Night Probe!

by Clive Cussler

  Klein buttoned up his raincoat as he stood on the south portico of the White House awaiting his car and driver. The threatening gray skies did little to relieve his uneasy mood.

  "I can't help wondering if the President is as mad as Henri Villon," he said.

  "You misinterpret them," replied Mercier. "Crafty perhaps, but neither man is mad."

  "Odd, his fairy tale of combining Canada with the U.S."

  "He stepped out of character on that one. What in hell can he have on his mind?"

  "You're the national security adviser. If anyone should know, it's you."

  "You heard. He's keeping something from me."

  "So what happens now?"

  "We wait," Mercier answered in a hollow tone. "We wait until I can figure what the President has up his sleeve."

  "Sold!"

  The auctioneer's voice roared through the amplifiers like a shotgun blast. The usual rumblings from the crowd followed as they marked their programs with the high bid on a 1946 Ford coupe.

  "Can we have the next car, please?"

  A pearl-white 1939 540K Mercedes-Benz with a Freestone & Webb custom body purred quietly onto the center stage of the Richmond, Virginia, Coliseum. A crowd of three thousand people murmured approval as the beams from the overhead spotlights highlighted the gleaming paint on the elegant coach work Bidders milled around the stage, some down on their hands and knees eyeballing the suspension and running gear, others examining every detail of the upholstery, while still others probed about the engine compartment with the savvy of Kentucky horse trainers contemplating a potential derby winner.

  Dirk Pitt sat in the third row and rechecked the numerical order in his program. The Mercedes was listed fourteenth in the annual Richmond Antique and Classic Car Auction.

  "This is truly a beautiful and exotic automobile," touted the auctioneer. "A queen among classics. Will somebody start the bidding at four hundred thousand?"

  The ring men in tuxedos wandered among the crowd, prodding the bidders. Suddenly one raised his hand. "I have one hundred and fifty."

  The auctioneer went into his unintelligible singsong spiel, and the bidding became brisk as car buffs began the ritual of competing for the prize. Quickly, the mark of two hundred thousand was reached and passed.

  Absorbed in the action, Pitt did not notice a young man in a three-piece suit slip into the empty seat next to him. "Mr. Pitt?"

  Pitt turned and looked into the babyish face of Harrison Moon IV.

  "Funny," Pitt said without surprise, "you didn't strike me as the type who would be interested in old cars."

  "Actually, I'm interested in you."

  Pitt gave him an amused look. "If you're gay, you're wasting your time."

  Moon frowned and looked around to see if anyone seated nearby was tuned to their conversation. They were all wrapped up in the bidding. "I'm here on official government business. Can we go someplace private and talk?"

  "Give me five minutes," said Pitt. "I'm bidding on the next car.

  "Now, if you please, Mr. Pitt," saidsmoon, trying to look commanding. "My business with you is far more important than watching grown men throw money away on obsolete junk."

  "I have two hundred and eighty thousand," the auctioneer droned. "Will someone give me three hundred."

  "At least you can't call it cheap," said Pitt calmly. "That car happens to be a mechanical work of art, an investment that appreciates from twenty to thirty percent a year. Your grandchildren won't be able to touch it for less than two million dollars."

  "I'm not here to argue the future of antiques. Shall we go?"

  "Not a chance."

  "Perhaps you might curb your obstinacy if I were to tell you I'm here on behalf of the President."

  Pitt's expression had turned to stone. "Big goddamned deal. Why is it every punk who goes to work for the White House thinks he can intimidate the world? Go back and tell the President you failed, Mr.

  Moon. You might also inform him that if he wants something from me to send a messenger boy who can demonstrate a degree of class."

  Moon's face turned pale. This wasn't going the way he'd planned, not at all.

  "I . . . I can't do that," he stammered.

  "Tough."

  The auctioneer raised his gavel. "Going once . . . twice for three hundred and sixty thousand." He paused, scanning the audience. "If there is no further advance . . . sold to Mr. Robert Esbenson of Denver, Colorado."

  Moon had been cut down, coldly, unmercifully. He took the only avenue left open to him. "Okay, Mr.

  Pitt, your rules."

  The Mercedes was driven off and a four-door, two-tone straw-and-beige convertible took its place.

  The auctioneer fairly glowed as he described its features.

  "And now, ladies and gentlemen, number fifteen on your program. A 1950 British-built Jensen. A very rare car. The only model of this particular coach work known to exist. A real beauty. May we open the bidding at fifty thousand?"

  The first bid came in at twenty-five thousand. Pitt sat in silence as the price climbed. Moon studied him.

  "Aren't you going to bid?"

  "All in good time."

  A stylishly dressed woman in her late forties waved her bidder's card. The auctioneer nodded and ordained her with a smile. "I have twenty-nine thousand from the lovely Ms. O'Leery of Chicago."

  "Does he know everybody?" Moon asked, showing a spark of interest.

  "Collectors form a loose clique," replied Pitt. "Most of us usually show up at the same auctions."

  The bidding slowed at forty-two thousand. The auctioneer sensed the peak had come. "Come now, ladies and gentlemen, this car is worth much, much more." Pitt raised his bidder's card.

  "Thank you, sir. I now have forty-three. Will anyone raise it to forty-four?"

  Ms. O'Leery, wearing a designer double-breasted wool checked jacket and a slim taupe flannel skirt with a revealing front slit, signaled for an advance.

  Before the auctioneer could announce her bid, Pitt's card was in the air. "Now she knows she's got a fight on her hands," he said to Moon.

  "Forty-four and now forty-five. Who will make it forty-six?"

  The bidding stalled. Ms. O'Leery conversed with a younger man sitting next to her. She seldom showed up with the same consort at two auctions. She was a self-made woman who had built a tidy fortune merchandising her own brand of cosmetics. Her collection was one of the finest in the world and numbered nearly one hundred cars. When the ring man leaned down to solicit a bid, she shook her head and then turned around and winked at Pitt.

  "That was hardly the wink of a friendly competitor," observed Moon.

  "You should try an older woman sometime," said Pitt as though lecturing a schoolboy. "There's little they don't know about men." An attractive girl maneuvered down Pitt's aisle and asked him to sign the sales agreement.

  "Now?" asked Moon hopefully. "How did you get here?"

  "My girlfriend drove me down from Arlington."

  Pitt came to his feet. "while you round her up, I'll go to the office and settle my account. Then she can follow us."

  "Follow us?"

  "You wanted to talk in private, Mr. Moon. So I'm going to give you a treat and drive you back to Arlington in a real automobile."

  The Jensen rolled effortlessly over the highway toward Washington. Pitt kept one eye out for the traffic patrol and the other on the speedometer. His foot held the accelerator at a steady seventy miles an hour.

  Moon buttoned his overcoat up to the neck and looked miserable. "Doesn't this relic have a heater?"

  Pitt hadn't noticed the cold seeping in through the cloth top. As long as the engine hummed, he was in his element. He turned a knob on the dashboard and soon a thin wisp of warm air spread through the Jensen's interior. "Okay, Moon, we're alone. What's your story?"

  "The President would like you to lead fishing expeditions into the St. "Lawrence and Hudson rivers."

  Pitt jerked his eyes off the road and stared at Moo
n. "You're joking?"

  "I couldn't be more serious. He thinks you're the only qualified man to take a stab at finding the copies of the North American Treaty."

  "You know about it?"

  "Yes, he took me into his confidence ten minutes after you left his office. I'm to act as liaison during your search."

  Pitt slowed the car down to the legal speed limit and was silent for several seconds. Then he said, "I don't think he knows what he's asking."

  "I assure you the President has looked at it from every angle."

  "He's asking the impossible and expecting a miracle." Pitt's expression was incredulous, his voice quiet.

  "There's no way a piece of paper can remain intact after being immersed in water for three-quarters of a century."

  "I admit the project sounds unpromising," agreed Moon. "And yet, if there is one chance in ten million a copy of the treaty exists, the President feels we must make an effort to find it.

  Pitt stared down the road that split the Virginia countryside. "Suppose for a minute we got lucky and laid the North American Treaty on his lap? What then?"

  "I can't say."

  "Can't or won't?"

  "I'm only a special aide to the President . . . a messenger boy as you so rudely put it. I do what I'm told.

  My orders are to give you every assistance and see that your requests for funds and equipment are met.

  What happens if and when you salvage a readable document is none of my business and certainly none of yours.

  "Tell me, Moon," said Pitt, a faint smile edged on his lips. "Have you ever read How to Win Friends and Influence People?"

  "Never heard of it."

  "I'm not surprised." Pitt ran up the rear end of an electric minicar that refused to yield the fast lane and blinked the Jensen's lights. The other driver finally signaled and gave way. "What if I say no deal?"

  Moon stiffened almost imperceptibly. "The President would be most disappointed."

  "I'm flattered." Pitt drove along, lost in thought. Then he turned and nodded. "Okay, I'll give it my best shot. I presume we're to begin immediately."

  Moon simply nodded, vastly relieved.

  "Item one on your list," said Pitt. "I'll need NUMA's manpower and resources. Most important, Admiral Sandecker must be informed of the project. I won't work behind his back."

  "What you're about to attempt, Mr. Pitt, falls under the trite term of 'delicate situation.' The fewer people who know about the treaty, the less chance the Canadians get wind of it."

  "Sandecker must be informed," Pitt repeated firmly.

  "All right, I'll set up a meeting and acquaint him with the project."

  "Not good enough. I want the admiral briefed by the President. He deserves that."

  Moon had the look of a man who has had his wallet picked.

  He kept his eyes straight ahead when he replied. "Okay, consider it done."

  "Item two," Pitt continued. "We'll need a pro to handle the historical research."

  "There are several top men around Washington who have taken on government assignments. I'll send you their resumes."

  "I was thinking of a woman."

  "Any particular reason?"

  "Commander Heidi Milligan did the preliminary research on the treaty. She knows her way through archives, and she'd be one less to initiate into the club."

  "Makes sense," said Moon thoughtfully, "except that she's somewhere out in the Pacific."

  "Ring up the chief of naval operations and get her back, providing, of course, you carry the clout."

  "I carry the clout, Mr. Pitt," Moon replied coolly.

  "Item three. One of the treaty copies went down with the Empress of Ireland, which lies in Canadian waters. There's no way we can keep our diving operations a secret. Under existing salvage laws we're required to notify their government, the Canadian Pacific Railroad, which owned the vessel, and the insurance companies that paid off the claims."

  The subdued expression on Moon's face turned smug. "I'm ahead of you on that score. The necessary paperwork is in the mill. Your cover story is that you're an archaeological team searching for artifacts that will be preserved and donated to American and Canadian maritime museums. You should be able to bring up enough trash during the operation to pacify any prying eyes."

  "Item four," said Pitt. "The money."

  "Ample funds will be placed at your disposal to see the job through."

  Pitt hesitated before he spoke again, listening to the steady purr of the Jensen's 130-horsepower engine.

  The sun had dropped below the tops of the trees and he turned on the lights.

  "I make no guarantees," he said at last.

  "Understood."

  "How do we stay in touch?"

  Moon took out a pen and wrote on the back of Pitt's auction program. "I'll be available at this number on a twenty-four hour basis. We won't meet face to face again unless you run into an unexpected crisis."

  He paused and looked at Pitt, trying to fathom the man. But Pitt could not be read. "Any other questions?"

  "No," said Pitt, wrapped in thought. "No more questions."

  There were a hundred questions swirling in Pitt's mind; none that could be answered by Moon.

  He tried to visualize what he might find beneath the forbidding currents of the Hudson and St. Lawrence rivers, but nothing jelled. And then he began to wonder what was behind the mad, unfathomable scheme that was hurling him into the unknown.

  "The time for decision."

  Sandecker spoke to no one in particular as he gazed at the hydrographic charts, photo-enlarged to cover the far wall of the NUMA operations room. He rapped a knuckle against the one depicting a section of the Hudson River.

  "Do we tackle the Manhattan Limited first?" He paused and gestured at the adjoining chart. "Or the Empress of Ireland?" He refaced the room and studied the four people seated around the long table.

  "Which one should take priority?"

  Heidi Milligan, whose face showed the fatigue of a long flight from Honolulu, started to say something, but held back.

  "Ladies first," Al Giordino said, grinning.

  "I'm not qualified to voice an opinion on underwater salvage," she said hesitantly. "But I believe the ship offers the best chance of finding a readable treaty."

  "Care to state your reasons?" asked Sandecker.

  "Before the days of air travel," Heidi explained, "it was standard procedure for diplomatic couriers who sailed across the oceans to seal documents inside several layers of oilcloth as a protection against water damage. I recall one incident where important papers were found intact on a British Foreign Office courier when his body washed ashore six days after the Lusitania sinking." Sandecker smiled and nodded at her in satisfaction. She would be a good woman to have around. "Thank you, Commander. You've given us our first ray of hope."

  Giordino yawned. He had spent most of the night being briefed on the project by Pitt, and it was all he could do to stay awake. "Perhaps Richard Essex wrapped his copy of the treaty in oilcloth too."

  Heidi shook her head. "Most likely he would have carried it in a leather traveling bag."

  "Little chance of that surviving," Sandecker acknowledged.

  "My vote still goes to the train," said Giordino. "The Empress lies in a hundred and sixty-five feet-well below the safe depth for air diving. The train, on the other hand, can be no deeper than forty feet. After seven decades the ship must be eaten away by saltwater flowing in from the St. Lawrence Gulf. The train would be better preserved by fresh river water."

  Sandecker turned to a small man whose owlish brown eyes peered through a large pair of horned-rimmed glasses. "Rudi, how do you see it?"

  Rudi Gunn, NUMA's director of logistics, looked up from a pad filled with scribbles and unconsciously scratched one side of his nose. Gunn rarely gambled or played the angles. He dealt his cards from solid facts, never vague percentages.

  "I favor the ship," he said quietly. "The only advantage of salvaging the Manhatt
an Limited is that it rests on home ground. However, the current of the Hudson River is three-and a-half knots. Far too strong for divers to work with any level of efficiency. And, as Al suggested, chances are, the engine and coaches are buried in the silt. This calls for a dredging operation. The worst kind."

  "The salvage of a ship in open water is far more complex and time-consuming than bringing up a Pullman car from shallow depths," Giordino argued.

  "True," Gunn conceded. "But we know where the Empress lies. The grave of the Manhattan Limited has never been found."

  "Trains don't dissolve. We're looking at a confined area less than a mile square. A sweep with a proton magnetometer should make contact within a few hours."

  "You talk as if the locomotive and coaches are still attached by their couplings. After the fall from the bridge they probably were scattered all over the riverbed. We could spend weeks excavating the wrong car. I can't accept the odds. It's too hit or-miss."

  Giordino did not retreat. "What would you calculate the odds are against finding a small packet inside a crumbling fourteen thousand-ton vessel?"

  "We ignore the odds." Dirk Pitt spoke quietly and for the first time. He sat at the end of the table, hands folded behind his head. "I say we try for both simultaneously."

  Silence settled over the operations room. Giordino sipped at his coffee, mulling over Pitt's words. Gunn peered speculatively through his thick-lensed glasses.

  "Can we afford the complications of dividing our efforts?"