"Your computers must have blown a fuse," Pitt continued. "Admiral Sandecker and I were on to Dr. Hunnewell right from the start." Pitt lied, knowing there was no way Kelly or Rondheim could prove otherwise. "You wouldn't be interested in how or why."
"You are mistaken, Major," Kelly said impatiently.
"We would be most interested."
Pitt took a deep breath and made the plunge,. "Actually our first tipoff came when Dr. Len Matajic was rescued-"
"No! That cannot be," Rondheim gasped.
Pitt gave silent thanks to Sandecker for his wild plan to resurrect the ghosts of Matajic and O'Riley. The opportunity was handed to him on a silver platter, and he could see no reason not to use it to kill time.
"Pick up the phone and ask the overseas operator for Room 409 at Walter Reed General Hospital in Washington. I suggest you request person-to-person; your call will go through faster."
"That will not be necessary," Kelly said. "I have no reason to doubt you."
"Suit yourself," Pitt said carelessly, fighting to keep a straight face, laying his bluff successfully. "As I started to say, when Dr. Matajic was rescued, he described the Lax and its crew in vivid detail.
He wasn't fooled for a minute by the alterations to the superstructure. But, of course, you know all this. Your people monitored his message to Admiral Sandecker."
"And then?"
"Don't you see? The rest was simple deduction.
Thanks to Matajic's description, it didn't take any great effort to trace the ship's whereabouts from the time it disappeared with Kristjan Fyrie to when it moored on the iceberg where Matajic had his research station." Pitt smiled. "Because of Dr.
Matajic's powers of observation-the crew's suntans hardly spelled a fishing trip in North Atlantic waters-Admiral Sandecker was able to figure the Lax's previous course along the South American coast. He then began to suspect Dr. Hunnewell.
Rather clever of the admiral now that I look back on it.) "Go on, go on," Kelly urged.
"Well, obviously the Lax had been utilizing the undersea probe to find new mineral deposits. And just as obviously, with Fyrie and his engineers dead, Dr. Hunnewell, the co-inventor of the probe, was the only one around who knew how to operate it."
"You are exceedingly well informed," Kelly said wryly. "But that hardly constitutes proof."
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Pitt was on tricky ground. So far he had been able to skirt around the National Intelligence Agency's involvement in Hermit Limited. And Kelly had yet to be baited into offering any further information. It's time, he amusedly told himself, to tell the truth.
"Proof?" Okay, will you accept the words of a dying man," Straight from the horse's mouth. The man in question is Dr.
Hunnewell himself."
"I don't believe it."
"His last words before he died in my arms were: 'God save thee.' "
"What are you talking about?" Rondheim shouted.
"What are you trying to do?"
"I meant to thank you for that, Oskar," Pitt said coldly. "Hunnewell knew who his murderer was-the man who gave the order for his death. He tried to quote from 'The Rime of the Ancient Mariner." It was all there, wasn't it? You quoted it yourself:
'Why look'st thou so? With my crossbow I shot the Albatross.' Your trademark, Oskar, the red albatross. That's what Hunnewell meant. 'For all averr'd I had kill'd the bird That made the breeze to blow.' You killed the man who helped you probe the sea floor." Pitt was feeling cocky now; the warmth from the brandy was spreading comfortingly through his body. "I can't match your memory for quoting the verse verbatim, but if my memory serves me correctly, the Ancient Mariner and his ship of ghosts were met by a hermit near the end-another tie-in. Yes, it was all in the verse. Hunnewell pointed the finger of guilt with his dying breath and you, Oskar, stood up and unwittingly pleaded guilty."
"You sent your arrow in the right direction, Major Pitt." Kelly idly stared at the smoke from his cigar. "But you aimed at the wrong man. I gave the order for Dr. Hunnewell's death. Oskar merely carried it through."
"For what purpose?"
"Dr. Hunnewell was beginning to have second thoughts about Hermit Limited's methods of operation-quite old-fashioned thoughts really: thou shall not kill and all that. He threatened to expose our entire organization unless we closed down our assassination department. A condition that was impossible to accept if we were to have any chance for ultimate success.
Therefore, Dr. Hunnewell had to be discharged from the firm."
"Another business principle, of course."
Kelly smiled. is that."
"An I had to be swept under the carpet because I was a witness." Pitt said as if answering a question.
Kelly simply nodded.
"But the undersea probe?" Pitt asked. "With Hunnewell and Fyrie-the goose who laid the golden egg is dead, who is left with the knowledge to build a secondgeneration model?"
The confident look was back in Kelly's eyes. "No one," he answered softly. "But then no one is required.
You see, our computers have now been programmed with the necessary information. With proper analysis of the data, we should have a working model of the probe within ninety days."
For a brief moment, Pitt stood silent, caught unprepared by the unexpected disclosure. Then he quickly shook off his surprise at Kelly's statement. The brandy was beginning to get to him now, but his mind was still running with the smoothness of a generator.
"Then Hunnewell no longer served a useful purpose. Your data-proces!zing brains discovered the secret of producing celtinium-279."
"I compliment you. Major Pitt. You possess a penetrating discernment." Kelly glanced impatiently at his watch and nodded to Rondheim. Then he turned and said, "I'm sorry, but I'm afraid the time has come, gentlemen. The party is over."
"What do you intend on doing with us, James?"
Sam's eyes burned into Kelly's until the billionaire turned and avoided the stare. "It's obvious you told us your secrets as a courtesy to our curiosity. It's also obvious you can never let us walk from this house with those secrets in our heads."
"It's true." Kelly looked at the men standing opposite the fireplace. "None of you can be permitted to tell what you heard here tonight."
"But why?" old Sam asked philosophically. "Why expose us to your clandestine operation and thereby seal our death warrants?"
Kelly tiredly rubbed his eyes and leaned back in a large overstuffed leather chair. "The moment of truth, the denouement."
He sadly searched the faces across the room. They were pale with shock and disbelief.
"It is now eleven o'clock. In exactly forty-two hours and ten minutes, Hermit Limited will open its doors for business.
Twenty-four hours later we will be running the affairs of our first client, or country, if you prefer. In order to make this historical event as inauspicious as possible, we need a diversion. A disaster that will attract headlines and cause anxious concern among the leaders of world governments while our plan is carried off practically unnoticed."
"And we are your diversion," said the tall white haired man with the solemn eyes.
After a long wordless stare, Kelly simply said, "Yes.
"The innocent victims of a disaster spawned by computers to make headlines. God, it's barbaric!"
"Yes," Kelly repeated, "but necessary. In your own ways, to your own countries, you are important men.
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You represent the industry, government and science of five different nations. Your combined loss will be considered a worldwide tragedy."
"This must be some sort of insane joke," Tamareztov shouted. "You cannot simply shoot two dozen men and their wives down like animals."
"Your wives will be returned to your lodgings safe and unharmed, and unknowing." Kelly set his glass on the mantel. "We have no intention of shooting anyone.
We intend to rely on Mother Nature to do the job, with a little help, of course. After all, shootings can be traced, accidents merely regrett
ed."
Rondheim motioned the black coveralled men with the guns to move in closer. "If you please, gentlemen, roll up one of your sleeves."
As if on cue, Kirsti left the room and quickly returned carrying a small tray set with bottles and hypodermic syringes. She set the tray down and began filling the syringes.
"I'll be damned if you'll stick a needle in my arm," one of the men in Pitts group exploded. "Shoot me now and get it over-"
His eyes went glassy as a guard's rifle butt caught him behind the ear and he slumped to the floor.
"Let us have no further arguments," Rondheim said grimly. He turned to Pitt. "Come into the next room, Major. In your instance, I shall deal with you on a personal basis." He waved the gun he had taken from Kirsti toward a doorway.
Rondheim, followed by two of his guards, escorted Pitt along a wide hall, down a circular flight of stairs into another hall, then shoved roughly through the second of several doorways lining both sides of the serond passageway. Pitt, letting himself go loose, stumbled awkwardly, fell to the floor, then scanned the room.
It was an immense room, painted stark white; a large pad lay in the middle of the floor, surrounded by an array of body-building equipment, brightly lit by long rows of fluorescent light fixtures. The room was a gymnasium, better and more expensively equipped than any Pitt had ever seen. The walls were decorated with at least fifty posters depicting the many karate, movements. Pitt silently acknowledged a well-conceived and laid-out training room.
Rondheim passed the small automatic to one of the guards. "I must leave you for a moment, Major," he said dryly. "Please make yourself comfortable until I return. Perhaps you would care to loosen up your muscles. May I suggest the parallel bars."
With that he, laughed loudly and left the room.
Pitt stayed where he was on the floor and studied the two guards. One was a tall, ice-faced and hard-eyed giant nearly six feet four. The dark hair circling his prematurely bald head made him look like a monk, an illusion shattered by the semi-automatic rifle cradled in a pair of huge, hairy hands. He returned Pitts stare with a look that dared Pitt to try and escape, a possibility made one hundred percent hopeless by the second guard. He stood and filled up the door to the hallway, his shoulders coming within an inch of touching both sides of the vertical framework. Except for a big, red face, heavily moustached, he could have passed inspection with an army of apes. He let his rifle hang loosely in a hand that came nearly to his knees.
Five minutes passe-five minutes during which Pitt carefully planned his next move, five minutes in which the guard's hard eyes never left him. Then suddenly, the door on the far side of the gym opened and Rondheim walked in. He had changed from his dinner jacket into the white, loose-fitting attire of a karate disciple, clothing that Pitt knew was called a gi. Rondheim stood there for a moment, an assured, confident smile taut on his thin lips. Then he walked softly across the floor on bare feet and stepped onto the heavy mat, facing Pitt.
"Tell me, Major. Are you familiar with karate or Kung-Fu?"
Pitt uneasily eyed the narrow black belt that was knotted around Rondheim's waist and fervently prayed that the warm glow of the brandy would ease the beating he felt certain was coming. He simply shook his head.
"Perhaps judo?"
"No, I abhor physical violence."
"A pity. I had hoped for a more worthy opponent.
But it is no less than I suspected." He idly fingered the Japanese characters embroidered on his belt "I have my doubts about your masculinity, yet Kirsti thinks you are more manly than you act. We shall soon see."
Pitt forced back the hate and projected a quaver of fear. "Leave me alone; leave me alone!" His voice was highpitched now, almost a screech. "Why do you want to hurt me? I've done nothing to you." His mouth was working in short jerks from a contorted face. "I lied to you about blowing up your boat. I never saw it through the fog-I swear. You must believe-" The two guards looked at each other and exchanged sickened expressions, but Rondheim's face went far beyond mere revulsion-he looked positively nauseated.
"Enough!" he shouted commandingly. "Stop this drivel. I never believed for a moment you had the courage to attack and destroy my boat and crew."
Pitt stared wildly about him, a look of blind stupid terror in his eyes that might have been painted there.
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"You have no reason to kill me. I'll tell no one anything. Please! You can trust me." He started to move toward Rondheim, his hands upturned, pleading.
"Stand where you are!"
Pitt froze. His planned act was working. He could only hope now that Rondheim would quickly tire of a victim who Put up no defense, no resistance at all.
"A major in the United States Air Force," Rondheim grimaced. "I'll wager you are nothing but a spineless homosexual who used your father's influence to acquire rank-the lowest form of vermin, living off Your own excretion. Soon you will know what it is to feel pain from the hands and feet of another man. A shame You will not enjoy the time to look back and reflect on,your most Punishing lesson in the art of selfdefense." Pitt stood there like a panic-frozen elk about to be brought down by the hounds. He stood there mumbling incoherently as Rondheim moved to the middle of the mat and assumed one of the many opening stances of Karate.
"No, wait-" Pitt choked the, words off in his throat, threw back his head and spun sideways in one convulsive movement. He had caught the tiny shift in Rondheim's eyes, the beginning of the lightning thrust as the Icelander came in with a reverse punch that connected on pitt's cheekbone, a half-solid blow that would have caused much more damage than a bruised swelling if Pitt hadn't rolled with the impact. He reeled back two steps and stood there as if stunned, swaying dazedly to and fro as Rondheim advanced slowly, the trace of a sadistic smile in the thin, chiseled features.
Pitt had made a mistake by ducking, had almost given himself away by revealing his quick reflexes. He had to fight to keep his mind turned on the rules. it wasn't easy. No normal man who knows how to take care of himself enjoys standing idle while being beaten to a pulp. He gritted his teeth and waited, holding his body low to absorb the blows from Rondheim's next attack.
He didn't wait but a few seconds.
Rondheim scored with a roundhouse kick to the head that rammed Pitt full in the face, knocking him off the mat against a row of horizontal exercise bars set into the wall. Pitt lay on the floor in silence, tasting the blood from his crushed lips and feeling his loosened teeth.
"Come, come, Major." Rondheim spoke soothingly, tauntingly. "Up on your feet. The lesson's barely begun."
Pitt pushed himself groggily to his feet and stumbled drunkenly onto the mat. The urge to counterpunch Rondheim was stronger than ever now, but he knew his only course was to play out his role.
Rondheim lost no time in working on him again. A quick combination of sledgehammer blows to the head that never seemed to end, followed by a front kick to the exposed rib area, and Pitt felt rather than heard one of his ribs snap. As if in slow motion, Pitt sunk to his knees and slowly slumped forward onto his face, so badly injured that blood and vomit mingled freely in his mouth and flowed onto the mat in an ever-widening pool. He didn't need a mirror to know he was being worked over fearfully, his face distorted in grotesque mutilation, both eyes rapidly closing, lips ballooned in a purplish mass of torn meat, one nostril of his nose split open.
The daggerlike pain in his chest and the agony of his torn face rose in giant waves and pounded him to the verge of blackness; yet he was surprised to find his mind was still functioning normally. Instead of allowing the painless oblivion of unconsciousness to swoop in, he willed himself to fake it, setting his teeth against a groan that would have given his deception away.
Rondheim was infuriated. "I'm not through with this slimy faggot." He motioned to one of the guards.
"Revive him."
The one with the bald head walked to a nearby bathroom, soaked a towel and none too gently wiped the blood from Pitts face and then compres
sed the now reddened cloth behind his neck. When Pitt didn't respond, the guard left again and returned with a small vial of smellin,-, salts.
Pitt coughed once, twice, then spit a gob of blood on the guard's boot, taking grim satisfaction that it was no accident. He rolled over onto his side and looked up at Rondheim looming over him.
Rondheim laughed softly. "You seem to have difficulty staying awake in class, Major. Perhaps you are becoming bored."
His voice suddenly chilled. "Stand up! You have yet to finish your-ah-course of instruction."
"Course? Instruction?" Pitts words came blurred, semi-intelligibly through his bloated, broken lips. "I don't get what you mean-" Rondheim answered by lifting his heel and jamming it in Pitts groin. Pitts whole body shuddered and he groaned, the agony tearing him apart.
Rondheim spat on him. "I said stand up!"
"I . I can't."
And then Rondheim leaned down and struck Pitt with a shuto blow to the back of the neck. There was no fighting it, no faking it this time: Pitt blacked out for real.
"Bring him around again!" Rondheim yelled insanely. "I want him on his feet."
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The guards stared uncomprehendingly; even they were beginning to tire of Rondheim's bloody game. But they had little choice except to work over Pitt like a couple of trainers over a punchdrunk boxer until he emitted the barest signs of consciousness. It didn't take a medical specialist to determine that Pitt could have never stood unaided. So the guards, each with one arm, held Pitt up, his body sagging between them with the dead weight of a wet bag of Portland cement.
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