Cyclops dp-8

by Clive Cussler

  "Insurance against an incident, propaganda reasons, even a bargaining position," answered the interrogator amiably. "There could be any number of reasons." He paused and read from a file on the desk. "I see from the dossier General Velikov gave me that you directed a salvage project on the Empress of Ireland shipwreck in the Saint Lawrence River."

  "That is correct."

  "I believe I was on the same project."

  Pitt stared at him. There was a familiarity, but it wouldn't frame in his mind. He shook his head. "I don't recall you working on my team. What's your name?"

  "Foss Gly," he said slowly. "I worked with the Canadians to disrupt your operations."

  A scene burst within Pitt's mind of a tugboat tied to a dock in Rimouski, Quebec. He had saved the life of a British secret agent by braining Gly on the head with a wrench. He also remembered with great relief that Gly's back had been turned and he had not seen Pitt's approach.

  "Then we've never met face to face," Pitt said calmly. He watched for a faint sign of recognition from Gly, but he didn't bat an eye.

  "Probably not."

  "You're a long way from home."

  Gly shrugged his great shoulders. "I work for whoever pays top dollar for my special services."

  "In this case the money machine spits out rubles."

  "Converted into gold," Gly added. He sighed and pulled himself to a standing position and stretched. The skin was so taut, the veins so pronounced, they actually looked grotesque. He rose from the chair and looked up, the smooth dome of his head on a level with Pitt's chin. "I'd like to continue the small talk about past events, Mr. Pitt, but I must have the answers to several questions and your signature on the confession."

  "I'll discuss whatever subject that interests you when I'm assured the LeBarons and my friends will not be harmed."

  Gly did not reply, only stared with a look that bordered on indifference.

  Pitt sensed a blow was coming and tensed his body to roll with it. But Gly did not cooperate. Instead, he slowly reached out with one hand and gripped Pitt at the base of the neck on the soft part of the shoulder. At first the pressure was light, a squeeze, and then a gradual tightening until the pain erupted like fire.

  Pitt clutched Gly's wrist with both hands and tried to wrench away the ironlike claw, but he might as well have tried to pull a twenty foot oak out of the ground by the roots. He ground his teeth together until he thought they would crack. Dimly through the bursting fireworks in his brain, he could hear Gly's voice.

  "Okay, Pitt, you don't have to go through this. Just tell me who masterminded your intrusion on this island and why. No need to suffer unless you're a professional masochist. Believe me, you won't find the experience enjoyable. Tell the general what he wants to know. Whatever you're hiding won't change the course of history. Thousands of lives won't hang in the balance. Why feel your body being pulped day after day until all bones are crushed, all joints are cracked, your sinews reduced to the consistency of mashed potatoes. Because that is exactly what will happen if you don't play ball. You understand?"

  The ungodly agony eased as Gly released his grip. Pitt swayed on his feet and stared through half-open eyes at his tormentor, one hand massaging the ugly bruise that was spreading on his shoulder. He realized that whatever story he told, true or fabricated, would never be accepted. The torture would continue until his physical resources finally gave in and numbed to it.

  He asked politely, "Do you get a bonus for every confession?"

  "I do not work on commission," said Gly with friendly humor.

  "You win," said Pitt easily. "I have a low threshold of pain. What do you want me to confess to, attempting to assassinate Fidel Castro or plotting to convert Russian advisers to democrats?"

  "Merely the truth, Mr. Pitt."

  "I've already told General Velikov."

  "Yes, I have your recorded words."

  "Then you know that Mrs. LeBaron, Al Giordino, Rudi Gunn, and I were trying to find a clue to the disappearance of Raymond LeBaron while searching for a shipwreck supposedly containing treasure. What's so sinister about that?"

  "General Velikov sees it as a front for a more classified mission."

  "For instance?"

  "An attempt to communicate with the Castros."

  "Ridiculous is the first word that comes to mind. There must be easier ways for our governments to negotiate with each other."

  "Gunn has told us everything," said Gly. "You were to head the operation to stray into Cuban waters, where you were to be captured by their patrol craft and escorted to the mainland. Once there, you were to turn over vital information dealing with secret U.S.-Cuban relations."

  Pitt was genuinely at a loss. This was all Greek to him. "That has to be the dumbest cock-and-bull tale I've ever heard."

  "Then why were you armed and able to destroy the Cuban patrol helicopter?"

  "We carried no arms," Pitt lied. "The helicopter suddenly exploded in our faces. I can't give you a reason."

  "Then explain why the Cuban patrol boat could find no survivors at the crash site."

  "We were in the water. It was dark and the seas were rough. They didn't spot us."

  "Yet you were able to swim six miles through the violent water of a hurricane, all four of you keeping together as a group, and landing intact on Cayo Santa Maria. How was it possible?"

  "Just lucky, I guess."

  "Now who's telling a dumb cock-and-bull tale?"

  Pitt never got a chance to answer. Without a flicker of warning, Gly swung and rammed a fist into the side of Pitt's body near the left kidney.

  The pain and the sudden understanding burst within him at the same time. As he sank into the black pool of unconsciousness he reached out for Jessie, but she laughed and made no effort to reach back.

  <<31>>

  A deep, resonant voice was saying something, almost in his ear. The words were vague and distant. An army of scorpions crept over the edge of the bed and began thrusting their poisoned tails in his side. He opened his eyes. The bright fluorescent light above blinded him, so he closed them again. His face felt wet and he thought he might be swimming and threw out his arms. Then the voice beside him spoke more distinctly.

  "Lie easy, partner. I'm just sponging off your face."

  Pitt reopened his eyes and focused them on the face of an older, gray-haired man with soft, concerned eyes in a warm, scholarly face. The eyes met his and he smiled.

  "Are you in much pain?"

  "It smarts a bit."

  "Would you like some water?"

  "Yes, please."

  When the man stood up, the hair on his head nearly touched the ceiling. He produced a cup from a small canvas bag and filled it from the washbasin.

  Pitt clutched his side and eased very slowly to a sitting position. He felt rotten and realized he was ravenously hungry. When was the last time he'd eaten? His drowsy mind couldn't recall. He accepted the water thankfully and quickly downed it. Then he looked up at his benefactor.

  "Old rich and reckless Raymond, I presume."

  LeBaron smiled tightly. "Not a title I'm fond of."

  "You're not an easy man to locate."

  "My wife has told me how you saved her life. I wish to thank you." "According to General Velikov, the rescue is only temporary"

  LeBaron's smile vanished. "What did he tell you?"

  "He said, and I quote, `You all have to die.' "

  "Did he give you a reason?"

  "The story he handed me was that we had stumbled into a most sensitive Soviet military installation."

  A pensive look crossed LeBaron's face. Then he said, "Velikov was lying. Originally this place was built to gather communications data from microwave transmissions around the U.S., but the rapid development of eavesdropping satellites made it obsolete before it was completed."

  "How do you know that?"

  "They've allowed me the run of the island. Something impossible if the area was highly secret. I've seen no evidence of sophisti
cated communications equipment or antennas anywhere. I've also become friendly with a number of Cuban visitors who let slip bits and pieces of information. The best I can figure is that this place is like a businessmen's retreat, a hideaway where corporate executives go to discuss and plan marketing strategy for the coming year. Only here, high-ranking Soviet and Cuban officials meet to create political and military policy."

  It was difficult for Pitt to concentrate. His left kidney hurt like hell and he felt drowsy. He staggered over to the commode. His urine was pink with blood, but not very much, and he didn't feel the damage was serious.

  "We had best not continue this conversation," said Pitt. "My cell is probably bugged."

  LeBaron shook his head. "No, I don't think so. This level of the compound wasn't constructed for maximum security detention because there is no way out. It's like the old French penal colony at Devil's Island-- impossible to escape from. The Cuban mainland is over twenty miles away. The water teems with sharks, and the currents sweep out to sea. In the other direction the nearest landfall is in the Bahamas, a hundred and ten miles to the northeast. If you're thinking of escape, my advice is to forget it."

  Pitt gingerly settled back on his bed. "Have you seen the others?"

  "Yes.

  "Their condition?"

  "Giordino and Gunn are together in a room thirty feet down the corridor. Because of their injuries they've been spared a visit to room number six. Until now, they've been treated quite well."

  "Jessie?"

  LeBaron's face tensed very slightly. "General Velikov has graciously allowed us a VIP room to ourselves. We're even permitted to dine with the officers."

  "I'm glad to hear you've both been spared a trip to room six."

  "Yes, Jessie and I are lucky our treatment is humanly decent."

  LeBaron's tone seemed unconvincing, his words spoken in a flat monotone. There was no light in his eyes. This wasn't the man who was famous for his audacious and freewheeling adventures and flamboyant fiascos in and out of the business world. He seemed completely out of character with the prodigious dynamo whose advice was sought by financiers and world leaders. He struck Pitt as a beaten farmer, forced off his land by an unscrupulous banker.

  "And the status of Buck Caesar and Joe Cavilla?" Pitt asked.

  LeBaron shrugged sadly. "Buck eluded his guards during an exercise period outside the compound and tried to swim for it, using the trunk of a fallen palm tree as a raft. His body, or what was left after the sharks were through with it, drifted onto the beach three days later. As for Joe, after several sessions in room six, he went into a coma and died. A great pity. There was no reason for him not to cooperate with General Velikov."

  "You've never paid a visit to Foss Gly?"

  "No, I've been spared the experience. Why, I can't say. Perhaps General Velikov thinks I'm too valuable as a bargaining tool."

  "So I've been elected," said Pitt grimly.

  "I wish I could help you, but General Velikov ignored all my pleas to save Joe. He is equally cold in your case."

  Pitt idly found himself wondering why LeBaron always referred to Velikov with due respect to the Russian's military rank. "I don't understand the brutal interrogation. What was to be gained by killing Cavilla? What do they hope to get out of me?"

  "The truth," LeBaron said simply.

  Pitt gave him a sharp look. "The truth as I know it is, you and your team searched for the Cyclops and vanished. Your wife and the rest of us went after the shipwreck in hopes we could get a clue as to what happened to you. Tell me where it rings false."

  LeBaron wiped newly formed sweat from his forehead with his sleeve. "No use in arguing with me, Dirk, I'm not the one who doesn't believe you. The Russian mentality thinks there is a lie behind every truth."

  "You've talked with Jessie. Surely she explained how we happened to find the Cyclops and land on the island."

  LeBaron visibly winced at Pitt's mention of the Cyclops. He suddenly seemed to recoil from Pitt. He picked up his canvas bag and pounded on the door. It swung open almost immediately and he was gone.

  Foss Gly was waiting when LeBaron entered room six. He sat there, a brooding evil, a human murder machine immune to suffering or death. He smelled of decayed meat.

  LeBaron stood trembling and silently handed over the canvas bag. Gly rummaged inside and drew out a small recorder and rewound the tape. He listened for a few seconds to satisfy himself that the voices were distinct.

  "Did he confide in you?" asked Gly.

  "Yes, he made no attempt to hide anything."

  "Is he working for the CIA?"

  "I don't believe so. His landing on the island was merely an accident."

  Gly came from behind the desk and grabbed the loose skin on the side of LeBaron's waist, squeezing and twisting in the same motion. The publisher's eyes bulged, gasping as the agony pierced his body. He slowly sank to his knees on the concrete.

  Gly bent down until he stared with frozen malignancy scant inches from LeBaron's eyes. "Do not screw with me, scum," he said menacingly, "or your sweet wife will be the next one who pays with a mutilated body."

  <<32>>

  Ira Hagen threw Hudson and Eriksen a curve and bypassed Houston. There was no need for the trip. The computer on board his jet told him all he needed to know. A trace of the Texas phone number in General Fisher's black book led to the office of the director of NASAs Flight Operations, Irwin Mitchell, alias Irwin Dupuy. A check of another name on the list, Steve Larson, turned up Steve Busche, who was director of NASAs Flight Research Center in California.

  Nine little Indians, and then there were four. . .

  Hagen's tally of the "inner core" now read:

  Raymond LeBaron....Last reported in Cuba.

  General Mark Fisher....Colorado Springs.

  Clyde Booth....Albuquerque.

  Irwin Mitchell....Houston.

  Steve Busche....California.

  Dean Beagle (?)....Philadelphia. (ID and location not proven)

  Daniel Klein (?)....Washington, D.C. (ditto)

  Leonard Hudson....Maryland. (location not proven)

  Gunnar Eriksen....Maryland. (ditto)

  His deadline was only sixty-six hours away. He had kept the President advised of his progress and warned him that his investigation would be cutting it thin. Already, the President was putting together a trusted team to gather up members of the "inner core" and transport them to a location the President had yet to specify. Hagen's ace card was the proximity of the last three names on the list. He was gambling they were all sitting in the same basket.

  Hagen altered his routine and did not waste time renting a car when his plane landed at Philadelphia International Airport. His pilot had called ahead, and a Lincoln limousine was waiting when he stepped down the stairway. During the twenty-four-mile drive along the Schuylkill River to Valley Forge State Park, he worked on his report to the President and formulated a plan to speed the discovery of Hudson and Eriksen, whose joint phone number turned out to be a disconnected number in an empty house near Washington.

  He closed his briefcase as the car rolled past the park where George Washington's army had camped during the winter of 1777-78. Many of the trees still bore golden leaves and the rolling hills had yet to turn brown. The driver turned onto a road that wound around a hill overlooking the park and was bordered on both sides by old stone walls.

  The historic Horse and Artillery Inn was built in 1790 as a stagecoach stop and tavern for colonial travelers and sat amid sweeping lawns and a grove of shade trees. It was a picturesque three-story building with blue shutters and a stately front porch. The inn was an original example of early limestone farm architecture and bore a plaque designating it as listed on the National Register of Historic Places.

  Hagen left the limousine, climbed the steps to the porch furnished with old-fashioned rockers, and passed into a lobby filled with antique furniture clustered around a cozy fireplace containing a crackling log. In the dining room he was s
hown to a table by a girl dressed in colonial costume.

  "Is Dean around?" he asked casually.

  "Yes, sir," answered the girl brightly, "The Senator is in the kitchen. Would you like to see him?"

  "I'd be grateful if he could spare me a few minutes."

  "Would you like to see a menu in the meantime?"

  "Yes, please."

  Hagen scanned the menu and found the list of early American dishes to be quite tempting. But his mind didn't really dwell on food. Was it possible, he thought, that Dean Beagle was Senator Dean Porter, who once chaired the powerful Foreign Relations Committee and narrowly lost a presidential primary race to George McGovern? A member of the Senate for nearly thirty years, Porter had left an indelible mark on American politics before he had retired two years ago.

  A baldheaded man in his late seventies walked through a swinging door from the kitchen, wiping his hands on the lower edge of an apron. An unimpressive figure with a grandfatherly face. He stopped at Hagen's table and looked down without expression. "You wish to see me?"

  Hagen came to his feet. "Senator Porter."

  "Yes.

  "My name is Ira Hagen. I'm a restaurateur myself, specializing in American dishes, but not nearly as creative as your recipes."

  "Leo told me you might walk through my door," Porter said bluntly.

  "Won't you please sit down."

  "You staying for dinner, Mr. Hagen?"

  "That was my plan."

  "Then permit me to offer you a bottle of local wine on the house."

  "Thank you."

  Porter called over his waitress and gave the order. Then he turned back to Hagen and looked him solidly in the eye. "How many of us have you tagged?"

  "You make six," Hagen answered.

  "You're lucky you didn't go to Houston. Leo had a reception committee waiting for you."

  "Were you a member of the `inner core' from the beginning, Senator?"

  "I came on board in 1964 and helped set up the undercover financing."

  "I compliment you on a first-rate job."

  "You're working for the President, I take it."