Night Probe!

by Clive Cussler

  Villon had genuine reason for his astonishment.

  He felt as though he was staring in a mirror.

  The man in the rear seat was his exact double, a twin, a clone. He could see every detail of the face from the spotlights on the landing dock that shone through the windshield.

  Danielle let out a low moan that would have worked its way into a hysterical scream if the gun barrel hadn't whipped across her cheek.

  The blood sprang from the gash in her otherwise flawless skin and she sucked in her breath at the instant agony.

  "I have no qualms about striking a woman, so please spare yourself any senseless resistance." The voice was a precise imitation of Villon's.

  "Who are you?" Villon demanded. "What do you want?"

  "I'm flattered -the original cannot tell the fake." The voice took on a new inflection, one that Villon recognized in a horror stricken flash. "I'm Foss Gly, and I intend to kill you both."

  A light drizzle began to fall and Villon turned on the windshield wipers. The gun muzzle was pressed into the nape of his neck, the pressure never easing since they left the ferryboat.

  Danielle sat beside him, holding a blood-soaked handkerchief to her face. Every few minutes she made little strange noises in her throat. She looked like a woman lost in a nightmare, a woman numbed by terror.

  All questions and pleas had been met by icy silence. Gly opened his mouth only to issue driving directions. They were rolling through a rural area now, marked by the lights of an occasional farmhouse.

  Villon had no recourse but to do as he was told. He could only hope and wait for an opportunity to act, to somehow gain the attention of a passing motorist, or with luck, a cruising policeman.

  "Slow down," Gly ordered. "A dirt road is coming up on your left. Take it."

  With a sinking dread, Villon turned off the highway. The road had been recently graded, and it appeared well traveled by heavy construction equipment.

  "I thought you were dead," Villon said, trying for a response. Gly did not answer.

  "That British intelligence agent Brian Shaw said you crashed a stolen boat into the side of a Japanese cargo ship."

  "Did he tell you my body was never found?" At last he had Gly in a talking mood. That was a start.

  "Yes, there was an explosion . . ."

  "Tied down the helm, set the throttles to FULL and jumped clear five miles before the collision. With all the traffic on the St. Lawrence, I figured it was only a question of time before the boat struck another vessel."

  "Why are you made up to look like me?"

  "Isn't it obvious? After you're dead, I'm going to take your place. I, and not you, will be the new President of Quebec."

  Five seconds passed before the staggering disclosure penetrated Villon's mind. "In God's name, that's madness!"

  "Madness? Not really. Smart brains, I'd call it."

  "You'll never get away with such a crazy scheme."

  "Ah, but I already have." Gly's tone was calm, conversational. "How do you think I walked through Jules Guerrier's front door, past his bodyguard up to his room and murdered him? I've sat at your desk, met most of your friends, discussed political differences with Charles Sarveux, made an appearance on the floor of the House of Commons. Why, hell, I've even slept with your wife and with your mistress up there on the front seat.

  Villon was dazed. "Not true . . . not true . . . not my wife."

  "Yes, Henri, it's all true. I can even describe her anatomy, beginning with . . ."

  "No!" Villon cried. He slammed on the brakes and snapped the steering wheel to the right.

  The fates turned their backs on Villon. The tires failed to grip the damp earth, and the violent reaction he expected, he hoped for, never happened. There was no savage body-snapping motion from centrifugal force. Instead, the car slid slowly around in lazy circles.

  Keeping his balance, his aim only slightly diverted, Gly pulled the trigger.

  The .44 magnum shell shattered Villon's collarbone and passed through the windshield.

  A scream poured from Danielle's mouth, and then died away into terror-choked sobbing.

  The car gradually came to a gentle stop in the wet grass beside the road. Villon's hands jerked from the steering wheel. He threw his head against the backrest of the seat, tightly gripped the gaping wound and clenched his teeth in pain.

  Gly stepped outside and pulled open the driver's door. He roughly shoved Villon toward Danielle and climbed in.

  "I'll take it from here," he snarled. He crammed the gun barrel into Villon's side under the armpit. "Don't get cute again."

  To Danielle it looked as if half of Villon's upper shoulder had been blown away. She turned and vomited on the door panel.

  Gly made a U-turn and returned to the road. In half a mile a huge yellow-painted earthmover appeared in the headlights. Beside it was an excavated ditch ten feet deep and fifteen feet across. A high mound of earth was piled up along the opposite side. As Gly drove along the edge, Danielle could make out a large concrete pipe that stretched along the bottom of the ditch.

  They passed a silent row of trucks and earth moving equipment. The engineer's office, a battered old converted house trailer, sat dark and empty. The construction crew had gone home for the night.

  Gly pulled up at a place where the new drainage line was being covered over. He braked, judging the angle of the incline down to the roof of the pipe. Then he gunned the engine and drove the Mercedes into the ditch.

  The front bumper struck the circular concrete and sprayed sparks. The rear end slewed around until the car came to rest on its side, the headlights on a slight angle upward.

  Gly took two pairs of handcuffs from his coat pocket. He clamped one to the steering column and Villon's left hand. He repeated the process on Danielle with the other set.

  "What are you doing?" Danielle asked in a hoarse whisper.

  He paused to stare at her. The raven hair was messed and the beautiful features were marred by the bloody tears. The eyes were those of a doe paralyzed with fright.

  A hideous grin spread across his face. "I'm fixing it so you and your lover can spend eternity together."

  "No reason to murder her," Villon groaned through the agony. "For God'ssake, let her go free."

  "Sorry," said Gly callously. "She's part of the bargain."

  "What bargain?"

  There was no answer. Gly slammed the door and began climbing up the sloping embankment. He rapidly reached the top and disappeared into the darkness. A few minutes later they heard the sound of a heavy diesel engine knocking to life.

  The engine began to strain as though it was working under a heavy load. The throaty roar of the exhaust drew closer and then a huge silver scoop crept out over the rim of the ditch. Suddenly it tilted downward and three-and-a-half cubic yards of dirt rained down around the roof of the Mercedes. Danielle let out a pitiful cry.

  "Oh, Mary, mother of Jesus . . . he's going to bury us alive oh, no, please no!"

  Gly coldly ignored the pitiful plea and shifted the front-end loader into reverse, angling the bucket for the next bite of earth. He knew the position of every lever, their use and how to activate them. For two nights he had practiced, filling sections of the ditch so expertly that the dirt-moving crew had never noticed that an extra twenty feet of the open pipeline had been filled for them between work shifts.

  Danielle fought frantically to break the chain on her handcuffs. The flesh around her wrists was quickly chafed into bloody shreds.

  "Henri!" Her cry had become a gagging whimper now. "Don't let me die, not like this."

  Villon did not seem to hear. The end would come sooner for him. He knew he was only a few seconds away from bleeding to death.

  "Odd," he whispered. "Odd that the last man to die for Quebec liberty is me. Who would have ever thought." His voice faded away.

  The car was almost completely covered. The only parts that still showed were a portion of the shattered windshield, the three-cornered star emblem
on the hood and one headlight.

  A figure moved to the edge of the embankment and stood in the light. It was not Foss Gly, but another man. He looked down: his face was frozen in deep sorrow, and tears glistened on his cheeks.

  For a brief instant, Danielle stared at him in horror. Her color turned ghastly. She placed her free hand against the glass in a pleading gesture. Then slowly, her eyes mirrored an understanding look, and her mouth formed the words "Forgive me'.

  The bucket was tipped again, the dirt fell and all sight of the car was blotted out.

  At last the ditch was filled to ground level, and the exhaust of the front-end loader died into the night.

  Only then did a saddened Charles Sarveux turn and walk away.

  The airfield at Lac St. Joseph, deep in the hills northeast of Quebec City, was one of several belonging to the Royal Canadian Air Force that had been shut down because of budget cuts. Its two-mile runway was off limits to commercial aircraft, but was still used by the military for training and emergency landings.

  Henri Villon's plane stood in front of a weathered metal hangar. A fuel truck was parked beside it and two men in raincoats were making a preflight check. Inside, in an office bare of furniture except for a rusting metal workbench, Charles Sarveux and Commissioner Finn stood in silence and watched the proceedings through a dirty window. The earlier drizzle had turned into a driving rain that leaked through the roof of the hangar in a dozen places.

  Foss Gly was stretched out comfortably on a blanket. His hands were clasped behind his head and he was oblivious to the water that splashed beside him on the cement floor. There was an air of smugness about him, of complacency almost, as he gazed up at the metal-beamed ceiling. The Villon disguise was gone and he was himself again. Outside, the pilot jumped from the wing to the ground and dog-trotted to the hangar. He poked his head in the office door.

  "Ready when you are," he announced.

  Gly came to a sitting position. "What did you find?"

  "Nothing. We inspected every system, every square inch, even the quality of the gas and oil. Nobody's tampered with it. It's clean."

  "Okay, start up the engines."

  The pilot nodded and ducked back into the rain.

  "Well, gentlemen," said Gly, "I guess I'll be on my way."

  Sarveux silently nodded to Commissioner Finn. The Mountie set two large suitcases on the workbench and opened them.

  "Thirty million well-worn Canadian dollars," said Finn, his face deadpan.

  Gly pulled a jeweler's eyepiece from his pocket and began studying a random sampling of bills. After nearly ten minutes he re pocketed the eyepiece and closed the suitcases.

  "You weren't joking when you said 'well-worn.' Most of these bills are so wallet-battered you can hardly read the denominations."

  As per your instructions," Finn said testily. "It was no simple matter scraping up that much used currency on such short notice. I think you'll find them all negotiable."

  Gly walked over to Sarveux and held out his hand. "Nice doing business with you, Prime Minister."

  Sarveux rebuffed Gly's gesture. "I'm only happy we caught onto your imposter scheme in time."

  Gly shrugged and withdrew his empty hand. "Who's to say? I might have made a damned good President, better maybe than Villon."

  "Pure luck on my part that you didn't," said Sarveux. "If Commissioner Finn hadn't known Henri's exact whereabouts when you brazenly walked into my office, you might never have been apprehended. As it is, my sad regret is that I can't have your neck stretched on the gallows."

  "A good reason why I keep records for insurance," Gly said contemptuously. "A chronological journal of my actions on behalf of the Free Quebec Society, tape recordings of my conversations with Villon, videotapes of your wife in wild postures with your minister of internal affairs. The stuff major scandals are made of. I'd say that's a fair exchange for my life."

  "When will I get them?" Sarveux demanded.

  "I'll send you directions to their hiding place after I'm safely out of your reach."

  "What assurances do I have? How can I trust you not to keep blackmailing me?" Gly grinned fiendishly.

  "None, none at all."

  "You're filth," Sarveux hissed angrily. "The excretion of the earth.

  "Are you any better?" Gly snapped back. "You stood mute in all your sanctity and watched while I wasted your political rival and your cheating wife. And then you had the gall to pay for the job with government funds. You stink even worse than I do, Sarveux. The best of the bargain was yours. So save your insults and sermons for the mirror."

  Sarveux trembled, the rage seething inside him. "I think you better get out get out of Canada."

  "Gladly."

  Sarveux got a mental hold on himself. "Goodbye, Mr. Gly, perhaps we'll meet in hell."

  "We already have," grunted Gly.

  He snapped the suitcases shut, carried them outside and entered the airplane. As the pilot taxied to the end of the runway, he relaxed in the main cabin and poured himself a drink.

  Not bad, he thought, thirty million bucks and a jet airplane. Nothing like making an exit in style.

  The phone on the bar buzzed and he picked it up. It was the pilot.

  "We're ready for takeoff. Would you care to give me flight instructions now?"

  "Head due south for the United States. Stay low to avoid radar. A hundred miles over the border, come to cruising altitude and set a course for Montserrat."

  "Never heard of it."

  "One of the Leeward Islands in the Lesser Antilles, southeast of Puerto Rico. Wake me when we get there."

  "Sweet dreams, boss."

  Gly slumped in his seat, not bothering to fasten the safety belt. At that moment he felt immortal. He grinned to himself as he gazed through the cabin window at The two figures silhouetted against the lights of the hangar.

  Sarveux was a fool, he thought. If he had been in the Prime Minister's shoes he would have hidden a bomb in the plane, rigged it to crash, or perhaps ordered the air force to shoot it down. The latter was still a possibility, though a slim one.

  But there was no bomb and all the flight controls checked out from nose to tail. He had done it. He was home free.

  As the aircraft picked up speed and disappeared into the rainy night, Sarveux turned to Finn.

  "How will it happen?"

  "The automatic pilot. Once it's engaged the plane will begin a very gradual climb. The altimeters have been set to register no higher than 11,000 feet. The pressurization system and the emergency oxygen will not come on. By the time the pilot realizes something is wrong, it will be too late."

  "Can't he disengage the autopilot?"

  Finn shook his head. "The circuitry has been reset. He could beat the unit with an ax, but it would do no good. It is impossible for him to regain control of the aircraft."

  "So they lose consciousness from loss of oxygen."

  "And eventually come down in the ocean when they run out of fuel."

  "They could crash on land."

  "A calculated gamble," Finn explained. "Figuring the plane's range on full fuel tanks, and assuming Gly intends to fly as far away as possible before landing, it's eight to one they hit water."

  Sarveux looked pensive for a moment. "The press releases?" he asked. "Written and waiting to be handed to the wire services."

  Commissioner Finn raised an umbrella and they began walking to the Prime Minister's limousine.

  Puddles were forming in the low spots of the taxi strip. One of Finn's men turned off the lights to the hangar and runway.

  At the car Sarveux paused and looked up into the ebony sky as the last hum of the jet engines melted into the rain.

  "Too bad Gly will never know how he was outsmarted. I think he would have appreciated that."

  The next morning, the following story ran on the international wire services.

  OTTAWA, 6110 (Special)- A plane carrying Danielle Sarveux and Henri Villon crashed in the Atlantic Ocean this morning
200 miles northeast of Cayenne, French Guiana.

  The wife of Canada's Prime Minister and the presidential candidate for newly independent Quebec took off from Ottawa for a flight to Quebec City last night, and when they failed to make their scheduled landing the alert was given.

  Villon was piloting his own plane and Madame Sarveux was the only passenger on board. All radio contact went unanswered.

  Because Canadian air controllers did not immediately suspect the twin jet Albatross had flown into the United States, hours were lost on a fruitless search between Quebec and Ottawa. Not until an Air France Concorde reported an aircraft flying erratically south of Bermuda at 55,000 feet, 8000 feet above the maximum altitude for which Villon's Albatross was certified, did anyone begin to make a connection.

  U.S. Navy jets were scrambled from the carrier Kitty Hawk near Cuba. Lieutenant Arthur Hancock was the first to spot the Albatross and reported seeing a man motionless at the controls. He followed until the plane went into a slow spiral dive and plunged into the ocean.

  "We have no firm grasp on the cause," Ian Stone, a spokesman for Canadian Air Authority, said. "The only theory that makes any sort of sense is that Madame Sarveux and Mr. Villon became unconscious from lack of oxygen and that the plane, on autopilot, had flown itself over 3000 miles off course before running out of fuel and crashing." A search revealed no sign of wreckage.