Deep Six dp-7 Page 15

  Sandecker hired him to collect and store every scrap of data ever written on the oceans, scientific or historical, fact or theory. Yaeger tackled the job with a fierce dedication, and within five years had accumulated a huge computer library of knowledge about the sea.

  Yaeger worked erratic hours, sometimes coming in with the morning sun and working straight through until the following dawn. He seldom showed up for departmental meetings, but Sandecker left him alone because there was none better, and because Yaeger had an uncanny ability to pry out secret access codes to a great number of worldwide computer networks.

  Always dressed in Levi’s jacket and pants, he wore his long blond hair in a bun. A scraggly beard combined with his probing eyes gave him the appearance of a desert prospector peering over the next hill for Eldorado.

  He sat at a computer terminal stuck away in a far corner of NUMA’s electronic maze. Pitt stood off to one side watching with interest the green block letters on a display screen.

  “That’s all we’re going to comb from the Maritime Administration’s mass storage system.”

  “Nothing new there,” Pitt agreed.

  “What now?”

  “Can you tap the Coast Guard headquarters documents?”

  Yaeger gave a wolfish grin. “Can Aunt Jemima make pancakes?”

  He consulted a thick black notebook for a minute, found the insertion he was looking for and punched the number into a pushbutton telephone connected to a modem link. The Coast Guard computer system answered and accepted Yaeger’s access code, and the green block letters swept across the display: “PLEASE STATE YOUR REQUEST.”

  Yaeger gave Pitt a questioning look.

  “Ask for an abstract of title on the Pilottown,” Pitt ordered.

  Yaeger nodded and sent the request into the terminal. The answer flashed back and Pitt studied it closely, noting all the transactions of the vessel from the time she was built, who owned it as long as it was a documented vessel flying the United States flag, and the mortgages against it. The probe was redundant. The Pilottown had been removed from documentation when it was sold to an alien, in this case the Kassandra Phosphate Company of Athens, Greece.

  “Anything promising?” Yaeger inquired.

  “Another dry hole,” Pitt grunted.

  “How about Lloyd’s of London? They’ll have it in their register.”

  “Okay, give it a shot.”

  Yaeger logged out of the Coast Guard system, checked his book again and routed the terminal to the computer bank of the great maritime insurance company. The data printed out at 400 characters a second. This time the history of the Pilottown was revealed in greater detail. And yet little of it appeared useful. Then an item at the bottom of the display screen caught Pitt’s attention.

  “I think we might have something.”

  “Looks pretty much like the same stuff to me,” said Yaeger.

  “The line after Sosan Trading Company.”

  “Where they’re listed as operators? So what? That showed up before.”

  “As owners, not operators. There’s a difference.”

  “What does it prove?”

  Pitt straightened, and his eyes took on a reflective look. “The reason owners register their vessel with what is called a ‘country of convenience’ is to save costly licenses, taxes and restrictive operating regulations. Another reason is they become lost to any kind of investigation. So they set up a dummy front and carry the company headquarters address as a post office box, in this case, Inchon, Korea. Now, if they contract with an operator to arrange cargoes and crews for the ship, the transfer of money from one to the other must take place. Banking facilities must be used. And banks keep records.”

  “All right, but say I’m a parent outfit. Why let my shady shipping line be run by some sleazy second party if we leave traceable banking links? I fail to see the advantage.”

  “An insurance scam,” Pitt answered. “The operator does the duty work while the owners collect. For example, take the case of a Greek tanker several years ago. A tramp called the Trikeri. It departed Surabaja, Indonesia, with its oil tanks filled to the brim. After reaching Capetown, South Africa, it slipped onto an offshore pipeline and removed all but a few thousand gallons. A week later it mysteriously sank off West Africa. An insurance claim was filed on the ship and a full cargo of oil. Investigators were dead certain the sinking was intentional, but they couldn’t prove it. The Trikeri’s operator took the heat and quietly went out of business. The registered owners collected the insurance payoff and then siphoned it off through a corporate maze to the power at the top.”

  “This happen often?”

  “More than anyone knows,” Pitt replied.

  “You want to dig into the Sosan Trading Company’s bank account?”

  Pitt knew better than to ask Yaeger if he could do it. He simply said, “Yes.”

  Yaeger logged out of the Lloyd’s computer network and walked over to a file cabinet. He returned with a large bookkeeping ledger.

  “Bank security codes,” he said without elaboration.

  Yaeger set to work and homed in on Sosan Trading’s bank in two minutes. “Got it!” he exclaimed. “An obscure Inchon branch of a big bank headquartered in Seoul. Account was closed six years ago.”

  “Are the statements still on file?”

  Without answering, Yaeger stabbed the terminal’s keys and then sat back, arms folded, and eyed the printouts. The data blinked on with the account number and a request for the monthly statements desired. He looked up at Pitt expectantly.

  “March through September 1976,” Pitt directed.

  The bank’s computer system in Korea obliged.

  “Most curious,” Yaeger said, digesting the data. “Only twelve transactions over a span of seven years. Sosan Trading must have cleared their overhead and payroll with cash.”

  “Where did the deposits originate?” Pitt asked.

  “Appears to be a bank in Bern, Switzerland.”

  “One step closer.”

  “Yes, but here it gets tricky,” said Yaeger. “Swiss bank security codes are more complex. And if this shipping outfit is as cagey as they appear, they probably juggle bank accounts like a vaudeville act.”

  “I’ll get the coffee while you start digging.”

  Yaeger looked pensively at Pitt for a moment. “You never give up, do you?”

  “No.”

  Yaeger was surprised at the sudden coldness in Pitt’s tone. He shrugged. “Okay, pal, but this isn’t going to be a walkover. It may take all night and turn up zilch. I’ll have to keep sending different number combinations until I strike the right codes.”

  “You got something better to do?”

  “No, but while you’re getting the coffee, I’d appreciate it if you scare up some donuts.”

  The bank in Bern, Switzerland, proved discouraging. Any trail to Sosan Trading’s parent company ended there. They spot-checked six other Swiss banks, hoping they might get lucky, like a treasure hunter who finds the shipwreck chart he’s searching for hidden away in the wrong drawer of an archive. But they turned up nothing of value. Groping through the account records of every banking house in Europe presented a staggering problem. There were over six thousand of them.

  “Looks pretty dismal,” said Yaeger after five hours of staring at the display screen.

  “I agree,” said Pitt.

  “Shall I keep punching away?”

  “If you don’t mind.”

  Yaeger raised his arms and stretched. “This is how I get my kicks. You look like you’ve had it, though. Why don’t you shove off and get some sleep? If I stumble on anything, I’ll give you a call.”

  Pitt gratefully left Yaeger at NUMA headquarters and drove across the river to the airport. He stopped the Talbot-Lago in front of his hangar door, slipped a small transmitter from his coat pocket and pressed a preset code. In sequence the security alarm systems closed down and the massive door lifted to a height of seven feet. He parked the car inside
and reversed the process. Then wearily he climbed the stairway, entered the living room and turned on the lights.

  A man was sitting in Pitt’s favorite reading chair, his hands folded on a briefcase that rested on his lap. There was a patient look about him, almost deadly, with only the tiniest hint of an indifferent smile. He wore an old-fashioned fedora hat and his custom-tailored coat, specially cut to conceal a lethal bulge, was unbuttoned just enough to reveal the butt of a.45 automatic.

  For a moment they stared at each other, neither speaking, like fighters sizing up their opponents.

  At last Pitt broke the silence. “I guess the appropriate thing to say is, Who the hell are you?”

  The thin smile broadened into a set grin. “I’m a private investigator, Mr. Pitt. My name is Casio, Sal Casio.”

  24

  “You have any problem entering?”

  “Your security system is good — not great, but good enough to discourage most burglars and juvenile vandals.”

  “That mean I flunked the test?”

  “Not entirely. I’d grade you a C-plus.”

  Pitt moved very slowly to an antique oak icebox he’d rebuilt into a liquor cabinet and eased open the door. “Would you like a drink, Mr. Casio?”

  “A shot of Jack Daniel’s on ice, thanks.”

  “A lucky guess. I happen to have a bottle.”

  “I peeked,” said Casio. “Oh, and by the way, I took the liberty of removing the clip from the gun.”

  “Gun?” Pitt asked innocently.

  “The.32-caliber Mauser automatic, serial number 922374, cleverly taped behind the half-gallon bottle of gin.”

  Pitt gave Casio a long look indeed. “How long did it take?”

  “To make a search?”

  Pitt nodded silently as he opened the refrigerator door for the ice.

  “About forty-five minutes.”

  “And you found the other two guns I squirreled away.”

  “Three actually.”

  “You’re very thorough.”

  “Nothing that is hidden in a house can’t be found. And some of us are more talented at probing than others. It’s simply a matter of technique.” There was nothing boastful in Casio’s tone. He spoke as though merely stating an accepted truth.

  Pitt poured the drink and brought it into the living room on a tray. Casio took the glass with his right hand. Then suddenly Pitt dropped the tray, exposing a small vest-pocket.25-caliber automatic aimed at Casio’s forehead.

  Casio’s only reaction was a thin smile. “Very good,” he said approvingly. “So there were a total of five.”

  “Inside an empty milk carton,” Pitt explained.

  “Nicely done, Mr. Pitt. A clever touch, waiting until my gun hand was holding a glass. That shows you were thinking. I’ll have to mark you up to a B-minus.”

  Pitt clicked on the safety and lowered the gun. “If you came here to kill me, Mr. Casio, you could have blown me away when I stepped through the door. What’s on your mind?”

  Casio nodded down at his briefcase. “May I?”

  “Go ahead.”

  He set the drink down, opened the case and pulled out a bulging cardboard folder that was held together with rubber bands. “A case I’ve worked on since 1966.”

  “A long time. You must be a stubborn man.”

  “I hate to let go of it,” Casio admitted. “It’s like walking away from a jigsaw puzzle before it’s completed, or putting down a good book. Sooner or later every investigator gets on a case that has him staring at the ceiling nights, the case he can never solve. This one has a personal tie, Mr. Pitt. It began twenty-three years ago when a girl, a bank teller by the name of Arta Casilighio, stole $128,000 from a bank in Los Angeles.”

  “How can that concern me?”

  “She was last seen boarding a ship called the San Marino.”

  “Okay, so you read the press story about the shipwreck discovery.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you think this girl disappeared with the San Marino?”

  “I’m certain of it.”

  “Then your case is solved. The thief is dead and the money gone forever.”

  “Not that simple,” said Casio, staring into his glass. “There’s no doubt Arta Casilighio is dead, but the money is not gone forever. Arta took freshly printed currency from the Federal Reserve Bank. All serial numbers were recorded, so it was an easy matter to account for the missing bills.” Casio paused to look over his glass into Pitt’s eyes. “Two years ago the missing money finally turned up.”

  Sudden interest flared in Pitt’s eyes. He sat down in a chair facing Casio. “All of it?” he asked cautiously.

  Casio nodded. “It appeared in dribbles and spurts. Five thousand in Frankfurt, a thousand in Cairo, all in foreign banks. None came to light in the United States, except one hundred-dollar bill.”

  “Then Arta didn’t die on the San Marino.”

  “She vanished with the ship all right. The FBI connected her to a stolen passport belonging to an Estelle Wallace. With that lead they were able to follow her as far as San Francisco. Then they lost her. I kept digging and finally ran down a drifter who sometimes drove a cab when he needed booze money. He remembered hauling her to the boarding ramp of the San Marino.”

  “Can you trust the memory of a lush?”

  Casio smiled confidently. “Arta gave him a crisp new hundred-dollar bill for the fare. He couldn’t make change so she told him to keep it. Believe me, it took little effort for him to recall the event.”

  “If stolen Federal Reserve currency is in FBI jurisdiction, where do you fit in the picture? Why the dogged pursuit of a criminal whose trail is ice cold?”

  “Before I shortened my name for business reasons, it was Casilighio. Arta was my daughter.”

  There was an uncomfortable silence. From outside the windows overlooking the river came the rumble of a jetliner taking off. Pitt stood up and went into the kitchen, where he poured a cup of coffee from a cold pot and placed it in a microwave oven. “Care for another drink, Mr. Casio?”

  Casio shook his head.

  “So the bottom line is that you think there’s something queer about your daughter’s disappearance?”

  “She and the ship never made port, but the money she stole turns up in a manner that suggests it’s being laundered a little at a time. Doesn’t that suggest a queer circumstance to you, Mr. Pitt?”

  “I can’t deny you make a good case.” The microwave beeped and Pitt retrieved a steaming cup. “But I’m not sure what you want from me.”

  “I have some questions.”

  Pitt sat down, his interest going beyond mere curiosity. “Don’t expect detailed answers.”

  “I understand.”

  “Fire away.”

  “Where did you find the San Marino? I mean in what part of the Pacific Ocean?”

  “Near the southern coast of Alaska,” Pitt replied vaguely.

  “A bit far off the track for a ship steaming from San Francisco to New Zealand, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Way off the track,” Pitt agreed.

  “As far as two thousand miles?”

  “And then some.” Pitt took a swallow of coffee and made a face. It was strong enough to use as brick mortar. He looked up. “Before we continue it’s going to cost you.”

  Casio gave him a reappraising eye. “Somehow you never struck me as the type who’d extend a greasy palm.”

  “I’d like to have the names of the banks in Europe that passed the stolen money.”

  “Any particular reason?” Casio asked, not bothering to conceal his puzzlement.

  “None I can tell you about.”

  “You’re not very cooperative.”

  Pitt started to reply, but the phone on an end table rang loudly.

  “Hello.”

  “Dirk, this is Yaeger. You still awake.”

  “Thank you for calling. How is Sally? Is she out of intensive care yet?”

  “Can’t talk, huh?”
>
  “Not too well.”

  “But you can listen.”

  “No problem.”

  “Bad news. I’m not getting anywhere. I’d stand a better chance of throwing a deck of cards in the air and catching a straight flush.”

  “Maybe I can knock down the odds. Hold on a minute.” Pitt turned to Casio. “About that list of banks.”

  Casio slowly rose, poured himself another shot of Jack Daniel’s and stood with his back to Pitt.

  “A trade-off, Mr. Pitt. The bank list for what you know about the San Marino.”

  “Most of my information is government classified.”

  “I don’t give a damn if it’s stenciled on the inside of the President’s jockey shorts. Either we deal or I pack up and hike.”

  “How do you know I won’t lie?”

  “My list could be phony.”

  “Then we’ll just have to trust each.other,” said Pitt with a loose grin.

  “The hell we will,” grunted Casio. “But neither of us has any choice.”

  He took a sheet of paper from the folder and handed it to Pitt, who in turn read off the names over the phone to Yaeger.

  “Now what?” Casio demanded.

  “Now I tell you what happened to the San Marino. And by breakfast I may also be able to tell you who killed your daughter.”

  25

  Fifteen minutes after sunrise, the photoelectric controllers in all of Washington’s streetlights closed off their circuits. One by one, separated by no more than a few seconds, the yellow and red rays of the high-pressure sodium lamps faded and died, to wait through the daylight hours until fifteen minutes before sunset, when their light-sensitive controllers would boost them to life again.

  Beneath the dimming glow of the streetlights, Sam Emmett could hear the vibration from the early-morning traffic as he walked hurriedly through the utility tunnel. There was no Marine Corps or Secret Service escort. He came alone, as did the others. The only person he’d met since leaving his car under the Treasury building was the White House guard stationed at the basement door. At the head of the hallway leading to the Situation Room, Emmett was greeted by Alan Mercier.