Clive Cussler - Deep Six

Then the copter rose into the night and turned sharply back toward shore. The cover over the pool was quickly removed and the crew melted away. In a few seconds the ship’s lights came back on. Everything happened so fast, Loren wondered for a moment if she had actually witnessed the landing and takeoff.

But there was no mistaking the frightened creature she saw on the pool deck below. She was positive it was the Speaker of the House, Congressman Alan Moran.

On the bridge Captain Pokofsky peered at the radar-scope. He was of medium height and portly. A cigarette dangled from one corner of his mouth. He straightened and smoothed the jacket of his white dress uniform.

“At least they waited until we were beyond the twelve-mile limit,” he said in a guttural voice.

“Any sign they were followed?” asked the officer of the watch.

“No aerial contacts and no craft approaching by sea,” answered Pokofsky. “A smooth operation.”

“Like the others,” the watch officer said with a cocky smile.

Pokofsky did not return the smile. “I’m not fond of taking deliveries on short notice under moonlit skies.”

“This one must be a high priority.”

“Aren’t they all?” Pokofsky said caustically.

The watch officer decided to remain quiet. He’d served with Pokofsky long enough to recognize when the captain was in one of his moods.

Pokofsky checked the radar again and swept his eyes across the black sea ahead. “See that our guests are escorted to my cabin,” he ordered before turning and leaving the bridge.

Five minutes later the ship’s second officer knocked on the captain’s door, opened it and ushered in a man wearing a rumpled business suit.

“I’m Captain Pokofsky,” he said, rising from a leather reading chair.

“Paul Suvorov.”

“KGB or GRU?” [1] Soviet Military Intelligence.

“KGB.”

Pokofsky gestured toward a sofa. “Do you mind informing me of the purpose behind your unscheduled arrival?”

Suvorov gratefully sat down and took the measure of Pokofsky. He was uncomfortable with what he read. The captain was clearly a hardened seaman and not the type to be intimidated by state security credentials. Suvorov wisely chose to tread lightly.

“Not at all. I was instructed to smuggle two men out of the country.”

“Where are they now?”

“I took the liberty of having your first officer lock them in the brig.”

“Are they Soviet defectors?”

“No, they’re American.”

Pokofsky’s brows raised. “Are you saying you’ve kidnapped American citizens?”

“Yes,” said Suvorov with an icy calm. “Two of the most important leaders in the United States government.”

“I’m not sure I heard you correctly.”

“Their names do not matter. One is a congressman, the other a senator.”

Pokofsky’s eyes burned with sudden belligerence. “Do you have any idea of the jeopardy you’ve placed my ship in?”

“We’re in international waters,” Suvorov said placidly. “What can happen?”

“Wars have started for less,” Pokofsky said sharply. “If the Americans are alerted, international waters or not, they wouldn’t hesitate for one instant to send their Navy and Coast Guard to stop and board this vessel.”

Suvorov came to his feet and stared directly into Pokofsky’s eyes. “Your precious ship is in no danger, Captain.”

Pokofsky stared back. “What are you saying?”

“The ocean is a big dumping ground,” Suvorov said steadily. “If the situation requires, my friends in the brig will simply be committed to the deep.”

Talk around the captain’s table was dull and inane, as could be expected. Loren’s dining companions bored her with long-drawn-out descriptions of their previous travels. Pokofsky had heard such travelogues a thousand times before. He smiled politely and listened with feigned courtesy. When asked, he told how he had joined the Russian Navy at seventeen, worked up through the officers’ ranks until he commanded a troop transport, and after twenty years’ service transferred to the Soviet state-subsidized passenger line.

He described the Leonid Andreyev as a 14,000-ton vessel, built in Finland, with a capacity of 478 passengers with two crew members for every three of them. The modern white-hulled liner had indoor and outdoor swimming pools, five cocktail bars, two nightclubs, ten shops featuring Russian merchandise and liquor, a movie and stage theater, and a well-stocked library. She cruised from Miami on ten-day sailings during the summer months to several resort islands in the West Indies.

During a lull in the conversation, Loren casually mentioned the helicopter landing. Captain Pokofsky lit a cigarette with a wooden match and waved out the flame.

“You Americans and your affluence,” he said easily.

“Two wealthy Texans missed the boat in Miami and hired a helicopter to fly them to the Andreyev. Very few of my countrymen can afford such luxury.”

“Not many of mine can either,” Loren assured him. The captain was not only congenial and charming, she thought, he was an accomplished liar as well. She dropped the subject and nibbled on her salad.

Before dessert, Loren excused herself and went to her suite on the sun deck. She kicked off her shoes, removed and hung up her skirt and jacket, and sprawled on the soft king-size bed. She ran the picture of Alan Moran’s terrified face through her mind, telling herself it must have been someone who resembled the congressman, and perhaps the beam of the flashlight outlined similar features. Reason dictated that it was merely a trick of imagination.

Then Pitt’s inquiry at the restaurant returned to her. He’d asked if she had heard any rumors of a missing party high in government. Now her gut instinct said she was right.

She laid out a ship’s directory and deck diagram on the bed and flattened out the creases. To look for Moran in a floating city with 230 staterooms, quarters for a crew of over 300, cargo holds and engine room, all spread over eleven decks nearly 500 feet in length was a lost cause. She also had to consider that she was a representative of the American government on Russian property. Obtain permission from Captain Pokofsky to search every nook and cranny of his ship? She’d stand a better chance of persuading him to give up vodka for Kentucky bourbon.

She decided the logical move would be to establish Alan Moran’s whereabouts. If he was at home in Washington watching TV, she could forget the whole madness and get a good night’s sleep. She put her dress back on and went to the communications room.

Thankfully it wasn’t crowded and she didn’t have to wait in line.

A pretty Russian girl in a trim uniform asked Loren where she wished to call.

“Washington, D.C.,” she replied. “Person to person to a Ms. Sally Lindemann. I’ll write out the number.”

“If you will please wait in booth five, I’ll arrange your satellite transmission,” the communications girl said in near flawless English.

Loren sat patiently, hoping her secretary was at home. She was. A sleepy voice answered the operator and acknowledged her name was Sally Lindemann.

“That you, boss?” Sally asked when Loren was put through. “I bet you’re dancing up a storm under Caribbean stars with some handsome playboy. Am I right?”

“You’re not even close.”

“I should have known this was a business call.”

“Sally, I need you to contact someone.”

“One sec.” There was a pause. When Sally’s voice came on again, it glowed with efficiency. “I’ve got a pad and pencil. Who do I contact and what do I say?”

“The congressman who opposed and shot down my Rocky Mountain water project.”