Deep Six (29 page)

“Then we have a security man on the inside.”

“An assumption. We have no proof.”

“Did he know anything?”

“He was aware of nothing,” Polevoi said unequivocally. “His involvement is purely coincidental.”

“A mistake to have Dr. Lugovoy watched.”

Polevoi took a deep breath. “The FBI keeps a tight collar on our United Nations delegates. If we had allowed Dr. Lugovoy and his team of psychologists to roam freely about New York without our security agents observing their actions, the Americans would have become suspicious.”

“So they watch us while we watch ours.”

“In the last seven months, three of our people have asked for political asylum. We can’t be too careful.”

Antonov threw up his hands in a vague gesture. “I accept your argument.”

“If Suvorov is indeed with Lugovoy, he will no doubt attempt to make contact and disclose the location of the laboratory facility.”

“Yes, but if Suvorov, in his ignorance, makes a stupid move, there is no predicting how that old bitch Bougainville will react.”

“She might raise the ante.”

“Or worse, sell the President and the others to the highest bidder.”

“I can’t see that,” said Polevoi thoughtfully. “Without Dr. Lugovoy, the project isn’t possible.”

Antonov made a thin smile. “Excuse my cautious nature, Comrade Polevoi, but I tend to look on the dark side. That way I’m seldom taken by surprise.”

“The completion of Lugovoy’s experiment is only three days away. We should be thinking of how to handle the payment.”

“What are your proposals?”

“Not to pay her, of course.”

“How?”

“There are any number of ways. Switching the gold bars after her representative has examined them. Substituting lead that is painted gold or bars of lesser purity.”

“And the old bitch would smell out every one of them.”

“Still, we must try.”

“How will it be transferred?” Antonov asked.

“One of Madame Bougainville’s ships is already docked at Odessa, waiting to load the gold on board.”

“Then we’ll do what she least expects.”

“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.”