Deep Six dp-7 Page 21

  “Which is?” Polevoi asked expectantly.

  “We hold up our end of the bargain,” said Antonov slowly.

  “You mean pay?” Polevoi asked incredulously.

  “Down to the last troy ounce.”

  Polevoi was stunned. “I’m sorry, Comrade President, but it was my understanding—”

  “I’ve changed my mind,” Antonov said sharply. “I have a better solution.”

  Polevoi waited several moments in silence, but it was apparent Antonov wasn’t going to confide in him. He slowly dropped back, finally coming to a halt.

  Surrounded by his entourage, Antonov kept walking, his mind rapidly altering course and dwelling on other matters of state concern.

  Suvorov pressed the switch to his night-light and checked the time on his watch. It read 4:04. Not too bad, he thought. He had programmed his mind to awaken at four in the morning and he’d only missed by four minutes.

  Unable to suppress a yawn, he quickly pulled on a shirt and pair of pants, not bothering with socks or shoes. Stepping into the bathroom, he splashed his face with cold water, then moved across the small bedroom and cracked the door.

  The brightly lit corridor was empty. Except for two psychologists monitoring the subjects, everyone else was asleep. As he walked the carpet in his bare feet, he began measuring the interior dimensions of the facilities and jotting them down in the notebook. Between the four outer walls he arrived at 168 feet in length by 33 feet in width. The ceiling was nearly ten feet high.

  He came to the door of the medical supply room and gently eased open the door. It was never locked, because Lugovoy saw no reason for anyone to steal anything. He stepped inside, closed the door and turned on the light. Moving swiftly, Suvorov found the small bottles containing sedative solutions. He set them in a row on the sink and sucked out their contents with a syringe, emptying the fluid down the drain. Then he refilled the bottles with water and neatly rearranged them on the shelf.

  He returned unseen to his sleeping quarters and slipped into bed once again and stared at the ceiling.

  He was pleased with himself. His moves had gone undetected with no sign of the slightest suspicion. Now all he had to do was wait for the right moment.

  37

  It was a shadowy dream. The kind he could never remember when he woke up. He was searching for someone in the bowels of a deserted ship. Dust and gloom obscured his vision. Like the dive on the Eagle: green river algae and russet silt.

  His quarry drifted in front of him, blurred, always beyond reach. He hesitated and tried to focus through the gloom, but the form taunted him, beckoning him closer.

  Then a high-pitched ringing sound went off in his ear and he floated out of the dream and groped for the telephone.

  “Dirk?” came a cheery voice from a throat he wanted to throttle.

  “Yes.”

  “Got some news for you.”

  “Huh?”

  “You asleep? This is St. Julien.”

  “Perlmutter?”

  “Wake up. I found something.”

  Then Pitt switched on the bed light and sat up. “Okay, I’m listening.”

  “I’ve received a written report from my friends in Korea. They went through Korean shipyard records. Guess what? The Belle Chasse was never scrapped.”

  Pitt threw back the covers and dropped his feet on the floor. “Go on.”

  “Sorry I took so long getting back to you, but this is the most incredible maritime puzzle I’ve ever seen. For thirty years somebody has been playing musical chairs with ships like you wouldn’t believe.”

  “Try me.”

  “First, let me ask you a question,” said Perl mutter. “The name on the stern of the ship you found in Alaska?”

  “The Pilottown?”

  “Were the painted letters framed by welded beading?”

  Pitt thought back. “As I recall it was faded paint. The raised edges must have been ground away.”

  Perlmutter uttered a heavy sigh of relief over the phone. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

  “Why?”

  “Your suspicions are confirmed. The San Marino, the Belle Chasse and the Pilottown are indeed one and the same ship.”

  “Damn!” Pitt said, suddenly excited. “How’d you make the link?”

  “By discovering what happened to the genuine Pilottown,” said Perlmutter with a dramatic inflection. “My sources found no record of a Belle Chasse being scrapped in the shipyards of Pusan. So I played a hunch and asked them to check out any other yards along the coast. They turned up a lead in the port of Inchon. Shipyard foremen are interesting guys. They never forget a ship, especially one they’ve junked. They act hard-nosed about it, but deep down they’re sad to see a tired old vessel pulled into their dock for the last time. Anyway, one old retired foreman talked for hours about the good old days. A real gold mine of ship lore.”

  “What did he say?” Pitt asked impatiently.

  “He recalled in great detail when he was in charge of the crew who converted the San Marino from a cargo transport into an ore carrier renamed the Belle Chasse.”

  “But the shipyard records?”

  “Obviously falsified by the shipyard owners, who, by the way, happened to be our old friends the Sosan Trading Company. The foreman also remembered breaking up the original Pilottown. It looks like Sosan Trading, or the shady outfit behind it, hijacked the San Marino and its cargo and killed the crew. Then they modified the cargo holds to carry ore, documented it under a different name and sent it tramping around the seas.”

  “Where does the Pilottown come in?” asked Pitt.

  “She was a legitimate purchase by Sosan Trading. You may be interested to know the International Maritime Crime Center has her listed with ten suspected customs violations. A hell of a high number. It’s thought she smuggled everything from plutonium to Libya, rebel arms to Argentina, secret American technology to Russia, you name it. She sailed under a smart bunch of operators. The violations were never proven. On five occasions she was known to have left port with clandestine cargo but was never caught unloading it. When her hull and engines finally wore out, she was conveniently scrapped and all records destroyed.”

  “But why claim her as sunk if it was really the San Marino, alias the Belle Chasse, they scuttled?”

  “Because questions might be raised regarding the Belle Chasse’s pedigree. The Pilottown had solid documentation, so they claimed it was she that sank in 1979, along with a nonexistent cargo, and demanded a fat settlement from the insurance companies.”

  Pitt glanced down at his toes and wiggled them. “Did the old foreman talk about other ship conversions for Sosan Trading?”

  “He mentioned two, a tanker and a container ship,” Perlmutter answered. “But they were both refits and not conversions. Their new names were the Boothville and the Venice.”

  “What were their former names?”

  “According to my friend’s report, the foreman claimed that all previous identification had been removed.”

  “Looks like somebody built themselves a fleet out of hijacked ships.”

  “A cheap and dirty way of doing business.”

  “Anything new on the parent company?” Pitt asked.

  “Still a closed door,” Perlmutter replied. “The foreman did say, however, some big shot used to show up to inspect the ships when they were completed and ready to sail.”

  Pitt stood up. “What else?”

  “That’s about it.”

  “There has to be something, a physical description, a name, something.”

  “Wait a minute while I check through the report again.”

  Pitt could hear the rustle of papers and Perlmutter mumbling to himself. “Okay, here it is. ‘The VIP always arrived in a big black limousine.’ No make mentioned. ‘He was tall for a Korean—’ “

  “Korean?”

  “That’s what it says,” replied Perlmutter. “ ‘And he spoke Korean with an American accent.’ “

 
; The shadowed figure in Pitt’s dream moved a step closer. “St. Julien, you do good work.”

  “Sorry I couldn’t take it all the way.”

  “You bought us a first down.”

  “Nail the bastard, Dirk.”

  “I intend to.”

  “If you need me, I’m more than willing.”

  “Thank you, St. Julien.”

  Pitt walked to the closet, threw on a brief kimono and knotted the sash. Then he padded into the kitchen, treated himself to a glass of guava juice laced with dark rum and dialed a number on the phone.

  After several rings an indifferent voice answered: “Yeah?”

  “Hiram, crank up your computer. I’ve got a new problem for you.”

  38

  The tension was like a twisting knot in the pit of Suvorov’s stomach. For most of the evening he had sat in the monitoring room making small talk with the two psychologists who manned the telemetry equipment, telling jokes and bringing them coffee from the kitchen. They failed to notice that Suvorov’s eyes seldom strayed from the digital clock on one wall.

  Lugovoy entered the room at 11:20 P.M. and made his routine examination of the analogous data on the President. At 11:38 he turned to Suvorov. “Join me in a glass of port, Captain?”

  “Not tonight,” Suvorov said, making a pained face. “I have a heavy case of indigestion. I’ll settle for a glass of milk later.”

  “As you wish,” Lugovoy said agreeably. “See you at breakfast.”

  Ten minutes after Lugovoy left, Suvorov noticed a small movement on one of the TV monitors. It was almost imperceptible at first, but then it was caught by one of the psychologists.

  “What in hell!” he gasped.

  “Something wrong?” asked the other.

  “Senator Larimer — he’s waking up.”

  “Can’t be.”

  “I don’t see anything,” said Suvorov, moving closer.

  “His alpha activity is a clear nine-to-ten-cycle-per-second set of waves that shouldn’t be there if he was in his programmed sleep stage.”

  “Vice President Margolin’s waves are increasing too.”

  “We’d better call Dr. Lugovoy—”

  The words hardly escaped his mouth when Suvorov cut him down with a savage judo chop to the base of the skull. In almost the same gesture, Suvorov swung a crosscut with the palm of the other hand into the throat of the second psychologist, crushing the man’s windpipe.

  Even before his victims hit the floor, Suvorov coldly gazed at the clock. The blinking red numbers displayed 11:49—eleven minutes before Lugovoy was scheduled to exit the laboratory in the elevator. Suvorov had practiced his movements many times, allowing no more than two minutes for unpredictable delays.

  He stepped over the lifeless bodies and ran from the monitor room into the chamber containing the subjects in their soundproofed cocoons. He unlatched the top of the third one, threw back the cover and peered inside.

  Senator Marcus Larimer stared back at him. “What is this place? Who the hell are you?” the senator mumbled.

  “A friend,” answered Suvorov, lifting Larimer out of the cocoon and half carrying, half dragging him to a chair.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Be quiet and trust me.”

  Suvorov took a syringe from his pocket and injected Larimer with a stimulant. He repeated the process with Vice President Margolin, who looked around dazedly and offered no resistance. They were naked, and Suvorov brusquely threw them blankets.

  “Wrap yourselves in these,” he ordered.

  Congressman Alan Moran had not yet awakened. Suvorov lifted him out of the cocoon and laid him on the floor. Then he turned and walked over to the unit enclosing the President. The American leader was still unconscious. The latch mechanism was different from the other cocoons, and Suvorov wasted precious seconds trying to pry open the cover. His fingers seemed to lose all feeling and he fought to control them. He began to sense the first prickle of fear.

  His watch read 11:57. He was beyond his timetable; his two-minute reserve evaporated. Panic was replacing fear. He reached down and snatched a Colt Woodsman.22-caliber automatic from a holster strapped to his right calf. He screwed on a four-inch suppressor; and for a brief instant he was not himself, a man outside himself, a man whose only code of duty and unleashed emotion blinded his perception. He aimed the gun at the President’s forehead on the other side of the transparent cover.

  Through the mist of his drugged mind, Margolin recognized what Suvorov was about to do. He staggered across the cocoon chamber and lurched into the Russian agent, grabbing for the gun. Suvorov just sidestepped and pushed him against the wall. Somehow Margolin remained on his feet. His vision was blurred and distorted, and a wave of sudden nausea threatened to gag him. He flung himself forward in another attempt to save the President’s life.

  Suvorov smashed the barrel of the gun against Margolin’s temple and the Vice President dropped limply in a heap, blood streaming down the side of his face. For a moment Suvorov stood rooted. His well-rehearsed plan was cracking and crumbling apart. Time had run out.

  His last fleeting hope lay in salvaging the pieces. He forgot the President, kicked Margolin out of the way and shoved Larimer through the door. Heaving the still unconscious Moran over his shoulder, he herded the uncomprehending senator down the corridor to the elevator. They stumbled around the final corner just as the concealed doors parted and Lugovoy was about to step inside.

  “Stop right where you are, Doctor.”

  Lugovoy whirled and stared dumbly. The Colt was held rocksteady in Suvorov’s hand. The eyes — of the KGB agent blazed with a contemptuous disdain.

  “You fool!” Lugovoy blurted as the full realization of what was happening struck him. “You bloody fool!”

  “Shut up!” Suvorov snapped. “And step back out of the way.”

  “You don’t know what you’re doing.”

  “I’m only doing my duty as a good Russian.”

  “You’re ruining years of planning,” Lugovoy said angrily. “President Antonov will have you shot.”

  “No more of your lies, Doctor. Your insane project has placed our government in extreme jeopardy. It is you who will be executed. It is you who is the traitor.”

  “Wrong,” Lugovoy said in near shock. “Can’t you see the truth?”

  “I see you working for the Koreans. Most likely the South Koreans who have bought you off.”

  “For God’s sake, listen to me.”

  “A good Communist has no God but the party,” said Suvorov, roughly elbowing Lugovoy aside and shoving the unprotesting Americans into the elevator. “I have no more time to argue.”

  A wave of despair swept Lugovoy. “Please, you can’t do this,” he pleaded.

  Suvorov did not reply. He turned and glared malevolently as the elevator doors closed and blocked him from view.

  39

  As the elevator rose, Suvorov reversed the gun and smashed out the overhead light with the butt. Moran moaned and went through the motions of coming to, rubbing his eyes and shaking his head to clear the fog. Larimer became sick and vomited in a corner, his breath coming in great croaking heaves.

  The elevator eased to a smooth stop and the doors automatically opened to a smothering rush of warm air. The only light came from three dim yellow bulbs that hung suspended on a wire like ailing glowworms. The air was dank and heavy and smelled of diesel oil and rotting vegetation.

  Two men stood about ten feet away, engaged in conversation, waiting for Lugovoy to make his scheduled progress report. They turned and peered questioningly into the darkened elevator. One of them held an attaché case. The only other detail Suvorov noted before he shot them each twice in the chest was the Oriental fold of their eyes.

  He slung his free arm under Moran’s waist and hauled him across what seemed like a rusting iron floor. He kicked Larimer ahead of him as he would a remorseful dog that had run away from home. The senator reeled like a drunk, too sick to speak, too
stunned to resist. Suvorov pushed the gun inside his belt and took Larimer’s arm, guiding him. The skin under his hand felt goose-fleshed and clammy. Suvorov hoped the old legislator’s heart wasn’t about to give out.

  Suvorov cursed as he stumbled over a large chain. Then he stopped and peered down an enclosed ramp that stretched into the dark. He felt as if he were inside a sauna; his clothes were turning damp with sweat and his hair was plastered down his forehead and temples. He tripped and almost fell, regaining his balance just before he was about to sprawl on the cross slats of the ramp.

  Moran’s dead weight was becoming increasingly burdensome, and Suvorov realized his strength was ebbing. He doubted whether he could lug the congressman another fifty yards.

  At last they left the tunnel-like ramp and staggered out into the night. He looked up and was vastly relieved to see a diamond-clear sky carpeted with stars. Beneath his feet the ground felt like a graveled road and there were no lights to be seen anywhere. In the shadows off to his left he dimly recognized the outline of a car. Pulling Larimer into a ditch beside the road, he gratefully dropped Moran like a bag of sand and cautiously circled around, approaching the car from the rear.

  He froze into immobility, rigid against the shadowless landscape, and listened. The engine was running and music was playing on the radio. The windows were tightly rolled up and Suvorov rightly assumed the air conditioner was on.

  Silent as a cat, he crouched and moved in closer, keeping low and out of any reflection in the sideview mirror on the door. The inside was too dark to make out more than one vague form behind the wheel. If there were others, Suvorov’s only ally was the element of surprise.

  The car was a stretch-bodied limousine, and to Suvorov it seemed as long as a city block. From the raised letters on the rear of the trunk, he identified it as a Cadillac. He’d never driven one and hoped he would have no trouble finding the right switches and controls.

  His groping fingers found the door handle. He took a deep breath and tore open the door. The interior light flicked on and the man in the front seat twisted his head around, his mouth opening to shout. Suvorov shot him twice, the silver-tip hollow-point bullets tearing through the rib cage under the armpit.