by Night Probe!
The car was almost completely covered. The only parts that still showed were a portion of the shattered windshield, the three-cornered star emblem on the hood and one headlight.
A figure moved to the edge of the embankment and stood in the light. It was not Foss Gly, but another man. He looked down: his face was frozen in deep sorrow, and tears glistened on his cheeks.
For a brief instant, Danielle stared at him in horror. Her color turned ghastly. She placed her free hand against the glass in a pleading gesture. Then slowly, her eyes mirrored an understanding look, and her mouth formed the words "Forgive me'.
The bucket was tipped again, the dirt fell and all sight of the car was blotted out.
At last the ditch was filled to ground level, and the exhaust of the front-end loader died into the night.
Only then did a saddened Charles Sarveux turn and walk away.
The airfield at Lac St. Joseph, deep in the hills northeast of Quebec City, was one of several belonging to the Royal Canadian Air Force that had been shut down because of budget cuts. Its two-mile runway was off limits to commercial aircraft, but was still used by the military for training and emergency landings.
Henri Villon's plane stood in front of a weathered metal hangar. A fuel truck was parked beside it and two men in raincoats were making a preflight check. Inside, in an office bare of furniture except for a rusting metal workbench, Charles Sarveux and Commissioner Finn stood in silence and watched the proceedings through a dirty window. The earlier drizzle had turned into a driving rain that leaked through the roof of the hangar in a dozen places.
Foss Gly was stretched out comfortably on a blanket. His hands were clasped behind his head and he was oblivious to the water that splashed beside him on the cement floor. There was an air of smugness about him, of complacency almost, as he gazed up at the metal-beamed ceiling. The Villon disguise was gone and he was himself again. Outside, the pilot jumped from the wing to the ground and dog-trotted to the hangar. He poked his head in the office door.
"Ready when you are," he announced.
Gly came to a sitting position. "What did you find?"
"Nothing. We inspected every system, every square inch, even the quality of the gas and oil. Nobody's tampered with it. It's clean."
"Okay, start up the engines."
The pilot nodded and ducked back into the rain.
"Well, gentlemen," said Gly, "I guess I'll be on my way."
Sarveux silently nodded to Commissioner Finn. The Mountie set two large suitcases on the workbench and opened them.
"Thirty million well-worn Canadian dollars," said Finn, his face deadpan.
Gly pulled a jeweler's eyepiece from his pocket and began studying a random sampling of bills. After nearly ten minutes he re pocketed the eyepiece and closed the suitcases.
"You weren't joking when you said 'well-worn.' Most of these bills are so wallet-battered you can hardly read the denominations."
As per your instructions," Finn said testily. "It was no simple matter scraping up that much used currency on such short notice. I think you'll find them all negotiable."
Gly walked over to Sarveux and held out his hand. "Nice doing business with you, Prime Minister."
Sarveux rebuffed Gly's gesture. "I'm only happy we caught onto your imposter scheme in time."
Gly shrugged and withdrew his empty hand. "Who's to say? I might have made a damned good President, better maybe than Villon."
"Pure luck on my part that you didn't," said Sarveux. "If Commissioner Finn hadn't known Henri's exact whereabouts when you brazenly walked into my office, you might never have been apprehended. As it is, my sad regret is that I can't have your neck stretched on the gallows."
"A good reason why I keep records for insurance," Gly said contemptuously. "A chronological journal of my actions on behalf of the Free Quebec Society, tape recordings of my conversations with Villon, videotapes of your wife in wild postures with your minister of internal affairs. The stuff major scandals are made of. I'd say that's a fair exchange for my life."
"When will I get them?" Sarveux demanded.
"I'll send you directions to their hiding place after I'm safely out of your reach."
"What assurances do I have? How can I trust you not to keep blackmailing me?" Gly grinned fiendishly. "None, none at all."
"You're filth," Sarveux hissed angrily. "The excretion of the earth.
"Are you any better?" Gly snapped back. "You stood mute in all your sanctity and watched while I wasted your political rival and your cheating wife. And then you had the gall to pay for the job with government funds. You stink even worse than I do, Sarveux. The best of the bargain was yours. So save your insults and sermons for the mirror."
Sarveux trembled, the rage seething inside him. "I think you better get out get out of Canada."
"Gladly."
Sarveux got a mental hold on himself. "Goodbye, Mr. Gly, perhaps we'll meet in hell."
"We already have," grunted Gly.
He snapped the suitcases shut, carried them outside and entered the airplane. As the pilot taxied to the end of the runway, he relaxed in the main cabin and poured himself a drink.
Not bad, he thought, thirty million bucks and a jet airplane. Nothing like making an exit in style.
The phone on the bar buzzed and he picked it up. It was the pilot.
"We're ready for takeoff. Would you care to give me flight instructions now?"
"Head due south for the United States. Stay low to avoid radar. A hundred miles over the border, come to cruising altitude and set a course for Montserrat."
"Never heard of it."
"One of the Leeward Islands in the Lesser Antilles, southeast of Puerto Rico. Wake me when we get there."
"Sweet dreams, boss."
Gly slumped in his seat, not bothering to fasten the safety belt. At that moment he felt immortal. He grinned to himself as he gazed through the cabin window at The two figures silhouetted against the lights of the hangar.
Sarveux was a fool, he thought. If he had been in the Prime Minister's shoes he would have hidden a bomb in the plane, rigged it to crash, or perhaps ordered the air force to shoot it down. The latter was still a possibility, though a slim one.
But there was no bomb and all the flight controls checked out from nose to tail. He had done it. He was home free.
As the aircraft picked up speed and disappeared into the rainy night, Sarveux turned to Finn.
"How will it happen?"
"The automatic pilot. Once it's engaged the plane will begin a very gradual climb. The altimeters have been set to register no higher than 11,000 feet. The pressurization system and the emergency oxygen will not come on. By the time the pilot realizes something is wrong, it will be too late."
"Can't he disengage the autopilot?"
Finn shook his head. "The circuitry has been reset. He could beat the unit with an ax, but it would do no good. It is impossible for him to regain control of the aircraft."
"So they lose consciousness from loss of oxygen."
"And eventually come down in the ocean when they run out of fuel."
"They could crash on land."
"A calculated gamble," Finn explained. "Figuring the plane's range on full fuel tanks, and assuming Gly intends to fly as far away as possible before landing, it's eight to one they hit water."
Sarveux looked pensive for a moment. "The press releases?" he asked. "Written and waiting to be handed to the wire services."
Commissioner Finn raised an umbrella and they began walking to the Prime Minister's limousine. Puddles were forming in the low spots of the taxi strip. One of Finn's men turned off the lights to the hangar and runway.
At the car Sarveux paused and looked up into the ebony sky as the last hum of the jet engines melted into the rain.
"Too bad Gly will never know how he was outsmarted. I think he would have appreciated that."
The next morning, the following story ran on the international wire services.
The wife of Canada's Prime Minister and the presidential candidate for newly independent Quebec took off from Ottawa for a flight to Quebec City last night, and when they failed to make their scheduled landing the alert was given.
Villon was piloting his own plane and Madame Sarveux was the only passenger on board. All radio contact went unanswered.
Because Canadian air controllers did not immediately suspect the twin jet Albatross had flown into the United States, hours were lost on a fruitless search between Quebec and Ottawa. Not until an Air France Concorde reported an aircraft flying erratically south of Bermuda at 55,000 feet, 8000 feet above the maximum altitude for which Villon's Albatross was certified, did anyone begin to make a connection.
U.S. Navy jets were scrambled from the carrier Kitty Hawk near Cuba. Lieutenant Arthur Hancock was the first to spot the Albatross and reported seeing a man motionless at the controls. He followed until the plane went into a slow spiral dive and plunged into the ocean.
"We have no firm grasp on the cause," Ian Stone, a spokesman for Canadian Air Authority, said. "The only theory that makes any sort of sense is that Madame Sarveux and Mr. Villon became unconscious from lack of oxygen and that the plane, on autopilot, had flown itself over 3000 miles off course before running out of fuel and crashing." A search revealed no sign of wreckage.
Prime Minister Charles Sarveux remained in seclusion during the ordeal and had no comment.
An early morning mist quilted the Hudson Valley, cutting visibility to fifty yards. On the opposite side of the hill from the covered entrance of the quarry, Pitt had set up a command post in a motor home borrowed from a nearby fruit farmer. Ironically, neither he nor Shaw was aware of the other's exact location, although they were separated by only a mile of heavily forested hillside.
Pitt felt groggy from too much coffee and too little sleep. He longed for a healthy slug of brandy to clear the cobwebs, but he knew that would be a mistake. As inviting as it sounded, he was afraid it would cause a reverse reaction and slow his thinking, and that was the last thing he needed now.
He stood in the doorway of the motor home and watched Nicholas Riley and the diving team from the De Soto unload their gear while Glen Chase and Al Giordino hovered over a heavy iron grating that was embedded in a rock-walled side of the hill. There was a popping sound when they lit an acetylene torch, followed by a spray of sparks as the blue flame attacked the rusted bars.
"I won't guarantee that opening behind the grating is an escape shaft," said Jerry Lubin. "But I'd have to say it's a safe bet.
Lubin had arrived a few hours earlier from Washington and was accompanied by Admiral Sandecker. A mining consultant with the Federal Resources Agency, Lubin was a small, humorous man with a pawnbroker nose and bloodhound eyes.
Pitt turned and looked at him. "We found it where you said it'd be."
"An educated guess," said Lubin. "If I had been mine superintendent, that's where I would have put it."
"Somebody went to a lot of work to keep people out," said Sandecker.
"The farmer who once owned the land." This from Heidi, who was perched on an overhead bunk.
"Where did you come by that tidbit?" asked Lubin.
"A kindly editor, a female I might add, got out of her boyfriend's bed to open local newspaper files for me. The story is that about thirty years ago, three scuba divers drowned inside the shaft. Two of their bodies were never found. The farmer sealed up the entrance to keep people from killing themselves on his property."
"Did you find anything about the landslide?" Pitt asked her.
"A dead end. All files prior to nineteen forty-six were destroyed by a fire."
Sandecker pulled at his red beard thoughtfully. "I wonder how far those poor. bastards got before they drowned."
"Probably made it to the main quarry and ran out of air on the return trip," Pitt speculated.
Heidi spoke the same thought that suddenly crossed everyone's mind. "Then they must have seen whatever is in there."
Sandecker gave Pitt a worried look. "I don't want you to make the same mistake."
"The victims were undoubtedly weekend divers, untrained and under equipped "I'd feel better if there was an easier way."
"The air vent is a possibility," said Lubin.
"Of course!" Sandecker exclaimed. "Any underground mine needs air ventilation."
"I didn't mention it before because it would take forever to find it in this fog. Besides, whenever a mine is closed, the air portal is filled in and covered over. There's always the hazard of a cow or a human, especially a child, falling in and vanishing."
A knowing look crossed Pitt's face. "I have a feeling that's where we'll find our friend Brian Shaw." Lubin stared quizzically. "Who's he?"
"A competitor," said Pitt. "He wants to get inside that hill as badly as we do."
Lubin gave an offhand shrug. "Then I don't envy him. Digging through a portal shaft the width of a man's shoulders is a bitch of a job."
Lubin would have got no argument from the British.
One of Lieutenant Macklin's men had literally stumbled and fallen on the scar in the earth that hid the ventilator shaft. Since midnight the paratroops had been feverishly laboring to clear the rubble-filled passage.
The work was backbreaking. Only one man at a time could dig in the narrow confines. Cave-in was a constant threat. Buckets hastily stolen from a neighboring orchard were filled and pulled to the surface by ropes. Then they were emptied and dropped for the next load. The mole dug as fast and as hard as he could. When he was ready to drop from exhaustion, he was quickly replaced. The excavation went on without pause. "What depth are we?" asked Shaw. "About forty feet," replied Caldweiler. "How much further?"
The Welshman furrowed his brow thoughtfully. "I judge we should strike the main quarry in another hundred and twenty feet. How deep the ventilator was filled, I can't say. We could break through in the next foot or we might have to fight to the last inch."
"I'll settle for the next foot," said Macklin. "This mist isn't going to shield us much longer."
"Any sign of the Americans?"
"Only the sound of vehicles somewhere behind the hill."
Shaw lit another of his special cigarettes. It was his last one. "I should have thought they'd be swarming over the hillside before now."
"They'll get a jolly hot reception when they show," said Macklin, almost cheerfully.
"I hear American jails are overcrowded," Caldweiler muttered. "I don't relisly spending the rest of my life in one."
Shaw grinned. "Should be a piece of cake for a man of your experience to tunnel out."
Caldweiler knocked the ashes out of his pipe. "Nothing like looking at the fun side. Though in all seriousness, I can't help wondering what in bloody hell I'm doing here."
"You volunteered like the rest of us," Macklin said.
Shaw exhaled a lungful of smoke. "If you live long enough to return to England, the Prime Minister himself will pin a medal on you." All for tearing up a scrap of paper?"
"That scrap of paper is more important than you'll ever know."
"For what it's going to cost us in blood and sweat, it'd damned well better be," groused Caldweiler.
A small convoy of armored personnel carriers rolled to a stop. An officer in battle dress leaped from the lead vehicle and shouted an order. A stream of marines, clutching automatic weapons, poured to the ground and began assembling in squads.
The officer, who had an eye for authority, walked straight up to the admiral.
"Admiral Sandecker?"
Sandecker fairly beamed at the recognition. "At your service."
"Lieutenant Sanchez." The arm snapped in a salute. "Third Marine Force Reconnaissance."
"Glad to see you." Sandecker returned the salute.
"My orders were unclear as to our
deployment."
"How many men do you have?"
"Three squads. Forty including myself."
"All right, one squad to cordon off the immediate area, two to patrol the woods around the hill."
"Yes, sir."
"And Lieutenant. We don't know what to expect. Tell your men to tread with a light foot."
Sandecker turned and walked to the escape shaft. The last bar of the grating had been cut away. The diving team stood ready to pierce the heart of the hill. A curious silence fell over everyone. They all stared at the black opening as though it was a sinister doorway to hell.
Pitt had donned an exposure suit and was cinching the harness of his air tank. When he was satisfied everything was in order, he nodded to Riley and the dive team. "Okay. Let's make a night probe."
Sandecker looked at him. "A night probe?"
"An old diver's term for exploring the dark of underwater caves."
Sandecker looked grim. "Take no chances and stay healthy…..."
"Keep your fingers crossed I hope you find the treaty in there."
"Both hands. The other is in case Shaw gets in before you do."
"Yes," said Pitt wryly. "There is always that."
Then he entered the beckoning portal and was swallowed up in blackness.
The old escape route from the main quarry sloped downward into the bowels of the hill. The walls were seven feet high and showed the scars from the miners' picks. The air was moist with the faint but ominous smell of a mausoleum. After about twenty yards, the passageway curved and all light was lost from the outside.
The dive lights were switched on, and Pitt, followed by Riley and three men, continued on, their footsteps echoing into the eternal darkness ahead.
They passed an empty ore car, its small iron wheels joined in rusting bond to narrow rails. Several picks and shovels stood neatly stacked in a chiseled niche as though waiting for calloused hands to grasp their handles again. Nearby were other artifacts: a broken miner's lamp, a sledgehammer and the faded, stuck-together pages of a Montgomery Ward catalog. The pages were frozen open on advertisements displaying upright player pianos.
Ajumble of fallen rocks blocked their way for twenty minutes until they cleared a path. Everyone kept a suspicious eye trained on the rotting timbers that sagged under the weight of the crumbling roof No word was spoken while they worked. The un communicated fear of being crushed by a cave-in chilled their minds. Finally they wormed their way past the barrier and found the tunnel floor covered by several inches of water.