Clive Cussler - Deep Six

Sandecker gave him a negative look. “We can’t spare the time to buy a newspaper.”

“If Oates wants to hear what I’ve got, he’ll damn well have to wait.”

Sandecker made a sour expression and gave in. “Ten minutes is all you get. I’ll call Oates and say your plane was delayed.”

Pitt had met the Secretary of State previously, during the North American Treaty affair. The neatly trimmed hair was slate-colored, and the brown eyes moved with practiced ease as they read Pitt. Oates wore a five-hundred-dollar gray tailored suit and highly polished black custom shoes. There was a no-nonsense aggressiveness about him, and he moved well, almost like a track and field athlete.

“Mr. Pitt, how nice to see you again.”

“Good to see you, Mr. Secretary.”

Oates wrung Pitt’s hand, then turned to the other men in the conference room and went through the introductions. The inner sanctum had turned out. Brogan of the CIA, Emmett of the FBI, National Security’s Alan Mercier, whom Pitt also knew, and Dan Fawcett representing the White House. Admiral Sandecker remained at Pitt’s side, keeping a wary eye on his friend.

“Please sit down,” Oates said, waving them all to a chair.

Sam Emmett turned toward Pitt and regarded him with interest, noting the drawn lines in his face. “I’ve taken the liberty of pulling your packet, Mr. Pitt, and I must confess your service with the government reads like a novel.” He paused to scan the dossier. “Directly responsible for saving innumerable lives during the Vixen operation. Instrumental in obtaining the Canadian merger treaty. Heading the project to raise the Titanic, with subsequent discovery of a rare element for the Sicilian project. You have an uncanny knack for getting around.”

“I believe the word is ‘ubiquitous,’ “ Oates injected.

“You were in the Air Force before joining NUMA,” Emmett continued. “Rank of major. Excellent record in Vietnam.” He hesitated, a strange inquisitive look growing on his face. “I see here you received a commendation for destroying one of our own aircraft.”

“Perhaps I should explain that,” Sandecker said, “since I was on the aircraft Dirk shot down.”

“I realize we’re pressed for time, but I’d be interested to hear that tale,” said Oates.

Sandecker nodded agreeably. “My staff and I were flying on a twin turboprop transport from Saigon to a small coastal port north of Da Nang. Unknown to us, the field we were supposed to land on was overrun by North Vietnamese regulars. Our radio malfunctioned and my pilot was unable to receive the warning. Dirk was flying nearby, returning to his base from a bombing mission. The local commander directed him to intercept and alert us by whatever means available.” Sandecker looked over at Pitt and smiled. “I have to say he tried everything short of a neon sign. He played charades from his cockpit, fired several bursts from his guns across our nose, but nothing penetrated our thick skulls. When we were on our final landing approach, coming in from the sea toward the airstrip, in what has to be a rare exhibition of precision aerial marksmanship, he shot out both our engines, forcing my pilot to ditch our plane in the water only one mile from shore. Dirk then flew cover, strafing enemy boats putting out from the beach, until everyone was taken aboard a Navy patrol vessel. After learning that he saved me from certain imprisonment and possible death, we became good friends. Several years later, when President Ford asked me to launch NUMA, I persuaded Dirk to join me.”

Oates looked at Pitt through bemused eyes. “You lead an interesting life. I envy you.”

Before Pitt could reply, Alan Mercier said, “I’m sure Mr. Pitt is curious why we asked him here.”

“I’m well aware of the reason,” Pitt said.

He looked from man to man. They all looked like they hadn’t slept in a month. At last he addressed himself directly to Oates. “I know who was responsible for the theft and subsequent spill of Nerve Agent S into the Gulf of Alaska.” He spoke slowly and distinctly. “I know who committed nearly thirty murders while hijacking the presidential yacht and its passengers. I know the identities of those passengers and why they were abducted. And lastly, I know who sabotaged the Leonid Andreyev, killing two hundred men, women and children. There is no speculation or guesswork on my part. The facts and evidence are rock solid.”

The room took on an almost deathly stillness. No one made even the slightest attempt to speak. Pitt’s statement had stunned them to the soles of their feet. Emmett had a distraught expression on his face. Fawcett clasped his hands to conceal his nervousness. Oates appeared dazed.

Brogan was the first to question Pitt. “I must assume, Mr. Pitt, you’re alluding to the Russians?”

“No, sir, I am not.”

“No chance you’re mistaken?” asked Mercier.

“None.”

“If not the Russians,” asked Emmett in a cautious voice, “then who?”

“The head of the Bougainville Maritime empire, Min Koryo, and her grandson, Lee Tong.”

“I happen to know Lee Tong Bougainville personally,” said Emmett. “He is a respected business executive who donates heavily to political campaigns.”

“So does the Mafia and every charlatan who’s out to milk the government money machine,” said Pitt icily. He laid a photograph on the table. “I borrowed this from the morgue file of the Washington Post. Do you recognize this man, Mr. Emmett, the one coming through the door in the picture?”

Emmett picked up the photograph and examined it. “Lee Tong Bougainville,” he said. “Not a good likeness, but one of the few photos I’ve ever seen of him. He avoids publicity like herpes. You’re making a grave error, Mr. Pitt, in accusing him of any crime.”

“No error,” Pitt said firmly. “This man tried to kill me. I have reason to believe he is accountable for the explosion that burned and sank the Leonid Andreyev, and the kidnapping of Congresswoman Loren Smith.”

“Congresswoman Smith’s kidnapping is pure conjecture on your part.”

“Didn’t Congressman Moran explain what occurred on board the ship?” Pitt asked.

“He refuses to be questioned by us,” Mercier answered. “All we know is what he told the press.”

Emmett was becoming angry. He saw Pitt’s revelations as an indictment of FBI fumbling. He leaned across the table with fire in his eyes. “Do you honestly expect us to believe your ridiculous fairy tales?” he demanded in a cracking voice.

“I don’t much care what you believe,” Pitt replied, pinning the FBI director with his stare.

“Can you say how you collared the Bougainvilles?” asked Oates.

“My involvement stems from the death of a friend by Nerve Agent S. I began a hunt for the responsible parties, I admit, purely for revenge. As my investigations gradually centered on Bougainville Maritime, other avenues of their illicit organization suddenly unfolded.”

“And you can prove your accusations?”

“Of course,” Pitt answered. “Computer data describing their hijacking activities, drug business and smuggling operations is in a safe at NUMA.”

Brogan held up a hand. “Wait one moment. You stated the Bougainvilles were also behind the hijacking of the Eagle ?”

“I did.”

“And you know who was abducted?”

“I do.”

“Not possible,” Brogan stated flatly.

“Shall I name names, gentlemen?” said Pitt. “Let’s begin with the President, then Vice President Margolin, Senator Larimer and House Speaker Moran. I was with Larimer when he died. Margolin is still alive and held somewhere by the Bougainvilles. Moran is now here in Washington, no doubt conspiring to become the next messiah. The President sits in the White House immune to the political disaster he’s causing, while his brain is wired to the apron strings of a Soviet psychologist whose name is Dr. Aleksei Lugovoy.”