Deep Six

“They can’t help but find us,” Larimer uttered in a hollow voice. Pitt had seen many such washed-out men — the waxen skin, the eyes that once blazed with authority now empty, the vagrant thoughts. Despite his age and long years of self-indulgent living amid the political arena, Larimer was still a powerfully built man. But the heart and circulation were no longer up to the stress and dangers of staying alive in a hostile situation. Pitt didn’t require an internship to recognize a man who was in dire need of medical treatment.

“A Russian search party is just across the hall,” Pitt explained.

“We can’t let them imprison us again,” Moran shouted, springing to his feet and looking around wildly. “We must run!”

“You wouldn’t make the elevator,” snapped Pitt, grabbing him by the arm as he would a child throwing a tantrum. He didn’t much care for Moran. The Speaker of the House struck him as an oily weasel.

“There’s no place to hide,” said Loren, her voice not quite steady.

Pitt didn’t answer her but brushed past Giordino and went into the bathroom. He pulled back the shower curtain and turned on the hot water. Less than a minute later clouds of steam billowed into the cramped quarters.

“Okay,” Pitt directed, “everybody in the shower.”

Nobody moved. They all stared at him, standing wraithlike in the mist-filled doorway, as though he was from another earth.

“Move!” he said sharply. “They’ll be here any second.”

Giordino shook his head in bewilderment. “How are you going to get three people in that stall shower? It’s hardly big enough for one.”

“Get your wig on. You’re going in too.”

“The four of us?” Loren muttered incredulously.

“Either that or a free trip to Moscow. Besides, college kids cram entire fraternities in phone booths all the time.”

Giordino slipped the wig over his head as Pitt reentered the bathroom and turned the water to lukewarm. He placed a trembling Moran in a squatting position between Giordino’s legs. Larimer pressed his heavy body against the far corner of the stall as Loren climbed on Giordino’s back. At last they were jammed awkwardly into the stall, drenched by the flow from the shower head. Pitt was in the act of turning on the hot water in the sink to increase the steam cloud when he heard a knock on the door.

He hurried over and opened it so there was no suspicious hesitation. The ship’s first officer bowed slightly and smiled.

“Mr. Gruber, is it? Very sorry to bother you, but we’re making a routine inspection of the fire sprinklers. Do you mind if we enter?”

“Why, sure,” Pitt said obligingly. “No problem with me, but my wife’s in the shower.”

The officer nodded to the stewardess who eased past Pitt and made a show of checking the overhead sprinkler heads. Then she pointed to the bathroom door. “May I?”

“Go on in,” said Pitt good-naturedly. “She won’t mind.”

The stewardess opened the door and was enveloped in a cloud of steam. Pitt went over and leaned in the bathroom. “Hey, luv, our steward lady wants to check the fire sprinkler. All right with you?”

As the cloud began dissipating through the door, the stewardess saw a huge stringy mop of hair and a pair of heavy browed eyes peeking around the shower curtain.

“All right by me,” came Loren’s voice. “And could you bring us a couple of extra towels when you think of it?”

The stewardess simply nodded and said, “I’ll be back with the towels shortly.”

Pitt casually munched on a canapé and offered one to the first officer, who gave a polite shake of his head.

“Does my heart good to see you people so interested in the safety of the passengers,” said Pitt.

“Merely doing our duty,” said the first officer, looking curiously at the half-eaten stack of hors d’oeuvres. “I see you also enjoy our shipboard cuisine.”

“My wife and I love appetizers,” said Pitt. “We’d rather eat these than a main course.”

The stewardess came out of the bathroom and said something to the first officer. The only word Pitt made out was “nyet.”

“Sorry to have troubled you,” said the first officer courteously.

“Any time,” replied Pitt.

As soon as the door lock clicked, Pitt rushed to the bathroom. “Everybody stay just as you are,” he ordered. “Don’t move.” Then he reclined on a bunk and stuffed his mouth with caviar on thin toast.

Two minutes later the door suddenly popped open and the stewardess burst through like a bulldozer, her eyes darting around the cabin.

“Can I help you?” Pitt mumbled with a full mouth.

“I brought the towels,” she said.

“Just throw them on the bathroom sink,” Pitt said indifferently.

She did precisely that and left the cabin, throwing Pitt a smile that was genuine and devoid of any suspicion.

He waited another two minutes, then opened the door a crack and peered into the passageway. The search crew was entering a cabin near the end of the passageway. He returned to the bathroom, reached in and turned off the water.

Whoever coined the phrase They look like drowned rats must have had the poor souls huddled together in that pocket-sized shower in mind. Their fingertips were begi

Giordino came out first and hurled his sopping wig in the sink. Loren climbed off his back and immediately began drying her hair. Pitt helped Moran to his feet and half carried Larimer to a bunk.

“A wise move,” said Pitt to Loren, kissing her on the nape of the neck. “Asking for more towels.”

“It struck me as the thing to do.”

“Are we safe now?” asked Moran. “Will they be back?”

“We won’t be in the clear till we’re off the ship,” said Pitt. “And we can count on their paying an encore visit. When they come up dry on this search, they’ll redouble their efforts for a second.”

“Got any more brilliant escape tricks up your sleeve, Houdini?” asked Giordino.

“Yes,” Pitt replied, sure as the devil. “As a matter of fact, I do.”

57

The second engineer moved along a catwalk between the massive fuel tanks that towered two decks above him. He was ru

He whistled to himself, his only accompaniment coming from the hum of the turbo-generators beyond the forward bulkhead. Every so often he wiped a rag around a pipe fitting or valve, nodding in satisfaction when it came away clean.

Suddenly he stopped and cocked an ear. The sound of metal striking against metal came from a narrow walkway leading off to his right. Curious, he walked slowly, quietly along the dimly lit access. At the end, where the walkway turned and passed between the fuel tanks and the i

A figure in a steward’s uniform appeared to be attaching something to the side of the fuel tank. The second engineer approached, stepping softly, until he was only ten feet away.

“What are you doing here?” he demanded.

The steward slowly turned and straightened. The engineer could see he was Oriental. The white uniform was soiled with grime, and a seaman’s duffel bag lay open behind him on the walkway. The steward flashed a wide smile and made no effort to reply.

The engineer moved a few steps closer. “You’re not supposed to be here. This area is off limits to the passenger service crew.”

Still no answer.

Then the engineer noticed a strange misshapen lump pressed against the side of the fuel tank. Two strands of copper wire ran from it to a clock mechanism beside the duffel bag.

“A bomb!” he blurted in shock. “You’re planting a damn bomb!”

He swung around and began ru