Dirk Pitt 1 - Pacific Vortex (16 page)

The huge man stepped closer. He looked too young for a man who must have been nearing his seventies. The aging process had not wrinkled his skin nor withered his muscles. He was dressed casually like a beach bather with swimming trunks and a hotel towel thrown carelessly over one shoulder, while the other men with him wore street clothes. His face was long and gaunt, and was framed by a heavy layer of unkempt silver hair.

The giant walked over and, gazing down from his hypnotic yellow eyes six feet, eight inches above the ground, he smiled with the friendliness of a barracuda.

“Dirk Pitt of the National Underwater Marine Agency.” The voice was quiet and deep, but there was nothing evil or menacing about it. "This is an honor. I have followed your exploits over the years with some interest and occasional amusement.''

“I'm flattered you found me entertaining.”

“Spoken like a brave man. I'd have expected nothing less.” The giant nodded to his men. They pinned Pitt helplessly to a chair before he could begin to realize what was happening.

“My apologies for the inconvenience, Mr. Pitt. A dirty game, unpleasant as dirty games go, but essential. It is unfortunate that I had to draw you into my strategy. I had intended on utilizing your services purely as a messenger. I could not have foreseen your ultimate involvement”

“A neatly staged event,” Pitt said slowly. “How long did you follow me around, waiting for an opportunity to fox me into discovering the Starbuck's message capsule? Why me? A ten-year-old boy could have picked up the capsule on the beach and carried it to Admiral Hunter.”

“Impact, Major. Impact and believability. You have influential friends and relatives in Washington, and your record with NUMA is quite respectable. I knew there would be doubts about the accuracy of the message so I counted on your reputation to give the discovery impact and believability.” He smiled faintly and ran his hand through the wavy mass of gray hair. “But it proved to be a most regrettable choice. As it turned out, you were the one who convinced Admiral Hunter that Commander Dupree's message was counterfeit”

“A pity,” Pitt said sarcastically. He decided to throw out a probe. “Your informant didn't miss much.”

“Yes, he was quite diligent at times.”

There was a long moment's silence. Pitt turned and looked at Adrian. She was still serenely curled on the couch. Lucky her, Pitt thought; she's sleeping through the whole ugly scene. He pushed his attention back to the giant “I don't believe you've given me the courtesy of your name.”

“It does not matter. My name is of no further consequence to you.”

“If you're going to kill me, I think it only fair to know who's responsible.”

The huge man stood there hesitating, then he nodded heavily. “Delphi,” he said simply.

“That's all?”

“Delphi win suffice.”

“You don't look Greek.” Pitt's hands were firmly tied behind the chair now; two of the men stood guard with their weapons still aimed at Adrian. The other two finished with Pitt and moved back. Except for Delphi, they all looked ordinary; medium height and weight, tanned skin, dressed in casual slacks and aloha shirts. Their faces were expressionless; they accepted Delphi's unspoken authority mutely and unquestioningly. There was no doubt in Pitt's mind that they would kill on command.

“You've built a ruthless and efficient organization. You've concocted one of the great mysteries of the age. Thousands of seamen lie dead from your hands. And for what?”

“I'm sorry, Mr. Pitt. This isn't a play where the arch villain tells all before he does away with the hero. No theatrics, no prolonged climaxes, no suspense-ful divulgence of unnecessary secrets. It's a waste of time to explain my motives to anyone with less intellectual understanding than a Lavella or a Roble-mann.”

“How do you mean to do it?”

“An accident. Since you love the water, you shall die from the water, drowned in your own bathtub.”

“Won't that appear ridiculous?”

“Not really. I intend to make it convincing. The police will simply assume you were shaving with your electric razor while taking a bath. Admittedly a stupid thing to do. The razor slipped from your hand and into the water. The resulting voltage was sufficient to render you unconscious; your head slips beneath the water and you drown. The investigators will report it as an accidental death, and why not? Your name will be printed in the obituary columns of the newspapers, and in time, Dirk Pitt will become a distant memory among his relatives.”

“Frankly, I'm astounded I'm worth all the effort.”

“A fitting end for the man who came unnervingly close to destroying an undertaking that has been brilliantly designed and executed for over thirty years.”

“Spare me the ego,” Pitt growled. “What about Adrian? It might look funny if we both drowned while shaving in the tub.”

“Ease your mind. Miss Hunter is not destined to be harmed. Tm taking her as a hostage. Admiral Hunter will think twice before he continues his quest for the Pacific Vortex.”

"That won't stop Hunter for more than two minutes.

Duty takes priority to family in his book. You're wasting your time. Let her go."

“I'm also a man of discipline,” said Delphi. “I never deviate once I've drafted my plans. My goals are elementary. I simply wish to be free from the destructive designs of the Communist countries and the imperialistic impulses of the United States. Between them they will destroy civilization. I intend to survive.”

Time, Pitt thought He had to keep the giant talking. Another few minutes and Hunter's men would be at the door. Talk was his only weapon.

“You're insane,” Pitt said coldly. “You've gotten away with mass murder for decades in the name of survival. Spare me the old trite phrases about communism and imperialism. You're nothing but an anachronism, Delphi. Your kind went out of style along with Karl Marx, slicked-down hair, and buggy whips. You've been buried half a century and don't know it.”

Delphi's studied calm cracked slightly at the edges; a taut flush touched the wide cheekbones, but he immediately gained control again.

“Philosophical detachment is for the ignorant, Major. In a few minutes your irritating harassment will be mine no longer.” He nodded. One of the guards went into the bathroom to turn on the water in the bathtub. Pitt tried moving his hands. Although his wrists were wrapped many times, they were loose enough so as not to leave telltale bruises on the skin.

Then, suddenly, Pitt thought his senses were deceiving him; the sweet, fragrant smell of plumeria began to envelope him. It was impossible, yet he knew she was there. Summer was in the room.

Delphi silently pointed to Adrian, and the man who

had tied Pitt pulled a small case from his pocket, inserted a needle into a hypodermic, and then lifted the the hem of Adrian's short muumuu, unceremoniously jabbing the needle into one well-rounded buttock's cheek. She stirred slightly, sighed, frowned, and then within seconds went into a sleep bordering on a coma. Quickly, Delphi's assistant placed the hypodermic case back in his pocket and lifted Adrian up in his arms, waiting expectantly for new orders from his master.

“I'm afraid this is good-bye,” said Delphi.

“You're leaving before the main event?”

“There is little to see that interests me further.”

“You'll never get her out of the building.”

“We have a car waiting in the basement garage,” Delphi said smugly. He stepped over to the door, opened it a crack, and peered into the hall. As Delphi was halfway through the doorway, Pitt yelled out.

“One final question, Delphi”

The giant hesitated, turned and glared at Pitt.

“The girl who called herself Summer, who is she?”

Delphi grinned evilly. “Summer is my daughter.” He waved a salute. “Good-bye, Major.”

Pitt desperately tried one last parting shot “Give my regards to the gang on Kanoli.”

Delphi's eyes hardened. Some unformulated doubt seemed to cloud his mind for a moment, then it quickly dispersed as he stared at Pitt.

“Good-bye,” he said, and then he passed into the hallway like a shadow.

Pitt had failed to delay Delphi and to prevent Adrian's abduction. He sat there, agonized, as the man in the bathroom came out, nodded, and then returned. The other guard set down his gun in a chair and approached Pitt, his round, ordinary features masking any dark hint of sadistic traits.

Pitt saw the blow coming, but was too late to duck. He could only bow his head. The guard's fist connected solidly on the top of Pitt's cranium, smashing him out of the chair to the floor against the balcony curtain.

Blackness tightened its hold on his brain but Pitt shook it off and pushed himself groggily to his feet He dimly perceived the guard kneeling on the carpet, holding a deformed wrist in one hand, and heard him whining like a wounded animal. The bastard broke his wrist, Pitt concluded. A grim smile touched Pitt's face as he realized the pain from the growing knot on his head was nothing compared to a fractured bone.

Pitt stood without moving. Then a hand from behind the curtains touched his arm. He felt a back and forth motion as the cord that bound his arms and wrists was cut The aroma of plumeria swept over him like a warm and releasing wave. In an instant the bonds were gone and a small double-edged knife was carefully slipped into the palm of his right hand. He didn't dare turn to her, to pull away the curtains that concealed her. Instead he grasped the knife tightly and wiggled his hands to be sure he could call upon them without any numbness or restricting stiffness.

The guard stopped his low wail and began crawling across the carpet toward Pitt. His partner in the bathroom went about his business, not aware of anything above the gush of the bathtub faucet Then the guard eased the broken limb into his lap, reached toward the chair with his good hand, and grabbed his gun, swinging the muzzle in a short arc and aiming at Pitt's chest, his pain and hate wiping away all thought of obeying Delphi's orders for an accidental death.

Sweat drained from every pore on Pitt's body. The guard was too far away to make any land of a move; the projectile from the gun would ventilate his torso before he could even leap half the distance between them. The guard sat for an agonizingly long time, merely staring at Pitt. Then he began inching closer, pushing one knee in front, then the other, half a foot at a time, narrowing the gap to five feet. Still too far.

Pitt was going through the tortures of the damned. Three feet; Pitt needed three feet between them before he could strike with any hope of drawing blood first. An arm's length. It would take an arm's length, he told himself as he gauged the required distance.

The guard crept closer. He kept the gun pointed at Pitt's chest, letting it wander from time to time to the forehead. Once a smirk crossed his face as he leveled it in the direction of Pitt's genitals.

Patience, Pitt told himself over and over. Patience. The two most important words in the English language, he repeated in his mind, were patience and hope. He just might be able to bring it off; the guard had almost moved into range now. Pitt waited tensely a few seconds longer for insurance. If he rushed the moment, he might not be able to shove the gun far enough away from his body before it discharged, and he had no doubt that the guard's reflexes would squeeze the little firing button at the slightest contact His only chance of success lay in surprise. He still held his freed hands behind his back, lulling the guard into the security of an easy kill. This had to be it. He let his jaw fall lower and lower and forced his eyes wide in mock terror.

Then Pitt lunged. He knocked the gun upward with his left arm, ignoring the hiss of the projectile as it passed a scant inch over his shoulder, while in nearly the same motion, he swung his right hand in a short sweeping arc, the sharp blade of the knife slashing the guard's throat to the windpipe. A hideous rasping sound came from the gash in the guard's throat as blood spurted over his chest, over the carpet, over Pitt's arms. The guard's eyes looked on Pitt in glazed shock before they rolled up beneath the lids, and then his body gave a convulsive heave as he slowly collapsed.

Pitt sat transfixed for an instant at the sight of the dead guard. Then he retrieved the gun from the floor and stepped softly toward the bathroom. He could hear the whirring of the electric razor as the other guard readied the instrument for Pitt's execution. The tub was full and waiting. Pitt kept his eyes on the bathoom door as he quietly advanced along the wall.

Suddenly the doorbell chimes echoed through the apartment. Pitt, jolted by the unexpected sound, jerked up and froze as the guard charged from the bathroom, stopping in mute shock at the ghastly sight of his dead comrade laying on the floor. Then he turned and stared blankly at Pitt.

“Drop the gun and freeze,” Pitt said sharply.

Delphi's executioner stood still and squinted at the small automatic in Pitt's hand. The door chimes sounded again. The man leaped sideways and, as he brought up his gun to fire. Pitt shot his assailant in the heart.

The guard remained standing, gaping at Pitt through stunned and vacant eyes. His hands fell limp; the projectile gun dropped softly to the carpet as he slowly sank to his knees before toppling sideways and ending in a fetal position on the floor.

Pitt remained immobile, listening to the frantic pounding on the front door, his eyes taking in the debris of death at his feet The four walls of the room seemed to close in on him. Something was missing. His mind refused to cooperate; the last few minutes had left him confused and numb. Someone else should have been there...

Summer!

He threw back the curtains that bordered the balcony, finding nothing but the wall behind them. Frantically he searched the room, calling her name. She did not answer. The balcony, he thought She must have followed Delphi and his men from the roof. It was empty, but a rope was tied to the railing that led to the terrace of the apartment below. She had escaped the same way as before.

Then his eyes caught a small flower laying in one of the lounge chairs. It was a delicate plumeria blossom; its exquisite white bloom flushed yellow on the inside. He held it up, studying it as one might study a rare butterfly. Delphi's daughter, he thought to himself. How was it possible?

He was still standing there on the balcony with the flower in one hand and the gun in the other, gazing out over the brilliant blue rippling ocean when Hunter's security men broke through the door.

“Mr. Pitt...” The attractive young WAVE spoke hesitantly. “The admiral's expecting you. Oh, by the way,” she said, lowering her eyes, “we're all proud to have you in the 101st for what you did on the Martha Ann.”

“How's the admiral taking his daughter's kidnapping?” He hadn't meant to sound so brusque.

“He's a tough old bird,” she answered simply.

“Is he in his office?”

“No, sir. They're all waiting in the conference room.” She rose and came from behind her desk. “This way, please.”

He followed her down a corridor, where she stopped at a door on the right, knocked, held it open, announced him, and closed it quietly behind him when he had passed through.

There were four men in the room. Two he knew, two he did not. Admiral Hunter came forward to shake Pitt's hand. He looked older, far older, far more weary than when Pitt had last seen him, only four days previously.

“Thank God you're safe,” Hunter said warmly, surprising Pitt with a tone of intense sincerity. “How's your leg?”

“Okay,” Pitt said briefly. He looked into the old man's eyes. “I'm sorry about Captain Cinana... and
Adrian. It was my fault. If only I'd been more alert.”

“Nonsense!” he said with a tight grin. “You got two of those bastards. It must have been quite a fight.”

Before Pitt could answer, Denver came up and thumped him on the back. “Good to see you. You look as rotten as ever.”

"Dog tired, maybe. Thirty minutes sleep out of twenty-four hours beats the hell out of my girlish complexion.''

“Sorry about that,” said Hunter. “But we're running out of time. Unless we can raise the Starbuck damned quick, we can write her off for good.” The harsh edge of strain showed unmistakably in the lines around Hunter's eyes. Tor what little time that is available, we have you to thank. Flooding the forward torpedo compartment was an act of genius."

Pitt grinned. “The Martha Ann's helmsman was dead sure we'd both wind up paying for damages out of our wages.”

Hunter allowed the bare hint of a smile to tug at the corner of his lips. “Come and sit down; but first let me introduce you to Dr. Elmer Chrysler, Chief of Research for Tripler Hospital.”

Pitt shook hands with a short little man who had a bony handgrip like a pair of pliers. The head was completely shaven and the ears held a giant pair of horned-rimmed glasses. The brown eyes in back of the lenses were beady, but the smile was large and genuine.

“And Dr. Raymond York, Head of the Marine Geology Department for the Eton School of Oceanography.” York didn't look like a geologist; he looked more like a burly truck driver or longshoreman. He was big, just touching six feet, and wide in the shoulders. He flashed a set of perfectly spaced teeth.

As they were introduced, Pitt's hand was crushed by five of the largest and meatiest fingers he'd ever seen.

Hunter motioned Pitt to a chair and then said: “We're anxious to have your account of the Martha Ann's loss and the fight in your hotel room.”

Pitt relaxed and tried to force his tired mind into categorizing the events in their proper perspective. He knew they were all watching him closely, listening to every detail he could dredge up from memory.

Denver nodded. “Take your time and forgive us if we butt in every now and then with a question.”

Pitt began softly. “I suppose it all started when we discovered the rise on the seafloor, a rise not charted on our underwater topographical maps.”

Then Pitt told them everything. The two scientists took notes while Denver watched over a tape recorder. Occasionally one of the men seated around the conference table would interrupt and ask a question which Pitt would answer as best he could. His only omission concerned Summer; he lied, saying he had palmed a knife before Delphi's men had bound him.

Hunter pulled the cellophane from a pack of cigarettes and wadded it in an ashtray. “What about this Delphi character? So far, Major Pitt's verbal contact with this fellow is the only communication we've had with anyone connected, if indeed he is, to the Vortex.”

Dr. Chrysler leaned across the table. “Could you describe this man in detail?”

“Approximately six feet eight inches in height,” Pitt replied. “Well proportioned for his size; I'm not versed at guessing weight for someone that tall. Rugged, lined face, graying hair, and, of course, his most striking feature, yellow eyes.” Chrysler's brow furrowed. “Yellow?”

“Yes, almost gold.”

“That's not possible,” Chrysler said. “An albino might have pink eyes with a slight orange tint to them. And certain types of diseases might alter the color to a pale sort of grayish-yellow. But a bright gold? Not likely. The iris of the eye simply does not contain the right pigments for such a hue.”

Dr. York took a pipe from his pocket and idly twisted it in his hand. “Most strange that you should describe a giant of a man with yellow eyes. There really was such a person.”

“The Oracle of Psychic Unity,” Chrysler said softly. “Of course, Dr. Frederick Moran.” “I don't recall the name,” said Hunter. “Frederick Moran was one of the century's great classical anthropologists. He advocated the theory that the human mind would be the crucial factor in man's eventual extinction.”

York nodded. “A brilliant but egocentric man. Disappeared at sea nearly thirty years ago.”

“The Delphi Oracle,” Pitt said to no one in particular.

Denver caught the connection immediately. “Of course. Delphi comes from the oracle of ancient Greece.”

“It's not possible,” Chrysler said. “The man's dead.” “Is he?” Pitt questioned.  “Maybe he found  his Kanoli.”

“Sounds like a Hawaiian Shangri-la,” said Hunter. “Perhaps it is,” Pitt said. He related briefly his conversation with George Papaaloa at the  Bishop Museum.