Night Probe!

by Clive Cussler

  The blanket saved Sarveux's life. He landed on a shoulder, dislocating it, and cartwheeled across the coarse surface of the runway, the blows about his head absorbed by the blanket. His legs splayed out and the left tibia twisted and snapped. He tumbled nearly thirty meters before skidding to a stop, his suit shredded in tatters that slowly stained crimson from a mass of skin abrasions.

  Emmett and May died at the controls. They died with forty two other men and three women as two hundred tons of aircraft erupted into a fiery coffin of orange and red. The forward momentum of the great shaft of flame scattered wreckage over a quarter of the runway. The fire fighters attacked the holocaust, but the tragedy was finished. Soon the blackened skeleton of the plane was buried under a sea of white foam. Asbestos-suited men probed the smoldering remains, forcing down the bile that rose in their throats when they came across roasted forms that were barely recognizable as human.

  Sarveux, dazed and in shock, lifted his head and stared at the disaster. At first the paramedics did not identify him. Then one kneeled and studied his face.

  "Holy Mother M'ary!" he gasped. "It's the Prime Minister!"

  Sarveux tried to answer, tried to say something meaningful. But no words came. He closed his eyes and gratefully accepted the blackness that enveloped him.

  Flashbulbs flared and television cameras aimed their hooded lenses at the delicate features of Danielle Sarveux as she moved through a sea of reporters with the silent grace of a ship's figurehead.

  She paused in the doorway of the hospital lobby, not from timidity but for effect. Danielle Sarveux did not simply enter a room, she inundated it like a monsoon. There was an inexpressible aura about her that made women stare in open admiration and envy. Men, she overpowered. World leaders and elder statesmen often regressed to self-conscious schoolboys in her presence.

  To those who knew Danielle well, her cold poise and granite confidence were irritating. But to the great mass of people she was their symbol, a showcase almost, who proved that Canada was not a nation of homespun lumbedacks.

  Whether hosting a social function or rushing to her injured husband's bedside, she dressed in a fashion that was showy elegance. She glided between the reporters, self-possessed and sensuous in a beige tip-tied crepe de chi ne with modest leg slit and a natural gray karakul jacket. Her raven hair swept downward in a cascade over the front of her right shoulder.

  A hundred questions were shouted in chorus and a forest of microphones thrust at her, but she serenely ignored them. Four gargantuan Mounties forged a path to the hospital elevator. On the fourth floor the medical chief of staff stepped forward and introduced himself as Dr. Ericsson.

  She looked at him, holding back the dreaded question. Ericsson anticipated her apprehension and smiled his best professional smile of reassurance. "Your husband's condition is serious, but not critical. He suffered abrasions over fifty percent of his body but there are no major complications. Skin grafts will take care of the heavy tissue loss on his hands. And, considering the degree and number of fractures, the surgery by a team of orthopedic specialists was very successful. It will be a matter of perhaps four months, however, before he can be up and about."

  She read the evasion in his eyes. "Can you promise me that in time Charles will be as good as new?"

  Cornered, Ericsson was forced to concede: "I must confess the Prime Minister will have a slight but permanent limp."

  "I suppose you call that a minor complication."

  The doctor met her eyes. "Yes, madame, I do. The Prime Minister is a most fortunate man. He has no complicated internal injuries, his mind and bodily functions are unimpaired, and the scars will eventually fade. At worst he will require the use of a cane."

  He was surprised to see her mouth tighten in a grin. "Charles with a cane," she said in a cynical tone.

  "God, that's priceless."

  "Pardon, madame?"

  The limp will be worth twenty thousand votes was the reply that ran through her head, but with chameleon ease she transformed her facial expression back to that of the concerned wife. "Can I see him?"

  Ericsson nodded and led her to a door at the end of the corridor. "The anesthetic from the operation has not entirely worn off yet, so you may find his speech a bit vague. He will also be experiencing some pain, so please keep your visit as brief as possible. The floor staff has made up an adjoining room if you wish to stay nearby during his recovery."

  Danielle shook her head. "My husband's advisers think it best if I remain at the official residence where I can assist in carrying on the duties of office under his name."

  "I understand." He opened the door and stood aside. The bedside was surrounded by several doctors and nurses and a vigilant Mountie. They all turned and separated as she approached.

  The smells of antiseptic and the sight of Sarveux's unbandaged, reddened and raw arms made her feel nauseated. She hesitated a moment. Then he recognized her through half opened eyes and his lips curved into a slight smile. "Danielle," he said, his voice slightly slurred. "Forgive me for not embracing you."

  For the first time she saw Sarveux without the armor of his pride. She had never considered him vulnerable before and Could not relate the broken, immobile body lying on the bed to the vain man she had lived with for ten years. The waxen face tempered with pain was not the face she knew. It was like looking at a stranger.

  Hesitantly, she moved in and kissed him softly on both cheeks. Then she brushed the tumbled gray hair from his forehead, unsure of what to say.

  "Your birthday," he said, breaking her silence. "I missed your birthday."

  She looked confused. "My birthday is still months away, dearest."

  "I meant to buy you a gift-" She turned to the doctor. "He's not making any sense."

  Ericsson shook his head. "The lingering effects of the anesthetic."

  "Thank God it was I who was hurt and not you," Sarveux rambled feebly. "My fault."

  "No, no, nothing was your fault," Danielle said quietly.

  "The road was icy, snow covered the windshield, I couldn't see. Took the curve too fast and stepped on the brakes. A mistake. Lost control . . ."

  Then she understood. "Many years ago he was in an auto accident," Danielle explained to Ericsson. "His mother was killed.

  "Not unusual. A drugged mind often takes one back in time.

  "Charles," she said. "You must rest now. I'll be back in the morning."

  "No, don't go." Sarveux's eyes looked past her shoulder to Ericsson. "I must talk to Danielle alone."

  Ericsson thought a moment and then shrugged. "If you insist." He looked at Danielle. "Please, madame, no more than two minutes."

  When the room was cleared, Sarveux started to say something, but then his body tautened in a spasm of pain. "Let me get the doctor," she said, frightened.

  "Wait!" he moaned through clenched teeth. "I have instructions.

  "Not now, my dearest. Later when you are stronger."

  "The James Bay project."

  "Yes, Charles," she said humoring him. "The James Bay project."

  "The control booth above the generator chamber . . . increase the security. Tell Henri."

  "Who?"

  "Henri Villon. He'll know what to do."

  "I promise, Charles."

  "There is great peril for Canada if the wrong people discover" Suddenly his face contorted and he pressed his head deep into the pillow and moaned.

  Danielle was not strong enough to watch his suffering. The room began to spin. She put her hands to her face and stepped back.

  "Max Roubaix." His breath was coming in short gasps. "Tell Henri to consult Max Roubaix."

  Danielle could stand no more. She turned and fled into the corridor.

  Dr. Ericsson was sitting at his desk studying Sarveux's charts when the head nurse entered the office.

  She set a cup of coffee and a plate of doughnuts beside him. "Ten minutes till show time, doctor."

  Ericsson rubbed his eyes and glanced at his wristwatch.
"I suppose the reporters are getting restless."

  "More like murderous," the nurse replied. "They'd probably tear down the building if the kitchen didn't keep them fed." She paused to unzip a garment bag. "Your wife dropped off a clean suit and shirt. She insisted you look your best when you face the TV cameras to announce the Prime Minister's condition."

  "Any change?"

  "He's resting comfortably. Dr. Manson shot him with a narcotic right after Madame Sarveux left. A beautiful woman, but no stomach."

  Ericsson picked up a doughnut and idly stared at it. "I must have been mad to allow the Prime Minister to talk me into administering a stimulant so soon after the operation."

  "What do you suppose was in his mind?"

  "I don't know." Ericsson stood up and removed his coat. "But whatever the reason, his delirious act was most convincing.

  Danielle slipped out of the chauffeur-driven Rolls-Royce and peered up at the resident mansion of Canada's leader. In her eyes the three-story stone exterior was cold and morbid, like a setting of an Emily BrontE novel. She passed through the long foyer with its high ceiling and traditional furnishings and climbed the wide circular staircase to her bedroom.

  It was her haven, the only room in the house Charles had allowed her to redecorate. A shaft of light from the bathroom outlined a raised hump lying on the bed. She closed the door to the hall and leaned against it, a fear mingled with a warmth that suddenly ignited within her stomach. "You're crazy to come here,"

  she murmured.

  Teeth gleamed in a smile under the dim light. "I wonder how many other wives across the land are saying that very line to their lovers tonight."

  "The Mounties guarding the residence."

  "Loyal Frenchmen who have suddenly been struck blind and deaf."

  "You must leave."

  The hump unfolded into a shape of a nude man who stood up on the bed. He held out his hands. "Come to me, ma nymphe."

  "No . . . not here." The throaty tone in her voice gave away an awakening passion. "We have nothing to fear."

  "Charles lives!" she suddenly cried out. "Don't you understand? Charles still lives!"

  "I know," he said without emotion.

  The bedsprings creaked as he stepped to the floor and padded across the carpet. He possessed a formidable body; the huge, swollen muscles, symmetrically formed layer by layer over years of disciplined exercise, rippled and strained beneath his skin. He reached up, ran a hand through his hair and removed it. The skull was shaven, as was every inch of his body. The legs, chest, and pubic area glistened bare and smooth. He took her head between iron hands and pressed her face against the pectoral muscles of his chest. She inhaled the fragrant musky scent from the light coating of body oil he always applied before they made love.

  "Do not think of Charles," he commanded. "He no longer exists for you."

  She could feel the bestial power oozing from his pores. Her head was swimming as a burning desire for this hairless animal consumed her. The heat between her legs flared and she went limp in his arms.

  The sun seeped through the half-open drapes and crept over the two figures entwined on the bed.

  Danielle lay with her breasts enfolding the nude head, her black hair fanned on the pillow. She kissed the smooth pate several times and then released it.

  "You must go now," she said.

  He stretched an arm across her stomach and turned the bedside clock to the light. "Eight o'clock. Still too early. I'll leave around ten." Her eyes took on an apprehensive intensity. "Reporters are swarming everywhere. You should have left hours ago when it was dark."

  He yawned and sat up. "Ten in the morning is a very respectable hour for an old family friend to be seen at the official residence. No one will notice my late departure. I'll be lost in the crowd of solicitous members of Parliament who are beating a path here this minute to offer their services to the Prime Minister's wife in her moment of anguish."

  "You're a capricious bastard," she said, pulling the twisted bedclothes around her shoulders. "Warm and loving one moment, cold and calculating the next."

  "How quickly women change their moods the morning after. I wonder if you would be half so shrewish if Charles had died in the crash?"

  "The job was botched," she snapped angrily.

  "Yes, the job was botched." He shrugged.

  Her face took on a cold determined look. "Only when Charles lies in the grave will Quebec become an independent socialist nation."

  "You want your husband dead for a cause?" he asked skeptically. "Has your love turned to such hatred that he has become nothing to you but a symbol to be eliminated?"

  "We never knew love." She took a cigarette from a box on the nightstand and lit it. "From the beginning, Charles' only interest in me was a need for a political asset. My family's social standing provided him with entrde to society. I've supplied him with some sterling polish and style. But I've never been anything to Charles except a tool to enhance his public image."

  "Why did you marry him?"

  She drew on the cigarette. "He said he was going to be Prime Minister someday, and I believed him."

  "And then?"

  "Too late, I discovered Charles was incapable of affection. I once sought a passionate response. Now I cringe every time he touches me."

  "I watched the news conference at the hospital on television. The doctor who was interviewed told how your anxiety and concern for Charles touched the hearts of the medical staff."

  "Pure theatrics." She laughed. "I'm pretty good at it. But then I've had ten years of rehearsal."

  "Did Charles have anything interesting to say during your visit?"

  "Nothing that made any sense. They had just wheeled him out of the surgical recovery room. His mind was still numb from the anesthetic. He spoke mostly gibberish, raked up the past, a memory of an auto accident that killed his mother."

  Danielle's lover slid out of bed and stepped into the bathroom. "At least he didn't babble away defense secrets."

  She inhaled on the cigarette and let the smoke trickle from her nostrils. "Maybe he did."

  "Go on," he said from the bathroom. "I can hear you."

  "Charles instructed me to tell you to increase security at James Bay."

  "Sheer nonsense." He laughed. "They have twice the amount of guards required to cover every square inch as it is."

  "Not the whole project. Only the control booth."

  He came to the doorway, wiping his bald head with a towel. "What control booth?"

  "Above the generator chamber, I think he said."

  He looked puzzled. "Did he elaborate?"

  "Then Charles mumbled something about 'great peril for Canada if the wrong people discover' . "

  "Yes, discover what?"

  She made a helpless gesture. "He broke off because of the pain."

  "That was all?"

  "No, he wanted you to consult with somebody called Max Roubaix."

  "Max Roubaix?" he repeated, his expression skeptical. "Are you certain that was the name he used?"

  She stared at the ceiling, thinking back, then she nodded. "Yes, I'm positive."

  "How odd."

  Without further elaboration he reentered the bathroom, stood in front of a large full-length mirror and struck a pose known in muscle control jargon as a vacuum. Exhaling and sucking in his rib section, he expanded his rib cage, straining until the network of blood vessels seemed to erupt beneath the skin's surface. Next he did a side chest shot, left hand on right wrist, arm against upper torso.

  Henri Villon studied his reflection with critical concern. His physique was as ideal as physically possible.

  Then he stared at the chiseled features of the face, the Roman-style nose, the indifferent gray eyes. When he dropped all expression the features became hard, with a satanic twist to the mouth. It was as though a savage was lurking beneath the sculptured marble of a statue.

  The wife and daughter of Henri Villon, his Liberal party colleagues and half the population o
f Canada would never in their wildest fantasies have believed he was leading a double life. A respected member of Parliament and minister of internal affairs in the open, he walked the shadows as the veiled head of the Free Quebec Society, the radical movement dedicated to the full independence of French Quebec.

  Danielle came up behind him, a sheet wrapped around her, toga-fashion, and traced his biceps with her fingers. "Do you know him?"

  He relaxed and took a deep breath, slowly exhaling. "Roubaix?"

  She nodded.

  "Only by reputation."

  "Who is he?"

  "Better to ask that question in the past tense," he said, taking the brown-haired wig with graying sides and neatly placing it on his scalp. "If my memory serves me, Max Roubaix was a mass murderer who swung from the gallows over a hundred years ago."

  FEBRUARY 1989

  PRINCETON, NEW JERSEY

  Heidi Milligan seemed out of place among the students grouped about the tables of the Princeton University archive reading room. The neatly tailored uniform of a navy lieutenant commander adorned a svelte body measuring six feet from manicured toenails to the roots of her naturally ash-blond hair.