Dragon - Cussler Clive - Страница 32
- Предыдущая
- 32/119
- Следующая
“I don’t understand,” said Sandecker irritably. “What’s the rush?”
“I can’t say, sir.”
“What about my NUMA team? They’ve been working on an underwater project under extreme conditions for four months. They deserve time to rest and relax with their families.”
“The President has ordered a news blackout. Your NUMA people, along with Dr. Plunkett and Salazar, will be escorted to a safe compound on the windward side of the island until the blackout is lifted. Then they’re free to go at government expense wherever you direct.”
“How long will they be cooped up?” Sandecker demanded.
“Three or four days,” replied the agent.
“Shouldn’t Ms. Fox be going with the others?”
“No, sir. My orders are she travels with you.”
Pitt stared at Stacy shrewdly. “You been holding out on us, lady?”
A strange little smile came to her lips. “I’m going to miss our tomorrow in Hawaii.”
“Somehow I doubt that.”
Her eyes widened slightly. “We’ll have another time, perhaps in Washington.”
“I don’t think so,” he said, his voice suddenly turning cold. “You conned me, you conned me up and down the line, beginning with your phony plea for help in Old Gert.”
She looked up at him, a curious mixture of hurt and anger in her eyes. “We’d have all died if you and Al hadn’t shown up when you did.”
“And the mysterious explosion. Did you arrange that?”
“I have no idea who was responsible,” she said honestly. “I haven’t been briefed.”
“Briefed,” he repeated slowly. “Hardly a term used by a freelance photographer. Just who do you work for?”
A sudden hardness came into her voice. “You’ll find out soon enough.” And then she turned her back on him and climbed in the car.
Pitt only managed three hours sleep on the flight to the nation’s capital. He drifted off over the Rocky Mountains and woke as the dawn was breaking over West Virginia. He sat in the back of the Gulfstream government jet away from the others, preferring his thoughts to conversation. His eyes looked down at the USA Today paper on his lap without really seeing the words and pictures.
Pitt was mad, damned mad. He was irritated with Sandecker for remaining close-mouthed and sidestepping the burning questions Pitt had put to him about the explosion that caused the earthquake. He was angry with Stacy, certain now the British deep-water survey was a combined intelligence operation to spy on Soggy Acres. The coincidence of Old Gert diving in the same location defied all but the most astronomical odds. Stacy’s job as a photographer was a cover. She was a covert operative, pure and simple. The only enigma left to solve was the initials of the agency she worked for.
While he was lost in his thoughts, Giordino walked to the rear of the aircraft and sat down next to him. “You look beat, my friend.”
Pitt stretched. “I’ll be glad to get home.”
Giordino could read Pitt’s mood and adroitly steered the talk to his friend’s antique and classic car collection. “What are you working on?”
“You mean which car?”
Giordino nodded. “The Packard or the Marmon?”
“Neither,” replied Pitt. “Before we left for the Pacific, I rebuilt the engine for the Stutz but didn’t install it.”
“That nineteen thirty-two green town car?”
“The same.”
“We’re coming home two months early. Just under the wire for you to enter the classic car races at Richmond.”
“Two days away,” Pitt said thoughtfully. “I don’t think I can have the car ready in time.”
“Let me give you a hand,” Giordino offered. “Together we’ll put the old green bomb on the starting line.”
Pitt’s expression turned skeptical. “We may not get the chance. Something’s going down, Al. When the admiral clams up, the cow chips are about to strike the windmill.”
Giordino’s lips curled in a taut smile. “I tried to pump him too.”
“And?”
“I’ve had more productive conversations with fence posts.”
“The only crumb he dropped,” said Pitt, “was that after we land we go directly to the Federal Headquarters Building.”
Giordino looked puzzled. “I’ve never heard of a Federal Headquarters Building in Washington.”
“Neither have I,” said Pitt, his green eyes sharp and challenging. “Another reason why I think we’re being had.”
21
IF PITT THOUGHT they were about to be danced around the maypole, he knew it after laying eyes on the Federal Headquarters Building.
The unmarked van with no side windows that picked them up at Andrews Air Force Base turned off Constitution Avenue, passed a secondhand dress store, went down a grimy alley, and stopped at the steps of a shabby six-story brick building behind a parking lot. Pitt judged the foundation was laid in the 1930s.
The entire structure appeared in disrepair. Several windows were boarded shut behind broken glass, the black paint around the wrought-iron balconies was peeling away, the bricks were worn and deeply scarred, and for a finishing touch an unwashed bum sprawled on the cracked concrete steps beside a cardboard box full of indescribably mangy artifacts.
The two federal agents who escorted them from Hawaii led the way up the steps into the lobby. They ignored the homeless derelict, while Sandecker and Giordino merely gave him a fleeting glance. Most women would have looked upon the poor man with either compassion or disgust, but Stacy nodded and offered him a faint smile.
Pitt, curious, stopped and said, “Nice day for a tan.”
The derelict, a black man in his late thirties, looked up. “You blind, man? What’d I do with a tan?”
Pitt recognized the sharp eyes of a professional observer, who dissected every square centimeter of Pitt’s hands, clothes, body, and face, in that order. They were definitely not the vacant eyes of a down-and-out street dweller.
“Oh, I don’t know,” Pitt answered in a neighborly tone. “It might come in handy when you take your pension and move to Bermuda.”
The bum smiled, flashing unblemished white teeth. “Have a safe stay, my man.”
“I’ll try,” Pitt said, amused at the odd reply. He stepped past the disguised first ring of protection sentry and followed the others into the building’s lobby.
The interior was as run down as the exterior. There was the unpleasant smell of disinfectant. The green tile floors were badly treadworn and the walls stark and smudged with years of overlaid handprints. The only object in the dingy lobby that seemed well maintained was an antique mail drop. The solid brass glinted under the dusty light fixtures hanging from the ceiling, and the American eagle above the words “U.S. Mail” was as shiny as the day it was buffed out of its casting. Pitt thought it a curious contrast.
An old elevator door slid open soundlessly. The men from NUMA were surprised to find a gleaming chrome interior and a U.S. marine in dress blues who was the operator. Pitt noted that Stacy acted as though she’d been through the drill before.
Pitt was the last one in, seeing his tired red eyes and the grizzly beginnings of a beard reflected in the polished chrome walls. The marine closed the doors, and the elevator moved with an eerie silence. Pitt could not feel any movement at all. No flashing lights over the door or on a display panel indicated the passing floors. Only his inner ear told him they were traveling very rapidly down a considerable distance.
At last the door opened onto a foyer and corridor that was so clean and orderly it would have done a spit-and-polish ship captain proud. The federal agents guided them to the second doorway from the elevator and stood aside. The group passed through a space between the outer and an inner door, which Pitt and Giordino immediately recognized as an air lock to make the room soundproof. As the second door was closed, air was pushed out with an audible pop.
- Предыдущая
- 32/119
- Следующая
