Clive Cussler - Deep Six

“But the shipyard records?”

“Obviously falsified by the shipyard owners, who, by the way, happened to be our old friends the Sosan Trading Company. The foreman also remembered breaking up the original Pilottown. It looks like Sosan Trading, or the shady outfit behind it, hijacked the San Marino and its cargo and killed the crew. Then they modified the cargo holds to carry ore, documented it under a different name and sent it tramping around the seas.”

“Where does the Pilottown come in?” asked Pitt.

“She was a legitimate purchase by Sosan Trading. You may be interested to know the International Maritime Crime Center has her listed with ten suspected customs violations. A hell of a high number. It’s thought she smuggled everything from plutonium to Libya, rebel arms to Argentina, secret American technology to Russia, you name it. She sailed under a smart bunch of operators. The violations were never proven. On five occasions she was known to have left port with clandestine cargo but was never caught unloading it. When her hull and engines finally wore out, she was conveniently scrapped and all records destroyed.”

“But why claim her as sunk if it was really the San Marino, alias the Belle Chasse, they scuttled?”

“Because questions might be raised regarding the Belle Chasse’s pedigree. The Pilottown had solid documentation, so they claimed it was she that sank in 1979, along with a nonexistent cargo, and demanded a fat settlement from the insurance companies.”

Pitt glanced down at his toes and wiggled them. “Did the old foreman talk about other ship conversions for Sosan Trading?”

“He mentioned two, a tanker and a container ship,” Perlmutter answered. “But they were both refits and not conversions. Their new names were the Boothville and the Venice.”

“What were their former names?”

“According to my friend’s report, the foreman claimed that all previous identification had been removed.”

“Looks like somebody built themselves a fleet out of hijacked ships.”

“A cheap and dirty way of doing business.”

“Anything new on the parent company?” Pitt asked.

“Still a closed door,” Perlmutter replied. “The foreman did say, however, some big shot used to show up to inspect the ships when they were completed and ready to sail.”

Pitt stood up. “What else?”

“That’s about it.”

“There has to be something, a physical description, a name, something.”

“Wait a minute while I check through the report again.”

Pitt could hear the rustle of papers and Perlmutter mumbling to himself. “Okay, here it is. ‘The VIP always arrived in a big black limousine.’ No make mentioned. ‘He was tall for a Korean—’ “

“Korean?”

“That’s what it says,” replied Perlmutter. “ ‘And he spoke Korean with an American accent.’ “

The shadowed figure in Pitt’s dream moved a step closer. “St. Julien, you do good work.”

“Sorry I couldn’t take it all the way.”

“You bought us a first down.”

“Nail the bastard, Dirk.”

“I intend to.”

“If you need me, I’m more than willing.”

“Thank you, St. Julien.”

Pitt walked to the closet, threw on a brief kimono and knotted the sash. Then he padded into the kitchen, treated himself to a glass of guava juice laced with dark rum and dialed a number on the phone.

After several rings an indifferent voice answered: “Yeah?”

“Hiram, crank up your computer. I’ve got a new problem for you.”

The tension was like a twisting knot in the pit of Suvorov’s stomach. For most of the evening he had sat in the monitoring room making small talk with the two psychologists who manned the telemetry equipment, telling jokes and bringing them coffee from the kitchen. They failed to notice that Suvorov’s eyes seldom strayed from the digital clock on one wall.

Lugovoy entered the room at 11:20 P.M. and made his routine examination of the analogous data on the President. At 11:38 he turned to Suvorov. “Join me in a glass of port, Captain?”

“Not tonight,” Suvorov said, making a pained face. “I have a heavy case of indigestion. I’ll settle for a glass of milk later.”

“As you wish,” Lugovoy said agreeably. “See you at breakfast.”

Ten minutes after Lugovoy left, Suvorov noticed a small movement on one of the TV monitors. It was almost imperceptible at first, but then it was caught by one of the psychologists.

“What in hell!” he gasped.

“Something wrong?” asked the other.

“Senator Larimer — he’s waking up.”

“Can’t be.”

“I don’t see anything,” said Suvorov, moving closer.

“His alpha activity is a clear nine-to-ten-cycle-per-second set of waves that shouldn’t be there if he was in his programmed sleep stage.”

“Vice President Margolin’s waves are increasing too.”

“We’d better call Dr. Lugovoy—”

The words hardly escaped his mouth when Suvorov cut him down with a savage judo chop to the base of the skull. In almost the same gesture, Suvorov swung a crosscut with the palm of the other hand into the throat of the second psychologist, crushing the man’s windpipe.

Even before his victims hit the floor, Suvorov coldly gazed at the clock. The blinking red numbers displayed 11:49—eleven minutes before Lugovoy was scheduled to exit the laboratory in the elevator. Suvorov had practiced his movements many times, allowing no more than two minutes for unpredictable delays.

He stepped over the lifeless bodies and ran from the monitor room into the chamber containing the subjects in their soundproofed cocoons. He unlatched the top of the third one, threw back the cover and peered inside.

Senator Marcus Larimer stared back at him. “What is this place? Who the hell are you?” the senator mumbled.

“A friend,” answered Suvorov, lifting Larimer out of the cocoon and half carrying, half dragging him to a chair.

“What’s going on?”

“Be quiet and trust me.”

Suvorov took a syringe from his pocket and injected Larimer with a stimulant. He repeated the process with Vice President Margolin, who looked around dazedly and offered no resistance. They were naked, and Suvorov brusquely threw them blankets.

“Wrap yourselves in these,” he ordered.

Congressman Alan Moran had not yet awakened. Suvorov lifted him out of the cocoon and laid him on the floor. Then he turned and walked over to the unit enclosing the President. The American leader was still unconscious. The latch mechanism was different from the other cocoons, and Suvorov wasted precious seconds trying to pry open the cover. His fingers seemed to lose all feeling and he fought to control them. He began to sense the first prickle of fear.

His watch read 11:57. He was beyond his timetable; his two-minute reserve evaporated. Panic was replacing fear. He reached down and snatched a Colt Woodsman.22-caliber automatic from a holster strapped to his right calf. He screwed on a four-inch suppressor; and for a brief instant he was not himself, a man outside himself, a man whose only code of duty and unleashed emotion blinded his perception. He aimed the gun at the President’s forehead on the other side of the transparent cover.

Through the mist of his drugged mind, Margolin recognized what Suvorov was about to do. He staggered across the cocoon chamber and lurched into the Russian agent, grabbing for the gun. Suvorov just sidestepped and pushed him against the wall. Somehow Margolin remained on his feet. His vision was blurred and distorted, and a wave of sudden nausea threatened to gag him. He flung himself forward in another attempt to save the President’s life.