Clive Cussler - Shock Wave

“Since we have a vague notion of what we’re dealing with,” said Sandecker, “we can lay out a plan to pull the plug.”

“The question is,” Pitt commented, “except for the mineral exploration companies, what do the islands have in common?”

Giordino stared at his cigar. “Clandestine nuclear or conventional weapons testing?”

“None of the above,” Yaeger replied.

“Then what?” demanded Sandecker.

“Diamonds.”

Sandecker stared at Yaeger queerly. “Diamonds, you say?”

“Yes, sir.” Yaeger checked his file. “The operations on all tour islands are either owned or run by Dorsett Consolidated Mining Limited of Sydney, Australia. Second only to De Beers as the world’s largest diamond producer.”

Pitt felt as if someone had walked up and suddenly punched him in the stomach. “Arthur Dorsett,” he said quietly, “the chairman of Dorsett Consolidated Mining, happens to be the father of the two women A1 and I rescued in the Antarctic.”

“Of course,” said Gunn, suddenly seeing the light. “Deirdre Dorsett.” Then a quizzical look came into his eyes. “But the other lady, Maeve Fletcher?”

“Deirdre’s sister, who took an ancestral grandmother’s name,” explained Pitt.

Only Giordino saw the humor. “They went to an awful lot of trouble to meet us.”

Sandecker shot him a withering look and turned to Pitt. “This strikes me as more than a mere coincidence.”

Giordino came right back. “I can’t help wondering what one of the world’s richest diamond merchants will have to say when he learns his diggings came within a hair of killing off his darling daughters.”

“We may have a blessing in disguise,” said Gunn. “If Dorsett’s mining operations are somehow responsible for an acoustic death plague, Dirk and A1 have the credentials to walk up to his front door and ask questions. The man has every reason to act the role of a grateful father.”

“From what I know of Arthur Dorsett,” said Sandecker, “he’s so reclusive, he won the hermit trophy from Howard Hughes. As with De Beers diamond mining operations, Dorsett’s properties are heavily guarded against thievery and smuggling. He is never seen in public and he has never granted an interview to the news media. We’re talking about a very private man. I doubt seriously that saving his daughters’ lives will make a dent in this guy. He’s as hard-nosed as they come.”

Yaeger motioned toward the blue globes on the holographic chart. “People are dying out there. Surely he’ll listen to reason should his operations be somehow responsible.”

“Arthur Dorsett is a foreign national with an immense power base.” Sandecker spoke slowly. “We have to consider him innocent of any wrongdoing until we have proof. For all we know at the moment, the scourge is a product of nature. As for us, we’re committed to working through official channels. That’s my territory. I’ll start the ball rolling with the State Department and the Australian ambassador. They can set up a dialogue with Arthur Dorsett and request his cooperation in an investigation.”

“That could take weeks,” argued Yaeger.

“Why not save time,” said Giordino, “cut through the red tape, and see if his mining technology is somehow behind the mass murders?”

“You could knock on the door of his nearest diamond mine and ask to see the excavating operation,” Pitt suggested with the barest hint of sarcasm.

“If Dorsett is as paranoid as you make him out to be,” Giordino said to Sandecker, “he’s not the type of guy to play games with.”

“Al is right,” agreed Yaeger. “To stop the killing and stop it soon, we can’t wait for diplomatic niceties. We’ll have to go clandestine.”

“Not a simple exercise, snooping around diamond mines,” said Pitt. “They’re notoriously well guarded against poachers and any intruders out for a quick buck scavenging for stones. Security around diamond-producing mines is notoriously heavy. Penetrating high-tech electronic systems will require highly trained professionals.”

“A Special Forces team?” Yaeger put on the table.

Sandecker shook his head. “Not without presidential authority.”

“What about the President?” asked Giordino.

“Too soon to go to him,” answered the admiral. “Not until we can produce hard evidence of a genuine threat to national security.”

Pitt spoke slowly as he contemplated the chart. “The Kunghit Island mine seems the most convenient of the four. Since it’s in British Columbia and practically on our doorstep, I see no reason why we can’t do a little exploring on our own.”

Sandecker eyed Pitt shrewdly. “I hope you’re not laboring under the impression our neighbors to the north might be willing to turn a blind eye to an intrusion?”

“Why not? Considering that NUMA found a very profitable oil site off Baffin Island for them several years ago, I figure they won’t mind if we take a canoe trip around Kunghit and photograph the scenery.”

“Is that what you think?”

Pitt looked at the admiral like a kid expecting a free ticket to the circus. “I may have overstated my case slightly, but yes, that’s the way I see it.”

Sandecker puffed meditatively on his cigar. “All right,” he finally sighed. “Do your trespassing. But just remember, if you get caught by Dorsett’s security people, don’t bother to call home. Because nobody will answer the phone.”

A Rolls-Royce sedan rolled soundlessly to a stop beside an ancient aircraft hangar that stood in a weed-grown field on the far perimeter of Washington’s International Airport. Like an elegant dowager slumming on the wrong side of the tracks, the stately old car seemed out of place on a deserted dirt road during the night. The only illumination came from the dim yellow glow of a weathered streetlight that failed dismally at reflecting the silver and green metallic paint of the car.

The Rolls was a model known as the Silver Dawn. The chassis came out of the factory in 1955 and was fitted with a custom body by the coach-builders Hoopers & Company. The front fenders tapered gracefully into the body at the rear until the skirted wheels and sides were perfectly smooth. The engine was a straight six with overhead valves, which carried the car over the roads as quietly as the ticking of an electric clock. Speed with a Rolls-Royce was never a factor. When questioned about horsepower, the factory merely stated that it was adequate.

St. Julien Perlmutter’s chauffeur, a taciturn character by the name of Hugo Mulholand, pulled on the emergency brake, switched off the ignition and turned to his employer, who filled most of the rear seat.

“I have never been comfortable driving you here,” he said in a hollow bass voice that went with his bloodhound eyes. He stared at the rusting corrugated roof and walls that hadn’t seen paint in forty years. “I can’t see why anyone would want to live in such a disreputable shack.”

Perlmutter weighed a solid 181 kilograms. Strangely, none of his body possessed more than a hint of flab. He was remarkably solid for a huge man. He held up the gold knob of a hollow cane that doubled as a brandy flask and rapped it on the walnut table that lowered from the rear of the front seat. “That disreputable shack, as you call it, happens to house a collection of antique automobiles and aircraft worth millions of dollars. The chances of being set upon by bandits are unlikely. They don’t usually roam around airfields in the dead of night, and there are enough security systems to guard a Manhattan bank.” Perlmutter paused to point his cane out the window at a tiny red light that was barely visible. “Even as we speak, we’re being monitored by a video camera.”

Mulholand sighed, stepped around the car and opened the door for Perlmutter. “Shall I wait?”