Deep Six

Casio’s only reaction was a thin smile. “Very good,” he said approvingly. “So there were a total of five.”

“Inside an empty milk carton,” Pitt explained.

“Nicely done, Mr. Pitt. A clever touch, waiting until my gun hand was holding a glass. That shows you were thinking. I’ll have to mark you up to a B-minus.”

Pitt clicked on the safety and lowered the gun. “If you came here to kill me, Mr. Casio, you could have blown me away when I stepped through the door. What’s on your mind?”

Casio nodded down at his briefcase. “May I?”

“Go ahead.”

He set the drink down, opened the case and pulled out a bulging cardboard folder that was held together with rubber bands. “A case I’ve worked on since 1966.”

“A long time. You must be a stubborn man.”

“I hate to let go of it,” Casio admitted. “It’s like walking away from a jigsaw puzzle before it’s completed, or putting down a good book. Sooner or later every investigator gets on a case that has him staring at the ceiling nights, the case he can never solve. This one has a personal tie, Mr. Pitt. It began twenty-three years ago when a girl, a bank teller by the name of Arta Casilighio, stole $128,000 from a bank in Los Angeles.”

“How can that concern me?”

“She was last seen boarding a ship called the San Marino.”

“Okay, so you read the press story about the shipwreck discovery.”

“Yes.”

“And you think this girl disappeared with the San Marino?”

“I’m certain of it.”

“Then your case is solved. The thief is dead and the money gone forever.”

“Not that simple,” said Casio, staring into his glass. “There’s no doubt Arta Casilighio is dead, but the money is not gone forever. Arta took freshly printed currency from the Federal Reserve Bank. All serial numbers were recorded, so it was an easy matter to account for the missing bills.” Casio paused to look over his glass into Pitt’s eyes. “Two years ago the missing money finally turned up.”

Sudden interest flared in Pitt’s eyes. He sat down in a chair facing Casio. “All of it?” he asked cautiously.

Casio nodded. “It appeared in dribbles and spurts. Five thousand in Frankfurt, a thousand in Cairo, all in foreign banks. None came to light in the United States, except one hundred-dollar bill.”

“Then Arta didn’t die on the San Marino.”

“She vanished with the ship all right. The FBI co

“Can you trust the memory of a lush?”

Casio smiled confidently. “Arta gave him a crisp new hundred-dollar bill for the fare. He couldn’t make change so she told him to keep it. Believe me, it took little effort for him to recall the event.”

“If stolen Federal Reserve currency is in FBI jurisdiction, where do you fit in the picture? Why the dogged pursuit of a criminal whose trail is ice cold?”

“Before I shortened my name for business reasons, it was Casilighio. Arta was my daughter.”

There was an uncomfortable silence. From outside the windows overlooking the river came the rumble of a jetliner taking off. Pitt stood up and went into the kitchen, where he poured a cup of coffee from a cold pot and placed it in a microwave oven. “Care for another drink, Mr. Casio?”

Casio shook his head.

“So the bottom line is that you think there’s something queer about your daughter’s disappearance?”

“She and the ship never made port, but the money she stole turns up in a ma

“I can’t deny you make a good case.” The microwave beeped and Pitt retrieved a steaming cup. “But I’m not sure what you want from me.”

“I have some questions.”

Pitt sat down, his interest going beyond mere curiosity. “Don’t expect detailed answers.”

“I understand.”

“Fire away.”

“Where did you find the San Marino? I mean in what part of the Pacific Ocean?”

“Near the southern coast of Alaska,” Pitt replied vaguely.

“A bit far off the track for a ship steaming from San Francisco to New Zealand, wouldn’t you say?”

“Way off the track,” Pitt agreed.

“As far as two thousand miles?”

“And then some.” Pitt took a swallow of coffee and made a face. It was strong enough to use as brick mortar. He looked up. “Before we continue it’s going to cost you.”

Casio gave him a reappraising eye. “Somehow you never struck me as the type who’d extend a greasy palm.”

“I’d like to have the names of the banks in Europe that passed the stolen money.”

“Any particular reason?” Casio asked, not bothering to conceal his puzzlement.

“None I can tell you about.”

“You’re not very cooperative.”

Pitt started to reply, but the phone on an end table rang loudly.

“Hello.”

“Dirk, this is Yaeger. You still awake.”

“Thank you for calling. How is Sally? Is she out of intensive care yet?”

“Can’t talk, huh?”

“Not too well.”

“But you can listen.”

“No problem.”

“Bad news. I’m not getting anywhere. I’d stand a better chance of throwing a deck of cards in the air and catching a straight flush.”

“Maybe I can knock down the odds. Hold on a minute.” Pitt turned to Casio. “About that list of banks.”

Casio slowly rose, poured himself another shot of Jack Daniel’s and stood with his back to Pitt.

“A trade-off, Mr. Pitt. The bank list for what you know about the San Marino.”

“Most of my information is government classified.”

“I don’t give a damn if it’s stenciled on the inside of the President’s jockey shorts. Either we deal or I pack up and hike.”

“How do you know I won’t lie?”

“My list could be phony.”

“Then we’ll just have to trust each.other,” said Pitt with a loose grin.

“The hell we will,” grunted Casio. “But neither of us has any choice.”

He took a sheet of paper from the folder and handed it to Pitt, who in turn read off the names over the phone to Yaeger.

“Now what?” Casio demanded.

“Now I tell you what happened to the San Marino. And by breakfast I may also be able to tell you who killed your daughter.”

25

Fifteen minutes after sunrise, the photoelectric controllers in all of Washington’s streetlights closed off their circuits. One by one, separated by no more than a few seconds, the yellow and red rays of the high-pressure sodium lamps faded and died, to wait through the daylight hours until fifteen minutes before sunset, when their light-sensitive controllers would boost them to life again.

Beneath the dimming glow of the streetlights, Sam Emmett could hear the vibration from the early-morning traffic as he walked hurriedly through the utility tu

“You’re the last,” Mercier informed him.

Emmett checked his watch and noted he was five minutes early. “Everyone?” he questioned.

“Except for Simmons in Egypt and Lucas, who’s giving your speech at Princeton, they’re all present.”

As he entered, Oates motioned him to a chair beside his, while Dan Fawcett, General Metcalf, CIA chief Martin Brogan and Mercier gathered around the conference table.

“I’m sorry for moving the scheduled meeting up by four hours,” Oates began, “but Sam informed me that his investigators have determined how the kidnapping took place.” Without further explanation he nodded to the FBI Director.