Clive Cussler - Deep Six

Sudden interest flared in Pitt’s eyes. He sat down in a chair facing Casio. “All of it?” he asked cautiously.

Casio nodded. “It appeared in dribbles and spurts. Five thousand in Frankfurt, a thousand in Cairo, all in foreign banks. None came to light in the United States, except one hundred-dollar bill.”

“Then Arta didn’t die on the San Marino.”

“She vanished with the ship all right. The FBI connected her to a stolen passport belonging to an Estelle Wallace. With that lead they were able to follow her as far as San Francisco. Then they lost her. I kept digging and finally ran down a drifter who sometimes drove a cab when he needed booze money. He remembered hauling her to the boarding ramp of the San Marino.”

“Can you trust the memory of a lush?”

Casio smiled confidently. “Arta gave him a crisp new hundred-dollar bill for the fare. He couldn’t make change so she told him to keep it. Believe me, it took little effort for him to recall the event.”

“If stolen Federal Reserve currency is in FBI jurisdiction, where do you fit in the picture? Why the dogged pursuit of a criminal whose trail is ice cold?”

“Before I shortened my name for business reasons, it was Casilighio. Arta was my daughter.”

There was an uncomfortable silence. From outside the windows overlooking the river came the rumble of a jetliner taking off. Pitt stood up and went into the kitchen, where he poured a cup of coffee from a cold pot and placed it in a microwave oven. “Care for another drink, Mr. Casio?”

Casio shook his head.

“So the bottom line is that you think there’s something queer about your daughter’s disappearance?”

“She and the ship never made port, but the money she stole turns up in a manner that suggests it’s being laundered a little at a time. Doesn’t that suggest a queer circumstance to you, Mr. Pitt?”

“I can’t deny you make a good case.” The microwave beeped and Pitt retrieved a steaming cup. “But I’m not sure what you want from me.”

“I have some questions.”

Pitt sat down, his interest going beyond mere curiosity. “Don’t expect detailed answers.”

“I understand.”

“Fire away.”

“Where did you find the San Marino? I mean in what part of the Pacific Ocean?”

“Near the southern coast of Alaska,” Pitt replied vaguely.

“A bit far off the track for a ship steaming from San Francisco to New Zealand, wouldn’t you say?”

“Way off the track,” Pitt agreed.

“As far as two thousand miles?”

“And then some.” Pitt took a swallow of coffee and made a face. It was strong enough to use as brick mortar. He looked up. “Before we continue it’s going to cost you.”

Casio gave him a reappraising eye. “Somehow you never struck me as the type who’d extend a greasy palm.”

“I’d like to have the names of the banks in Europe that passed the stolen money.”

“Any particular reason?” Casio asked, not bothering to conceal his puzzlement.

“None I can tell you about.”

“You’re not very cooperative.”

Pitt started to reply, but the phone on an end table rang loudly.

“Hello.”

“Dirk, this is Yaeger. You still awake.”

“Thank you for calling. How is Sally? Is she out of intensive care yet?”

“Can’t talk, huh?”

“Not too well.”

“But you can listen.”

“No problem.”

“Bad news. I’m not getting anywhere. I’d stand a better chance of throwing a deck of cards in the air and catching a straight flush.”

“Maybe I can knock down the odds. Hold on a minute.” Pitt turned to Casio. “About that list of banks.”

Casio slowly rose, poured himself another shot of Jack Daniel’s and stood with his back to Pitt.

“A trade-off, Mr. Pitt. The bank list for what you know about the San Marino.”

“Most of my information is government classified.”

“I don’t give a damn if it’s stenciled on the inside of the President’s jockey shorts. Either we deal or I pack up and hike.”

“How do you know I won’t lie?”

“My list could be phony.”

“Then we’ll just have to trust each.other,” said Pitt with a loose grin.

“The hell we will,” grunted Casio. “But neither of us has any choice.”

He took a sheet of paper from the folder and handed it to Pitt, who in turn read off the names over the phone to Yaeger.

“Now what?” Casio demanded.

“Now I tell you what happened to the San Marino. And by breakfast I may also be able to tell you who killed your daughter.”

Fifteen minutes after sunrise, the photoelectric controllers in all of Washington’s streetlights closed off their circuits. One by one, separated by no more than a few seconds, the yellow and red rays of the high-pressure sodium lamps faded and died, to wait through the daylight hours until fifteen minutes before sunset, when their light-sensitive controllers would boost them to life again.

Beneath the dimming glow of the streetlights, Sam Emmett could hear the vibration from the early-morning traffic as he walked hurriedly through the utility tunnel. There was no Marine Corps or Secret Service escort. He came alone, as did the others. The only person he’d met since leaving his car under the Treasury building was the White House guard stationed at the basement door. At the head of the hallway leading to the Situation Room, Emmett was greeted by Alan Mercier.

“You’re the last,” Mercier informed him.

Emmett checked his watch and noted he was five minutes early. “Everyone?” he questioned.

“Except for Simmons in Egypt and Lucas, who’s giving your speech at Princeton, they’re all present.”

As he entered, Oates motioned him to a chair beside his, while Dan Fawcett, General Metcalf, CIA chief Martin Brogan and Mercier gathered around the conference table.

“I’m sorry for moving the scheduled meeting up by four hours,” Oates began, “but Sam informed me that his investigators have determined how the kidnapping took place.” Without further explanation he nodded to the FBI Director.

Emmett passed out folders to each of the men at the table, then rose, moved to a blackboard and took a piece of chalk. Quickly and to precise scale he drew in the river, the grounds of Mount Vernon and the presidential yacht tied to the dock. Then he filled in the detail and labeled specific areas. The completed drawing had a realism about it that suggested a talent for architectural design.

Satisfied finally that each piece of the scene was in its correct place, he turned and faced his audience. “We’ll walk through the event chronologically,” he explained. “I’ll briefly summarize while you gentlemen study the details shown in the report. Some of what I’m about to describe is based on tact and hard evidence. Some is conjecture. We have to fill in the blanks as best we can.”

Emmett wrote in a time on the upper left corner of the blackboard.

“1825: The Eagle arrives at Mount Vernon, where the Secret Service has installed its security network and the surveillance begins.

“2015: The President and his guests sit down to dinner. In the same hour, officers and the crew began their meal in the mess-room. The only men on duty were the chef, one assistant and the dining-room steward. This fact is important because we feel that it was during dinner that the President, his party, and the ship’s crew were drugged.”

“Drugged or poisoned?” Oates said, looking up.

“Nothing so drastic as poison,” Emmett answered. “A mild drug that induced a gradual state of drowsiness was probably administered in their food by either the chef or the steward who served the table.”