Deep Six

“You read it anyway you wish to see it, Mr. Pitt. I’ve gone as far as I can go.”

“Thank you, Dr. Perth,” Pitt said, suddenly exultant. “Thank you very much.”

33

“So that’s Dirk Pitt,” Min Koryo said. She sat in her wheelchair peering over a breakfast tray at a large TV screen in her office wall.

Lee Tong sat beside her watching the videotape of the Hoki Jamoki anchored over the presidential yacht. “What puzzles me,” he said quietly, “is how he discovered the wreck so quickly. It’s as though he knew exactly where to search.”

Min Koryo set her chin in frail hands and bowed her graying head, eyes locked on the screen, the thin blue veins in her temples pulsing in concentration. Her face slowly tightened in anger. She looked like an Egyptian mummy whose skin had somehow bleached white and remained smooth.

“Pitt and NUMA.” She hissed in exasperation. “What are those wily bastards up to? First the San Marino and Pilottown publicity hoax, and now this.”

“It can only be coincidence,” Lee Tong suggested. “There is no direct link between the freighters and the yacht.”

“Better an informer.” Her voice cut like a whip. “We’ve been sold out.”

“Not a valid conclusion, aunumi,” said Lee Tong, amused at her sudden outburst. “Only you and I knew the facts. Everyone else is dead.”

“Nothing is ever immune to failure. Only fools think they’re perfect.”

Lee Tong was in no mood for his grandmother’s Oriental philosophy. “Do not concern yourself unnecessarily,” he said acidly. “A government investigating team would have eventually stumbled onto the yacht anyway. We could not make the President’s transfer in broad daylight without running the danger of being seen and stopped. And since the yacht wasn’t reported after sunrise, simple mathematics suggested that it was still somewhere on or below the river between Washington and Chesapeake Bay.”

“A conclusion Mr. Pitt apparently had no trouble arriving at.”

“It changes nothing,” said Lee Tong. “Time is still on our side. Once Lugovoy is satisfied at his results, all that remains for us is to oversee the gold shipment. After that, President Antonov can have the President. But we keep Margolin, Larimer and Moran for insurance and future bargaining power. Trust me, aunumi, the tricky part is past. The Bougainville corporate fortress is secure.”

“Maybe so, but the hounds are getting too close.”

“We’re matching ourselves against highly trained and intelligent people who possess the finest technology in the world. They may come within reach, but they’ll never fully grasp our involvement.”

Mollified somewhat, Min Koryo sighed and sipped at her ever present teacup. “Have you talked to Lugovoy in the past eight hours?”

“Yes. He claims he’s encountered no setbacks and can complete the project in five more days.”

“Five days,” she said pensively. “I think it is time we made the final arrangements with Antonov for payment. Has our ship arrived?”

“The Venice docked at Odessa two days ago.”

“Who is ship’s master?”

“Captain James Mangyai, a trusted employee of the company,” Lee Tong answered.

Min Koryo nodded approvingly. “And a good seaman. He hired on with me almost twenty years ago.”

“He has his orders to cast off and set sail the minute the last crate of gold is loaded aboard.”

“Good. Now we’ll see what kind of stalling tactics Antonov will try. To begin with, he’ll no doubt demand to hold up payment until Lugovoy’s experiment is a proven success. This we will not do. In the meantime, he’ll have an army of KGB agents combing the American countryside, looking for the President and our laboratory facilities.”

“No Russian or American will figure out where we have Lugovoy and his staff hidden,” Lee Tong said firmly.

“They found the yacht,” Min Koryo reminded him.

Before Lee Tong could reply, the video screen turned to snow as the tape played out. He set the control for rewind. “Do you wish to view it again?” he asked.

“Yes, I want to examine the diving crew more closely.”

When the recorder automatically switched off, Lee Tong pressed the “play” button and the picture returned to life.

Min Koryo watched it impassively for a minute and then said, “What is the latest status report on the wreck site?”

“A NUMA salvage crew is bringing up the bodies and preparing to raise the yacht.”

“Who is the man with the red beard talking with Pitt?”

Lee Tong enlarged the scene until both men filled the screen. “That’s Admiral James Sandecker, Director of NUMA.”

“Your man was not seen filming Pitt’s movements?”

“No, he’s one of the best in the business. An ex-FBI agent. He was contracted for the job through one of our subsidiary corporations and told that Pitt is suspected of selling NUMA equipment to outside sources.”

“What do we know about Pitt?”

“I have a complete dossier flying in from Washington. It should be here within the hour.”

Min Koryo’s mouth tightened as she moved closer to the TV. “How could he know so much? NUMA is an oceanographic agency. They don’t employ secret agents. Why is he coming after us?”

“It’ll pay us to find out.”

“Move in closer,” she ordered.

Lee Tong again enlarged the image, moving past Sandecker’s shoulder until it seemed as though Pitt was talking to the camera. Then he froze the picture.

Min Koryo placed a pair of square-lensed glasses over her narrow nose and stared at the weathered but handsome face that stared back. Her dark eyes flashed briefly. “Goodbye, Mr. Pitt.”

Then she reached over and pushed the “off’ switch, and the screen went black.

The smoke from Suvorov’s cigarette hung heavily in the air of the dining room as he and Lugovoy shared a bottle of 1966 Croft Vintage Port. Suvorov looked at the red liquid in his glass and scowled.

“All these Mongolians ever serve us is beer and wine. What I wouldn’t give for a bottle of good vodka.”

Lugovoy selected a cigar out of a box that was held by one of the Korean waiters. “You have no culture, Suvorov. This happens to be an excellent port.”

“American decadence has not rubbed off on me,” Suvorov said arrogantly.

“Call it what you will, but you rarely see Americans defecting to Russia because of our disciplined lifestyle,” Lugovoy retorted sarcastically.

“You’re beginning to talk like them, drink like them; next you’ll want to murder and rape in the streets like them. At least I know where my loyalties lie.”

Lugovoy studied the cigar thoughtfully. “So do I. What I accomplish here will have grave effects on our nation’s policy toward the United States. It is of far greater importance than your KGB’s petty theft of industrial secrets.”

Suvorov appeared too mellowed by the wine to respond angrily to the psychologist’s remarks. “Your actions will be reported to our superiors.”

“I’ve told you endlessly. This project is underwritten by President Antonov himself.”

“I don’t believe you.”

Lugovoy lit the cigar and blew a puff of smoke toward the ceiling. “Your opinion is irrelevant.”

“We must find a means to contact the outside.” Suvorov’s voice rose.

“You’re crazy,” Lugovoy said seriously. “I’m telling you, no! I’m ordering you not to interfere. Can’t you use your eyes, your brain? Look around you. All this was in preparation for years. Every detail has been carefully planned