Vixen 03 (30 page)

“What in hell have I got to lose?” Pitt said. “My father is getting ready to retire next year anyway. Take my case: once those photos are distributed, I’ll probably have to beat half the secretaries in town off with a club.”

“You egotistical pig,” Felicia said. “You don’t care about what happens to Loren.”

“I care,” Pitt said softly. “Being a woman, she’ll suffer embarrassment, but that will be a small price to pay so our friend Daggat here can spend a few years making license plates in the slammer. When he gets paroled, he’ll need a new vocation, since his party will want no part of him.”

Daggat flushed and leaned threateningly toward Pitt. “Bullshit!” he raged.

Pitt fixed Daggat with a stare that would have frozen a shark. “Congress frowns on scum who pull gutter tactics to pass legislation. There was a time not too many years ago when your scheme might have worked, Congressman, but these days there are enough honest people on Capitol Hill who would boot your ass from the city limits if they got wind of this.”

Daggat relaxed. He was beaten and he knew it. “What do you want me to do?”

“Destroy the negatives.”

“That’s all?” ‘

Pitt nodded.

Daggat’s face took on a leery expression. “No pound of flesh, Mr. Pitt?”

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“We don’t all swim in the same sewer, Congressman. I think Loren will agree it’s best for all concerned to drop the whole affair.” Pitt opened the door and helped Loren out. “Oh, one more thing: I have Sam Jackson’s sworn statement of your dealings with him. I trust it will not be necessary to blow the whistle on further shakedowns by you and your girl friend. If I find you’ve crossed me, I’ll come down hard on you, mister. That’s a promise.”

Pitt slammed the door and leaned in the chauffeur’s window. “Okay, pal, move it.”

The two of them stood and watched the limousine until it disappeared in the traffic. Then Loren stood on tiptoe and kissed Pitt’s prickly cheek.

“What’s that for?” he asked, grinning with pleasure.

“A reward for bailing me out of a nasty situation.”

“Pitt to the rescue. I always was a pushover for congresswomen in distress.” He kissed her on the lips, ignoring the curious stares of passersby. “And that’s your reward for playing noble.”

“Playing noble?”

“You should have told me about the photographs. I could have saved you many a sleepless night.”

“I thought I could handle it,” she said, avoiding his eyes. “Women should be able to stand alone.”

He put his arm around her and led her to his car. “There are times when even a dedicated feminist needs a chauvinist to lean on.”

As Loren slid into the passenger seat, Pitt noticed a small slip of paper under one of his windshield wipers. At first he thought it was only an advertising flyer and was about to throw it away, but curiosity won out and he glanced at it. The message was written in a precise hand.

dear mr. pitt,

I would be most grateful if you would call this number (555-5971) at

your earliest convenience.

Thank you, dale jarvis

Instinctively Pitt looked up and down the crowded sidewalk, trying vainly to make the mysterious messenger. It was a hopeless chore. There were nearly eighty people within a hundred-yard radius; any one might have slipped the paper onto his car while he was confronting Daggat.

“Do you know a Dale Jarvis?” he asked Loren.

She thought a moment. “Can’t say the name is familiar. Why?”

“It appears,” Pitt said pensively, “that he left me a love note.”

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The chilly winter air seeped through the seams of the truck bed and stabbed Lusana’s skin. He was lying on his stomach, his hands and legs tightly bound to his sides. The metal ribs of the floor jarred his head with every bump the stiffly sprung truck took from the road. Lusana’s senses were hardly functioning. The hood over his head closed out all light and left him disoriented, and the loss of circulation had turned his body numb.

His last memory was of the smiling face of the flight captain in the first-class hospitality bar at the airport. The few lucid thoughts he had had since then ended on the same image.

“I’m Captain Mutaapo,” the tall, slender pilot had said. He was a balding middle-aged black man, but his smile made his face youthful. He wore the dark-green uniform of BEZA-Mozambique Airlines, with an abundance of gold braid entwining the lower sleeves. “A representative from my government has requested me to ensure a safe and secure flight for you, Mr. Lusana.”

“Precautions were necessary for entering the United States,” Lusana had said, “but I seriously doubt I am in any danger on a departing flight surrounded by American tourists.”

“Nonetheless, sir, you are my responsibility, as well as the one hundred and fifty other passengers. I must ask if you foresee any problems that may endanger lives.”

“None, Captain, I assure you.”

“Good.” Mutaapo’s teeth flashed. “Let’s drink to a smooth and comfortable flight. What will be your pleasure, sir?”

“A martini, straight up with a twist, thank you.”

Stupidity, Lusana thought as the truck rumbled over a railroad crossing. Too late it dawned on him that commercial-airline pilots cannot take alcohol twenty-four hours before a flight. Too late he realized that his drink had been drugged. The bogus flight captain’s smile seemed frozen in time before it slowly clouded and dissolved into nothingness.

Lusana could not measure the hours or the days. He had no way of knowing that he was kept in a constant state of stupor by frequent injections of a mild sedative. Unfamiliar faces appeared and reappeared as the hood was temporarily removed, their features floating in an ethereal haze before blackness closed in once more.

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The truck braked to a halt and he heard muffled voices. Then the driver shifted gears and moved forward, stopping again in less than a mile.

Lusana heard the rear doors open and he felt two pairs of hands pick him up roughly and carry his numbed body up some kind of ramp. Strange sounds came out of the darkness. The blast of a distant air horn. Metallic clanging, as though steel doors were being opened and slammed shut. He also detected the smells of fresh paint and oil.

He was unceremoniously dumped on another hard floor and left there as his bearers faded out of earshot. The next thing he sensed was the rope’s being cut from his body. Then the hood was removed. The only light came from a small incandescent red bulb on one wall.

For nearly a full minute Lusana lay there motionless while the circulation slowly awakened his agonized limbs. He screwed up his eyes and squinted. It appeared to him that he was on the bridge of a ship. The red glow from above revealed a helm and large console dotted with multicolored lights that reflected off a long row of square windows embedded in three of four gray walls.

Above Lusana, still holding the hood in his hand, was a huge mass of a man. Looking like a distorted giant, from Lusana’s prone position on the deck, the man stared down from a kindly face and smiled. Lusana was not taken in. He well knew that most hardened killers flashed angelic expressions before slitting their victims’ throats. And yet the face on this man seemed strangely innocent of bloodthirsty intent. Instead, he exuded a detached sort of curiosity.

“You are Hiram Lusana.” The deep bass voice echoed against the steel bulkheads.

“I am,” Lusana answered hoarsely. His voice sounded odd to him. He had not used it in nearly four days.

“You don’t know how much I’ve looked forward to meeting you,” the giant said.

“Who are you?”

“Does the name Fawkes mean anything to you?”

“Should it?” Lusana said, determined to resist.

“Aye, it’s a terrible thing when you forget the names of the people you’ve murdered.”

A realization mushroomed within Lusana. “Fawkes … the raid on the Fawkes farm, in Natal.”

“My wife and children cut down. My house burned. You even

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slaughtered my workers. Whole families with the same skin as yours.”

“Fawkes … you’re Fawkes,” Lusana repeated, his drugged mind fighting to grasp a bearing.

“I’m satisfied the filthy business was done by the AAR,” said Fawkes, a subtle hardening in his voice. “They were your men; you gave the orders.”

“I was not responsible.” The fog was lifting from Lusana’s head and he was coming back on balance, inwardly at least. His arms and legs would not respond to command. “I’m sorry for what happened to your family. A tragic bloodletting that had no rhyme or reason. But you will have to look elsewhere to place the blame. My men were innocent.”

“Aye, a denial was to be expected.”

“What do you intend to do with me?” Lusana asked, his eyes without fear.

Fawkes looked out the bridge windows. It was pitch dark outside and a light mist coated the glass. There was a strange kind of sadness in his eyes.

He turned to Lusana. “We’re going to take a little trip, you and I, a trip with no return ticket.”

The taxi passed through a back gate of the Washington National Airport at precisely nine thirty P.M. and dropped Jarvis behind a solitary hangar that sat on a seldom-used end of the field. Except for a faint glow of light through the dusty glass of a side door, the giant building seemed bleak and cavernous. He pushed open the door and was mildly surprised not to hear it creak. The well-oiled hinges pivoted without a whisper.

The yawning interior was brilliantly illuminated by overhead fluorescent lighting. A venerable old Ford trimotor aircraft sat like a huge goose in the center of the concrete floor, its wings protectively reaching out over several antique automobiles in various stages of restoration. Jarvis walked over to a car that seemed no more than a pile of rusted iron. A pair of feet protruded from beneath the radiator.

“You are Mr. Pitt?” Jarvis inquired.

“And you are Mr. Jarvis?”

“Yes.”

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Pitt rolled from under the car and sat up. “I see you found my humble abode all right.”

Jarvis hesitated, taking in Pitt’s greasy coveralls and disheveled appearance. “You live here?”

“I have an apartment upstairs,” Pitt said, pointing to a glass-enclosed level above the hangar floor.

“You have a nice collection,” said Jarvis, gesturing at the relics. “What is the one over there with the black fenders and silver coach work?”

“A 1936 Maybach-Zeppelin town car,” Pitt answered.

“And the one you’re working on?”

“A 1912 Renault open-drive landaulette.”

” Seems a bit the worse for wear,” said Jarvis, wiping a finger through a layer of rust.

Pitt smiled patiently. “She doesn’t really look all that bad when you consider she’s been immersed in the sea for seventy years.”

Jarvis understood immediately. “From the Titanic1?”

“Yes. I was allowed to keep her after the salvage project. Sort of a prize for services rendered, so to speak.”

Pitt led the way up a flight of stairs to his apartment. Jarvis entered and his professional eye routinely traveled over the unusual furnishings. The occupant was a well-traveled man, he surmised, judging from the nautical objects decorating the interior. Copper divers’ helmets from another age. Mariners’ compasses, wooden helms, ships’ bells, even old nails and bottles, all neatly labeled with the names of famous ships from which Pitt had salvaged them. It was like looking into a museum of a man’s life.

Jarvis sank into a leather sofa at Pitt’s invitation. He looked his host directly in the eyes. “Do you know me, Mr. Pitt?”

“No.”

“Yet you had no qualms about seeing me.”

“Who can resist intrigue?” Pitt said, grinning. “It’s not every day I find a note on my windshield with a phone number that turns out to be the National Security Agency.”

“You guessed, of course, that you were being followed.”

Pitt reclined in a leather chair and propped his feet on an ottoman. “Let’s sack the wordplay, Mr. Jarvis, and get to the point. What’s your sport?”

“Sport?”

“Your interest in me.”

Ippf

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“Okay, Mr. Pitt,” said Jarvis. “Cards on the table. What is the real purpose behind NUMA’s search for a special type of heavy naval shell?” “Sure you wouldn’t like a drink?” Pitt countered. “No thanks,” Jarvis answered, appraising Pitt’s casual stall. “If you know we’re in the market, then you know why.” “Seismological tests on coral formations?” Pitt nodded.

Jarvis stretched his arms out on the sofa’s backrest. “When do you have the tests scheduled?”

“The last two weeks of March next year.”

“I see.” Jarvis gave Pitt a benign, fatherly look and then lunged for the heart. “I’ve talked to four seismologists, two from your own agency. They do not subscribe to your idea of dropping sixteen-inch naval shells from an airplane. In fact, they found it downright ludicrous. I was also informed that there are no seismographic tests scheduled by NUMA in the Pacific. In short, Mr. Pitt, your clever little dodge won’t hold water.” Pitt closed his eyes in thought. He could lie, or simply offer no comment. No, he reasoned, his alternatives had narrowed down to zero. There was virtually no hope that he and Steiger and Sandecker could negotiate a quick return of the QD warheads from the AAR. They had carried the search as far as their limited resources could take them. The time had come, he decided, to call in the professionals.

He opened his eyes and stared at Jarvis. ” If it were within my power to place in the palm of your hand a plague organism that could kill without interruption for three hundred years, what would you do with it?”

Pitt’s question caught Jarvis off guard. “I don’t know what you’re driving at.”

“The question stands,” said Pitt.

“Is it a weapon?” , ; Pitt nodded.

An uneasy feeling gripped Jarvis. “I know of no such weapon. Chemical and biological arms were effectively and unconditionally banned by every member of the United Nations ten years ago.” “Please answer the question,” Pitt said. “Turn it over to our government, I suppose.” “Are you certain that’s the correct course?”