Clive Cussler - Cyclops

Pitt gave Brogan a cold stare. Then he painfully rose from his chair and started for the door. "All right, have it your way. I lied. Thanks for the beer."

"May I ask where you're going?"

"To call a press conference," Pitt said, addressing Brogan directly. "I'm wasting precious time for your benefit. The sooner I announce my escape and demand the release of the LeBarons, Giordino, and Gunn, the sooner Velikov will be forced to halt their torture and execution."

There was a shocked quiet. None of the people at the conference table could believe Pitt was walking out, none except Sandecker. He sat there and smiled like the owner of a winning ball club. "You'd better pull your act together, Martin. You've just been presented with a top-of-the-line intelligence coup, and if no one in this room can recognize it, I suggest you all find another line of work."

Brogan may have been a brusque egotist, but he was no fool. He quickly rose and stopped Pitt at the doorway. "Forgive an old Irishman who's been burned more times than he can count. Thirty years in this business and you just naturally become a doubting Thomas. Please help us to fit the puzzle together. Then we'll discuss what's to be done for your friends and the LeBarons."

"It'll cost you another beer," Pitt said.

Brogan and the others laughed then. The ice was broken, and the questioning was resumed from all sides of the table.

"Is this Velikov?" asked an analyst, holding up a photograph.

"Yes, General Peter Velikov. His American-accented English was letter perfect. I almost forgot, he had my dossier, including a personality profile."

Sandecker looked at Brogan. "Sounds like Sam Emmett has a mole in his FBI records department."

Brogan smiled sarcastically. "Sam won't be happy to learn of it."

"We could write a book on Velikov's exploits," said a heavy man facing Pitt. "At a later time I'd like you to give me a profile of his mannerisms."

"Glad to," said Pitt.

"And this is the interrogator with the heavy hand, Foss Gly?"

Pitt nodded at the second photograph. "He's a good ten years older than the face in the picture, but that's him."

"An American mercenary, born in Arizona," said the analyst. "You say you two met before?"

"Yes, during the Empress of Ireland project in search of the North American Treaty. I think you may recall it."

Brogan nodded. "Indeed I do."

"Getting back to the layout of the installation," said the woman. "Levels of the compound?"

"According to the elevator indicator, five, all underground."

"Idea as to extent?"

"All I saw was my cell, the hallway, Velikov's office, and a motor pool. Oh, yes, and the entry to the upper living quarters, which was decorated like a Spanish castle."

"Wall thickness?"

"About two feet."

"Quality of construction?"

"Good. No leakage or noticeable cracking of the concrete."

"Type of vehicles in the motor pool?"

"Two military trucks. The rest construction-- a bulldozer, a back hoe, and a cherry picker."

The woman looked up from her notes. "Excuse me. The last one?" "Cherry picker," Pitt explained. "A special truck with a telescoping platform to work at heights. You see them used by tree trimmers and telephone linemen."

"Approximate dimensions of the antenna dish?"

"Difficult to measure in the dark. Approximately three hundred yards long by two hundred yards wide. It lifts into position by hydraulic arms camouflaged as palm trees."

"Solid or grid?"

"Grid."

"Circuitry, junction boxes, relays?"

"Didn't see any, which doesn't mean they weren't there."

Brogan had followed the questions without intruding. Now he held up a hand and stared at a studious-looking man seated halfway down the table. "What do you make of it, Charlie?"

"Not enough technical detail to pinpoint an exact purpose. But there are three possibilities. One is that it's a listening station capable of intercepting telephone, radio, and radar signals across the United States. Two, a powerful jamming facility, just sitting there waiting for a crucial moment, like a nuclear first strike when it is suddenly activated, scrambling all our vital military and commercial communications. The third prospect is that it might have the capability to transmit and feed false information throughout our communications systems. Most worrisome, the size and elaborate antenna design suggests the ability to perform the functions of all three."

The muscles in Brogan's face went taut. The fact that such a supersecret spy operation had been constructed less than two hundred miles from the shores of the United States did not exactly thrill the chief of the Central Intelligence Agency.

"If worse comes to worse, what are we looking at?"

"What I'm afraid we're looking at," answered Charlie, "is an electronically advanced and powerful facility capable of intercepting radio or phone communications and then using time-lag technology to allow a new-generation computerized synthesizer to imitate the callers' voices and alter the conversation. You'd be amazed how your words can be manipulated over a telephone to another party without your detecting the change. As a matter of fact, the National Security Agency has the same type of equipment on board a ship."

"So the Russians have caught up with us," said Brogan.

"Their technology is probably cruder than ours, but it seems they've gone a step further and expanded it on a grander scale."

The woman intelligence official looked at Pitt. "You said the island is supplied by submarine."

"So Raymond LeBaron informed me," said Pitt. "And what little I saw of the shoreline didn't include a docking area."

Sandecker played with one of his cigars but didn't light it. He pointed one end at Brogan. "Appears the Soviets have gone to unusual lengths to throw your Cuban surveillance off the track, Martin."

"The fear of exposure came out during the interrogation," said Pitt. "Velikov insisted we were agents on your payroll."

"Can't really blame the bastard," said Brogan. "Your entrance must have shocked the hell out of him."

"Mr. Pitt, could you describe the people at the dinner party when you entered?" asked a scholarly-looking man in an argyle sweater.

"Roughly I'd say there were sixteen women and two dozen men

"You did say women?"

"I did."

"What type?" asked the only woman in the room.

Pitt had to ask. "Define type."

"You know," she answered seriously. "Wives, nice single ladies, or hookers?"

"Definitely not hookers. Most were in uniform, probably part of Velikov's staff. The ones wearing wedding rings appeared to be wives of the Cuban civilians and military officers who were present."

"What in hell is Velikov thinking?" Brogan asked no one in particular. "Cubans and their wives at a top-secret installation? None of this makes any sense."

Sandecker stared pensively at the tabletop. "Makes sense to me, if Velikov is using Cayo Santa Maria for something besides electronic espionage."

"What are you hinting at, Jim?" asked Brogan.

"The island would make a perfect base of operations for the overthrow of the Castro government."

Brogan looked at him in astonishment. "How do you know about that?"

"The President briefed me," Sandecker replied loftily.

"I see." But it was clear Brogan didn't see.

"Look, I realize this is all highly important," said Pitt, "but every minute we spend speculating puts Jessie, Al, and Rudi that much closer to death. I expect you people to pull out all the stops to save them. You can begin by notifying the Russians that you're aware of their captivity because of my rescue."

Pitt's demand was met with an odd quiet. Nobody except Sandecker looked at him. The CIA people, especially, avoided his eyes.

"Forgive me," said Brogan stonily. "I don't think that would be a smart move."