Iceberg dp-3

by Clive Cussler

  "Lift your cap?" Pitt repeated blankly. He hesitated a moment, then slowly, using his free left hand, removed The driver's cap.

  "Inside, taped to the underside of the top." The driver's voice was soft, yet commanding. "There is a twenty-five caliber Colt derringer. Take it and get that damned screwdriver out of my ear."

  Still using one hand, Pitt opened the breech of the derringer, rubbed his thumb over the primers of the two tiny cartridges to make sure the chambers were loaded, and then reclosed the breech and cocked the hammer.

  "So far, so good. Now ease out of the car and keep your hands where I can see them." He loosened his grip on the screwdriver and withdrew it from the driver's ear cavity.

  The driver slid from behind the wheel, walked to the front of the car and propped himself lazily against a fender. He lifted his right hand and massaged his ear, wincing. "A clever tactic, Major. It didn't come out of any book I know."

  "You should read more," Pitt said. "Ramming an icepick through the eardrum into the brain of an unsuspecting victim is an old trick used by paid killers in gang wars long before either you or I were born."

  "A rather painful lesson I'm not likely to forget."

  Pitt got out and pushed the front door of the car open to its stop and stood behind the interior panel, using it for a shield, the gun in his hand trained on the driver's heart. "You said you talked to Admiral Sandecker in Washington. Describe him. Size, hair, mannerisms, layout of his office-everything."

  The driver needed no further coaxing. He talked for several minutes and ended up by mentioning a few of Sandecker's pet slang terms, "Your memory is good-nearly letter-perfect."

  "I have a photographic memory, Major. My description of Admiral Sandecker could have easily come from a file. Take a rundown of yourself for example: Major Dirk Eric Pitt. Born exactly thirty-two years, four months and twelve days ago at the Hogg Hospital in Newport Beach, California. Mother's name Barbara, father George Pitt, senior United States Senator from your home state." The driver droned on as if he might have been repeating a memorized spiel, as indeed he was. "No sense in going on about your three rows of combat ribbons which you never wear or your formidable reputation If you like, I can give you a complete account't of your actions since you left Washington."

  Pitt waved the gun. "That will do. I'm impressed, of course, Mr.-ah-"

  "Lillie. Jerome P. Lillie the Fourth. I'm your contact."

  "Jerome P. — " Pitt made a good try but couldn't sul)press an incredulous laugh. "You've got to be kidding- " Lillie gestured helplessly. "Laugh if you will, Major, but the Lillie name has been highly esteemed in St. Louis for nearly a hundred years."

  Pitt thought for a moment. Then it came to him.

  "Lillie Beer. Of course, that's it. Lillie Beer. What's the slogan? Brewed for the gourmet's table."

  "Proof that it pays to advertise," Lillie said. "I take it you're another one of our satisfied customers?"

  "No. I prefer Budweiser."

  "I can see you're going to be a hard man to get along with," Lillie moaned.

  "Not really." Pitt released the derringer's hammer and threw the tiny gun to Lillie. "Be my guest. You couldn't possibly be one of the bad guys and come up with a story that wild."

  Lillie fielded the gun. "Your trust is warranted, Major. I told you the truth."

  "You're a long way from the brewery, or is that another story?"

  "Very dull and very time-consuming. Some other time, perhaps, I'll pour out my biography over a glass of Dad's product." He calmly retaped the gun to the inside of his cap as if it was an everyday occurrence. "Now then, you mentioned a third attempt on your life."

  "You offered to give me a detailed, hour-by-hour account of my actions since I left Washington. You tell me."

  "Nobody's perfect, Major. I lost you for two hours today."

  Pitt did some fast mental arithmetic. "Where were you around noon?"

  "On the southern shore of the island."

  "Doing what?"

  Lillie turned away and looked across the barren fields, his face empty of all expression. "At exactly ten minutes after twelve this afternoon I was pushing a knife into another man's throat."

  "Then there were two of you keeping an eye on The Grimsi?"

  "The Grimsi? Ah, of course-the name of your old boat. Yes, I stumbled into the other guy quite by accident. After you and the admiral and Miss Royal took off toward the southeast, I had a hunch your anchor would drop in the area where you and Dr. Hunnewell crashed. I drove across the peninsula and arrived too late-that damned old scow was faster than I thought-you were already sketching up a storm while Admiral Sandecker was playing the role of Izaak Walton. The very picture of your contentment had me fooled completely."

  "But not your competitor. His binoculars were stronger."

  Lillie shook his head. "A telescope. One hundred and seventy-five power, mounted on a tripod, no less."

  "Then the glint I saw from the boat was from the reflecting mirror."

  "If the sun caught it right, a visible flash would be the obvious giveaway."

  Pitt was silent for a moment as he lit a cigarette.

  The click of the lighter seemed strangely loud in the open of the barren landscape. He exhaled and looked at Lillie.

  "You say you knifed him?"

  "Yes, it was unfortunate, but he left me no choice." Lillie leaned over the hood of the Volvo and rubbed a palm over his forehead, seemingly at ease with his inner self. "He-I don't know his name, as there was no identification-was bent over the telescope talking into a portable transmitter when I crept around an outcropping of rock and literally bumped into him. His attention and mine had been focused on your boat. He didn't expect me, and I didn't expect him. To his final re,ret, he acted first,and without forethought. Pulled a switchblade knife from a sleeve-rather old-fashioned, really-and leaped." Lillie made a helpless shrug. "The poor guy tried to stab instead of slash-the sure sign of an amateur. I should have taken him alive for questioning, but I got carried away during the heat of the moment and turned his knife against him."

  "Too bad you didn't get to him five minutes sooner," Pitt said.

  "Why is that?"

  "He'd already radioed our position so his buddies could close in for the kill."

  Lillie stared at Pitt questioningly.

  "For what purpose? Merely to steal a few sketches or a bucket of trash?"

  "Something much more important. A jet aircraft."

  "I know. Your mysterious black jet. The thought had occurred that you might go looking for it when I guessed your destination, but your report failed to pinpoint the exact-" Pitt interrupted, his voice deceptively friendly. "I know for certain that Admiral Sandecker has had no contact with you or your agency since he left Washington. He and I are the only ones who know what's in that report…" Pitt paused, suddenly remembering. "Except-"

  "Except the secretary at the consulate who typed it," Lillie finished, smiling. "My compliments, your commentary was well written." Lillie didn't bother to explain how the consulate secretary passed him a copy and Pitt didn't bother to ask him. "Tell me, Major, how do you go about dredging for a sunken aircraft with nothing but a sketch pad and a fishing pole?"

  "Your victim knew the answer. He detected my air bubbles through his telescope."

  Lillie's eyes narrowed. "You had diving equipment?" he asked flatly. "How? I watched you leave the dock and saw nothing. I studied you and the admiral from the shore and neither of you left the deck for more than three minutes. After that I lost visibility when the fog rolled in."

  "The N.I.A. doesn't have a monopoly on sneaky, underhanded plots," Pitt said, shooting Lillie down in flames. "Let's sit in the car and make ourselves comfortable and I'll tetl you about another ordinary garden variety day in the life of Dirk Pitt."

  So Pitt slouched in the rear seat with his feet propped on the backrest of the front and told Lillie what had happened from the time The Grimsi left the Fyrie dock until it had returned. He told w
hat he knew for certain and what he didn't, everything, that is, except for one little indefinable thought that kept itching in his mind-a thought that concerned Kirsti Fyrie.

  Chapter 12

  "So you've selected Oskar Rondheim as your villain," Lillie murmured. "You haven't convinced me with any solid proof."

  "I agree, it's all circumstantial," Pitt said. "Rondheim has the most to gain. Therefore, Rondheim has the motive. He murdered to get his hands on the undersea probe and he's murdered to cover his tracks."

  "You'll have to do better than that."

  Pitt looked at Lillie. "Okay, come up with a better one."

  "As an agent in good standing with the N.I.A I'm embarrassed to admit that I'm a bit confused."

  "You're confused." Pitt shook his head in mock sadness. "I can't say I find it too comforting knowing our nation's security rests in your hands."

  Lillie smiled faintly. "It is you who has provided the confusion, Major. It is you who has broken the chain."

  "What chain?" Pitt said. "Or am I supposed to guess?"

  Lillie hesitated a moment before answering. Finally he looked directly at Pitt.

  "During the last eighteen months a chain of strange circumstances has been forged by country by country, from the southernmost tip of Chile to the northern border of Guatemala. Secretly, through a complex series of clandestine maneuvers, the great mining companies of South America have slowly merged into one giant syndicate. Outwardly it's business as usual, but behind the locked and barred doors of their respective administrations, the policies governing their operations come directly from a single unknown voice."

  Pitt shook his head. "Not possible. I can name at least five Countries that have nationalized their mining cartels. There's no way they could tie in with a private company beyond their borders."

  "None the less, it's a documented fact. Where the mines have been nationalized, the management is controlled by an outside organization. The Parnagus-janios high-grade iron ore pits of Brazil, the Domingo bauxite mines of the Dominican Republic, the government silver mines of Honduras, they all take their directives from the-same person or persons."

  "How did you gather your information?"

  "We have many sources," Lillie said. "Some within the mining companies themselves. Unfortunately, our contacts have not infiltrated top-level management."

  Pitt mashed his cigarette into an ashtray recessed within the car door. "Nothing mysterious about someone attempting to gain a monopoly.

  If they have the guts to pull it off, more power to them."

  "A monopoly is bad enough," Lillie said. "The names of the men we've been able to uncover, who are high on the totem pole, include twelve of the, wealthiest men in the Western World-all possessing vast financial Powers in mineral exploitation. And each with tentacles so long that they reach out and control over two hundred industrial corporations." Lillie paused, staring at Pitt. "Once they gain a monopoly they can force the prices of copper, aluminum, zinc and several other commercial ores halfway to the moon. The resulting inflation would devastate the economies of at least thirty nations. The United States, of course, being one of the first to go to its knees."

  "It doesn't necessarily follow," Pitt said. "If that happens, they and their financial empires would be sucked down too."

  Lillie smiled and nodded. "That's the catch. These men, F. James Kelly of the U.S Sir Eric Marks of Great Britain, Roger Dupuy of France, Hans Von Hummel of Germany, Than Mahani of Iran, and others-each worth close to ten figures-are all loyal to their respective countries. Any one of them might chisel and cheat on taxes, but none of them would willingly send his government over the brink of economic disaster.

  "Then where's the profit motive?"

  "We don't know."

  "And Rondheim's connection?"

  "None, except his relationship with Kirsti Fyrie and her offshore mining interests."

  There was a long silence; then Pitt said slowly, "The burning question, then, is where do you fit in?

  What does the takeover of Latin American mining syndicates have to do with Iceland? The N.I.A. didn't send you up here to play cab driver just to learn the local highway system. While your brother agents are lurking behind potted plants watching Kelly, Marks, Dupuy and the others, your assignment is to keep an eye on another member of the money boys' group. Shall I mention the name or would you like it written on paper and sealed in an envelope by Price Waterhouse?"

  Lillie stared at him for a moment, considering.

  "You're shooting in the dark."

  "Am I?" Pitt was homing in now. "Okay, let's drag out the suspense and digress for a moment. Admiral Sandecker said he checked every port authority between Buenos Aires and Goose Bay and found twelve that recorded the entry and departure of an Icelandic fishing trawler matching the remodeled Lax. What he should have said was that he had them checked. Someone else did the actual work for him and that someone was the N.I.A."

  "Nothing out of the ordinary in that," Lillie said flatly. "Records are sometimes easier for us to obtain than a government agency concerned with marine life."

  "Except you already had the information before Sandecker requested it."

  Lillie said nothing. He didn't have to. His grim expression was all the motivation Pitt needed to continue.

  "One evening a couple of months ago, I ran into an Army communications officer in a bar. It was a slow night and neither of us felt like partying or chasing girls, so we just sat around and drank together until closing time. He had just finished a tour of duty at the Smytheford radio-communications station on Hudson Bay, Canada-a complex of two hundred radio masts forming a huge dish on a thousand-acre site. Don't ask me what his name and rank were so you can turn him in for divulging military secrets. I've forgotten them anyway."

  Pitt hesitated a moment to shift his feet to a more comfortable position before he went on.

  "He was proud of the installation, especially so since he was one of the engineers who helped design and construct it. The sophisticated equipment, he said, was capable of electronically monitoring every radio transmission north of New York, London and Moscow After the installation was completed, he and his crew of Army engineers were politely ordered to leave for duty elsewhere. It's only guesswork on his part, of course, but he was certain that it's currently being operated by the National Intelligence Agency which specializes in undercover eavesdropping on behalf of the Department of Defense and the Central Intelligence Agency. A rather interesting assumption when you consider that Smytheford is advertised as a satellite tracking station."

  Lillie leaned forward. "Just where is all this leading to?"

  "To two gentlemen named Matajic and O'Riley.

  Both deceased."

  "You think I knew them?" Lillie asked curiously.

  "Only by name. I see little reason to explain who they were. You already know. Your people at Smytheford monitored Matajic's message to Sandecker identic lying the long-lost Lax. It must have meant little to your intelligence analysts at the time, but their electronic ears undoubtedly pricked up when they received the pilot's last message seconds before the black jet blasted all three men into the sea. At this point, the plot thickens.

  Admiral Sandecker played it cagy and handed the Coast Guard a phony story about missing equipment, requesting air-sea search in the area NUMA's plane disappeared. Nothing was found… or at least nothing was reported. The Coast Guard struck out, but the N.I.A. didn't-they had the Lax and its mysterious crew pinpointed right from the start. Every time the ship radioed its home base in Iceland, the Smytheford computers plotted its exact position. Now the experts at your headquarters in Washington began to smell a connection between the lost undersea probe and the mining operations takeover in South America, so they backtracked and traced the ship's movements up and down the Atlantic Coast. When Sandecker asked for the same information, they discreetly waited a few days and then, fighting to keep a straight face, handed him a previously prepared copy."

  "Th
is?"

  "Do you honestly expect me to admit to any of-"

  "I don't much give a damn what you admit to," Pitt said wearily. "I'm merely pointing out a few facts of life. Put them all together and they spell the name of the man you have under surveillance here in Iceland."

  "How do you know it isn't a woman?" Lillie probed.

  "Because you've reached the same conclusions I have-Kirsti Fyrie may control Fyrie Limited, but Oskar Rondheim controls Kirsti Fyrie."

  "So we're back to Rondheim."

  "Did we really ever leave?"

  "Clever, clever deduction, Major Pitt," Lillie murmured.

  "Care to fill in any gaps?"

  "Until I receive orders to the contrary, I can't fully brief an outsider on all the details of our operation." Lillie's voice carried an official tone that didn't quite come off. "I can, however, acknowledge your conclusions. You are quite correct in everything you've said. Yes, the N.I.A. picked up Matajic's message. Yes, we tracked the Lax. Yes, we feel Rondheim is in some way connected with the mining syndicate. Beyond that there is little I can officially tell you that you don't already know."

  "Since we've become such close friends," Pitt said, grinning, "why don't you call me Dirk?"

  Lillie was gracious in defeat. "Have it your way.

  But don't you dare call me Jerome-it's Jerry." He held out his hand. "Okay, partner. Don't make me sorry I took you into the firm."

  Pitt returned the grip. "Stick with the kid here and you'll go places."

  "That's what I'm afraid of." Lillie sighed and gazed over the barren countryside for a moment as if weighing the turn of events. Finally he broke his thoughts and looked at his watch. "We'd better head back to Reykjavik. No thanks to you, I've got a busy night ahead of me."

  "What's on your agenda?"

  "First, I want to contact headquarters as soon as possible and pass on the serial number of the black jet.

  With a bit of luck they should be able to run a make and have the owner's name back to us by morning. For your sake, after all the trouble you went to, I hope it provides an important lead. Second, I'm going to poke around and see where that hydroplane was moored.