Night Probe!

by Clive Cussler

  Epstein nodded. "I'd never heard of her until I read Shields' obituary. The sinking was one of the worst maritime disasters of the age."

  "Strange. The Empress, the Titanic and the Lusitania all went under within three years of one another."

  "Anyway, the body was never found. His family held a memorial service in some unpronounceable little village in Wales. That's all I can tell you about Harvey Shields."

  They reached the target and Epstein studied the hits. "A six-inch grouping," he said. "Pretty good for an old smoothbore muzzle-loader."

  "A seventy-five-caliber ball makes a nasty hole," said Pitt, eyeing the shredded target. "Think what it would do on flesh."

  "I'd rather not." Epstein replaced the target and they began walking back to the shooting line.

  "What about Essex?" asked Pitt.

  "What can I tell you that you don't already know?"

  "How he died, for starters."

  "A train wreck," answered Epstein. "Bridge collapsed over the Hudson River. A hundred dead. Essex was one of them."

  Pitt thought a moment. "Somewhere, buried in old records in the county where the accident occurred, there must be a report listing the effects found on the body."

  "Not likely."

  "Why do you say that?"

  "Now we've touched on an intriguing parallel between Essex and Shields." He paused and looked at Pitt. "Both men were killed on the same day, May twenty-eighth, nineteen fourteen, and neither of their bodies were ever recovered."

  "Great," Pitt sighed. "It never rains . . . but then I didn't expect it to be cut-and-dried."

  "Investigations into the past never are."

  "The coincidence between the deaths of Essex and Shields seems unreal. Could there have been a conspiracy?"

  Epstein shook his head. "I doubt it. Stranger things happen. Besides, why sink a ship and murder a thousand souls when Shields could have simply been tossed over the side somewhere in the middle of the Atlantic?"

  "You're right, of course."

  "You mind telling me what this is all about?"

  "I'm not sure where any of this is leading, myself."

  "If it's newsworthy, I hope you'll let me in on it."

  "Too early to throw in the open. It may be nothing."

  "I've known you too long, Dirk. You don't involve yourself with nothing."

  "Let's just say I'm a sucker for historical mysteries."

  "In that case I've got another one for you."

  "Okay, lay it on me."

  "The river under the bridge was dragged for over a month. Not a single body of a passenger or crewman ever turned up."

  Pitt stopped and stared evenly at Epstein. "I don't buy that. It doesn't figure that a few bodies wouldn't have drifted downriver and beached on the shoreline."

  "That's only the half of it," Epstein said with a cagey look. "The train wasn't found either."

  "Jesus!"

  "Out of professional curiosity I read up on the Manhattan Limited, as it was called. Divers went down for weeks after the tragedy, but turned up zero. The locomotive and all the coaches were written off as having sunk in quicksand. Directors of the New York & Quebec Northern Railroad spent a fortune trying to recover a trace of their crack train. They failed, and finally threw in the towel. A short time later, the line was absorbed by the New York Central."

  "And that was the end of it."

  "Not quite," Epstein said. "It's claimed that the Manhattan Limited still makes its ghostly run."

  "You're kidding."

  "Scout's honor. Local residents in the Hudson River valley swear to seeing a phantom train as it turns from the shore and heads up the grade of the old bridge before it vanishes. Naturally, the apparition only appears after dark."

  "Naturally," Pitt replied sarcastically. "You forgot the full moon and the howling of banshees."

  Epstein shrugged and then laughed. "I thought you'd appreciate a touch of the macabre."

  "You have copies of all this?"

  "Sure. I figured you'd want them. There's five pounds of material on the sinking of the Empress and the investigation following the Hudson River bridge failure. I also scrounged up the names and addresses of a few people who make a hobby out of researching old ship and train disasters. It's all neatly packaged in an envelope out in the car." Epstein motioned toward the parking lot of the shooting range. "I'll get it for you."

  "I appreciate your time and effort," said Pitt.

  Epstein stared at him steadily. "One question, Dirk, you owe me that."

  "Yes, I owe you that," Pitt acquiesced.

  "Is this a NUMA project or are you on your own?"

  "Strictly a personal show."

  "I see." Epstein looked down on the ground and idly kicked a loose rock. "Did you know that a descendant of Richard Essex was recently found dead?"

  "John Essex. Yes, I know."

  "One of our reporters covered the story." Epstein paused and nodded in the direction of Pitt's Cobra. "A man matching your description, driving a red sports car, and asking directions to Essex's house was seen by a neighbor an hour before an anonymous phone call to the police tipped them off about his death."

  "Coincidence," Pitt shrugged.

  "Coincidence your ass," said Epstein. "What in hell are you up to?"

  Pitt took a few steps in silence, his face set in a grim expression. Then he smiled slightly, and Epstein could have sworn the smile was tinged with foreboding.

  "Believe me, my friend, when I say you don't want to know."

  Graham Humberly's house sprawled over the top of a hill in Palos Verdes, a posh bedroom community of Los Angeles. The architecture was a blend of contemporary and California Spanish with rough coated plaster walls and ceilings, laced with massive weathered beams covered by a roof of curved red tile.

  A large fountain splashed on the main terrace and spilled into a circular swimming pool. A spectacular panoramic view overlooked a vast carpet of city lights to the east, while the rear faced down on the Pacific Ocean and Catalina Island to the west.

  Music from a mariachi band and the tidal current of babble from a hundred voices greeted Shaw as he entered Humberty's home. Bartenders were feverishly mixing gallons of tequila margaritas while the caterers busily replenished spicy Mexican dishes on a buffet table that seemed to stretch into infinity.

  A small man with a head too large for his shoulders approached. He was wearing a black dinner jacket with an oriental dragon embroidered on the back.

  "Hello, I'm Graham Humberly," he said with a glossy smile. "Welcome to the party."

  "Brian Shaw."

  The smile remained glossy. "Ah, yes, Mr. Shaw. Sorry for not recognizing you, but our mutual friends didn't send me a photograph."

  "You have a most impressive home. Nothing quite like it in England."

  "Thank you. But the credit belongs to my wife. I preferred something more provincial. Fortunately, her taste surpassed mine."

  Humberly's accent, Shaw guessed, hinted of Cornwall. "Is Commander Milligan present?"

  Humberly took his arm and led him away from the crowd. "Yes, she's here," he said softly. "I had to invite every officer of the ship to make sure she'd come. Come along, I'll introduce you around."

  "I'm not much for social dribble," said Shaw. "Suppose you point her out and I'll handle things on my own."

  "As you wish." Humberly studied the mass of bodies milling around the terrace. Then his gaze stopped and he -nodded toward the bar. "The tall, rather attractive woman with blond hair in the blue dress."

  Shaw easily picked her out in an admiring circle of white uniformed naval officers. She looked to be in her mid-thirties and radiated a warmth that escaped most women. She seemed to accept the attention naturally without any sign of caprice. Shaw liked what he saw at first glance.

  "Perhaps I can smooth the way by separating her from the horde," said Humberly.

  "Don't bother," replied Shaw. "By the way, do you have a car I might borrow?"

  "I h
ave a fleet. What have you got in mind, a chauffeured limousine?"

  "Something with more spirit."

  Humberly thought a moment. "Will a Rolls-Royce Corniche convertible be appropriate?"

  "It should do nicely."

  "You'll find it in the drive. A red one, The keys will be in the ignition."

  "Thank you."

  "Not at all. Good hunting."

  Humberly returned to his duties as host. Shaw moved toward the bar and shouldered his way up to Heidi Milligan. A blond young lieutenant gave him an indignant stare. "A bit pushy, aren't you, dad?"

  Shaw ignored him and smiled at Heidi. "Commander Milligan, I'm Admiral Brian Shaw. May I have a word with you . . . alone."

  Heidi studied his face a moment, trying to place him. She gave up and nodded. "Of course, Admiral."

  The blond lieutenant looked as if he'd discovered his fly was open. "My apologies, sir. But I thought . . ."

  Shaw flashed him a benevolent smile. "Always remember, lad, it pays to know the enemy."

  "I like your style, Admiral," Heidi shouted over the roar of the wind.

  Shaw's foot pressed the accelerator another half inch, and the Rolls surged north along the San Diego freeway. He'd had no specific destination in mind when he left the party with Heidi. Thirty years had passed since he last saw Los Angeles. He drove aimlessly, depending only on the direction signs, not at all sure where they would take him.

  He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. Her eyes were wide and sparkling from exhilaration. He felt her hand grip his arm. "You better slow down," she yelled, "before you're stopped by a cop."

  That he didn't need. Shaw eased off the gas pedal and let the car coast down to the legal speed limit. He turned on the FM radio and a Strauss waltz settled over the car. He started to change the station, but she touched his hand.

  "No, leave it." She leaned back in the seat and gazed up at the stars. "Where are we going?"

  "An old Scottish ploy," he laughed. "Abduct females to distant places . . . that way they must become interested in you if they want to get home."

  "Won't work." She laughed. "I'm already three thousand miles away from home."

  "Without a uniform too."

  "Naval regulation: Lady officers are allowed to dress in civilian attire for social functions."

  "Three cheers for the American navy."

  She looked at him speculatively. "I've never known an admiral who drove a Rolls-Royce."

  He smiled. "There are dozens of us on-the-beach, old British sea dogs who wouldn't be caught in any other car."

  "Three cheers for your navy," she laughed.

  "Seriously, I made a few wise investments when I commanded a naval depot in Ceylon."

  "What do you do now that you're retired from service?"

  "Write mostly. Historical books. Nelson at the Battle of the Nile, The Admiralty in World War I, that sort of thing. Hardly the stuff best-sellers are made of, but there's a certain amount of prestige attached to it."

  She looked at him strangely. "You're putting me on."

  "I beg your pardon."

  "Do you really write historical naval books?"

  "Of course," he said innocently. "Why should I lie?"

  "Incredible," murmured Heidi. "I do too, but I've yet to be published."

  "I say, that is incredible," Shaw said, doing his best to appear properly amazed. Then he groped for her hand, found it and gave a light pressure. "When must you return to your ship?" He could feel her tremble slightly. "There's no rush."

  He glanced at a large green sign with white letters as it flashed past. "Have you ever been to Santa Barbara?"

  "No," she said in almost a whisper. "But I hear it's beautiful.

  In the morning it was Heidi who ordered breakfast from room service. As she poured the coffee, she experienced a glowing warmth of delight. Making love to a stranger only a few hours after meeting him gave her an inner thrill she had not known before. It was a sensation that was peculiar to her.

  She could easily recall the men she'd had: the frightened midshipman at Annapolis, her ex-husband, Admiral Walter Bass, Dirk Pitt, and now Shaw . . . she could see them all clearly, as if they were lined up for inspection. Only five, hardly enough to make up an army, much less a platoon.

  Why is it, she wondered, the older a woman becomes, the more she regrets not having gone to bed with more men. She became annoyed with herself. She had been too careful in her single years, afraid to appear overly eager, never able to bring herself to indulge in a casual affair.

  How silly of her, she thought. After all, she often felt she'd had ten times the physical pleasure of any man. Her ecstasy mushroomed from within. Men she knew had felt a sensation that was merely external.

  They seemed to rely more on imagination and were frequently disappointed afterward. Sex to them was often no different from going to a movie; a woman demands much more . . . too much.

  "You look pensive this morning," said Shaw. He pulled up her hair and kissed the nape of her neck.

  "Suffering remorse in the cold light of dawn?"

  "More like entranced in fond remembrance."

  "When do you sail?"

  "Day after tomorrow."

  "Then we still have time together."

  She shook her head. "I'll be on duty until we cast off."

  Shaw walked over and stared through the sliding glass doors of their hotel room overlooking the ocean.

  He could only see a few hundred feet. The Santa Barbara coastline was covered by a mantle of fog.

  "A damned shame," he said wistfully. "We have so much in common."

  She came over and slipped her arm around his waist. "What do you have in mind? Making love at night and researching by day?"

  He laughed. "Americans and their direct humor. Not a bad idea though. We might very well complement each other. What exactly is it you're writing at the moment?"

  "My thesis for a doctorate. The navy under President Wilson's administration."

  "Sounds terribly dull."

  "It is." Heidi went silent, a thoughtful look in her face. Then she said, "Have you ever heard of the North American Treaty?"

  There it was. No coaxing, no intrigue or torture; she simply came out with it.

  Shaw did not answer immediately. He chose his reply care fully.

  "Yes, I recall running across it."

  Heidi looked at him, her mouth half open to speak, but nothing came out.

  "You have a strange expression on your face."

  "You're familiar with the treaty?" she asked in astonishment. "You've actually seen references to it?"

  "I've never actually read the wording. Fact is I've forgotten its purpose. It was of little consequence as I remember. You can find material relating to it in most any archive in London." Shaw had kept his tone nonchalant. He calmly lit a cigarette. "Is the treaty part of your research project?"

  "No," Heidi answered. "By chance I stumbled on a brief mention. I pursued it out of curiosity, but turned up nothing that proved it ever truly existed."

  "I'll be happy to make a copy and send it to you."

  "Don't bother. Just knowing it wasn't a figment of my imagination is enough to soothe my inquisitive soul.

  Besides, I turned my notes over to a friend in Washington."

  "I'll send them to her."

  "She's a he."

  "All right, he," he said, trying to mute the impatience in his voice. "What's his name and address?"

  "Dirk Pitt. You can reach him at the National Underwater and Marine Agency."

  Shaw had what he came for. A dedicated agent would have whisked Heidi back to her ship and rushed aboard the first flight to Washington.

  Shaw had never considered himself dedicated in the gung ho sense. There were times it did not pay, and this was one of them. He kissed Heidi hard on the mouth. "So much for research. Now let's go back to bed." And they did.

  An early afternoon breeze blew steadily out of the northeast. A cold breeze ful
l of little needles that jabbed exposed skin into numbness. The temperature was three degrees Celsius, but to Pitt, as he stood looking out over the waters of the St. Lawrence River, the wind chill factor made it feel closer to minus ten.

  He inhaled the smells of the docks jutting into the little bay a few miles from the Quebec Province city of Rimouski, his nostrils sifting out the distinct tangs of tar, rust and diesel oil. He walked along the aging planks until he came to a gangway that led down to a boat resting comfortably in the oily water. The designer had given it no-nonsense lines, about fifteen meters, spacious flush decks, twin screw and diesel engines. There was no attempt at flashy chrome; the hull was painted black. It was built to be functional, ideal for fishing trips, diving excursions or oil surveys. The topside was squared away and spotless, the sure signs of an affectionate owner.

  A man emerged from the wheelhouse. He wore a stocking cap that failed to restrain a thicket of coarse black hair. The face looked as though it had been battered by a hundred storms, but the eyes were sad and watchful as Pitt hesitated before stepping onto the afterdeck.

  "My name is Dirk Pitt. I'm looking for Jules Le Mat."

  There was a slight pause, and then strong white teeth flashed like a theater marquee in a hearty smile.

  "Welcome, Monsieur Pitt. Please come aboard."

  "She's a smart boat."

  "No beauty, maybe, but like a good wife it's sturdy and loyal." The hand clasp was like a vise. "You've picked a fine day for your visit. The St. Lawrence is cooperating. No fog and only a mild chop over deep water. If you'll give me a hand and cast off, we can get under way."