May 20, 4 PM
New York City
Cutter stepped out from the creaking elevator into the paneled hallway. Old leather from the chairs along the wooden walls gave a historic aroma. A model ship as tall as Cutter greeted him from its protective glass and mahogany case. Scroll letters and numbers on a brass plaque stated this was the original Clipper Brig Peregrine, 1831-1840.
He looked closer. Beside the ship was a small pewter tea caddy with a Chinese pagoda motif on its round cap. A label stated the etching represented the ancient Temple of the Six Banyan Trees in Guangzhou, People’s Republic of China. The faded metal container had six sides in a mysterious shape that seemed designed to hold not only tea but other small secrets.
The portrait of Captain Richard Tolchester, the brig’s commander, hung on the panel to the right. Tolchester’s face reminded Cutter of the skipper he had selected for the new Peregrine, Captain Hall. The artist had painted a clean-shaven man, with a shock of black hair and a blue captain’s jacket stretched tautly up around his neck. A laced shirt with a ribbon tie covered his chest. The strong face, similar to Hall's, had intense eyes, capable of terrifying a sailor. Cutter also spotted a flicker of humor in the man’s lips, a sign of amusement with the life around him. This man was an ocean god of his floating island, of its wood, cloth, and human sinew.
He noticed scorch marks on the edges of the old portrait’s oil paint surface. The large frame, garish in the early Victorian style, partially hid other burn marks. Another brass plate similar to the one on the ship and located underneath read,
Captain Richard Tolchester, of the Clipper Brig Peregrine. Record crossing of the Pacific from Callao Peru to Canton China 1837, 56 days 4 hours. Painting rescued from the burned-out office of the company’s Canton tea agent Fusang following the departure of the Peregrine in 1840. Ship lost in hurricane with all hands October 10 of that same year.
In the conference room several nineteenth-century casement windows oversaw the harbor, their wooden muntins separating its blue water into small frames of sparkle. Inside, executives sat around an old mahogany table of the kind that had once sent clipper ships to China a century ago. They represented the teams of the four competitor yachts. Cutter knew some of them. The light from outdoors played over their faces and showed temerity, an awareness that sizable amounts of money were at stake. Ironically they, like their antique racing boats, were more similar than not to the old tea traders in New York that had bet their livelihood on that former China trade. They shared and rekindled these challenges from an ancient enemy, the sea. They feared back-stabbing treachery. They worried about the danger to the boats. These modern businessmen also worried about losing customers from bad public relations if their crews fared badly in the television coverage.
Bill Johnson appeared fit and tanned as he sipped his well-spiked coffee. He enjoyed the risk. He always had as long as Cutter had worked for him. He smiled, but it was part of an iron stare, like a clever poker player bluffing with a poor hand. He waved Cutter to the chair next to him. On his other side sat Bill’s assistant. Bill had long ago nicknamed her Monroe. She was a long-haired pretty woman. Her beauty warmed the chill atmosphere of the room.
As he sat down, Cutter said, “Missus Emma Williams, your trustee, joined us at the sailing this morning.”
Bill said, “I asked her to be there.” He had purchased the Williams Company after Emma Williams’s husband died. Her son had a successful electronics business in California and was not interested in the family firm. She therefore sold it to Bill’s corporation but remained as a trustee to insure, as she said, respect for her husband’s memory. When Bill called her with the news of the race, she immediately contributed a large portion of her personal fortune to outfit the boat.
“Your son still sailing in the Peregrine crew?” asked Bill.
“Yes. He’s independent, I don’t see him much,” Cutter replied.
“Like his father?” Bill added, with a smile. “You’re lucky. Any of my relatives just come for money.”
Behind him the official photographs of all the competitor brigs decorated the wall. To the left posed his ship with its low and black privateer character. The Louis 14, the French entry, was elegant with its blue hull. Then came the other American boat, Strand’s America, green with a yellow stripe down its side. Finally he saw the white British racer, the Willow.
A wall-size Chinese-made electronic console showed a digital world chart from the North Atlantic start to the China finish. It indicated positions, using colorful boat avatars, and the weather they faced at those locations. Managers like Cutter had a matching display in their own offices for competitor boat operations. All computers connected to a satellite reporting system tied into the on-board safety systems. These devices were the only modern equipment allowed by the Chinese race rules. Otherwise, the boats competed with completely antique material. This digital network provided daily data. Each day control teams received one private update with boat captains by satellite phone.
Each racer had its own map symbol. He noted the blue king's crown avatar for the French and the white flower for the British. Strand International sported a green eagle while the Peregrine had its black falcon. Reports on each competitor’s sailing tack, current, wind, and weather printed out on the big console in digital boxes.
Cutter read Peregrine’s data. She was flying down the Chesapeake close hauled in sunlight with current and breeze speeding her along. Her sharp hull allowed her to point closer to the wind. He’d ask the team when he got back to River Sunday but he’d bet she was doing close to ten knots.
He muttered to Bill about the green yacht in the harbor at River Sunday. “Strand,” said Bill. They both looked across the table at the little man and his large assistant.
Strand and Angel Slidell stared back at Cutter from their seats. Slidell finally said, with his “gotcha” grin, “Cutter, heard you and your boss had some trouble. Maybe a man got himself killed.” Bill put his hand on Cutter’s arm to keep him from answering.
The two men would have been comical if Cutter had not known about their vicious natures. Strand himself was a tiny man with a squeak of a voice and a strong evil mind. His head was oversize for the rest of him. He had a team of killers working for him, men and women who had no loyalty except to the money Strand paid them. Cutter knew all too well how efficient these people were from conflict with them around the world. It was a world of private armies and bribes and Cutter knew his business. Strand, however, took delight in killing to get his way.
Slidell had poor features, his pointed head lightly covered with tan strands of hair, his skin a lifeless white. He wore the same oversize and dark wraparound sunglasses that overpowered his ghostly face. The pallor gave him a nickname, “Angel,” that he was called, mostly behind his back, as long as Cutter had known him. He carried both a knife and a gun and knew how to use them when no one was a witness. Over in Africa his pale appearance had made the native black women point at him in fear or perhaps amusement. Angel meant the same as “trickster” to them, short for someone to be feared and not trusted.
Strand looked up from reading his Wall Street Journal and was smiling at Slidell’s remark. His eyes penetrated the air like spears. He said to Bill, “Our captain tells me his crew will give you a good run. You haven’t had another sailor die, I assume.”
Barlow, the round-faced British competitor, spoke up. “I told you, Johnson, you bet on the wrong horse. We’ll take you like we did two centuries ago.” Barlow purchased a whole boatyard in Liverpool to build his entry. Bill’s spy reports had predicted that the new Willow was too heavy to beat the Peregrine.
“Peregrine’s timber is not waterlogged this time, Barlow. You won’t have such an easy time of it,” answered Bill.
A tall woman sat next to the Brit. Cutter knew the type, statuesque and competent, like a pirate captain, one who took no prisoners. The woman looked away from him and spoke quickly in French to her younger assistant. Papers exchanged
between them. The older woman gazed through them, nodded, and smiled. It was the kind of smile that Cutter knew all too well. He suspected she’d come up with some treachery to hurt his boat at sea.
Cutter noticed the handout material in front of him. He’d seen it before, a copy of the official Chinese invitation to the race. He looked through the decorative red paper, reading the yellow type.
Drawing on the Nineteenth Century tradition of clipper ship racing, the government of the People’s Republic of China is proud to announce the Great China Sail Race, a challenge to pay special tribute and celebration of centuries of international trade specifically with its European and American neighbors. It offers the winner a gold cup and a prize of ten million dollars. Entrants are limited to any foreign corporation presently doing business in China. That firm must have an exemplary history of early China commerce. It will construct a replica cargo brig to duplicate the historic ship it owned before.
The race is to be internationally televised with full cooperation and assistance of the Chinese government. The sailing race, while similar to other tall ship races and the Volvo-Whitbread round the World Race sponsored in the West, will be done in the old-fashioned manner traditional to these classic brigs rather than using modern technology typical of highly designed modern racing yachts. It will begin June 2 two years hence from a rendezvous point in the Mid- Atlantic, and continue nonstop on the old clipper routes to finish at Guangzhou, present name of the old tea port of Canton, by October 15 in time for the opening of the Autumn Chinese Export Commodities Fair where the prize will be awarded.
The ships are to be two-masted brigs rigged true to the designs, running gear, and equipment of the period 1830 to 1840. They must be exact replicas of ships actually used in history and must be navigated in all weather in the old manner. Modern gear is allowed only for required international safety regulations. It includes a Chinese manufactured satellite tracking and communication system provided by the Chinese sponsor. Use of other electronics will cause disqualification. Repairs to each brig will be made by the crew without outside assistance unless given permission by the sponsor and subject to challenge by competitors at the end of the race in Guangzhou.
The Chinese sponsor insists boat sponsoring corporations and entrants will be disqualified if records are uncovered of any Nineteenth Century slave or opium trading. Malicious crimes against China in either corporate history or in the logs of these ships will also be grounds.
Bill leaned over and said in a low voice, “I’ve just learned somebody’s been buying up short sales contracts on Johnson Company stock. If my Wall Street price goes down, my competitors can buy me cheap. They will take over control of Johnson. This race is kind of up close and personal.”
“You don’t know who is doing it?” asked Cutter.
Bill replied, “My people are checking. I’ll tell you one thing. It might be any of these clowns here today. All of us are having their stock issues played by speculators betting on the risks. It could even be one of our employees. Anyway, when one of us gets in trouble out in the ocean and has his stock fall, someone will be rich with the short sales.”
The clock on the wall struck three. At the last beat, a side door opened. A tall man with a narrow oriental face and white hair shining with grease, entered. He strode as a dancer but with the deadliness of a gunfighter. He radiated strength and speed.
“I am Dela and have been appointed by the Government of the People’s Republic of China to make sure all goes smoothly. Today I wish to introduce the Chinese manufacturer whose concept inspired this world competition.”
Dela stood to the side as a Chinese woman entered. She curtly nodded to him. She had black hair cut short, a solemn mature expression accented with rimless glasses. She was dressed in a tailored red suit which fit her slim figure. Under her right arm was a large portfolio of expensive leather. She walked with military stiffness to the front of the table.
Dela said, “This is Professor Tung, Director General of the Chinese Motor Truck Company, which constructs, as you surely realize, the famous powerful vehicles of the People’s Liberation Army.”
The woman nodded as Dela spoke, approving of what he said.
Bill whispered. “I know about Tung. She’s got money and party connections. The truck company is one of the best government corporations. She has a solid reputation for sticking to agreements with Americans in her deals.”
“Yeah, but I know Dela from the past. I would not trust him at all.”
Maybe he was wrong but this professor had an aura of dedication that made Cutter uneasy. He had a sudden sense that she would not hesitate to hurt his ship and its crew to carry out her purpose. Then he relaxed, remembering Bill’s advice when they had first worked together. Bill had said, “Good business people are all the same. They don’t get emotionally involved in who or what they are trading. In business, you’re no good to me if you think of anything but the money you’re planning to make. Don’t worry that people will be hurt.”
Professor Tung came forward holding some of the sheets of paper from her portfolio. She said, “For several years our engineers have studied the automobile markets of the United States and the Western countries. We have observed the market entries by various Asian companies. We realized our need for marketing experience. Our management has proposed this race and that its winner will be offered the opportunity to join us in distribution. I am here today to inform you competitors of the car we plan to sell with your help”
“Now we know their cards,” whispered Bill with a grin.
Cutter murmured, “They’ll have us barbarians kill each other off to save them the trouble, then give the contract to the last man standing.”
Bill added, “I figured they had something up their sleeve more than celebrating the history of the China tea trade. Glad now I jumped in with my Peregrine. We’ve got to win this thing, Jimmy.”
Professor Tung picked up a large picture from the portfolio. The audience leaned forward to gaze intently as if they were children waiting for a Santa Claus gift. She handed it to the first at the table, the British owner, and then reached for a second graphic.
Sighs and comments followed the prints as they moved from hand to hand. When the first picture was in front of him, Cutter studied the low slung vehicle prototype. Across the bottom of each page the single word “Clipper” stood forth in bright typeset.
“The old Packard automobile name,” said Bill, to the others.
Dela smiled “Yes, the American Packard. We bought the trademark. Ladies and gentlemen, I must advise you these are secret drawings for your appreciation only. They will be given to the press at appropriate moments later. A full-size version of the Clipper is to be introduced at the Export Commodities Fair in Guangzhou at the same time as we present the gold trophy to the boat winner.”
Professor Tung said, “I am sure you have questions about the car. It will resemble and we think improve one of the most successful small cars in history.”
“The Mustang,” blurted Cutter.
“Right you are,” said Dela, as Tung smiled broadly. “It’s a vehicle to appeal to all segments of the market.”
Bill added quietly, “Yeah, Jim, you just better win for me.” Bill motioned to the excited executives around the table. “They see the opportunity too.”
After the meeting broke up, Dela found Cutter at the side of the room as the group began to break up. “I have been pleased to find you associated with this project, Cutter.”
Cutter asked, his voice not hiding his hatred, “General Dela. So you remember me?”
“Why not? Warriors remember their opponents if they survive. You almost killed me.”
Cutter spoke slowly. “If I’d had another minute, I would have.”
“I don’t think so, Jim. You’re not a killer.”
“You’re wrong. I would have killed you if I could,” Cutter replied.
His mind reeled with the memories of being a young Army Ranger sent in after the
war to find missing soldiers. He heard the machine guns and grenades. He saw again this General, where he had fallen from trying to escape. He was stretched out in mud, reaching for his Chinese-made pistol. Cutter was ready to fire his rounds at the man’s smiling face. The Vietnamese were counterattacking. Rounds were coming from all sides. Then his arm had flown back into his face with an enemy bullet’s impact. The blackness came over him as he fell to the ground. He remembered the general laughing at him.
Dela added, reading Cutter’s thoughts, “We both survived.” Cutter heard that same laugh in the tone of his words.
Cutter said, staring hard at his former enemy, “You need to fix our satellite communications problems. We requested repairs because we still have interference.”
Dela’s smile faded. He said, in a polite and official tone, “I have been informed by my staff of your requests.” Then after a pause, he added, with a sneer, “We have already sent technicians and provided several replacements. You should be aware the other competitors have reported no trouble with the equipment.”
Cutter nodded. The last Chinese mechanic came to River Sunday a month ago, didn’t fix anything, and spent most of his time enjoying the seafood restaurants. The crew had nicknamed him “Imperial Crab,” because of his fondness for that local delicacy.
He paused. “So we’re the only ones with junk equipment. It couldn’t be that you might want to get even with me could it, General Dela?”
The General did not smile. “I’ll look into the matter again,” he said.
Cutter turned his back, knowing that he should have killed this man when he had a chance.
Chapter 3
May 25 8 AM
River Sunday. Maryland
Cutter dressed in his black Peregrine polo shirt, shorts, and a new pair of sunglasses. His left chest had the white outline of a bird with talons. He hurried down the wide steps of the Chesapeake Hotel. He passed the two-hundred-year-old cast iron bell in the garden. The black doorman had informed him its tolling had once brought the field slaves back to quarters from their work. When Katy Marbury, his history professor girlfriend from Baltimore, noticed it a few months ago, she had smiled knowingly. She told him she was in the midst of writing a book on the old Chesapeake planters exposing them as America's first drug traders. “The colonial British government tried to outlaw the importation of the weed!” Katy was that way, a bright beautiful woman with a thousand projects, most of which she could not fit into her crowded schedule.
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