Dragon - Cussler Clive - Страница 58
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“One moment while I check the schedule,” Stacy acknowledged. After a few moments she came back. “There’s a weight station this side of Indio. It’s mandatory. The drivers will have to stop for inspection. If for some reason they turn off, we’ll plan on having them pulled over by a sheriff’s car. Otherwise you should arrive at the weight station in another forty-five or fifty minutes.”
“See you there,” said Weatherhill.
“Enjoy your trip.”
Like most undercover agents, whose adrenaline pumps during the critical stages of an operation, now that the difficult part was behind him, Weatherhill quickly relaxed and became bored with nothing to do. All that remained now was for him to climb through the fume ventilators on the roof and drop down behind the trailer out of view of the drivers’ side mirrors.
He opened the glove box and pulled out the packet containing the car’s warranty papers and owner’s manual. Switching on the interior lights, Weatherhill idly began thumbing through the manual. Though his prime expertise was nuclear physics, he was always fascinated by electronics. He turned to the page displaying the Murmoto’s electrical diagram with the intention of tracing out the wiring.
But the page in the manual was no electrical wiring diagram. It was a map with instructions for placing the cars in their designated positions for detonation.
Suma’s strategy became so boldly obvious to Weatherhill that he had to force himself to believe it. The car bombs were not simply part of a threat to protect Japan’s economic expansionist plans. The fear and the horror were real.
They were meant to be used.
35
AT LEAST TEN years had passed since Raymond Jordan forced an entry, certainly not since he worked up through the ranks as a field agent. On a whim he decided to see if he still had the touch.
He inserted a tiny computer probe into the wires on the security alarm system of Pitt’s hangar. He pressed a button and backwashed the combination into the probe. The alarm box recognized the code and gave it to him on an LED display. Then with a deceptive ease and nonchalance, he punched the appropriate combination that turned off the alarm, picked the lock to the door, and stepped soundlessly inside.
He spied Pitt kneeling in front of the turquoise Stutz, back toward him, at the far end of the hangar. Pitt seemed intent on repairing a headlight.
Jordan stood unobserved and gazed over the collection. He was astonished it was so extensive. He’d heard Sandecker speak of it, but verbal description failed to do it justice. Softly he walked behind the first row of cars, circled around, and approached Pitt from under the apartment side of the hangar. It was a test. He was curious as to Pitt’s reaction to an intruder who suddenly appeared within arm’s reach.
Jordan paused before he closed the final three meters and studied Pitt and the car for a moment. The Stutz was badly scratched in many areas and would require a new paint job. The windshield was cracked and the left front headlight seemed to be dangling by a wire.
Pitt was dressed casually, wearing a pair of corduroy pants and a knit sweater. His black hair was wavy and carelessly brushed. There was a decisive look about him, the green eyes were set under heavy black eyebrows and had a piercing quality that seemed to transfix whatever they were aimed at. He looked to be screwing the headlight lens into a chrome rim.
Jordan was in midstep when Pitt suddenly spoke without turning. “Good evening, Mr. Jordan. Good of you to drop in.”
Jordan froze, but Pitt went on with his work with the indifferent air of a bus driver expecting the correct change from a fare.
“I should have knocked.”
“No need. I knew you were on the premises.”
“Are you hyperperceptive or do you have eyes in the back of your head?” asked Jordan, moving slowly into Pitt’s peripheral vision.
Pitt looked up and grinned. He lifted and tilted the old headlight’s reflector that revealed Jordan’s image on its silver surface. “I observed your tour of the hangar. Your entry was most professional. I’d judge it didn’t take you more than twenty seconds.”
“Missed spotting a back-up video camera. I must be getting senile.”
“Across the road on top of the telephone pole. Most visitors spot the one hanging on the building. Infrared. It activates an alert chime when a body moves near the door.”
“You have an incredible collection,” Jordan complimented Pitt. “How long did it take you to build it?”
“I began with the maroon forty-seven Ford club coupe over there in the corner about twenty years ago, and collecting became a disease. Some I acquired during projects with NUMA, some I bought from private parties or at auctions. Antique and classic cars are investments you can flaunt. Far more fun than a painting.” Pitt finished screwing the headlight rim around its lens and rose to his feet. “Can I offer you a drink?”
“A glass of milk for an overstressed stomach sounds good.”
“Please come up.” Pitt gestured toward the stairs leading to his apartment. “I’m honored the head man came to see me instead of sending his deputy director.”
As Jordan reached the first step, he hesitated and said, “I thought I should be the one to tell you. Congresswoman Smith and Senator Diaz have been smuggled out of the country.”
There was a pause as Pitt slowly turned and glared at him through eyes suddenly filled with relief. “Loren is unharmed.” The words came more as a demand than a question.
“We’re not dealing with brain-sick terrorists,” Jordan answered. “The kidnap operation was too sophisticated for injury or death. We have every reason to believe she and Diaz are being treated with respect.”
“How did they slip through the cracks?”
“Our intelligence determined she and Diaz were flown out of the Newport News, Virginia, airport in a private jet belonging to one of Suma’s American corporations. By the time we were able to sift through every flight, scheduled or unscheduled, from airports within a thousand-square-kilometer area, trace every plane’s registration until we nailed one to Suma, and track its path by satellite, it was heading over the Bering Sea for Japan.”
“Too late to force down on one of our military bases by a military aircraft?”
“Way too late. It was met and escorted by a squadron of FSX fighter jets from Japan’s Air Self-Defense Force. Aircraft that were built in partnership between General Dynamics and Mitsubishi, I might add.”
“And then?”
Jordan turned and gazed at the gleaming cars. “We lost them,” he said tonelessly.
“After they landed?”
“Yes, at Tokyo International. Little need to go into details why they weren’t intercepted or at least followed, but for reasons known only to the idiot mentality at the State Department, we have no operatives in Japan who could have stopped them. That’s all we have at the moment.”
“The best intelligence minds on the face of the earth, and that’s all you have.” Pitt sounded very tired. He went into his kitchen, opened the refrigerator and poured some milk, then handed the glass to Jordan. “What about all your big specialty teams in Japan? Where were they when the plane touched down?”
“With Marvin Showalter and Jim Hanamura murdered—”
“Both men murdered?” Pitt interrupted.
“Tokyo police found Hanamura’s body in a ditch, decapitated. Showalter’s head, minus the body, was discovered a few hours ago, impaled on our embassy’s fence. To add to the mess, we suspect Roy Orita is a sleeper. He sold us out from the beginning. God only knows how much information he’s passed to Suma. We may never be able to assess the damage.”
Pitt’s anger softened when he read the sadness along with the frustration in Jordan’s face. “Sorry, Ray, I had no idea things had gone so badly.”
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