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“English.”
    The reply was incomprehensible, but a few moments later another voice came on the line, “May I help you, sir?”
    “I need to make an international call from this phone, but I don’t know the country code for this network.”
    “What country?”
    “The United States.”
    “Sir, the country code is ‘one.’ Simply dial one, and then enter the number you wish to call.”
    Kismet thumbed the ‘end’ button then hastily entered the eleven digits that would connect him with the one person who would not only believe his wild tale of piracy on the high seas, but might actually be able to help. There was a long silence as his summons went out into the ether, then the ring tones sounded through a haze of scratchy static. After three trills, a voice from the other side of the world spoke: “This is Christian Garral. How may I help you?”
    Kismet grinned at the familiar voice. “Hey, Dad. It’s Nick. I need a big favor.”
     

TWO
     
    The Star of Muara was still afloat when Kismet lost sight of her. If it was indeed the intention of the pirates to sink her once their business aboard was complete, they did not remain to witness that outcome. Kismet hoped he was wrong about that prediction.
    The raiders had returned to the junk and their various speedboats shortly after Kismet completed his call. He dared not look out from his place of concealment to observe them, but got the impression that they had taken only what could be easily carried; small relics, paintings, precious stones and so forth. Doubtless they had helped themselves to the cash and valuables of the passengers as well. Like all good opportunists, the pirates knew that the larger relics from the old Sultan’s collection would be far too difficult to move—both literally and with respects to resale—to make their theft worthwhile despite their extraordinary value. The costume jewelry worn by the women at the party would represent a pittance alongside those ancient wonders, but a smart thief only took what he could fence.
    Still, it seemed like an awful lot of trouble for such a modest score. Why hit the collection at all if they planned to leave most of it behind?
    Kismet did not know what would result from his hasty distress call. He only had time to relate the particulars of the crisis to his father and make a few suggestions as to who might best be summoned to rescue the passengers and crew of The Star of Muara , and bring the pirates to justice. Christian Garral was more of a world traveler than his adopted son could ever aspire to be; no doubt he would know exactly whom to contact in that part of the world in order to yield the quickest and most satisfactory resolution.
    The junk had moved off, flanked by several of the cigarettes. The smaller jet boats languished under the burden of diminished speed, champing at the bit like thoroughbreds forced to trot alongside a pack mule. Kismet didn’t know what port the junk finally put into, but at a top speed of about twelve knots, it had proved to be a long journey over a short distance. Fortunately, it appeared that no one had missed the young man Kismet had waylaid.
    As he had expected, the cell phone signal had failed when the ocean liner dropped below the horizon. The junk had motored almost due east, correcting marginally as the destination came into view.
    The pirate base was located on a small jungle island, a partially overgrown pillar of igneous rock sprouting from the South China Sea. The cigarette boats broke off their escort duty and surfed over the reef into the sheltered lagoon. The junk plotted a more cautious course, but eventually threaded the coral and basalt gauntlet, mooring at a long wooden dock which extended like a pointing finger into the lagoon. Kismet removed his shoes and slipped over the side before the offloading commenced, treading water near the stern of the boat, careful to keep the AK-47 he’d appropriated from the Chinese pirate high and dry. The black fabric