Deep Six (27 page)

“Are your subjects living?”

“No, drowning victims.”

“A pity. With the living individual there are little traits of facial expressions that are culturally acquired and can be detected by someone who has had a lot of experience with both races. A pretty good guess may be made on that basis alone.”

“No such luck.”

“Perhaps if you could define their facial characteristics to me.”

Pitt dreaded the thought, but he closed his eyes and began describing the lifeless heads he’d seen on the
Eagle.
At first the vision was vague, but soon it focused with clarity and he found himself dissecting each detail with the callous objectivity of a surgeon narrating a heart transplant into a tape recorder. At one point he suddenly broke off.

“Yes, Mr. Pitt, please go on,” said Dr. Perth.

“I just remembered something that escaped me,” Pitt said. “Two of the bodies did in fact have thick facial hair. One had a mustache while another sprouted a goatee.”

“Interesting.”

“So they weren’t Korean or Chinese?”

“Not necessarily.”

“What else could they be but Japanese?”

“You’re leaping before you look, Mr. Pitt,” she said, as if lecturing a student. “The features you’ve described to me suggest a heavy tendency toward the classic Mongoloid.”

“But the facial hair?”

“You must consider history. The Japanese have been invading and marauding Korea since the sixteenth century. And for thirty-five years, from 1910 until 1945, Korea was a colony of Japan, so there was a great blending of their particular genetic variations.”

Pitt hesitated before he put the next question to Dr. Perth. Then he chose his words carefully. “If you were to stick your neck out and give an opinion on the race of the men I’ve described, what would you say?”

Grace Perth came back with all flags flying. “Looking at it from a percentage factor, I’d say your test group’s ancestry was ten percent Japanese, thirty percent Chinese and sixty percent Korean.”

“Sounds like you’ve constructed the genetic makeup of your average Korean.”

“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 to carry out this operation. Without Madame Bougainville’s organization, none of this would have been possible.”

“We are her prisoners,” Suvorov protested.

“What’s the difference, so long as our government benefits?”

“We should be masters of the situation,” Suvorov insisted. “We must get the President out of here and into the hands of our own people so he can be interrogated. The secrets you can pry from his mind are beyond comprehension.”

Lugovoy shook his head in exasperation. He did not know what else to say. Trying to reason with a mind scored by patriotic fervor was like trying to teach calculus to a drunk. He knew that when it was all over Suvorov would write up a report depicting him as unreliable and a potential threat to Soviet security. Yet he laughed inwardly. If the experiment succeeded, President Antonov might be of a mood to name him Hero of the Soviet Union.

He stood up, stretched and yawned. “I think I’ll catch a few hours’ sleep. We’ll begin programming the President’s responses first thing in the morning.”

“What time is it now?” Suvorov inquired dully. “I’ve lost all track of day and night in this tomb.”

“Five minutes to midnight.”

Suvorov yawned and sprawled on a couch. “You go ahead to bed. I’m going to have another drink. A good Russian never leaves the room before the bottle is empty.”

“Good night,” said Lugovoy. He turned and entered the hallway.

Suvorov waved halfheartedly and pretended he was on the verge of dozing off. But he studied the second hand of his watch for three minutes. Then he rose swiftly, crossed the room and noiselessly made his way down the hallway to where it made a ninety-degree turn toward the sealed elevator. He stopped and pressed his body to the wall and glanced around the edge of the corner.

Lugovoy was standing there patiently smoking his cigar. In less than ten seconds the elevator door silently opened and Lugovoy stepped inside. The time was exactly twelve o’clock. Every twelve hours, Suvorov noted, the project’s psychologist escaped the laboratory, returning twenty to thirty minutes later.

He left and walked past the monitoring room. Two of the staff members were intently examining the President’s brain rhythms and life signs. One of them looked up at Suvorov and nodded, smiling slightly.

“Going smoothly?” Suvorov asked, making conversation.

“Like a prima ballerina’s debut,” answered the technician.

Suvorov entered and looked up at the TV monitors. “What’s happening with the others?” he inquired, nodding toward the images of Margolin, Larimer and Moran in their sealed cocoons.

“Sedated and fed heavy liquid concentrations of protein and carbohydrates intravenously.”

“Until it’s their time for programming,” Suvorov added.

“Can’t say. You’ll have to ask Dr. Lugovoy that question.”

Suvorov watched one of the screens as an attendant in a laboratory coat lifted a panel on Senator Larimer’s cocoon and inserted a hypodermic needle into one arm.

“What’s he doing?” Suvorov asked, pointing.

The technician looked up. “We have to administer a sedative every eight hours or the subject will regain consciousness.”

“I see,” said Suvorov quietly. Suddenly it all became clear in his mind as the details of his escape plan fell into place. He felt good, better than he had in days. To celebrate, he returned to the dining room and opened another bottle of port. Then he took a small notebook from his pocket and scribbled furiously on its pages.

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