Deep Six dp-7

by Clive Cussler

  “In other words, he did what he was trained to do.”

  “In my opinion, yes.”

  Polevoi gave an indifferent shrug. “If only he’d concentrated on simply giving us the location of the laboratory. Then our people could have moved in and removed the Huckleberry Finn operation from Bougainville’s control.”

  “As things are now, Madame Bougainville may be angry enough to cancel the experiment.”

  “And lose a billion dollars in gold? I doubt that very much. She still has the President and Vice President in her greedy hands. Moran and Larimer are no great loss to her.”

  “Nor to us,” Iranov stated. “The Bougainvilles were our smokescreen in case the American intelligence agencies scuttled Huckleberry Finn. Now, with two abducted congressmen in our hands, it might be considered an act of war, or at very least a grave crisis. It would be best if we simply eliminated Moran and Larimer.”

  Polevoi shook his head. “Not yet. Their knowledge of the inner workings of the United States military establishment can be of incalculable benefit to us.”

  “A hazardous game.”

  “Not if we’re careful and quickly dispose of them when and if the net tightens.”

  “Then our first priority is to keep them from discovery by the FBI.”

  “Has Suvorov found a safe place to hide?”

  “Not known,” Iranov answered. “He was only told by New York to report every hour until they reviewed the situation and received orders from us in Moscow.”

  “Who heads our undercover operations in New York?”

  “His name is Basil Kobylin.”

  “Advise him of Suvorov’s predicament,” said Polevoi, “omitting, of course, any reference pertaining to Huckleberry Finn. His orders are to hide Suvorov and his captives in a secure place until we can plan their escape from U.S. soil.”

  “Not an easy matter to arrange.” Iranov helped himself to a chair and sat down. “The Americans are searching under every rock for their missing heads of state. All airfields are closely watched, and our submarines can’t come within five hundred miles of their coastline without detection by their underwater warning line.”

  “There is always Cuba.”

  Iranov looked doubtful. “The waters are too closely guarded by the U.S. Navy and Coast Guard against drug traffic. I advise against any escape by boat in that direction.”

  Polevoi gazed out the windows of his office overlooking Dzerzhinsky Square. The late-morning sun was fighting a losing battle to brighten the drab buildings of the city. A tight smile slowly crossed his lips.

  “Can we get them safely to Miami?”

  “Florida?”

  “Yes.”

  Iranov stared into space. “There is the danger of roadblocks, but I think that could be overcome.”

  “Good,” said Polevoi, suddenly relaxing. “See to it.”

  Less than three hours after the escape, Lee Tong Bougainville stepped out of the laboratory’s elevator and faced Lugovoy. It was a few minutes before three in the morning, but he looked as if he had never slept.

  “My men are dead,” Lee Tong said without a trace of emotion. “I hold you responsible.”

  “I didn’t know it would happen.” Lugovoy spoke in a quiet but steady voice.”

  “How could you not know?”

  “You assured me this facility was escape-proof. I didn’t think he would actually make an attempt.”

  “Who is he?”

  “Paul Suvorov, a KGB agent, who your men picked off the Staten Island ferry by mistake.”

  “But you knew.”

  “He didn’t make his presence known until after we arrived.”

  “And yet you said nothing.”

  “That’s true,” Lugovoy admitted. “I was afraid. When this experiment is finished I must return to Russia. Believe me, it doesn’t pay to antagonize our state security people.”

  The built-in fear of the man behind you. Bougainville could see it in the eyes of every Russian he met. They feared foreigners, their neighbors, any man in uniform. They’d lived with it for so long it became an emotion as common as anger or happiness. He did not find it in himself to pity Lugovoy. Instead, he despised him for willingly living under such a depressing system.

  “Did this Suvorov cause any damage to the experiment?”

  “No,” Lugovoy answered. “The Vice President has a slight concussion, but he is back under sedation. The President was untouched.”

  “Nothing delayed?”

  “Everything is proceeding on schedule.”

  “And you expect to finish in three more days?”

  Lugovoy nodded.

  “I’m moving your deadline up.”

  Lugovoy acted as though he hadn’t heard correctly. Then the truth broke through to him. “Oh, God, no!” he gasped. “I need every minute. As it is, my staff and I are cramming into ten days what should take thirty. You’re eliminating all our safeguards. We must have more time for the President’s brain to stabilize.”

  “That is President Antonov’s concern, not mine or my grandmother’s. We fulfilled our part of the bargain. By allowing a KGB man in here, you jeopardized the entire project.”

  “I swear I had nothing to do with Suvorov’s breakout.”

  “Your story,” Bougainville said coldly. “I choose to believe his presence was planned, likely on President Antonov’s orders. Certainly by now Suvorov has informed his superiors and every Soviet agent in the States is converging on us. We will have to move the facility.”

  That was the final shattering blow. Lugovoy looked as if he was about to gag. “Impossible!” he howled like an injured dog. “Absolutely no way can we move the President and all this equipment to another site and still meet your ridiculous deadline.”

  Bougainville glared at Lugovoy through narrow slits of eyes. When he spoke again, his voice was rock calm. “Not to worry, Doctor. No upheaval is necessary.”

  42

  When Pitt walked into his NUMA office, he found Hiram Yaeger asleep on the couch. With his sloppy clothes, long knotted hair and beard, the computer expert looked like a derelict wino. Pitt reached down and gently shook him by the shoulder. An eyelid slowly raised, then Yaeger stirred, grunted and pushed himself to a sitting position.

  “Hard night?” Pitt inquired.

  Yaeger scratched his head with both hands and yawned. “You have any Celestial Seasonings Red Zinger Tea?”

  “Only yesterday’s warmed-over coffee.”

  Yaeger clicked his lips sourly. “The caffeine will kill you.”

  “Caffeine, pollution, booze, women — what’s the difference?”

  “By the way, I got it.”

  “Got what?”

  “I nailed it, your cagey shipping company.”

  “Jesus!” Pitt said, coming alive. “Where?”

  “Right in our own backyard,” Yaeger said with a great grin. “New York.”

  “How did you do it?”

  “Your hunch about Korean involvement was the key, but not the answer. I attacked it from that angle, probing all the shipping and export lines that were based in Korea or sailed under their registry. There were over fifty of them, but none led to the trail of banks we checked earlier. With nowhere else to go, I let the computer fly on its own. My ego is shattered. It proved a better sleuth than I am. The kicker was in the name. Not Korean, but French.”

  “French.”

  “Based in the World Trade Center in lower Manhattan, their fleet of legitimate ships flies the flag of the Somali Republic. How does that grab you?”

  “Go on.”

  “A first-rate company, no rust-bucket operation, rated lily-white by Fortune, Forbes and Dun and Bradstreet. So damned pure that their annual report comes accompanied with harp music. Scratch the surface deep enough though, and you find more phony front men and dummy subsidiary companies than gays in San Francisco. Documentary ship fraud, bogus insurance claims, chartering phantom ships with nonexistent cargoes, substitution of worthles
s cargoes for ones of great value. And always beyond the jurisdiction of the private outfits and governments they screw.”

  “What’s their name?”

  “Bougainville Maritime,” answered Yaeger. “Ever heard of it?”

  “Min Koryo Bougainville — the ‘Steel Lotus’?” said Pitt, impressed. “Who hasn’t? She’s right up there with the celebrity British and Greek shipping tycoons.”

  “She is your Korean connection.”

  “Your data are conclusive? No chance of error?”

  “Solid stuff,” Yaeger replied adamantly. “Take my word for it. Everything triple-checks. Once I tuned in on Bougainville as the source, it became a simple chore of working backwards. It all came together; bank accounts, letters of credit — you wouldn’t believe how the banks turn their backs on these frauds. The old broad reminds me of one of those East Indian statues with twenty arms, sitting there with a holy look on her face while the hands are making obscene gestures.”

  “You did it,” Pitt said enthusiastically. “You actually pinned Sosan Trading, the San Marino and Pilottown on the Bougainville shipping empire.”

  “Like a stake through the heart.”

  “How far back did you go?”

  “I can give you the old girl’s biography almost to when she spit out the tit. A tough old bird. Started from scratch and a lot of guts after World War Two. Slowly added old tramp ships to her fleet, crewed by Koreans who were glad to work for a bowl of rice and pennies a day. With practically no overhead, she cut-rate her freight costs and built a thriving business. About twenty-five years ago, when her grandson joined the company, things really took off. A slippery customer, that one. Keeps in the background. Except for school records, his data file is almost blank. Min Koryo Bougainville built the foundation for maritime crime that spanned thirty nations. When her grandson — Lee Tong is his name — came along, he honed and smoothed the piracy and fraud part of the organization to a fine art. I had the whole mess printed out. There’s a hard copy on your desk.”

  Pitt turned and for the first time noticed a five-inch-thick sheaf of computer printout paper on his desk. He sat down and briefly scanned the notched pages. The incredible reach of the Bougainvilles was mind-boggling. The only criminal activity they appeared to shy away from was prostitution.

  After several minutes he looked up and nodded. “A super job, Hiram,” he said sincerely. “Thank you.”

  Yeager nodded toward the printouts. “I wouldn’t let that out of my sight if I were you.”

  “Any chance of us getting caught?”

  “A foregone conclusion. Our illegal taps have been recorded on the bank’s computer log and printed out on a daily form. If a smart supervisor scans the list, he’ll wonder why an American oceanographic agency is snooping in his biggest depositor’s records. His next step would be to rig the computer’s communications line with a tracing device.”

  “The bank would most certainly notify old Min Koryo,” said Pitt thoughtfully. Then he looked up. “Once they identify NUMA as the tap, can Bougainville’s own computer network probe ours to see what we’ve gleaned from their data banks?”

  “Our network is as vulnerable as any other. They won’t learn much, though. Not since I removed the magnetic storage disks.”

  “When do you think they’ll smoke us out?”

  “I’d be surprised if they haven’t pegged us already.”

  “Can you stay one jump ahead of them?”

  Yaeger gave Pitt an inquiring stare. “What sneaky plan are you about to uncork?”

  “Go back to your keyboard and screw them up but good. Re-enter the network and alter the data, foul up the Bougainville day-to-day operations, erase legitimate bank records, insert absurd instructions into their programs. Let them feel the heat from somebody else’ for a change.”

  “But we’ll lose vital evidence for a federal investigation.”

  “So what?” Pitt declared. “It was obtained illegally. It can’t be used anyway.”

  “Now wait a minute. We can be stepping into big trouble.”

  “Worse than that, we might get killed,” Pitt said with a faint smile.

  An expression blossomed on Yaeger’s face, one that wasn’t there before. It was sudden misgiving. The game had ceased to be fun and was taking on darker dimensions. It had never dawned on him that the search could turn ugly and he might be murdered.

  Pitt read the apprehension in Yaeger’s eyes. “You can quit now and take a vacation,” he said. “I wouldn’t blame you.”

  Yaeger seemed to waver for a moment. Then he shook his head. “No, I’ll stick with it. These people should be put away.”

  “Come down hard on them. Jam the works in all aspects of their shipping company — outside investments, subsidiary businesses, real estate dealings, everything they touch.”

  “It’s my ass, but I’ll do it. Just keep the admiral out of my hair for a few more nights.”

  “Keep a lookout for any information relating to a ship called the Eagle.”

  “The presidential yacht?”

  “Just a ship called the Eagle.”

  “Anything else?”

  Pitt nodded grimly. “I’ll see that security is increased around your computer processing center.”

  “Mind if I stay here and use your couch. I’ve developed this sudden aversion to sleeping alone irt my apartment.”

  “My office is yours.”

  Yaeger stood up and stretched. Then he nodded at the data sheets again. “What are you going to do with it?”

  Pitt stared down at the first breach ever in the Bougainville criminal structure. The pace of his personal investigation was gaining momentum, pieces falling into his hands to be fitted in the overall picture, jagged edges meshing together. The scope was far beyond anything he’d imagined in the beginning.

  “You know,” he said pensively, “I don’t have the vaguest idea.”

  43

  When senator Larimer awoke in the tear seat of the limousine, the eastern sky was beginning to turn orange. He slapped at the mosquito whose buzzing had interrupted his sleep. Moran stirred in his corner of the seat, his squinting eyes unfocused, his mind still unaware of his surroundings. Suddenly a door was opened and a bundle of clothes was thrown in Larimer’s lap.

  “Put these on,” Suvorov ordered brusquely.

  “You never told me who you are,” Larimer said, his tongue moving in slow motion.

  “My name is Paul.”

  “No surname?”

  “Just Paul.”

  “You FBI?”

  “No.”

  “CIA?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Suvorov said. “Get dressed.”

  “When will we arrive in Washington?”

  “Soon,” Suvorov lied.

  “Where did you get these clothes? How do you know they’ll fit?”

  Suvorov was losing his patience with the inquisitive American. He shrugged off an impulse to crack the senator in the jaw with the gun.

  “I stole them off a clothesline,” he said. “Beggars can’t be particular. At least they’re washed.”

  “I can’t wear a stranger’s shirt and pants,” Larimer protested indignantly.

  “If you wish to return to Washington in the nude, it is no concern of mine.”

  Suvorov slammed the door, moved to the driver’s side of the car and edged behind the wheel. He drove out of a picturesque residential community called Plantation Estates and cut onto Highway 7. The early-morning traffic was starting to thicken as they crossed over the Ashley River bridge to Highway 26, where he turned north.

  He was grateful that Larimer went silent. Moran was climbing from his semi-conscious state and mumbling incoherently. The headlights reflected off a green sign with white letters: AIRPORT NEXT RIGHT. He took the off ramp and came to the gate of the Charleston Municipal Airport. Across the main landing strip the brightening sky revealed a row of jet fighters belonging to the Air National Guard.

  Following the dire
ctions given over the phone, he skirted the airport searching for a narrow cutoff. He found it and drove over a dirt road until he came to a pole holding a wind sock that hung limp in the dank atmosphere.

  He stopped and got out, checked his watch and waited. Less than two minutes later the steady beat of a helicopter’s rotor could be heard approaching from behind a row of trees. The blinking navigation lights popped into view and a teardrop blue-and-white shape hovered for a few moments and then sat down beside the limousine.

  The door behind the pilot’s seat swung outward and a man in white coveralls stepped to the ground and walked up to the limousine.

  “You Suvorov?” he asked.

  “I’m Paul Suvorov.”

  “Okay, let’s get the baggage inside before we attract unwanted attention.”

  Together they led Larimer and Moran into the passenger compartment of the copter and belted them in. Suvorov noted that the letters on the side of the fuselage read SUMTER AIRBORNE AMBULANCE.

  “This thing going to the capital?” asked Larimer with a spark of his old haughtiness.

  “Sir, it’ll take you anyplace you want,” said the pilot agreeably.

  Suvorov eased into the empty co-pilot’s seat and buckled the harness. “I wasn’t told our destination,” he said.

  “Russia, eventually,” the pilot said with a smile that was anything but humorous. “First thing is to find where you came from.”

  “Came from?”

  “My orders are to fly you around the back country until you identify the facility in which you and those two windbags in the back have spent the last eight days. When we accomplish that mission, I’m to fly you to another departure area.”

  “All right,” said Suvorov. “I’ll do my best.”

  The pilot didn’t offer his name and Suvorov knew better than to ask. The man was undoubtedly one of the estimated five thousand Soviet-paid “charges” stationed around the United States, experts in specialized occupations, all waiting for a call instructing them to surface, a call that might never come.