'This is as far as we can go without being spotted,' he said quietly to Giordino, who was calmly floating on his back a meter away.
'No grand entrance?' Giordino queried.
'Discretion tells me we'd be better off to advise Admiral Sandecker of our situation before we crash the party.'
'You're right as usual, O great one,' Giordino acquiesced. 'The owner might take us for thieves in the night, which we are, and clap us in irons, which he will no doubt do anyway.'
'I judge it about 20 meters. How's your wind?'
'I can hold my breath as long as you can.'
Pitt took several deep breaths, hyperventilating to purge the carbon dioxide from his lungs, and then inhaled until every cubic millimeter was filled with oxygen before slipping under the water.
Knowing that Giordino was following his lead, he dove deep and angled against the unseen current. He stayed deep, almost 3 meters down, stroking for the side of the houseboat. He could tell when he was getting close by the increasing light on the surface. When a shadow slipped over him he knew he had passed under the curve of the hull. Extending a hand over his head so he wouldn't strike his head, he slowly ascended until his fingers touched the slime that had formed on the boat's bottom. Then he slightly veered so his head broke the water alongside the aluminum side.
He sucked in the night air and looked up. Except for several hands draped on the railing only 2 meters above his head, he could not see the passengers, nor could they see him, unless one of them leaned over and stared straight down. It was impossible to board the ship on the gangway without being seen. Giordino surfaced and immediately read the predicament.
Silently, Pitt motioned under the hull. He held apart his hands, indicating the depth of the boat's draft. Giordino nodded in understanding as they both filled their lungs again. Then they quietly rolled forward out of sight, leveled off, and swam under the bottom of the hull. The beam was so wide it took them nearly a minute before they resurfaced on the other side.
The port decks were empty and lifeless. Everyone was around the starboard side, attracted by the destruction of the Calliope. A rubber bumper hung along the hull and Pitt and Giordino used it to pull themselves on board. Pitt hesitated all of two seconds to figure a rough layout of the boat. They were standing on the deck that held the guest suites. They would have to go up. Trailed by Giordino he cautiously moved up a stairway to the next deck. One quick peek through a large port at a dining salon with the size and elegance of a deluxe hotel restaurant and they continued upward to the deck just below the pilothouse.
He cracked open a door and peered into what was a lavishly furnished lounge. All glass, delicately curved metalwork, and leather in golds and yellows. An ornate, fully stocked bar graced one wall.
The bartender was gone, probably gawking with the others outside, but a blond-haired woman with long bare legs, narrow waistline, and bronze-tanned skin sat at a baby grand piano that was covered in gleaming brass. She wore a seductively tight, black sequinned mini dress. She was playing a moody rendition of 'The Last Time I Saw Paris,' and was playing it badly while singing the words in a throaty voice. Four empty martini glasses sat in a row above the keyboard. She looked as if she had spent the entire day since sunup drowning in gin, the obvious cause behind her sour performance. She stopped in mid-chorus, staring in hazy curiosity at Pitt and Giordino through velvet green eyes, bleary and barely half open.
'What cat dragged you guys in here?' she slurred.
Pitt, catching a glimpse of himself and Giordino in the mirror behind the bar, a glimpse of a pair of men in soaked T-shirts and shorts, of men whose hair was plastered down on their heads and who hadn't bothered to shave in over a week, thought wryly to himself that he couldn't blame her for looking at them like they were drowned rats. He held a finger to his lips for silence, took one of her hands and kissed it, then flitted past her through a doorway into a hall.
Giordino paused and gave her a wistful look and winked a brown eye. 'My name is Al,' he whispered in her ear. 'I love you and shall return.'
And then he too was gone.
The hallway seemed to stretch into infinity. Side passages ran in every direction, an intimidating labyrinth to those suddenly thrust in its midst. If the houseboat looked large from the outside, it seemed downright enormous on the inside.
'We could use a couple of motorcycles and a road map,' Giordino muttered.
'If I owned this boat,' said Pitt, 'I'd put my office and communications center up forward to enjoy the view over the bow.'
'I think I want to marry the piano player.'
'Not now,' Pitt murmured wearily. 'Let's head forward and check the doors as we go.'
Identifying the compartments turned easy. The doors were labeled with fancy scrolled brass plates. As Pitt guessed, the one at the end of the hallway bore the title of Mr. Massarde's Private Once.
'Must be the guy who owns this floating palace,' said Giordino.
Pitt didn't answer but eased open the door. Any corporate executive officer of one of the larger companies of the Western world would have turned green with envy at seeing the office suite of the houseboat anchored in the desert wilderness. The centerpiece was a Spanish antique conference table with ten chairs upholstered in dyed wool designs by master weavers on the Navajo reservation. Incredibly, the decor and artifacts on the walls and pedestals were American Southwest territorial. Life-size Hopi Kachina sculptures carved entirely from the huge roots of cottonwood trees stood in tall niches set within the bulkheads. The ceiling was covered by latillas, small branches placed across vigas, poles that acted as a roof support; the windows were covered by willow-twig shutters. For a moment Pitt couldn't believe he was on a boat.
Collections of fine ceremonial pottery and coil-woven baskets sat comfortably on long shelves behind a huge desk built from sun-bleached wood. A complete communications system was mounted in a nineteenth-century trastero, or cabinet.
The room was vacant, and Pitt lost no time. He crossed hurriedly to the phone console, sat down, and studied the complex array of buttons and dials for a few moments. Then he began punching numbers. When he completed the country and city codes, he added Sandecker's private number and sat back. The speaker on the console emitted a series of clicks and clacks. Then came ten full seconds of silence. At last the peculiar buzz sound of an American telephone being rung echoed from the speaker.
After ten full rings, there was no reply. 'For God's sake, why doesn't he answer,' Pitt said in frustration.
'Washington is five hours behind Mali. It's midnight there. He's probably in bed.'
Pitt shook his head. 'Not Sandecker. He never sleeps during a project crisis.'
'He'd better get on the horn quick,' Giordino implored. 'The posse is following our water tracks up the hallway.'
'Keep them at bay,' Pitt said.
'What if they have guns?'
'Worry about it when the time comes.'
Giordino glanced around the room at the Indian art. 'Keep them at bay, he says,' Giordino grunted. 'Custer having fun in Montana, that's me.'
At last a woman's voice came over the speaker. 'Admiral Sandecker's office.'
Pitt snatched the receiver out of its cradle. 'Julie?'
Sandecker's private secretary, Julie Wolff, sucked in her breath. 'Oh Mr. Pitt, is that you?'
'Yes, I didn't expect you to be in the office this time of night.'
'Nobody has slept since we lost communications with you. Thank God, you're alive. Everyone at NUMA has been worried sick. Is Mr. Giordino and Mr. Gunn all right?'
'They're fine. Is the Admiral nearby?'
'He's meeting with a UN tactical team about how to smuggle you out of Mali. I'll get him right away.'
Less than a minute later, Sandecker's voice came on in combination with a loud pounding on the door. 'Disk?'
'I don't have time for a lengthy situation report, Admiral. Please switch on your recorder.'
'It's on.'
