?”

  “Give me a minute here, I’ve already downloaded, and it’s time to beat a retreat.” Clay rapidly punched at the keyboard as varying displays flashed on the screen.

  Frank strolled across the wheelhouse and looked at the latest hour-by-hour meteorological report from the automated data system. An adjustment was posted. Serious weather was coming their way. Extended forecast looked even bleaker. The arctic pressure-system was now forecasted as two days away. He walked towards Clay, who looked possessed as he tapped the keyboard at a furious pace.

  “Just entered the central switching station of the telephone company and reprogrammed it,” Clay said.

  “You did what?”

  “You heard me.”

  “How did--” Frank hesitated. “Is there anything you can’t do with that computer?”

  “Can’t smell the sea air with it, can’t dip your hand in mountain streams, can’t listen to spirits upon still waters.”

  Clay rapped away at the keyboard. Melting ice was dripping from his fox-pelt hat and onto his face. He said, “You may as well know, this is considered access-device computer fraud. That puts us under the jurisdiction of the United States Secret Service and the FBI. They probably have a legal attaché in Korea who’ll cooperate with the local authorities.”

  Frank stared at Clay with his mouth half open, waiting for him to go on. Some impulse born of uncomfortable silence overpowered his patience and he said, “I’m guessing you can cover your tracks, right?”

  “I’ll run a herd of electronic caribou over those tracks. They’ll rake the tundra.”

  “What does that mean in layman’s terms?”

  “The caribou wipe out my electronic footprints.”

  He typed another command which brought up the message: Initiate Stampede--Enter Password. He typed the password. Bullets appeared on the screen: [ ***** ]

  “We’re lost among the herd,” Clay said, his fingers pounding the keyboard. “There they go.” A world map on the screen dissolved to a herd of running caribou. He waved his fist. “Go get ‘em.” The caribou slowly dissolved. Clay exited and logged out. “You know, the authorities would impound every piece of electronic equipment on this vessel for what we’ve done tonight. Might even impound the Hector. They don’t take this stuff lightly. But fortunately, my friend, our tracks were lost among the herd.”

  “I’m not following you. What’s this about reprogramming the telephone switching station?”

  “Not the whole station, just the fax number.” Clay opened the shelf beneath the printer. “We should be receiving a fax anytime that will identify the real owner of the Pinisha. You see, I just call-forwarded the fax number we picked up at the Baltic. Any faxes to that number will come here instead.”

  “In that case, we won’t be waiting long,” Frank said. “Shipping companies are deluged. Paperwork feeds through their faxes constantly.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  December 3rd, 1:50 A.M.

  They waited only five minutes for the fax. Clay broke into the telephone station again, switched the number back, scrambled his retreat, and logged out. Frank glared at the fax. The content was illegible, encrypted in characters of the Korean han’gul alphabet. Top of page-two, in standard business format, the name, address, and phone number of the receiving party was printed, also in Korean.

  He found Abby in her bathrobe getting ready for bed. “I need to know who this fax is to,” Frank said, handing her the paper.

  She looked at the fax and said, “Heaumoi, I’ve never heard of them.” And she spelled it out on the fax.

  Frank returned to the wheelhouse. Clay was in the view seat, sharpening his hunting knife.

  “Got it,” Frank said. “Let’s track her down.”

  Clay returned to the chart table and routed his laptop to the The Korea Herald site. His search didn’t reveal a shred of information about a company called Heaumoi. Before long he was searching files at Bureau Veritas, the French equivalent of Lloyd’s of London. Over the next three hours, Clay returned to the Baltic and Lloyd’s of London; he broke into the computers of half a dozen marine underwriters; Shipping Administration in Vladivostok; Korean Register of Shipping; Korean Ship Owners’ Association; Port of Inchon Management Corporation; Port of Puson Business Association--nobody had any record of a company called Heaumoi.

  “We may be tracking a ghost,” Frank said.

  Clay nodded. “I’m getting the same feeling. They may have their own caribou.”

  “I think I know how these people operate, Clay. Their herd of caribou is a dense onion shell, ten- or twelve-layers deep, of bogus companies and fake holding corporations registered all over the globe. While diverting that fax was resourceful, tracing the number won’t work, either. I’ll bet that fax machine is in a safe house under a false name. We’re into it, all right--Korean Mafia. Their paper and electronic trails are painstakingly covered. There are times when the simplest methods are the best. We just have to go after their weak spot.”

  “What did you have in mind?”

  “The gentleman I met at the Bering Sea Inn in Dutch Harbor, Wade Olsen was his name. He gave me an idea. You see, he’s been working at there for three months. In that time, the Pinisha made two stops in Dutch Harbor. Once, the captain stopped by the inn. He was drunk and talkative and spoke freely about the Pinisha. Even gave Wade a business card, though he no longer had it. The captain is our weak link. He has a big ego and a big mouth when he drinks. I have a hunch that wasn’t the first time the Pinisha’s captain went to the Bering Sea Inn. Tramper or not, the Pinisha frequents Alaska waters. You mentioned seeing her a few years back, and I have, too. It’s time to call Bentley Range. Should have called him a long time ago.”

  Frank walked over to the captain’s chair and sat down. He dimmed the lights in the wheelhouse, reached up, took the mike for the single-sideband radio, and turned to the assigned frequency. He had a private operator relay his call to the number where Bentley Range was supposed to be.

  A deep voice came over the radio: “Frank Murdoch, where have you been, partner?”

  “Stopped in at the Bering Sea Inn two days ago.”

  “That’s what Wade said. What’s going on?”

  “I need to ask you about something. You aware of a ship called the Pinisha?”

  “Painfully. Her Korean captain tends to stop by the Bering Sea Inn after he’s good and drunk. Comes through every few months flapping his gums. He’s different. Gets offended if you call him a captain. Demands to be called Shipmaster Chung.”

  Frank noticed that Clay was watching him.

  “I’m trying to track him down,” Frank said. “He ever mention the company he works for?”

  “And then some. DowKai--the power brokers of the Far East, he calls them. Talks about a CEO named Mok Don as if the man could walk on water, then calls him a vulture.”

  “How do you spell DowKai?”

  Bently told him.

  Frank jotted the name down on a sheet of paper. He noticed Clay do the same, and the clicking started up again over at the computer.

  “He say anything about this Mok Don character?”

  Bentley snorted. “Says Mok Don is the greatest man in all Korea. Referred to him several times as a genius of massive stature. Said we Americans could learn from Mok Don, but could never be his equal. He was drinkin’, all right.”

  �
��You’ve been a great help, Bentley. Appreciate it.”

  “Glad to help. Stop by when you’re in town and bring your boy. Apple pie, on the house.”

  “Thanks, Bentley. I’ll do that. Happy Holidays.”

  “Same to ya. Merry Christmas.”

  Frank hung up.

  Clay said, “Got it, right here.”

  Frank stood up and walked over to the chart desk.

  “The Korea Herald web page. I found an article on DowKai. One of Korea’s top industrial giants. An international conglomerate, or chaebol, comprised of dozens of varied businesses. They’re among the few chaebols that came out of the slush fund scandal unstained. Their international businesses include shipping, transportation, and electronics manufacturing.”

  “Can you download and print?”

  “Done.”

  “Chaebol . . .” Frank mumbled. “That blows my Mafia theory.”

  Clay looked up from the computer with an air of skepticism. “They couldn’t be connected and keep it a secret. Maybe that guy in Dutch Harbor was just a passenger on the Pinisha. Some of those ships carry ten or twelve.”

  “I know. And you’re right. Those chaebols have thousands of employees.” Frank shook his head. “Then again, so did the Korean government and look what happened with that slush fund scandal. Charges were filed against two ex-presidents and dozens of chaebol leaders--everything from graft to murder. As I recall, a lot of them ended up in jail.”

  Frank took a deep breath and said, “Maybe they can’t keep it a secret. Maybe their time is just running out. What if only a select layer of people at the top know what’s really going on. A secret elite within the chaebol participates and conspires to commit international crime. Most DowKai workers wouldn’t even know their proud chaebol is an international crime syndicate.”

  Frank walked across the wheelhouse, stopping at the window. “I’m still curious about their government links in Vladivostok.” He walked out, expediting down to his office, recovering his phone book, and regaining the wheelhouse.