Cyclops dp-8

by Clive Cussler

  "You get a passing grade for creativity, General, but you fail accuracy. Only the landing part is correct. You forgot the most important ingredient, a motive. Why would four unarmed castaways attack whatever it is you've got here?"

  "I don't have the answers yet," said Velikov with a disarming smile.

  "But you intend to get them."

  "I'm not a man who accepts failure, Mr. Pitt. Your story, though imaginative, does not wash." He pressed a button on the desk intercom. "We'll talk again soon."

  "When can we expect you to contact our government so they can begin negotiations for our release?"

  Velikov gave Pitt a patronizing look. "My apologies. I neglected to mention that your government was notified only an hour ago."

  "Of our rescue?"

  "No, of your deaths."

  For a long second it didn't dawn on Pitt. Then it slowly began to register. His jaw stiffened and his eyes bored into Velikov.

  "Spell it out, General."

  "Very simple," said Velikov in a manner as friendly as if he were passing the time of day with a mailman. "Whether by accident or by design, you have stumbled onto our most sensitive military installation outside the Soviet Union. You cannot be permitted to leave. After I learn the true facts, you will all have to die."

  <<28>>

  Indulging in his favorite pastime-- eating-- Hageri stole an hour to enjoy a Mexican lunch of flat enchiladas topped with an egg followed by sopaipillas and washed down with a tequila sour. He paid the check, left the restaurant, and drove to the address assigned to Clyde Ward. His source with the telephone company had traced the number in General Fisher's black book to a public phone in a gas station. He marked the time. In another six minutes his pilot would call the number from the parked jet.

  He found the gas station in an industrial area near the rail yards. It was self-serve, selling an unknown independent brand. He pulled up to a pump whose red paint was heavily coated by grime and inserted the nozzle into the car's fuel spout, careful to avoid looking toward the pay phone inside the station's office.

  Shortly after landing at the Albuquerque airport, Hagen had rented a car and siphoned ten gallons of fuel from the tank so his pit stop would appear genuine. The trapped air pockets inside the tank gurgled and he screwed on the cap and replaced the nozzle. He entered the office and was fumbling with his wallet when the pay phone mounted on the wall began to ring.

  The only attendant on duty, who was in the act of repairing a flat tire, wiped his hands on a rag and picked up the receiver. Hagen tuned in on the one-way conversation.

  "Mel's Service. . . Who. . .? There ain't no Clyde here. . . Yeah, I'm sure. You got the wrong number. . . That's the right number, but I've worked here for six years and I ain't never heard of no Clyde."

  He hung up and stepped up to the cash register and smiled at Hagen. "How much you get?"

  "Ten point two gallons. Thirteen dollars and fifty-seven cents."

  While the attendant made change for a twenty, Hagen scanned the station. He couldn't help admiring the professionalism that went into setting up the stage, because that's what it was, a stage setting. The office and lube bay floors hadn't seen a mop in years. Cobwebs hung from the ceilings, the tools had more rust than oil on them, and the attendant's palms and fingernails didn't look as if they had ever seen grease. But it was the surveillance system that astounded him. His trained eye picked out subtly placed electrical wiring that didn't belong in a run-of-the-mill service station. He sensed rather spotted the bugs and cameras.

  "Could you do me a favor?" Hagen asked the attendant as he received his change.

  "Whatta you need?"

  "I've got a funny noise in the engine. Could you take a look under the hood and tell me what might be wrong?"

  "Sure, why not. Ain't got much else to do."

  Hagen noticed the attendant's designer hair style and doubted if it had ever been touched by the neighborhood barber. He also caught the slight bulge in the pants leg, on the outer right calf just above the ankle.

  Hagen had parked the car on the opposite side of the second gaspump island away from the station building. He started the engine and pulled the hood latch. The attendant put his foot on the front bumper and peered over the radiator.

  "I don't hear nothin'."

  "Come around on this side," said Hagen. "It's louder over here." He stood with his back to the street, shielded from any electronic observation by the pumps, the car, and its raised hood.

  As the attendant leaned over the fender and poked his head into the engine compartment, Hagen slipped a gun from a belt holster behind his back and pushed the muzzle between the man's buttocks.

  "This is a two-and-a-half-inch-barreled combat magnum .357 shoved up your ass and it's loaded with wad cutters. Do you understand?"

  The attendant tensed, but he did not show fear. "Yes, I read you, friend."

  "And do you know what a wad cutter can do at close range?"

  "I'm aware of what a wad cutter is."

  "Good, then you know it'll make a nice tunnel from your asshole to your brain if I pull the trigger."

  "What are you after, friend?"

  "What happened to your phony jerkwater accent?" Hagen asked.

  "It comes and goes."

  Hagen reached down with his free hand and removed a small Beretta .38-caliber automatic from under the attendant's pants leg. "Okay, friend, where can I find Clyde?"

  "Never heard of him."

  Hagen rammed the muzzle of the magnum up against the base of the spine with such force the fabric on the seat of the attendant's pants split and he grunted in agony.

  "Who are you working for?" he gasped.

  "The `inner core,' " answered Hagen.

  "You can't be."

  Hagen gave an upward thrust with the snub-nosed gun barrel again. The attendant's face contorted and he moaned as his lower body burned with the jarring pain.

  "Who is Clyde?" Hagen demanded.

  "Clyde Booth," the attendant muttered through clenched teeth.

  "I can't hear you, friend."

  "His name is Clyde Booth."

  "Tell me about him."

  "He's supposed to be some kind of genius. Invents and manufactures scientific gadgets used in space. Secret systems for the government. I don't know exactly, I'm only a member of the security staff."

  "Location?"

  `The plant is ten miles west of Santa Fe. It's called QB-Tech."

  "What's the QB stand for?"

  "Quarter Back," the attendant answered. "Booth was an allAmerican football player for Arizona State."

  "You knew I would show up?"

  "We were told to be on the lookout for a fat man."

  "How many others positioned around the station?" asked Hagen. "Three. One down the street in the tow truck, one on the roof of the warehouse behind the station, one in the red van parked beside the western bar and diner next door."

  "Why haven't they made their move?"

  "Our orders were only to follow you."

  Hagen eased the pressure and reholstered his revolver. Then he removed the shells from the attendant's automatic, dropped it on the ground, and kicked it under the car.

  "Okay," said Hagen. "Now walk, don't run, back inside the station." Before the attendant was halfway across the station drive, Hagen had turned the corner a block away. He made four more quick turns to lose the tow truck and the van, and then sped toward the airport.

  <<29>>

  Leonard Hudson stepped out of the elevator that lowered him into the heart of the Jersey Colony headquarters. He carried an umbrella that was dripping from the rain outside, and a fancy briefcase of highly polished walnut.

  He looked neither right nor left and acknowledged the greetings from his staff with a curt wave. Hudson was not the nervous type, nor was he a worrier, but he was concerned. The reports coming in from other members of the "inner core" spelled danger. Someone was methodically tracking each of them down. An outsider had breached their c
arefully devised cover operations.

  Now the whole lunar base effort-- the ingenuity, the planning, the lives, the money, and the manpower that had gone into the Jersey Colony-- was in jeopardy because of an unknown intruder.

  He walked into his large but austere office and found Gunnar Eriksen waiting for him.

  Eriksen was sitting on a couch, sipping a cup of hot coffee and smoking a curved pipe. His round, unlined face wore a somber look and his eyes had a benign glow. He was dressed casually, but unrumpled, in an expensive cashmere sports jacket and a tan V-neck sweater over matching woolen slacks. He would not look out of place selling jaguars or Ferraris.

  "You talked to Fisher and Booth," said Hudson, hanging up the umbrella and setting the briefcase beside the desk.

  "I have."

  "Any idea who it might be?"

  "None."

  "Strange that he never leaves fingerprints," said Hudson, sitting on the couch with Eriksen and pouring himself a cup of coffee from a glass pot.

  Eriksen sent a puff of smoke toward the ceiling. "Stranger yet that every image we have of him on videotape is a blur."

  "He must carry some sort of electronic erasing device."

  "Obviously not your ordinary private investigator," Eriksen mused. "A top-of-the-line professional with heavy backing."

  "He knows his way around, produces all the correct identification papers and security clearances. The story he handed Mooney about being an auditor with the General Accounting Office was first-rate. I'd have swallowed it myself."

  "What have we got on him?"

  "Only a stack of descriptions that don't agree on anything except his size. They're unanimous in referring to him as a fat man."

  "Could be the President has turned an intelligence agency loose on us."

  "If that were the case," said Hudson doubtfully, "we'd be looking at an army of undercover agents. This man appears to work alone."

  "Did you consider the possibility the President might have quietly hired an agent outside the government?" asked Eriksen.

  "The thought crossed my mind, but I'm not completely sold on it. Our friend in the White House is tapped into the Oval Office. Everyone who calls or walks in and out of the executive wing is accounted for. Of course, there's always the President's private line, but I don't think this is the sort of mission he could instigate over the telephone."

  "Interesting," said Eriksen. "The fat man started his probe at the facility where we first created the idea of the Jersey Colony."

  "That's right," Hudson acknowledged. "He rifled Earl Mooney's office at Pattenden Lab and traced a phone call to General Fisher, even made some remark about you wanting me to pay for the airplane."

  "An obvious reference to our advertised deaths," Eriksen said thoughtfully. "That means he's tied us together."

  "Then he turned up in Colorado and mugged Fisher, stealing a notebook with the names and numbers of the top people on the Jersey Colony project, including those of the `inner core.' Then he must have seen through the trap we laid to trail him from New Mexico and escaped. We got a small break when one our security men who was watching the Albuquerque airport spotted a fat man arrive in an unmarked private jet and take off again only two hours later."

  "He must have rented a car, used some sort of identification."

  Hudson shook his head. "Nothing of any use. He showed a driver's license and a credit card from a George Goodfly of New Orleans, who doesn't exist."

  Eriksen tapped the ashes from his pipe into a glass dish. "Seems odd he didn't drive to Santa Fe and attempt to penetrate Clyde Booth's operation."

  "My guess is he's only on a fact-finding hunt."

  "But who is paying him? The Russians?"

  "Certainly not the KGB," said Hudson. "They don't send subtle messages over the phone or move around the country in a private jet. No, this man moves fast. I'd say he's running on a tight deadline."

  Eriksen stared into his coffee cup. "The Soviet lunar mission is scheduled to set down on the moon in five days. That has to be his deadline."

  "I believe you may be right."

  Eriksen stared at him. "You realize now that the power behind the intruder has to be the President," he said quietly.

  Hudson nodded slowly. "I blinded myself to the possibility," he said in a distant voice. "I wanted to believe he would back the security of the Jersey Colony from Russian penetration."

  "From what you told me of your meeting, he wasn't about to condone a battle on the moon between our people and Soviet cosmonauts. Nor would he be overjoyed to learn Steinmetz destroyed three Soviet spacecraft."

  "The point that bothers me," said Hudson, "is if we accept the President's interference, why, with all of his resources, would he send only one man?"

  "Because once he accepted the Jersey Colony as a reality, he realized our supporters cover his every move, and he rightly assumed we could throw a school of red herrings across our trail to mislead any investigation. A wise man, the President. He brought in a ringer from left field who cracked our walls before we knew what was happening."

  "There may still be time to send him on the wrong scent."

  "Too late. The fat man has Fisher's notebook," said Eriksen. "He knows who we are and where to find us. He is a very real threat. He started at the tail and now he's working toward the head. When the fat man comes through this door, Leo, the President will surely move to stop any confrontation between the Soviet cosmonauts and our people in the Jersey Colony."

  "Are you hinting we eliminate the fat man?" asked Hudson.

  "No," Eriksen replied. "Better not to antagonize the President. We'll merely put him on ice for a few days."

  "I wonder where he'll turn up next," Hudson pondered.

  Eriksen methodically reloaded his pipe. "He began his witch-hunt in Oregon and from there to Colorado and then New Mexico. My guess is his next stop will be Texas, at the office of our man with NASA in Houston."

  Hudson punched a number on his desk phone. "A pity I can't be there when we snare the bastard."

  <<30>>

  Pitt spent the next two hours on his back in bed, listening to the sounds of metal doors being opened and closed, tuning in on the footsteps heard outside his cell. The youthful guard brought lunch and waited while Pitt ate, making sure all the utensils were accounted for when he left. This time the guard seemed in a better humor and was unarmed. He also left the door open during the meal, giving Pitt a chance to study the latch.

  He was surprised to see that it was an ordinary doorknob lock instead of a heavy-security or mortice throw bolt. His cell was never meant to serve as a jail. It was mostly likely intended as a storeroom.

  Pitt stirred a spoon over a bowl of foul-smelling fish stew and handed it back, more interested in the closing of the door than eating slop that he knew was the first step of a psychological ploy to lower his mental defense mechanisms. The guard stepped back and yanked the iron door shut. Pitt cocked his ear and caught a single, decisive click immediately after the slam.

  He knelt and closely examined the crack between the door and the strike. The gap was 1/8 inch across. Then he scoured the cell, searching for an object thin enough to slip between the crack so he could jimmy the latch.

  The bunk supporting the down mattress was made of wood with grooved joints. No metal or hard, flat surface there. The faucets and spouts on the sink were ceramic and the plumbing underneath and in the toilet tank offered nothing he could mold with his hands. He got lucky with the wardrobe. Any one of the hinges would work perfectly, except he could not remove the screws with his fingernails.

  He was pondering this problem when the door swung open and the guard stood in the entrance. His eyes cautiously scanned the cell for a moment. Then he brusquely motioned Pitt outside, led him through a maze of gray concrete corridors, stopping finally outside a door marked with the numeral 6.

  Pitt was roughly shoved into a small boxlike room with a sickly stench about it. The floor was cement with a drain in its cente
r. The walls were painted a dreary shade of red that ominously matched the pattern of stains that were splattered on them. The only illumination came from a dull yellow bulb hanging by a cord from the ceiling. It was the most depressing room Pitt had ever entered.

  The only furniture was a cheap, deeply scarred wooden chair. But it was the man seated in the chair that Pitt's eyes focused on. The eyes that stared back were as expressionless as ice cubes. Pitt could not tell the stranger's height, but his chest and shoulders were so ponderous they seemed deformed, the look of a body builder who had spent thousands of hours of sweat and effort. The head was completely shaven, and the face might have been considered almost handsome but for the large misshapen nose that was totally out of place with its surroundings. He was wearing only a pair of rubber boots and tropical shorts. Except for a Bismarck moustache, he looked strangely familiar to Pitt.

  Without looking up he began reading off a list of crimes Pitt was accused of. They began with violating Cuban air space, shooting down a helicopter, murdering its crew, working as an agent for the Central Intelligence Agency, entering the country illegally. The accusations droned on until they ended at last with unlawful entry into a forbidden military zone. The voice spoke in pure American with a trace of a Western accent.

  "How do you respond?"

  "Guilty as sin."

  A piece of paper and a pen were held out by an enormous hand. "Please sign the confession."

  Pitt took the pen and signed the paper against a wall without reading the wording.

  The interrogator stared at the signature broodingly. "I think you've made a mistake."

  "How so?"

  "Your name is not Benedict Arnold."

  Pitt snapped his fingers. "By God, you're right. That was last week. This week I'm Millard Fillmore."

  "Very amusing."

  "Since General Velikov has already informed American officials of my death," said Pitt seriously, "I fail to see any good of a confession. Seems to me it's like injecting penicillin into a skeleton. What purpose can it possibly serve?"