Clive Cussler dp-6

by Night Probe!

  "Why north?"

  "Prevailing winds. Just the ticket for cross-ventilation in the days before circulating fans."

  "The air vent it is then," said Shaw. "It would be better hidden in the hillside woods and less exposed than the escape portal below."

  "Not another safari up the mountain," Burton-Angus complained.

  "Do you good," said Shaw, smiling. "Work off the fancy buffets of those embassy row parties." He mashed out the cigarette with his heel. "I'll go and round up our helpers."

  Shaw turned and made his way into a heavy thicket near the base of the hill about thirty meters from the old rail spur. He tripped over a root at the edge of a ravine and fell, arms outstretched for the slamming impact. Instead, he rolled down a weed-blanketed slope and landed on his back in a bed of gravel.

  He was lying there gasping, trying to get his knocked-out breath back, when a figure materialized above him, silhouetted against the stars, and touched the muzzle of a rifle to his forehead.

  "I rather hope you're Mr. Shaw," a polite voice said.

  "Yes, I'm Shaw," he managed to rasp.

  "I'm pleased." The gun was pulled back. "Let me help you up, sir."

  "Lieutenant Macklin?"

  "No, sir, Sergeant Bentley."

  Bentley was dressed in a military black-and-gray camouflaged night smock with pants that tucked into paratroop-style boots. He wore a dark beret over his head and his hands and feet were the color of ink. He carried a netted steel helmet in one hand. Another man stepped out of the darkness. "A problem, sergeant?"

  "Mr. Shaw had a bit of a tumble."

  "You Macklin?" asked Shaw, getting his breath back. A set of teeth gleamed brightly.

  "Can't you tell?"

  "Under that minstrel makeup you all look alike to me."

  "Sorry about that."

  "Have you accounted for your men?"

  "All fourteen of us, sound and fit. Which is quite something for a jump in the dark."

  "I'll need you to look for a portal into the hill. Some sign of excavation or depression in the earth. Begin at the base of the hill and work toward the summit on the north side."

  Macklin turned to Bentley. "Sergeant, gather the men and have them form a search line ten feet apart."

  "Yes, sir." Bentley took four steps and was swallowed up in the thicket.

  "I was wondering," Macklin said idly.

  "What?" asked Shaw.

  "The Americans. How will they react when they find an armed force of Royal Marine paratroopers entrenched in upstate New York?"

  "Hard to say. The Americans have a good sense of humor."

  "They won't be laughing if we have to shoot a few of them."

  "When was the last time?" Shaw muttered in thought.

  "You mean since British men-at-arms invaded the United States?"

  "Something like that."

  "I believe it was in eighteen hundred and fourteen when Sir Edward Parkenham attacked New Orleans."

  "We lost that one."

  "The Yanks were angry because we burned Washington."

  Suddenly they both tensed. They heard the roaring protest of a car engine as it was shifted into a lower gear. Then a pair of headlights turned off the nearby road onto the abandoned rail spur. Shaw and Macklin automatically dropped to a crouch and peered through the grass that grew on the lip of the ravine.

  They watched the car bump over the uneven ground and come to a stop where the track bed disappeared under the slope of the hill. The engine went quiet and a man got out and walked in front of the headlights.

  Shaw wondered what he would do when he met up with Pitt again. Should he kill the man? A hushed command to Macklin, even a hand signal, and Pitt would go down under a dozen knife thrusts from men who were trained in the art of silent murder.

  Pitt stood for a long minute, staring up at the hill as if challenging it. He picked up a rock and threw it into the darkness of the slope. Then he turned and climbed back behind the steering wheel. The engine came to life and the car made a U-turn. Only when the taillights became dim red specks did Shaw and Macklin stand up.

  "I thought for a moment that you were going to order me to snuff the beggar," said Macklin.

  "The thought crossed my mind," reed Shaw. "No sense in prodding a hornet's nest. Things should get warm enough come daylight. "Who do you suppose he was?"

  "That," said Shaw slowly, "was the enemy."

  It was good to capture a moment of togetherness. Danielle looked radiant in a bareback dinner dress of green shadow-print silk chiffon. Her hair was center-parted and swept back with a comb of gilded flowers decorating one side. A gold spiral choker adorned her throat. The candlelight glinted in her eyes when she glanced across the table.

  As the maid cleared the dishes, Sarveux leaned over and kissed her softly on one hand.

  "Must you go?"

  "I'm afraid so," she said, pouring him a brandy. "My new fall wardrobe is ready at Vivonnes, and I made an early appointment for tomorrow morning to have my final fittings."

  "Why must you always fly to Quebec? Why can't you find a dressmaker in Ottawa?" Danielle gave a little laugh and stroked his hair.

  "Because I prefer the fashion designers in Quebec to the dressmakers of Ottawa."

  "We never seem to have a moment alone."

  "You're always busy running the country."

  "I can't argue the point. However, when I do make time for you, you're always committed elsewhere."

  "I'm the wife of the Prime Minister," she smiled. "I can't close my eyes and turn my back on the duties expected of me."

  "Don't go," he said tonelessly.

  "Surely you want me to look nice for our social engagements," she pouted.

  "Where will you be staying?"

  "Where I always stay when I spend the night in Quebec City at Nanci Soult's townhouse."

  "I'd feel better if you returned home in the evening."

  "Nothing will happen, Charles." She bent down and kissed him lukewarmly on the cheek. "I'll be back tomorrow afternoon. We'll talk then."

  "I love you, Danielle," he said quietly. "My dearest wish is to grow old with you by my side. I want you to know that." Her only reply was the sound of a door shutting.

  The townhouse was in Nanci Soult's name, a fact that was unknown to Nanci herself.

  A best- selling novelist and a native Canadian, she lived in Ireland to beat the staggering taxes brought on by inflation. Her visits to family and friends in Vancouver were infrequent, and she had not set foot in Quebec in over twenty years.

  The routine never varied.

  As soon as the official car dropped Danielle at the townhouse and a Mountie was stationed outside the entrance gate, she went from room to room slamming doors, flushing the toilet and setting the FM radio dial on a station that broadcast soothing music.

  When her presence was secure, she walked into a closet and parted the clothes, revealing a door that led into a seldom used stairwell in the adjoining building.

  She hurried down the steps to a single-car, interior garage that opened on a back alley. Henri Villon waited punctually in his Mercedes-Benz. He reached over and embraced her as she leaned across the front seat.

  Danielle relaxed for the automatic response of his kiss. But the show of affection was fleeting. He pushed her back and his expression turned businesslike.

  "I hope this is important," he said. "It's becoming more difficult to break away."

  "Can this be the same man who recklessly made love to me in the Prime Minister's mansion?"

  "I wasn't about to be elected President of Quebec then."

  She withdrew to her side of the car and sighed. She could sense that the excitement and passion of their clandestine meetings was fading. There was no illusion to be shattered. She had never kidded herself into believing their special relationship could go on forever. All that was left now was to bury the hurt and remain cordial, if not intimate friends. "Shall we go somewhere?" he saidlbreaking her reverie. "No, ju
st drive around."

  He pressed the button to the electric garage door opener and backed into the alley. The traffic was light as he drove down to the riverfront and joined a short line of cars waiting to board the ferry to the east shore.

  Nothing more was said between them until Villon steered the Mercedes up the ramp and parked near the bow, where they had a view of the lights dancing on the St. Lawrence. "We have a crisis on our hands," she said finally. "Does it concern you and me or Quebec?"

  "All three." "You sound grim."

  "I mean to be," she paused. "Charles is going to resign as Prime Minister of Canada and run for President of Quebec."

  He turned and stared at her. "Repeat that."

  "My husband is going to announce his candidacy for President of Quebec."

  Villon shook his head in exasperation. "I can't believe he'd do it. That's the dumbest thing I've ever heard. Why? There's no rhyme or reason for such a stupid decision."

  "I think it stems from anger."

  "He hates me that much?"

  She lowered her eyes. "I think he suspects something between us. Perhaps even knows. He may be out for revenge."

  "Not Charles. He's not given to childish reactions."

  "I was always so careful. He must have had me followed. How else could he have caught on?"

  Villon tilted his head back and laughed. "Because I as good as told him."

  "You didn't!" she gasped.

  "To hell with that fastidious little toad. Let him stew in righteous self-pity for all I care. There's no way the sniffling bastard can win the election. Charles Sarveux has few friends in the Parti quebecois. The mainstream of support belongs to me."

  The ferry dock was only a hundred meters away when a man got out of the fifth car behind Villon's Mercedes sedan and joined the passengers returning to the parking deck after lining the railings to enjoy the view.

  Through the rear window he could see two profiles in conversation, muffled voices seeping from the rolled-up windows.

  Casually he moved alongside the Mercedes, pulled open the rear door as if he owned the car, and slipped into the back seat.

  "Madame Sarveux, Monsieur Villon, good evening."

  Confusion swept Danielle's and Villon's faces, replaced with disbelieving shock, then fear when they saw the.44 magnum revolver held in a rocklike hand, slowly wavering from one head to the other and back again.

  Villon had genuine reason for his astonishment.

  He felt as though he was staring in a mirror.

  The man in the rear seat was his exact double, a twin, a clone. He could see every detail of the face from the spotlights on the landing dock that shone through the windshield.

  Danielle let out a low moan that would have worked its way into a hysterical scream if the gun barrel hadn't whipped across her cheek.

  The blood sprang from the gash in her otherwise flawless skin and she sucked in her breath at the instant agony.

  "I have no qualms about striking a woman, so please spare yourself any senseless resistance." The voice was a precise imitation of Villon's.

  "Who are you?" Villon demanded. "What do you want?"

  "I'm flattered -the original cannot tell the fake." The voice took on a new inflection, one that Villon recognized in a horror stricken flash. "I'm Foss Gly, and I intend to kill you both."

  A light drizzle began to fall and Villon turned on the windshield wipers. The gun muzzle was pressed into the nape of his neck, the pressure never easing since they left the ferryboat.

  Danielle sat beside him, holding a blood-soaked handkerchief to her face. Every few minutes she made little strange noises in her throat. She looked like a woman lost in a nightmare, a woman numbed by terror.

  All questions and pleas had been met by icy silence. Gly opened his mouth only to issue driving directions. They were rolling through a rural area now, marked by the lights of an occasional farmhouse. Villon had no recourse but to do as he was told. He could only hope and wait for an opportunity to act, to somehow gain the attention of a passing motorist, or with luck, a cruising policeman.

  "Slow down," Gly ordered. "A dirt road is coming up on your left. Take it."

  With a sinking dread, Villon turned off the highway. The road had been recently graded, and it appeared well traveled by heavy construction equipment.

  "I thought you were dead," Villon said, trying for a response. Gly did not answer.

  "That British intelligence agent Brian Shaw said you crashed a stolen boat into the side of a Japanese cargo ship."

  "Did he tell you my body was never found?" At last he had Gly in a talking mood. That was a start.

  "Yes, there was an explosion…..."

  "Tied down the helm, set the throttles to FULL and jumped clear five miles before the collision. With all the traffic on the St. Lawrence, I figured it was only a question of time before the boat struck another vessel."

  "Why are you made up to look like me?"

  "Isn't it obvious? After you're dead, I'm going to take your place. I, and not you, will be the new President of Quebec."

  Five seconds passed before the staggering disclosure penetrated Villon's mind. "In God's name, that's madness!"

  "Madness? Not really. Smart brains, I'd call it."

  "You'll never get away with such a crazy scheme."

  "Ah, but I already have." Gly's tone was calm, conversational. "How do you think I walked through Jules Guerrier's front door, past his bodyguard up to his room and murdered him? I've sat at your desk, met most of your friends, discussed political differences with Charles Sarveux, made an appearance on the floor of the House of Commons. Why, hell, I've even slept with your wife and with your mistress up there on the front seat.

  Villon was dazed. "Not true…... not true…... not my wife."

  "Yes, Henri, it's all true. I can even describe her anatomy, beginning with…..."

  "No!" Villon cried. He slammed on the brakes and snapped the steering wheel to the right.

  The fates turned their backs on Villon. The tires failed to grip the damp earth, and the violent reaction he expected, he hoped for, never happened. There was no savage body-snapping motion from centrifugal force. Instead, the car slid slowly around in lazy circles.

  Keeping his balance, his aim only slightly diverted, Gly pulled the trigger.

  The.44 magnum shell shattered Villon's collarbone and passed through the windshield.

  A scream poured from Danielle's mouth, and then died away into terror-choked sobbing.

  The car gradually came to a gentle stop in the wet grass beside the road. Villon's hands jerked from the steering wheel. He threw his head against the backrest of the seat, tightly gripped the gaping wound and clenched his teeth in pain.

  Gly stepped outside and pulled open the driver's door. He roughly shoved Villon toward Danielle and climbed in.

  "I'll take it from here," he snarled. He crammed the gun barrel into Villon's side under the armpit. "Don't get cute again."

  To Danielle it looked as if half of Villon's upper shoulder had been blown away. She turned and vomited on the door panel.

  Gly made a U-turn and returned to the road. In half a mile a huge yellow-painted earthmover appeared in the headlights. Beside it was an excavated ditch ten feet deep and fifteen feet across. A high mound of earth was piled up along the opposite side. As Gly drove along the edge, Danielle could make out a large concrete pipe that stretched along the bottom of the ditch.

  They passed a silent row of trucks and earth moving equipment. The engineer's office, a battered old converted house trailer, sat dark and empty. The construction crew had gone home for the night.

  Gly pulled up at a place where the new drainage line was being covered over. He braked, judging the angle of the incline down to the roof of the pipe. Then he gunned the engine and drove the Mercedes into the ditch.

  The front bumper struck the circular concrete and sprayed sparks. The rear end slewed around until the car came to rest on its side, the headlights on
a slight angle upward.

  Gly took two pairs of handcuffs from his coat pocket. He clamped one to the steering column and Villon's left hand. He repeated the process on Danielle with the other set.

  "What are you doing?" Danielle asked in a hoarse whisper.

  He paused to stare at her. The raven hair was messed and the beautiful features were marred by the bloody tears. The eyes were those of a doe paralyzed with fright.

  A hideous grin spread across his face. "I'm fixing it so you and your lover can spend eternity together."

  "No reason to murder her," Villon groaned through the agony. "For God'ssake, let her go free."

  "Sorry," said Gly callously. "She's part of the bargain."

  "What bargain?"

  There was no answer. Gly slammed the door and began climbing up the sloping embankment. He rapidly reached the top and disappeared into the darkness. A few minutes later they heard the sound of a heavy diesel engine knocking to life.

  The engine began to strain as though it was working under a heavy load. The throaty roar of the exhaust drew closer and then a huge silver scoop crept out over the rim of the ditch. Suddenly it tilted downward and three-and-a-half cubic yards of dirt rained down around the roof of the Mercedes. Danielle let out a pitiful cry.

  "Oh, Mary, mother of Jesus…... he's going to bury us alive oh, no, please no!"

  Gly coldly ignored the pitiful plea and shifted the front-end loader into reverse, angling the bucket for the next bite of earth. He knew the position of every lever, their use and how to activate them. For two nights he had practiced, filling sections of the ditch so expertly that the dirt-moving crew had never noticed that an extra twenty feet of the open pipeline had been filled for them between work shifts.

  Danielle fought frantically to break the chain on her handcuffs. The flesh around her wrists was quickly chafed into bloody shreds.

  "Henri!" Her cry had become a gagging whimper now. "Don't let me die, not like this."

  Villon did not seem to hear. The end would come sooner for him. He knew he was only a few seconds away from bleeding to death.

  "Odd," he whispered. "Odd that the last man to die for Quebec liberty is me. Who would have ever thought." His voice faded away.