Dragon dp-10 Read online

  The classified data Furukawa had stolen for a country he had yet to visit saved Japan billions of dollars in research and development costs. Almost single-handedly, his traitorous activities had given Japan a five-year shortcut to becoming a world leader in the aerospace market.

  Furukawa had also been recruited for the Kaiten Project during a meeting with Hideki Suma in Hawaii. He was honored to be chosen by one of the most influential leaders of Japan for a sacred mission. His orders were to discreetly arrange for specially colored cars to be collected at the dock and transported to undisclosed destinations. Furukawa did not ask questions. His ignorance of the operation failed to bother him. He could not be deeply involved for fear of compromising his own mission of stealing U.S. technology.

  The traffic had thinned between rush hours as he made his way onto Santa Monica Boulevard. Several kilometers later he swung south on the San Diego Freeway. With a bare touch of his shoe on the accelerator, the Murmoto wove through the slower stream of cars. His detector beeped, and Furukawa slowed to the speed limit three hundred meters before entering the range of a parked police radar unit. He cracked a rare smile as he speeded up again.

  Furukawa worked into the right-hand lane and curled around the off-ramp down onto the Harbor Freeway. Ten minutes later he reached the shipping terminal area and cut into an alley, where he passed a huge truck and semitrailer parked behind an empty warehouse. The doors of the cab and the sides of the trailer were painted with the logo of a well-known moving and storage company. He hit his horn twice. The driver of the big rig tooted his air horn three times in reply and pulled behind Furukawa’s sports car.

  After dodging a heavy crowd of trucks backing in and out of the loading docks, Furukawa finally stopped at one of the gates to a holding yard for cars imported from foreign manufacturers. Other nearby yards were filled with Toyotas, Hondas, and Mazdas that had already come off ships before being loaded on twodeck auto transporters that would haul them to dealer showrooms.

  While the guard checked the receiving documents from the envelope, Furukawa gazed at the sea of cars already driven off the Divine Water. Over one-third had been off-loaded and were sitting in the California sun. He idly counted the flow, as an army of drivers drove them through several gaping hatches and down ramps into the yard, and came up with a rate of eighteen a minute.

  The guard handed him the envelope. “Okay, sir, three SP-Five Hundred sport sedans. Please give your papers to the dispatcher down the road. He’ll fix you up.”

  Furukawa thanked him and motioned for the truck to follow him.

  The ruddy cigar-smoking dispatcher recognized Furukawa. “Back for more of those putrid brown cars?” he asked cheerfully.

  Furukawa shrugged. “I have a customer who buys them for his sales fleet. Believe it or not, that’s his company’s color.”

  “What does he sell, Kyoto lizard crap’?”

  “No, imported coffee.”

  “Don’t tell me the label. I don’t want to know.”

  Furukawa slipped the dispatcher a hundred-dollar bill. “How soon before I can take delivery?”

  The dispatcher grinned. “Your cars are easy to find in the cargo holds. I’ll have them for you in twenty minutes.”

  An hour had passed before the three brown automobiles were safely tied down inside the enclosed trailer and released from the holding yard. Not once did the driver and Furukawa exchange words. Even eye contact was avoided.

  Outside the gate, Furukawa pulled his car to the side of the road and lit a cigarette. He watched in stony curiosity as the truck and semitrailer turned and headed for the Harbor Freeway. The license on the trailer was California, but he knew it would be switched at some desert truck stop before crossing the state line.

  Despite his practiced detachment, Furukawa unconsciously found himself wondering what was so special about the brown cars. And why was their final destination so secret?

  20

  “FIRST WE’LL BODY SURF under the sunrise at Makapuu Point,” said Pitt, holding Stacy’s hand. “Later, it’s snorkeling around Hanauma Bay before you rub suntan oil all over my body, and we spend a lazy afternoon dozing on a warm white sand beach. Then we’ll soak up the sunset while sipping rum collins on the lanai of the Halekalani Hotel, and afterward it’s off to this intimate little restaurant I know in the Manoa Valley.”

  Stacy looked at him in amusement. “Have you ever thought of forming an escort service?”

  “I don’t have it in me to charge a woman,” said Pitt amicably. “That’s why I’m always broke.”

  He paused and looked out the window of the big twin-engine Air Force helicopter as it drummed through the night. In the early evening of Pitt and Plunkett’s rescue, the big bird had appeared and plucked the entire Soggy Acres mining team and the crew of Old Gert off the deck of the Chinese junk. But not before everyone profusely thanked Owen Murphy and his crew for their hospitality. The final act was the removal of Jimmy Knox. Once his canvas-wrapped body was hoisted on board, the great craft rose above Shanghai Shelly and the Tucson and beat its way toward Hawaii.

  The sea below shimmered under a bright three-quarter moon as the pilot flew almost directly over a cruise ship. Ahead to the southeast, Pitt caught sight of the lights on the island of Oahu. He should have been sound asleep like Sandecker, Giordino, and the others, but the exhilaration of escaping the bony character with the scythe kept his blood stirred up. That and the fact Stacy stayed awake to keep him company.

  “See anything?” she asked between yawns.

  “Oahu on the horizon. We should be passing over Honolulu in fifteen minutes.”

  She looked at him teasingly. “Tell me more about tomorrow, especially the after-dinner part.”

  “I didn’t come to that.”

  “Well?”

  “Okay, there are these two palm trees—”

  “Palm trees?”

  “Of course,” said Pitt, looking surprised that she asked. “And between them is this carnal hammock built for two.”

  The helicopter, its ultramodern Ferrari-like body lacking the familiar tail rotor, hovered momentarily above a small grass field on the outskirts of Hickam Field. Unseen in the darkness, the perimeter was patrolled by an Army special combat platoon. A lighted signal from the ground informed the pilot the area was secure. Only then did he lightly drop the huge craft onto the soft grass.

  A small bus with KAWANUNAI TOURS painted on the sides immediately drove up and stopped just outside the radius of the rotor blades. It was followed by a black Ford sedan and an Army ambulance to carry Jimmy Knox’s body to Tripler Army Hospital for autopsy. Four men in civilian clothes stepped from the car and stationed themselves at the helicopter’s door.

  As the weary NUMA people debarked, they were ushered into the bus. Pitt and Stacy were the last to exit. A uniformed guard held out his arm, blocking their way, and directed them to the car where Admiral Sandecker and Giordino were already standing.

  Pitt pushed aside the guard’s arm and walked over to the bus. “Goodbye,” he said to Plunkett. “Keep your feet dry.”

  Plunkett fairly mashed Pitt’s hand. “Thank you for my life, Mr. Pitt. When next we meet, the drinks are on me.”

  “I’ll remember. Champagne for you, beer for me.”

  “God bless.”

  When Pitt approached the black car, two men were holding up their gold shields to Sandecker’s face, identifying themselves as agents of the federal government.

  “I am operating under presidential order, Admiral. I’m to backstop and transport you, Mr. Pitt, Mr. Giordino, and Ms. Fox to Washington immediately.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Sandecker irritably. “What’s the rush?”

  “I can’t say, sir.”

  “What about my NUMA team? They’ve been working on an underwater project under extreme conditions for four months. They deserve time to rest and relax with their families.”

  “The President has ordered a news blackout. Your NUMA people, al
ong with Dr. Plunkett and Salazar, will be escorted to a safe compound on the windward side of the island until the blackout is lifted. Then they’re free to go at government expense wherever you direct.”

  “How long will they be cooped up?” Sandecker demanded.

  “Three or four days,” replied the agent.

  “Shouldn’t Ms. Fox be going with the others?”

  “No, sir. My orders are she travels with you.”

  Pitt stared at Stacy shrewdly. “You been holding out on us, lady?”

  A strange little smile came to her lips. “I’m going to miss our tomorrow in Hawaii.”

  “Somehow I doubt that.”

  Her eyes widened slightly. “We’ll have another time, perhaps in Washington.”

  “I don’t think so,” he said, his voice suddenly turning cold. “You conned me, you conned me up and down the line, beginning with your phony plea for help in Old Gert.”

  She looked up at him, a curious mixture of hurt and anger in her eyes. “We’d have all died if you and Al hadn’t shown up when you did.”

  “And the mysterious explosion. Did you arrange that?”

  “I have no idea who was responsible,” she said honestly. “I haven’t been briefed.”

  “Briefed,” he repeated slowly. “Hardly a term used by a freelance photographer. Just who do you work for?”

  A sudden hardness came into her voice. “You’ll find out soon enough.” And then she turned her back on him and climbed in the car.

  Pitt only managed three hours sleep on the flight to the nation’s capital. He drifted off over the Rocky Mountains and woke as the dawn was breaking over West Virginia. He sat in the back of the Gulfstream government jet away from the others, preferring his thoughts to conversation. His eyes looked down at the USA Today paper on his lap without really seeing the words and pictures.

  Pitt was mad, damned mad. He was irritated with Sandecker for remaining close-mouthed and sidestepping the burning questions Pitt had put to him about the explosion that caused the earthquake. He was angry with Stacy, certain now the British deep-water survey was a combined intelligence operation to spy on Soggy Acres. The coincidence of Old Gert diving in the same location defied all but the most astronomical odds. Stacy’s job as a photographer was a cover. She was a covert operative, pure and simple. The only enigma left to solve was the initials of the agency she worked for.

  While he was lost in his thoughts, Giordino walked to the rear of the aircraft and sat down next to him. “You look beat, my friend.”

  Pitt stretched. “I’ll be glad to get home.”

  Giordino could read Pitt’s mood and adroitly steered the talk to his friend’s antique and classic car collection. “What are you working on?”

  “You mean which car?”

  Giordino nodded. “The Packard or the Marmon?”

  “Neither,” replied Pitt. “Before we left for the Pacific, I rebuilt the engine for the Stutz but didn’t install it.”

  “That nineteen thirty-two green town car?”

  “The same.”

  “We’re coming home two months early. Just under the wire for you to enter the classic car races at Richmond.”

  “Two days away,” Pitt said thoughtfully. “I don’t think I can have the car ready in time.”

  “Let me give you a hand,” Giordino offered. “Together we’ll put the old green bomb on the starting line.”

  Pitt’s expression turned skeptical. “We may not get the chance. Something’s going down, Al. When the admiral clams up, the cow chips are about to strike the windmill.”

  Giordino’s lips curled in a taut smile. “I tried to pump him too.”

  “And?”

  “I’ve had more productive conversations with fence posts.”

  “The only crumb he dropped,” said Pitt, “was that after we land we go directly to the Federal Headquarters Building.”

  Giordino looked puzzled. “I’ve never heard of a Federal Headquarters Building in Washington.”

  “Neither have I,” said Pitt, his green eyes sharp and challenging. “Another reason why I think we’re being had.”

  21

  IF PITT THOUGHT they were about to be danced around the maypole, he knew it after laying eyes on the Federal Headquarters Building.

  The unmarked van with no side windows that picked them up at Andrews Air Force Base turned off Constitution Avenue, passed a secondhand dress store, went down a grimy alley, and stopped at the steps of a shabby six-story brick building behind a parking lot. Pitt judged the foundation was laid in the 1930s.

  The entire structure appeared in disrepair. Several windows were boarded shut behind broken glass, the black paint around the wrought-iron balconies was peeling away, the bricks were worn and deeply scarred, and for a finishing touch an unwashed bum sprawled on the cracked concrete steps beside a cardboard box full of indescribably mangy artifacts.

  The two federal agents who escorted them from Hawaii led the way up the steps into the lobby. They ignored the homeless derelict, while Sandecker and Giordino merely gave him a fleeting glance. Most women would have looked upon the poor man with either compassion or disgust, but Stacy nodded and offered him a faint smile.

  Pitt, curious, stopped and said, “Nice day for a tan.”

  The derelict, a black man in his late thirties, looked up. “You blind, man? What’d I do with a tan?”

  Pitt recognized the sharp eyes of a professional observer, who dissected every square centimeter of Pitt’s hands, clothes, body, and face, in that order. They were definitely not the vacant eyes of a down-and-out street dweller.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Pitt answered in a neighborly tone. “It might come in handy when you take your pension and move to Bermuda.”

  The bum smiled, flashing unblemished white teeth. “Have a safe stay, my man.”

  “I’ll try,” Pitt said, amused at the odd reply. He stepped past the disguised first ring of protection sentry and followed the others into the building’s lobby.

  The interior was as run down as the exterior. There was the unpleasant smell of disinfectant. The green tile floors were badly treadworn and the walls stark and smudged with years of overlaid handprints. The only object in the dingy lobby that seemed well maintained was an antique mail drop. The solid brass glinted under the dusty light fixtures hanging from the ceiling, and the American eagle above the words “U.S. Mail” was as shiny as the day it was buffed out of its casting. Pitt thought it a curious contrast.

  An old elevator door slid open soundlessly. The men from NUMA were surprised to find a gleaming chrome interior and a U.S. marine in dress blues who was the operator. Pitt noted that Stacy acted as though she’d been through the drill before.

  Pitt was the last one in, seeing his tired red eyes and the grizzly beginnings of a beard reflected in the polished chrome walls. The marine closed the doors, and the elevator moved with an eerie silence. Pitt could not feel any movement at all. No flashing lights over the door or on a display panel indicated the passing floors. Only his inner ear told him they were traveling very rapidly down a considerable distance.

  At last the door opened onto a foyer and corridor that was so clean and orderly it would have done a spit-and-polish ship captain proud. The federal agents guided them to the second doorway from the elevator and stood aside. The group passed through a space between the outer and an inner door, which Pitt and Giordino immediately recognized as an air lock to make the room soundproof. As the second door was closed, air was pushed out with an audible pop.

  Pitt found himself standing in a place with no secrets, an enormous conference room with a low ceiling, so dead to outside sounds the recessed fluorescent light tubes buzzed like wasps, and a whisper could be heard ten meters away. There were no shadows anywhere, and normal voice levels came almost like shouts. The center of the room held a massive old library table once purchased by Eleanor Roosevelt for the White House. It fairly reeked of furniture polish. A bowl of Jonathan apples made up the ce
nterpiece. Underneath the table lay a fine old blood-red Persian carpet.

  Stacy walked to the opposite side of the table. A man rose and kissed her lightly on the cheek, greeting her in a voice laced with a Texas accent. He looked young, at least six or seven years younger than Pitt. Stacy made no effort to introduce him. She and Pitt had not spoken a word to each other since boarding the Gulfstream jet in Hawaii. She made an awkward display of pretending he was not present by keeping her back turned to him.

  Two men with Asian features sat together next to Stacy’s friend. They were conversing in low tones and didn’t bother to look up as Pitt and Giordino stood surveying the room. A Harvard type, wearing a suit with a vest adorned with a Phi Beta Kappa key on a watch chain, sat off by himself reading through a file of papers.

  Sandecker set a course to a chair beside the head of the table, sat down, and lit one of his custom-rolled Havana cigars. He saw that Pitt seemed disturbed and restless, traits definitely out of character.

  A thin older man with shoulder-length hair and holding a pipe walked over. “Which one of you is Dirk Pitt?”

  “I am,” Pitt acknowledged.

  “Frank Mancuso,” the stranger said, extending his hand. “I’m told we’ll be working together.”

  “You’re one up on me,” Pitt said, returning a firm shake and introducing Giordino. “My friend here, Al Giordino, and I are in the dark.”

  “We’ve been gathered to set up a MAIT.”

  “A what?”

  “MAIT, an acronym for Multi-Agency Investigative Team.”

  “Oh, God,” Pitt moaned. “I don’t need this. I only want to go home, pour a tequila on the rocks, and fall into bed.”

  Before he could expand on his grievances, Raymond Jordan entered the conference room accompanied by two men who wore faces with all the humor of patients just told by a doctor they had Borneo jungle fungus of the liver. Jordan made straight for Sandecker and greeted him warmly.

  “Good to see you, Jim. I deeply appreciate your cooperation in this mess. I know it was a blow to lose your project.”