Deep Six

His back and arms ached from the long hours in the air, and he did stretching exercises as he walked to a small office next to the landing pad. He unlocked the door and stepped inside.

A stranger sat in the tiny lobby area casually reading a newspaper. To the pilot he looked to be either Chinese or Japanese. The newspaper was lowered, revealing a shotgun with a pistol grip and twin sawed-off barrels that ended barely four inches in front of the shells.

“What do you want?” asked the pilot stupidly.

“Information?”

“You’re in the wrong place,” said the pilot, instinctively raising his hands. “We’re a helicopter ambulance service, not a library.”

“Very witty,” said the Oriental. “You also carry passengers.”

“Who told you that?”

“Paul Suvorov. One of your Russian friends.”

“Never heard of the guy.”

“How odd. He sat next to you in the co-pilot’s seat for most of yesterday.”

“What do you want?” the pilot repeated, the fear begi

The Oriental smiled wickedly. “You have ten seconds to tell me the precise destination where you flew Suvorov and two other men. If at the end of that time you feel stubborn, I shall blow away one of your knees. Ten seconds later you can bid goodbye to your sex life.” He enforced his request by releasing the safety on the shotgun. “Countdown begins… now.”

Three minutes later the Oriental stepped from the building and locked the door. Then he walked to a car parked nearby, climbed behind the wheel and drove toward a sandy road leading to Charleston.

The car was barely out of sight when a torrent of orange flame gushed through the thin roof of the pilot’s office and spiraled into the white overcast sky.

Pitt spent the day dodging reporters and police detectives. He hid in a quiet pub called the Devil’s Fork on Rhode Island Avenue and sat in a cushiony leather seat in a quiet corner staring pensively at a half-eaten Monte Cristo sandwich and a third Manhattan, a drink he seldom ordered.

A pert blond waitress in a micro-skirt and mesh stockings stopped by his table. “You’re the most pitiful person in the place,” she said with a motherly smile. “Lose your best girl or your wife?”

“Worse,” said Pitt sadly. “My car.”

She laid a look on him reserved for Martians and weirdos, shrugged and continued her rounds of the other tables.

Pitt sat there idly stirring the Manhattan with a cherry, scowling at nothing. Somewhere along the line he had lost his grip on things. Events were controlling him. Knowing who tried to kill him provided little satisfaction. Only the Bougainville hierarchy had the motive. He was getting too close. No brilliance required in solving that mystery.

He was angry at himself for playing adolescent computer games with their financial operation while they ran in a tougher league. Pitt felt like a prospector who’d discovered a safe full of currency in the middle of the Antarctic and no place to spend it. His only leverage was that he knew more than they thought he knew.

The enigma that nagged him was Bougainville’s unlikely involvement with the Eagle. He knew of no motive for the sinking and murders. The only tie, and a slim one at that, was the overabundance of Korean bodies.

No matter; that was the FBI’s problem, and he was glad to be rid of it.

The time had come, he decided, to get rolling, and the first step was to marshal his forces. No brilliance required in that decision either.

He rose and walked over to the bar. “Can I borrow your phone, Cabot?”

The bartender, a pixie-faced Irishman, name of Sean Cabot, gave Pitt a doleful glare. “Local or long distance?”

“Long distance, but don’t cry in your cash register. I’ll use a credit card.”

Cabot nodded indifferently and set a telephone on the end of the bar away from the other customers. “Too bad about your car, Dirk. I saw her once. She was a beauty.”

“Thanks. Buy yourself a drink and put it on my tab.”

Cabot filled a glass with ginger ale from the dispenser and held it aloft. “To a Good Samaritan and a bon vivant.”

Pitt didn’t feel like a Good Samaritan and even less like a bon vivant as he punched Out the numbers on the phone. He gave his credit card number to the operator and waited for a voice to answer.

“Casio and Associates Investigatahs.”

“This is Dirk Pitt. Is Sal in?”

“One moment, sah.”

Things were looking up. He’d been accepted into the receptionist’s club.

“Dirk?” came Casio’s voice. “I’ve been calling your office all morning. I think I’ve got something.”

“Yes?”

“A hunt through maritime union files paid dividends. Six of the Korean seamen who signed on the San Marino had prior crew tickets. Mostly with foreign shipping lines. But all six had one thing in common. At one time or another they sailed for Bougainville Maritime. Ever hear of it?”

“It figures,” said Pitt. Then he proceeded to tell Casio what he found during the computer search.

“Damn!” Casio exclaimed incredulously. “Everything fits.”

“The maritime union, what did their records show on the Korean crew after the San Marino hijacking?”

“Nothing, they dropped from sight.”

“If Bougainville history ran true to form, they were murdered.”

Casio fell silent, and Pitt guessed what was ru

“I owe you,” Casio said finally. “You’ve helped me zero in on Arta’s killer. But it’s my show. I’ll take it alone from here.”

“Don’t give me the vengeance is mine martyr routine,” Pitt said abruptly. “Besides, you still don’t know who was directly responsible.”

“Min Koryo Bougainville,” said Casio, spitting out the name. “Who else could it be?”

“The old girl might have given the orders,” said Pitt, “but she didn’t dirty her hands. It’s no secret she’s been in a wheelchair for ten years. No interviews or pictures of her have been published since Nixon was President. For all we know, Min Koryo Bougainville is a senile, bedridden vegetable. Hell, she may even be dead. No way she scattered bodies over the seascape alone.”

“You’re talking a corporate hit squad.”

“Can you think of a more efficient way to eliminate the competition?”

“Now you’re insinuating she’s a member of the Mafia,” grunted Casio.

“The Mafia only kill informers and each other. The evil beauty of Min Koryo’s setup is that by murdering crews in wholesale lots and stealing vessels from other shipping lines, she built her assets with almost no overhead. And to do it she has to have someone organize and orchestrate the crimes. Don’t let your hate blind you to hard-core reality, Sal. You haven’t got the resources to take on Bougainville alone.”

“And you do?”

“Takes two to start an army.”

There was another silence, and Pitt thought the co

“You still there, Sal?”

“I’m here,” Casio finally said in a thoughtful voice. “What do you want me to do?”

“Fly to New York and pay a visit to Bougainville Maritime.”

“You mean toss their office?”

“I thought the term was ‘breaking and entering.’ “

“A cop and a judge use different dictionaries.”

“Just employ your talents to see what you can find of interest that doesn’t show up in the computers.”

“I’ll bug the place while I’m at it.”

“You’re the expert,” said Pitt. “Our advantage is that you’ll be coming from a direction they won’t suspect. Me, I’ve already been marked.”

“Marked?” asked Casio. “How?”

“They tried to kill me.”

“Christ!” muttered Casio. “How?”

“Car bomb.”

“The bastards!” he rasped. “I’ll leave for New York this afternoon.”

Pitt pushed the telephone across the bar and returned to his booth. He felt better after talking to Casio, and he finished the sandwich. He was contemplating his fourth Manhattan when Giordino walked up to the table.