Sokolov’s phone had GPS and maps, which he had been watching with interest ever since they had left the airport in their wake. They were roaring down Xunjianggang, a strait about three kilometers wide that ran between Xiamen Island and the northeastern district of Xiang’an. It was aimed like a gun at a dark island about ten kilometers away: Kinmen, the "Quemoy" of Cold War propaganda. Though she had never discussed it with Sokolov—they had not discussed anything really—it was obviously their destination. For another minute or so they’d be in easy reach of PRC territory to both port and starboard, and so anyone tracking their bogey on radar—supposing they were even discernible against the clutter of giant containerships and small working vessels—would see their movements as unexceptional. But once they debouched from the Xunjianggang into the more open seas, they would come in for all sorts of attention, since there was nothing in that direction that wasn’t Taiwanese.