Night Probe!

by Clive Cussler

  After four hours, to the accompaniment of Miss Gosset's protesting stomach, they had turned up nothing. Beaseley replaced the binders and looked thoughtful.

  "Excuse me, Mr. Beaseley, but about lunch?" He looked at his watch. "I'm dreadfully sorry. I paid no attention to the time. Will you allow me to make that dinner?"

  "I gratefully accept," sighed Miss Gosset.

  They were signing out when Beaseley suddenly turned to the commissionaire.

  "I'd like to examine the official secrets vault," he said. "My clearance allows me entry."

  "But not the young lady," said the uniformed commissionaire, smiling politely. ""Her pass only covers the library."

  Beaseley patted Miss Gosset on the shoulder. "Please be patient a little longer. This shouldn't take but a few minutes."

  He followed the commissionaire down three flights of stairs to the basement and up to a large iron door in a concrete wall. He watched as a pair of heavy brass keys turned the oiled tumblers of two immense antique padlocks without the least sound. The commissionaire pushed the door open and stood aside.

  "I'll have to lock you in, sir," he said, parroting the book of regulations. "There is a telephone on the wall.

  Just ring three two when you wish to leave."

  "I'm aware of the procedure, thank you."

  The file containing classified matter from the spring of 1914 was only forty pages thick and held no earth-shattering revelations. Beaseley was reinserting it in its slot when he noticed something odd.

  Several of the files on each side protruded nearly half an inch from the rest of the neatly spaced row. He pulled them out.

  Another file had somehow been shoved behind the others, keeping them from fitting evenly. He opened the cover. Across the title page of what looked to be a report were the words "North American Treaty."

  He sat down at a metal table and began to read.

  Ten minutes later, Beaseley had the look of a man who had been tapped on the shoulder in a cemetery at midnight. His trembling hands could scarcely punch out the correct telephone call buttons.

  Heidi checked her boarding pass and looked up at the television monitor displaying the departure time of her flight.

  "Another forty minutes to kill," she said.

  "Time enough for a farewell drink" Pitt replied.

  He steered her across the busy lobby of Dulles Airport to the cocktail lounge. Businessmen with loosened collars and wrinkled suits packed every corner. Pitt scrounged a small table and ordered from a passing waitress. "I wish I could stay," she said wistfully.

  "What's to stop you?"

  "The navy frowns on officers who jump ship."

  "When is your leave up?"

  "I have to report to the Naval Communications Station in San Diego by noon tomorrow for assignment to sea duty."

  He looked into her eyes. "It seems our romance is a victim of geography."

  "We didn't give it much chance, did we?"

  "Perhaps it was never meant to be," said Pitt.

  Heidi stared at him. "That's what he said!"

  "Who?"

  "President Wilson in a letter."

  Pitt laughed. "I'm afraid you've lost me."

  "I'm sorry." She waved away the thought. "It was nothing."

  "Sounds to me like your research is getting to you."

  "Complications," she said. "I was sidetracked. It happens in research. You delve into one subject and find a fascinating bit of information that takes you on a totally different course."

  The drinks came and Pitt paid the waitress. "You're sure you can't request an extension."

  She shook her head. "If only I could. But I've used up all my accumulated leave time. It will be six months before I'm eligible again" Then suddenly her eyes came alive. "Why don't you come with me? We could have a few days together before I sail."

  Pitt took her hand. "Sorry, dear heart, but my schedule won't permit it. I'm leaving myself, for a project in the Labrador Sea."

  "How long will you be gone?"

  "A month, maybe six weeks."

  "Will we see each other again?" Her voice became soft.

  "I'm a firm believer that good memories should be relived."

  Twenty minutes later, after finishing their second drink, Pitt escorted Heidi to her boarding gate. Already the waiting area had cleared and the attendant behind the checkin counter was announcing the final call.

  She set her purse and cosmetic case on a vacant chair and looked up at him through expectant eyes. He responded by kissing her. Then he tilted back his head and grinned. "There goes my macho reputation."

  "How so?"

  "As soon as word gets around that I was seen kissing a sailor, I'm through."

  "You clown." She pulled his head down and kissed him long and hard. Finally she released him and blinked back the tears. "Goodbye, Dirk Pitt."

  "Goodbye, Heidi Milligan."

  She picked up her bags and walked toward the boarding ramp. Then she paused as though remembering something and returned. Fishing in her purse, she pulled out an envelope and pushed it into his hand.

  "Listen! Read these papers," she said urgently. "They explain what's been sidetracking me. And . . . Dirk

  . . . There may be something here. Something important. See what you think. If you feel it's worth pursuing, call me in San Diego." Before Pitt could reply, she had turned and was gone.

  They say that after death, there is no more idyllic setting in which to await eternity than the graveyard of an English village. Nestled about the parish church in timeless tranquillity, the headstones stand moss-covered and mute, their carved names and dates eroded and seldom readable farther back than the nineteenth century.

  Outside of London, in the tucked-away village of Manuden, a solitary bell tolled for a funeral. It was a chilly but beautiful day, the sun skirting rolling masses of pearl-tinted clouds.

  Fifty or sixty people clustered about a flag-draped military coffin as the local vicar delivered the eulogy.

  A regal-looking woman in her early sixties heard none of it. Her attention was focused on a man who stood alone, several paces away from the outer edge of the mourners.

  He must be sixty-six, she thought. His black, carelessly brushed hair was sprinkled with gray and had receded slightly. The face was still handsome, but the ruthless look had softened. With a slight tinge of envy she noted that he maintained a trim and fit shape, while she had tended to spread. His eyes were aimed at the church steeple, his thoughts distant.

  Only after the coffin was lowered into the ground and the crowd had dispersed did he step forward and stare into the grave as though piercing a window to the past.

  "The years have treated you well," she said, coming up behind him.

  He turned and recognized her presence for the first time. Then he smiled the old engaging smile she recalled so well and kissed her on the cheek.

  "How incredibly, you look even more sensuous than I remembered."

  "You haven't changed," she laughed, self-consciously patting her gray hair with its few remaining sandy strands. "The same old flatterer."

  "How long has it been?"

  "You left the service twenty-five years ago."

  "God, it seems two centuries at least."

  "Your name is Brian Shaw now."

  "Yes." Shaw nodded at the coffin waiting for the diggers to cover it. "He insisted I take a new identity when I retired."

  "A wise move. You had more enemies than Attila the Hun. The SMERSH agent who assassinated you would have become a Soviet hero."

  "No need to worry any longer." He smiled. "I doubt if my old adversaries are still alive. Besides, I'm an old has-been. My head isn't worth the price of a liter of petrol."

  "You never married." It was a statement, not a question.

  He shook his head. "Only briefly, but she was killed. You remember."

  She flushed slightly. "I guess I never really accepted you as having a wife."

  "And you?"

  "A yea
r after you left. My husband worked in the cryptographic analysis section. His name is Graham Huston. We live in London and manage nicely with our pensions and the profits of an antique shop."

  "Not quite like the old days."

  "Are you still living in the West Indies?"

  "It became rather unhealthy, so I came home. Bought a small working farm on the Isle of Wight."

  "I can't picture you as a gentleman farmer."

  "Ditto for you selling antiques."

  The grave diggers appeared from a pub across the road and took up their shovels. Soon the dirt was slapping against the wooden top of the coffin.

  "I loved that old man," Shaw said wistfully. "There were times I wanted to kill him, and there were times I wished I could have embraced him as a father."

  "He had a special affection for you too," she said. "He always fussed and worried when you were on an assignment. The other agents he treated more like chess pieces."

  "You knew him better than anyone," he said softly. "A man has few secrets from his secretary of twenty years."

  She gave a slight, perceptible nod. "It used to annoy him. I came to read his thoughts on many occasions."

  Her voice faltered and she could no longer bear to look at the grave. She turned away, and Shaw took her arm and led her from the churchyard. "Have you time for a drink?"

  She opened her handbag, picked out a tissue and sniffled into it. "I really must be getting back to London."

  "Then it's goodbye, Mrs. Huston."

  "Brian." She uttered the sound as if it stuck in her throat, yet she refrained from speaking his real name.

  "I will never get used to thinking of you as Brian Shaw."

  "The two people we were died long before our old chief," Shaw said gently.

  She squeezed his hand and her eyes were moist. "A pity we can't relive the past."

  Before he could answer she pulled an envelope from her purse and slipped it into the side pocket of his overcoat. He said nothing, nor did he appear to notice.

  "Goodbye, Mr. Shaw," she said in a voice he could hardly hear. "Take care of yourself."

  A cold evening sleet lashed London as the diesel engine of a black Austin cab knocked to an idle in front of a large stone building in Hyde Park. Shaw paid the driver and stepped out to the pavement. He stood for a few moments, ignoring the particles of wind-driven ice that pelted his face, staring up at the ugly edifice where he had once worked.

  The windows were dirty and streaked and the walls bore soot and pollution from half a century of neglect. Shaw thought it odd that the building had never been sandblasted as had so many others around the city.

  He climbed the steps and entered the lobby. A security guard matter-of-factly asked to see his identification and checked his name against a list of scheduled appointments.

  "Please take the lift to the tenth floor," said the guard. "Someone will meet you."

  The lift trembled and rattled as it always had, but the operator was gone, replaced by a panel of buttons.

  Shaw stopped the lift on the ninth floor and walked into the corridor. He found his old office and opened the door, expecting to see a secretary busily typing in the front area and a man sitting at his desk in the rear.

  He was numbed to find the two rooms empty except for a few pieces of dusty litter.

  He shook his head sadly. Who was it who said you can't go home again?

  At least the stairway was where it was supposed to be, even though the security guard was no longer there. He climbed to the tenth floor and stepped out behind a blond girl, wearing a loose-fitting knit dress, who was facing the lift.

  "I believe you're waiting for me," he said.

  She whirled around startled. "Mr. Shaw?"

  "Yes, sorry for the delay, but since this is a bit like old home week I thought I'd take a nostalgic tour."

  The, girl looked at him with ill-concealed curiosity. "The brigadier is waiting for you, please follow me."

  She knocked on the familiar door and opened it. ""Mr. Shaw, sir."

  Except for a different desk and the man rising behind it, the bookcases and fixtures were the same. At last he felt as though he was on home ground.

  "Mr. Shaw, do come in."

  Brigadier General Morris V. Simms extended a hand that was firm and dry. The peacock-blue eyes had a fluid friendliness to them, but Shaw wasn't fooled. He could feel their gaze reading him like a computerized body scan.

  "Please be seated."

  Shaw sat in a tall-armed chair that was hard as marble. A rather unimaginative ploy, he thought, designed to place the brigadier's callers with an uncomfortable handicap. His former chief would have cursed such amateurish pettiness.

  He noticed that the desk was untidy. Files were carelessly piled, several of their headings facing upside down. And there were indications of dust. Not spread evenly on the desk top, but in places where dust was not supposed to be. The upper rims of the In and Out baskets, under the receiver of the telephone, between the edges of papers protruding from their file covers.

  Suddenly Shaw saw through the sham.

  First there was the missing elevator operator who used to ensure that visitors went where they were sent. Then the missing security guards who had patrolled the stairways and acted as receptionists on every floor. Then there was his deserted office.

  His former section of the British Secret Intelligence Service was no longer in this building.

  The whole scene was a mock-up, a stage erected to act out a play for his benefit.

  Brigadier Simms dropped stiffly into his chair and stared across at Shaw. There was no giveaway expression on the smooth soldier's face. It was as inscrutable as a jade Buddha.

  "I suppose this is your first trip to the old haunt since you retired."

  Shaw nodded. "Yes." He found it strange to sit in this room opposite a younger man.

  "Must look about the same to you."

  "There's been a few changes."

  Simms' left eyebrow lifted slightly. "You no doubt mean in personnel."

  "Time clouds one's memory," Shaw replied philosophically.

  The eyebrow slipped back into place. "You must be wondering why I asked you to come?"

  "Having an invitation stuck in my pocket during a funeral struck me as a bit theatrical," said Shaw. "You could have simply posted a letter or called on the telephone."

  Simms gave him a frosty smile. "I have my reasons, sound reasons.”

  Shaw decided to remain aloof. He didn't like Simms and he saw no reason to be anything but civil. "You obviously didn't request my presence for a section reunion."

  "No," Simms said, pulling out a bottom drawer and casually resting a highly polished shoe on it. "Actually I'd like to put you back in harness."

  Shaw was stunned. What in hell lwas going on? He was amazed to feel a wave of excitement course through him. "I can't believe the service is so hard up it has to recall decrepit old agents from the rubbish heap."

  "You're too hard on yourself, Mr. Shaw. You were perhaps the best the service ever recruited. You became something of a legend in your own time."

  "A canker that led to my forced retirement."

  "Be that as it may, I have an assignment that fits your talents like a glove. It requires a mature man with brains. There will be no call for physical agility or bloodletting. It's purely a case for investigative skill and wits. Despite your qualms about age, I have little question that a man of your experience can bring it off."

  Shaw's mind was whirling. He was finding it difficult to make sense of Simms' statements. "Why me?

  There must be an army of other agents who are better qualified. And the Russians. They never throw out their files. The KGB will have me pegged an hour after I resurface."

  "This is the era of electronic brains, Mr. Shaw. Section heads no longer sit in stuffy old offices and make opinionated decisions. All data on current assignments are now fed into computers. We leave it to their memory banks to tell us which agent is best suite
d to send out. Apparently they took a dim view of our present crop. So we programmed a list of retirees. Your name popped out at the top. As to the Russians, you are not to worry. You won't be dealing with them."

  "Can you tell me what it is I'm so ideally suited for?"

  "A watchdog job."

  "If not the Russians, then who?"

  "The Americans."

  Shaw sat silent, not sure he heard right. Finally he said, "Sorry, Brigadier, but your robots made a mistake. Granted, I've never thought the Americans as civilized as the British, but they're a good people.

  During my years in the service I formed many warm relationships with them. I've worked closely with men in the CIA. I refuse to spy on them. I think you better find someone else."

  Simms' face reddened. "You're overreacting. Listen to the facts, Mr. Shaw. I'm not asking you to steal classified information from the Yanks; only keep an eye on them for a few weeks. Not to sound maudlin, but this is a matter which could very well threaten Her Majesty's government."

  "I stand rebuked," said Shaw. "Please continue."

  "Thank you," Simms replied haughtily. "All right, then. Routine investigation into something called the North American Treaty. A rusty can of worms the Americans have dug up. You're to learn what they know and if they intend to do anything about it."

  "Sounds vague. What exactly is this treaty business?"

  "I think it best if you weren't privy to its ramifications just yet," Simms said without elaboration.