Medusa nf-8

by Clive Cussler

  Yoo maintained his grin with some effort, and his hand reached inside his jacket.

  “Hi, Charlie. How’s by Yoo?”

  Zavala had stepped out behind him.

  “Joe!” Yoo said. “Am I glad to see you. What a great surprise . . .”

  “That I’m still alive?”

  “Huh? Don’t know what you’re talking about, Joe. Guess we got separated at the warehouse.”

  Yoo’s hand was moving under his jacket in a way that would have seemed casual to the untrained eye.

  “Make a bet with you, Charlie,” Zavala said. “Five bucks says Lyons drills a hole through the back of your skull before you get that gun out of its holster.”

  “I’m feeling lucky,” she said. “Make it ten.”

  She held her pistol with both hands, arms extended.

  “Take your jacket off slowly and drop it on the floor,” Zavala said.

  Yoo did as he was told. Zavala stepped forward to relieve him of both his guns, not only the one in the shoulder holster but the one in the belt holster as well. Frisking him, Zavala found a short, double-edged knife in its ankle sheath.

  “Let’s go for a ride, Charlie,” he said.

  Zavala held his arm in the air as if hailing a taxi. Headlights snapped on. A car roared out of nowhere with a squeal of tires and screeched to a stop just inches from Yoo. Zavala produced a roll of duct tape, bound Yoo’s wrists behind him, put a strip over his eyes, and slapped another over his mouth. Then he shoved Yoo into the backseat and sat next to him, with Lyons on the other side.

  They drove in silence for a half hour before stopping. They hustled Yoo out of the back and down a short flight of stairs. He was plunked in a chair, and the tape was removed from his eyes and mouth. He glanced around at the sparsely furnished room.

  “Where are we?”

  “FBI safe house,” Lyons said.

  She was sitting on the opposite end of a rectangular table. Zavala sat on one side, staring at Yoo with no humor in his banged-up face. Across from Zavala was a pale-haired man whose eyes were boring into Yoo like blue lasers.

  “My name is Kurt Austin,” the man said. “Who do you work for?”

  “The Chinese state security agency,” Yoo said.

  Austin sighed and glanced at Lyons.

  “Charlie,” Lyons said, “do you remember the time we went to the shooting range and I showed you how well I shoot?” She lifted her pistol off her lap and pointed it at Yoo. “Answer Kurt’s question or I’ll drill you a third eye.”

  Yoo swallowed hard.

  “I also work for the Pyramid Triad,” he said.

  Austin motioned for her to lower her gun.

  “What’s your job?” he said.

  “I never left the gangs,” Yoo said. “I’m a high-level foot soldier. I don’t make decisions. I only follow orders.”

  “Who ordered you to get Joe to the fortune cookie warehouse?”

  “After Joe stopped by my office, I reported his visit. I usually just talk to the next in the line of command. That’s as high as I go. That way, if I ever got busted, I’d be limited in what I could tell. This time, I talked to the top dog.”

  Austin thought back to the raid on the Beebe.

  “You’ve been with the Triad a long time,” he said. “What do you know about a guy in your organization with a shaved head and a bad temper?”

  Yoo blinked in surprise.

  “Sounds like Chang,” he said, “the one I talked to. He’s in charge of the gang network worldwide, guys like the Ghost Devils. Do you know him?”

  Austin ignored the question.

  “Who are the other leaders?” he asked instead.

  “C’mon, Charlie,” Caitlin Lyons said with impatience when Yoo hesitated, “we know about Wen Lo being the front man for Pyramid.”

  “Maybe,” Yoo said. “Yeah, I guess so.”

  “Tell me about Phelps,” Austin said. “He was in charge of the gang at the warehouse.”

  “The Ghost Devils are the local D.C. gang. They meet at the fortune cookie place. That’s where major orders come through from the boss. You never know whether it’s going to be a man or a woman. But, hey, that hologram is pretty cool, isn’t it?”

  Yoo looked around at the unrelenting stares and his grin faded.

  “Okay,” he said, squirming in his chair. “Phelps is a mercenary, a hired gun. I don’t know much about him, he comes and goes. He does big important jobs for the Triad.”

  “Is it unusual to have a foreigner at such a high level?” Austin asked.

  “The upper leadership doesn’t fully trust anyone Chinese. They don’t even trust one another, which is why they use the holograms. That way, they can just pop in anywhere around the world and give orders without even being there.”

  “Why did your bosses want to kidnap Joe and me?”

  “They don’t like you. I told Phelps we were playing with fire, snatching someone from a big government agency like NUMA. He said that didn’t matter, it was orders from the top. They hoped you’d both show at the same time, but Joe worked as bait.”

  “How could you be certain I’d be able to find Joe?”

  “Phelps was going to call, saying he was an FBI agent, to give you Joe’s location. Guess you didn’t get the message.”

  “Guess I didn’t.”

  Austin then lobbed a question from left field.

  “What do you know about Bonefish Key?”

  Yoo gave him a blank look that couldn’t be faked.

  Austin believed Yoo knew more than he let on and was higher up in the Triad than he admitted, but he ended his questions.

  “I’m done for now.”

  “Can I go home?” Yoo said.

  “After we talk some more,” Lyons said, “we’ll bring you back to D.C. But it doesn’t end there.”

  “I can deal,” Yoo said. “Let’s talk.”

  “Good,” she said. “You are going to spy on the Triad for us. If we think you’re jerking our chain, we’ll let it be known through our people in Hong Kong that you are a turncoat.”

  “That wouldn’t be healthy,” Yoo said. “I’ll do it.”

  They questioned him further until deciding there was little more to gain. They taped him up again and drove back to the Hoover Building. There, they removed the tape and dropped him off on the sidewalk. Then they drove back to NUMA.

  “My head is spinning,” Caitlin Lyons said. “What just happened?”

  “The Pyramid Triad has developed an influenza virus that they want to use to bring down the Chinese government,” Austin said. “They hijacked the lab working on a vaccine for the virus, and, once the Triad topples the government, Pyramid will market the antiviral around the world and make billions.”

  “Hundreds of thousands of people could die before that happens,” she said.

  “Do you think anyone at Pyramid gives a damn?” he asked.

  “Not from what I’ve seen. Where do we start?”

  “Get the Asian Crime Unit to crack down on the Ghost Devils. While you handle this end, Joe and I will try to find the lab.”

  “What should I do about Charlie Yoo?”

  “Use him, then lose him.”

  “I like that,” she said with an evil smile on her face.

  Lyons dropped them off at the NUMA tower. Austin and Zavala headed their separate ways home to pick up their bags and said they would hook up again at the airport.

  Austin checked his cell phone while driving home. He had left it in the car when he went to investigate the cookie factory. He listened to the voice mail from Phelps, saying he was an FBI agent. Yoo had told the truth about one thing.

  Austin clicked the phone off and nailed the accelerator.

  Time, as always, had become the enemy.

  CHAPTER 30

  AT THREE O’CLOCK IN THE MORNING, THE NAVY BLUE SUV pulled up to a hangar at Reagan National Airport and parked next to a sleek Cessna Citation X jet that had NUMA emblazoned in black on its turquoise fuselage. Aust
in and Casey emerged from the SUV’s backseat, and the lieutenant handed over an eleven-by-sixteen-inch plastic pouch.

  “This packet contains the nuts-and-bolts details of the mission we talked about on the drive to the airport,” Casey said. “Good luck, Kurt. And keep your eyes peeled for sharks.”

  “Thank you, Lieutenant,” Austin said as they shook hands. “But I’ll take a dorsal-finned man-eater any day over the schools of sharp-toothed politicians and government bureaucrats that swarm the Potomac waters.”

  Casey gave him a knowing smile.

  “I’ll remember to keep my shark repellant handy, Kurt.”

  “I was thinking another type of repellant might be more appropriate for Washington, but good luck to you in any case.”

  Austin retrieved his duffel from the SUV and handed it to a baggage handler who loaded it into the jet’s cargo hold. Tucking the pouch under his arm, he stepped up to the open door and paused there. Headlights were bearing down on the Citation and salsa music blared from a car sound system as Zavala’s red Corvette raced across the tarmac with its top down.

  The car slammed to a stop next to the hangar, and Zavala waved. Austin shook his head. As if to balance out his soft-spoken manner, Zavala never simply arrived at a destination, he made a grand entrance. Austin waved back, then stepped into the jet’s plush cabin and dropped the pouch on a coffee table. While Austin went to talk to the pilot and copilot, Zavala raised his convertible’s top, grabbed his duffel, tossed it to the handler, and bolted aboard. As he stepped into the cabin, Austin was coming back from the cockpit.

  “We’re right on schedule,” he informed Zavala.

  The cabin seating was an arrangement of beige leather chairs and a sofa that all could be made into beds. Zavala stretched out in one of the comfortably padded chairs, yawned, and said, “Any idea where we’re going?”

  Austin plunked himself down on the sofa and picked the pouch up off the table. He held it up so Zavala could read the TOP SECRET label affixed to the outside.

  “Our marching orders,” he announced.

  He broke the seal with his thumbnail and extracted the thick wad of paper from inside. He unfolded the first page, which was covered with diagrams, and then passed it over to Zavala. Zavala glanced at the diagrams, then read the words printed in large-block type:

  U.S. NAVY UNDERSEA HABITAT AND OBSERVATORY

  Zavala looked up from the diagrams.

  “These are the blueprints for Davy Jones’s Locker,” he said, his dark eyes sparkling with excitement.

  Austin nodded.

  With loving care, Zavala spread the diagrams out on the table. He studied every detail of the spheres and connecting passageways the way some men might savor a naughty pinup. As the brilliant designer of dozens of NUMA submersibles, he paid particular attention to the plans for the cargo shuttle and the lab’s specimen-collection submersibles. After a few minutes, he passed judgment from the point of view of a marine engineer who had struggled many times with the thorny challenges posed by currents, depth, pressure, and salt water.

  “Brilliant,” Zavala said with unabashed admiration. He crinkled his brow. “It’s hard to believe anything this size could vanish.”

  “The lab’s design may have made the hijacking possible,” Austin said. “As you can see, it was designed as a mobile undersea observatory. Lieutenant Casey said that the Navy built the components on land, towed them out to sea on specially designed barges, then assembled the components and lowered the lab into place. They built in flotation capability, and the spheres and connectors were reinforced structurally so the lab could be moved without breaking apart. The lab also had a stabilization system to keep it level during movement.”

  Zavala took a ballpoint pen from his shirt pocket and placed it on the diagrams.

  “Imagine this pen is a submarine or large submersible,” he said. “They hook onto the lab, get it pumped up to neutral buoyancy, and tow it away.”

  “Great minds think alike,” Austin said. “The Russian government has been trying to sell off its fleet of Typhoons for use as cargo carriers in the Arctic. Maybe they found a buyer.”

  “That solves only part of the mystery,” Zavala said. “If this was such a big secret, how did the hijackers know Davy Jones’s Locker existed and where it was located?”

  “The lab’s security was outsourced to a private contractor,” Austin said, “and that may have been the weak point. The Navy talked to the support-ship survivors. Lieutenant Casey said the crew got a request from their security company to shuttle a representative down to the lab a short while before the attack. They said he was a friendly guy with a Southern accent. Phelps, of course.

  “Phelps admitted he hijacked the lab,” Austin continued. “What he didn’t say was that the company rep who authorized his visit was killed in a car crash. My guess is, he was coerced into getting Phelps an ID, then was eliminated.”

  “A convenient coincidence,” Zavala said. “What was the lab’s last position?”

  Austin dug a map out of the pouch and spread it on the coffee table. An area in the Pacific Ocean had been circled in black grease pencil near the island of Pohnpei in Micronesia.

  Zavala sat back and laced his hands behind his head.

  “Gee, that narrows it down,” he said with a sour expression on his face. “It could take months to find the lab.”

  “Sandecker says we have to wrap it up in less than seventy-two hours,” Austin said.

  “I’m surprised the old sea dog didn’t ask us to solve the problem of global hunger and the energy crisis in our spare time.”

  “Don’t give him any ideas,” Austin said. “He’ll want us to clean up the oceans on our coffee break.”

  The sound of approaching jet engines broke the early-morning stillness. Austin got up and went to the door. A NUMA jet was taxiing up to the hangar. The engines went silent, and three figures emerged and walked across the tarmac toward the Citation. Austin recognized Paul Trout’s tall, lanky form and Gamay’s red hair. The Asian woman walking by the Trouts’ side was a stranger to him.

  Austin greeted the Trouts, and warned Paul to duck his head entering the cabin. He welcomed the Asian woman with a friendly smile.

  “You must be Dr. Song Lee,” Austin said, offering his hand. “I’m Kurt Austin. This is Joe Zavala. We’re NUMA colleagues of the Trouts. Thank you for coming to Washington.”

  “And thank you for sending Paul and Gamay to Bonefish Key, Mr. Austin,” Lee said. “I’d be dead if they hadn’t arrived when they did.”

  Kurt’s eyes drank in Song’s flowerlike beauty.

  “That would have been a shame, Dr. Lee,” he said. “Please have a seat. We don’t have much time. You must have many questions.”

  Song Lee settled into the sofa and looked around in wonderment. With their imposing physical prowess, quiet competence, and easy banter in the face of danger, the Trouts had seemed larger than life. But this pale-haired man, with his broad shoulders and sculpted bronze profile, was even more intriguing. Austin’s courtly manner could not disguise the fearlessness and daring that she detected in his remarkable coral-blue eyes. And his dark-complexioned friend Zavala had the swashbuckling air of a pirate prince.

  “The Trouts told me about the attack on the bathysphere,” Lee said. “Do you know where Dr. Kane is?”

  “Safe in protective custody. I spoke to Kane last night, and he filled me in on the work at Bonefish Key and the undersea lab they called Davy Jones’s Locker.”

  Lee’s jaw dropped.

  “I was aware of the secret facility, of course,” she said, “but I had no idea it was under the sea!”

  “The Pacific Ocean, to be exact. It was in Micronesian waters, three hundred feet below the surface.”

  Lee had a dazed expression on her delicate features.

  “I would expect Dr. Kane to be unconventional,” she said, “but I never dreamed it was anything like that.”

  Austin went on.

  “The lab�
�s work and location were tightly held secrets, but somehow it was hijacked along with the staff. Joe and I think that the lab’s disappearance, the bathysphere attack, and the attempt to kidnap you are all connected. Dr. Kane told me about the medusa project. What was the exact nature of your work at the Florida lab?”

  “I’m a virologist trained in epidemiology,” Lee said. “I stayed on Bonefish Key to concentrate on the probable path an epidemic would take and how best to position our resources and the vaccine-production facilities.”

  “That would make you an integral part of the project.”

  “I like to think so. The vaccine would be useless without a strategy to deploy it. It would be as if a general sent his troops into battle without a plan.”

  “What would have happened to the project if you had been kidnapped?”

  “Not much,” she said with a shrug of the shoulders. “The plans are almost all in place, waiting for the cure to be synthesized into a viable vaccine. With the lab gone, there isn’t much chance of that happening.”

  “Don’t give up hope, Dr. Lee. The lab is the object of a massive search. In fact, Joe and I are on our way to Micronesia to see if we can help the searchers.”

  Lee dropped her gaze to the map lying on the table.

  “You’re going to Pohnpei?” she asked.

  “It looks that way,” Austin said. “Have you been there?”

  “No, but the island was the epicenter of the deadly epidemic that struck the Pacific whaling fleet in the mid-1800s. This is extremely significant.”

  “In what way, Dr. Lee?”

  “At Harvard Medical School, I did a paper for a Professor Codman that was based on an article I came across in an old medical journal. The doctor who wrote the article had compiled statistics about a group of New Bedford whaling men who had been virtually disease-free for much of their very long lives.”

  Austin tried to glance at his watch without being obvious. He had little interest in oddball medical phenomena. The whine of the Citation’s engines warming up provided a convenient out.

  “It has been a great pleasure meeting you,” he said. “We’re going to be taking off soon . . .”