Dragon (19 page)

Pitt found himself standing in a place with no secrets, an enormous conference room with a low ceiling, so dead to outside sounds the recessed fluorescent light tubes buzzed like wasps, and a whisper could be heard ten meters away. There were no shadows anywhere, and normal voice levels came almost like shouts. The center of the room held a massive old library table once purchased by Eleanor Roosevelt for the White House. It fairly reeked of furniture polish. A bowl of Jonathan apples made up the centerpiece. Underneath the table lay a fine old blood-red Persian carpet.

Stacy walked to the opposite side of the table. A man rose and kissed her lightly on the cheek, greeting her in a voice laced with a Texas accent. He looked young, at least six or seven years younger than Pitt. Stacy made no effort to introduce him. She and Pitt had not spoken a word to each other since boarding the Gulfstream jet in Hawaii. She made an awkward display of pretending he was not present by keeping her back turned to him.

Two men with Asian features sat together next to Stacy’s friend. They were conversing in low tones and didn’t bother to look up as Pitt and Giordino stood surveying the room. A Harvard type, wearing a suit with a vest adorned with a Phi Beta Kappa key on a watch chain, sat off by himself reading through a file of papers.

Sandecker set a course to a chair beside the head of the table, sat down, and lit one of his custom-rolled Havana cigars. He saw that Pitt seemed disturbed and restless, traits definitely out of character.

A thin older man with shoulder-length hair and holding a pipe walked over. “Which one of you is Dirk Pitt?”

“I am,” Pitt acknowledged.

“Frank Mancuso,” the stranger said, extending his hand. “I’m told we’ll be working together.”

“You’re one up on me,” Pitt said, returning a firm shake and introducing Giordino. “My friend here, Al Giordino, and I are in the dark.”

“We’ve been gathered to set up a MAIT.”

“A what?”

“MAIT, an acronym for Multi-Agency Investigative Team.”

“Oh, God,” Pitt moaned. “I don’t need this. I only want to go home, pour a tequila on the rocks, and fall into bed.”

Before he could expand on his grievances, Raymond Jordan entered the conference room accompanied by two men who wore faces with all the humor of patients just told by a doctor they had Borneo jungle fungus of the liver. Jordan made straight for Sandecker and greeted him warmly.

“Good to see you, Jim. I deeply appreciate your cooperation in this mess. I know it was a blow to lose your project.”

“NUMA will build another,” Sandecker stated in his usual cocksure way.

Jordan sat down at the head of the table. His deputies took chairs close by and laid out several document files on the table in front of him.

Jordan did not relax once he was seated. He sat stiffly, his spine not touching the backrest of the chair. His composed dark eyes moved swiftly from face to face as if trying to read everyone’s thoughts. Then he addressed himself directly to Pitt, Giordino, and Mancuso, who were still standing.

“Gentlemen, would you care to get comfortable?”

There was silence for a few moments as Jordan spread the files before him in order. The atmosphere was reflective and heavy with the kind of tension and concern that brought about ulcers.

Pitt sat expressionless, his mind elsewhere. He was not mentally geared for heavy talk, and his body was tired from the strain of the last two days. What he desperately wanted was a hot shower and eight hours of sleep, but he forced himself to go along for the ride out of respect for the admiral, who was, after all, his boss.

“I apologize,”

Jordan began, “for any inconvenience that I may have caused, but I’m afraid we are dealing with a critical emergency that can affect the security of our nation.” He paused to peer down at the personnel files on the desk in front of him. “A few of you know me and some of you have worked with me in the past. Mr. Pitt and Mr. Giordino, I have you at a disadvantage as I know something about you and you know very little about me.”

“Try zilch,” Giordino challenged him, avoiding Sandecker’s angry stare.

“I’m sorry,” said Jordan graciously. “My name is Ray Jordan, and I am empowered by direct presidential order to direct and manage all matters of national security, both foreign and domestic. The operation we’re about to launch covers both sides. To explain the situation and your presence here, I will turn this discussion over to my Deputy Director of Operations, Mr. Donald Kern.”

Kern was bony-thin, small, and lean. His intensely cool bluegreen eyes seemed to reach into everyone’s inner thoughts. All, that is, except Pitt’s. It was as if two bullets had met in midair, neither passing through the other, both stopped dead.

“First off,” Kern opened in a surprisingly deep voice while still trying to read Pitt, “we are all about to become part of a new federal organization consisting of investigators, specialists, support personnel, case review analysts, and field agents assembled for the purpose of defusing a serious threat to a great number of people here and around the world. In short, a MAIT team.” He pressed one of several buttons on a desk console and turned to one wall that was back-lit and displayed an organizational chart. There was a circle at the top and a larger one beneath. Four smaller circles extended from the bottom one like spider legs.

“The top circle represents the Command Center here in Washington,” he lectured. “The lower one is our Information Gathering and Collection Point on the Pacific island of Koror in the Palau Republic chain. The Resident, who will act as our Director of Field Operations, is Mel Penner.” He stopped and glanced pointedly at Penner, who had entered the room with him and Jordan,

Penner nodded a red corduroy-wrinkled face and lazily raised a hand. He neither looked around the table at the others nor smiled.

“Mel’s cover is acting as a UCLA sociologist studying native culture,” Kern added.

“Mel comes cheap.” Jordan smiled. “His home and office furnishings include a sleeping cot, a phone, a document shredder, and a work desk that also serves as a dining table and a counter for his hotplate.”

Bully for Mel, Pitt thought to himself, fighting to stay awake while half wondering why they took so long to state a case.

“Our teams will carry code names,” Kern carried on. “The code will be different makes of automobiles. For example, we at Central Command will be known as ‘Team Lincoln.’ Mel Penner is ‘Team Chrysler.’ ” He paused to tap the appropriate circles on the chart before carrying on. “Mr. Marvin Showalter, who by the way is Assistant Director of Security for the U.S. Department of State, will work out of our embassy in Tokyo and handle any diplomatic problems from the Japanese end. His team code is ‘Cadillac.’ “ 

Showalter stood, fingered his Phi Beta Kappa key, and bowed his head. “A pleasure to work with you all,” he said politely.

“Marv, you’ll inform your critical personnel that our MAIT operatives will be in the field should they spot what may appear to be unauthorized activity. I do not want our situation compromised through embassy cable traffic.”

“I’ll see to it,” Showalter promised.

Kern turned to Stacy and the bearded man sitting next to her. “Miss Stacy Fox and Dr. Timothy Weatherhill, for those of you who haven’t been introduced, will head the domestic end of the investigation. Their cover will be as journalist and photographer for the Denver Tribune. They will be ‘Team Buick.’ ” Next he motioned at the two men of Asian ancestry. ” ‘Team Honda’ consists of Mr. Roy Orita and Mr. James Hanamura. They’re in charge of the most critical phase of the investigation—Japan proper.

“Before Don continues the briefing,” said Jordan, “are there any questions?”

“How do we communicate?” asked Weatherhill.

“Reach out and touch someone,” answered Kern. “Telephone behavior is routine and does not arouse suspicion.” He touched another button on the console, and a series of digits appeared on the screen. “Memorize this number. We’ll give you a safe line that will be monitored twenty-four hours a day by an operator who is fully briefed and knows where to reach any of us at any given moment.”

“I might add,” said Jordan, “that you must check in every seventy-two hours. If you miss, somebody will be dispatched immediately to find you.”

Pitt, who was balancing his chair on the rear legs, held up a hand. “I have a question.”

“Mr. Pitt?”

“I’d be most grateful if someone will please tell me just what in hell is going on around here.”

There was a moment’s frozen and incredulous silence. Predictably, everyone around the table with the exception of Giordino stared at Pitt in narrow-eyed disapproval.

Jordan turned to Sandecker, who shook his head and said testily, “As you requested, Dirk and Al were not informed of the situation.

Jordan nodded. “I’ve been remiss by not having you gentlemen briefed. The fault is mine. Forgive me, gentlemen. You have been treated most shabbily after all you’ve been through.”

Pitt gave Jordan a penetrating gaze. “Were you behind the operation to spy on NUMA’s mining colony?”

Jordan hesitated, then said, “We don’t spy, Mr. Pitt, we observe, and yes, I gave the order. A British ocean survey team happened to be working in the Northern Pacific, and they cooperated by moving their operation into your area.”

“And the surface explosion that blew away the British ship and crew and triggered the earthquake that leveled eight years of intense research and effort, was that your idea too?”

“No, that was an unforeseen tragedy.”

“Maybe I missed something,” Pitt said harshly. “But I had this crazy idea that we were on the same side.”

“We are, Mr. Pitt, I assure you,” Jordan answered quietly. He nodded at Admiral Sandecker. “Your facility, Soggy Acres as’ you called it, was built under such tight secrecy that none of our intelligence agencies were aware that it was authorized.”

Pitt cut him short. “So when you got wind of the project, your nose was bent out of joint and you had to investigate.”

Jordan was not used to being on the defensive, yet he did not meet Pitt’s stare. “What’s done is done. I regret the tragic loss of so many people, but we cannot entirely be blamed for putting our operatives in an unfortunate position at the wrong time. We had no advance warning of a Japanese auto transport that was smuggling nuclear bombs across the ocean, nor could we predict those bombs would accidentally explode almost on top of two innocent ships and your mining colony.”

For a moment Pitt was stunned by the revelation, then his surprise was gone as quickly as it came. Pieces of the puzzle were falling into place. He stared at Sandecker and sensed hurt as he spoke. “You knew, Admiral, you knew before you left Washington and said nothing. The
Tucson
wasn’t on station to rescue Plunkett and me. It was there to record radioactivity and search for debris.”

It was one of the few times Pitt and Giordino ever witnessed Sandecker redden with chagrin. “The President asked that I be sworn to secrecy,” he said slowly. “I’ve never lied to you, Dirk, but I had no choice but to remain mute.”

Pitt felt sorry for the admiral, he knew it must have been difficult to be evasive with two close friends, but he made no effort to disguise his resentment of Jordan. “Why are we here?” he demanded.

“The President has personally approved of the selection of each individual to the team,” replied Jordan. “You all have a background and expertise that is indispensable for the success of this operation. The admiral and Mr. Giordino will put together a project to search the ocean floor and salvage any evidence from the ship that blew up. For the record, their code is ‘Mercedes.’ “ 

Pitt’s tired eyes squinted at Jordan steadily. “You only half answered the question.”

Jordan obliged him by saying, “I’m coming to it. You and Mr. Mancuso, who I believe you met, will act as a support team.”

“Support for what?”

“For the phase of the operation that requires an underground or underwater search.”

“When and where?”

“Yet to be determined.”

“And our code name?”

Jordan stared at Kern, who shuffled through a file of papers and then shook his head. “They haven’t been assigned one yet.”

“May the condemned create their own code?” asked Pitt.

Jordan exchanged looks with Kern, and then shrugged. “I don’t see why not.”

Pitt smiled at Mancuso. “You have a preference?”

Mancuso lowered the pipe from his lips. “I leave it to you,” he said affably.

“Then we’ll be ‘Team Stutz.’

Jordan cocked his head. “I beg your pardon.”

“I never heard of it,” growled Kern.

“Stutz,” Pitt pronounced distinctly. “One of America’s finest classic automobiles, built from nineteen eleven until nineteen thirty-five in Indianapolis, Indiana.”

“I like it.” Mancuso nodded agreeably.

Kern squinted at Pitt, and his eyes took on a ferrety look. “You don’t strike me as taking this operation seriously.”

Jordan made an acquiescent shrug. “Whatever makes them happy.”

“Okay,” Pitt said steadily, “now that vital item of the agenda is settled, I’m going to get up and walk out of here.” He paused to read the orange dial on his old Doxa dive watch. “I was dragged here against my will. I’ve slept three hours out of the last forty-eight, and only eaten one meal in that time. I have to go to the bathroom. And I still don’t know what’s going down. Your plainclothes security guards and your detachment of marines can stop me, of course, but then I might get hurt and can’t play on the team. Oh, yes, there is one other point that no one has thought toy bring up.”

“What point is that?” asked Kern, his anger rising.

“I don’t recall that Al and I were officially requested to volunteer.”

Kern acted as if he’d swallowed a jalapeno pepper. “What are you talking about, volunteer?”

“You know, one who offers himself for a service of his own free will,” Pitt defined stonily. He turned to Giordino. “Were you formally invited to the party, Al?”

“Not unless my invitation was lost in the mail.”

Pitt stared defiantly into Jordan’s eyes as he spoke. “That’s the old ball game.” Then he turned to Sandecker. “Sorry, Admiral.”