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Romans using lead sheets to protect their boats from woodworms and the British putting copper on the hulls of their sailing fleet. She said something about tin being a great defense against marine growth, but, unfortunately, that was because it releases poison into the water at an alarming rate.
Paul wasn’t really paying attention. He was concentrating on keeping the chisel at the proper angle and forcing it through the colony of hard-shelled organisms. He cleared a two-foot-by-two-foot patch in one spot, a smaller section ten feet behind the first and, finally, a third spot just ahead of the main one.
By the time he finished, he was getting quite good at the task.
“. . . In fact, the process of marine fouling is really quite fascinating,” Gamay finished.
“I’m sure it is,” Paul said, certain that he couldn’t repeat a third of what she’d said. “And the defouling process is surprisingly gratifying. Like using a snowblower on the sidewalk back in Maine.”
“Are you finished already?”
“All set.” He clipped the scaler to his belt. “I’m going to maneuver the Remora into position. Stand by to activate magnets.”
Manually guiding the Remora in the still waters of the harbor was another athletic endeavor. The ROV was set to zero buoyancy, which meant it weighed nothing, but it still had enough inertia that Paul was breathing hard by the time he’d pushed, pulled and otherwise manhandled the ROV into place.
“Activate the main magnet.”
Holding the Remora steady, he felt a buzz, and then a solid clunk, as it pulled itself up a few inches and attached itself to the hull. The main magnet was a large circular patch on the top of the Remora’s head, just like the suction cup on the actual fish.
“Activate the other two,” Paul called out.
The fore and aft magnets powered up and connected, locking the ROV in place. Paul tested it by grabbing onto the rigging, placing his feet against the ship’s hull and pulling with all his might. The ROV didn’t budge.
Letting go, he drifted away from the hull. “One large metal barnacle attached where the others were scraped off,” he said. “Heading your way.”
“Fantastic,” Gamay said. “I’m two hundred yards off the port beam. Directly across from you. Swim perpendicular to the hull and you’ll find me without any problem. Better not dawdle, though, we still have a ferry to catch.”
15
OUTSKIRTS OF TOKYO METRO AREA
THE SUN had already dropped below the horizon when the gleaming Bentley Mulsanne left the highway and drove onto a narrow road that led out of Tokyo and into the countryside.
An ultra-luxe sedan, with five hundred horsepower, the Mulsanne was the latest flagship from the famed British automaker. It was large, especially by Japanese standards, with a bulky shape, softened by streamlined edges. The design conveyed a sense of speed, power and the possibility that DNA from an Abrams battle tank was hidden beneath all the luxurious touches.
Kurt and Joe sat in the back of the three-hundred-thousand-dollar car.
“My first house was smaller than this,” Kurt said, admiring the spacious cabin.
“Probably cost a lot less, too,” Joe added.
The ride was crisp, smooth and silent enough to be a sensory deprivation chamber. The cabin was appointed with cream-colored leather, offset by mahogany trim; the seats were perfectly designed to cradle the occupants. When Kurt tilted his seat back, a footrest extended from below, supporting his legs.
Joe copied him, putting his hands behind his head for good measure. “Too bad we only travel like this when we’re undercover and headed toward our probable doom.”
Superintendent Nagano had learned from an informant that a large payoff was about to take place within the confines of an illegal casino on the outskirts of Tokyo. His informant wasn’t sure if the payment would go to Ushi-Oni or not, but the timing and the location were correct.
Using other contacts, he’d arranged for Kurt and Joe to enter the casino, posing as wealthy Americans. That was the easy part. The hard part would come when they tried to place a tracking device on the Demon if they saw him.
“If anyone gets suspicious, we won’t make it out of there alive,” Kurt warned.
“At least we’ll look good in our caskets,” Joe said.
Kurt laughed at that. Joe was dressed in a sharply cut Armani suit. It had narrow lapels, was made of silk and fit his athletic build perfectly. Beneath the crisp black jacket, he wore a maroon dress shirt. And, for added effect, he’d shaved three days of stubble into a thin Vandyke beard. It gave him a slightly devilish look.
“If you end up in the netherworld, they’re going to mistake you for management.”
“All part of my plan,” Joe said, “just in case I haven’t been as good as I think I have. You, on the other hand, are going to be mistaken for the maître d’.”
