Dorsett saw Boudicca as a son he had lost. Over the years he had begrudgingly accepted her secret lifestyle, because all that truly mattered to him was that Boudicca was as strong willed and unyielding as he was.
Deirdre seemed to float into the room, poised and nonchalant, fashionable in a simple but elegant claret wool double-breasted coatdress. Undeniably glamorous, she was not a woman who invented herself. She knew exactly what she was capable of doing. There was no pretense about her. Delicate facial features and supple body aside, she had definite underlying masculine qualities. She and Boudicca dutifully sat down in two of three chairs placed in front of Dorsett's desk.
Maeve followed her sisters, moving as gracefully as pond reeds in a light breeze, and wearing an indigo plaid wool zip-front shirt with matching skirt over a white ribbed turtleneck. Her long blond hair was soft and glowing, her skin flushed red and her blue eyes blazing with anger. She moved in a straight line between her seated sisters, chin up firmly, staring deeply into her father's eyes, which reflected intrigue and corruption.
"I want my boys!" she snapped. It was not a plea but a demand.
"Sit down, girl," her father ordered, picking up a briar pipe and pointing it like a gun.
"No!" she shouted. "You abducted my sons, and I want them back or by God I'll turn you and these two conniving bitches over to the police, but not before I've exposed you all to the news media."
He looked at her steadily, calmly appraising her defiance. Then he called his secretary over the intercom. "Will you please connect me with Jack Ferguson?" He smiled at Maeve. "You remember Jack, don't you?"
"That sadistic ape you call your superintendent of mines. What about him?"
"I thought you'd like to know. He's baby-sitting the twins."
The anger fled from Maeve's face and was replaced with alarm. "Not Ferguson?"
"A little discipline never hurt growing boys."
She started to say something, but the intercom buzzed and Dorsett held up his hand for silence. He spoke through a speakerphone on his desk. "Jack, you there?"
There was the sound of heavy equipment in the background as Ferguson replied over his portable phone. "I'm here."
"Are the boys nearby?"
"Yes, sir. I've got them loading muck that's spilled from the cars."
"I'd like you to arrange an accident-'
"No!" Maeve screamed. "My God, they're only six years old. You can't murder your own grandchildren!" She was horrified to see that Deirdre had an expression of complete indifference on her face, while Boudicca wore a look as cold as a granite tomb.
"I don't consider those bastards my grandchildren," Dorsett roared back.
Maeve was overcome with sickening fear. It was a battle she could not win. Her sons were in deadly danger, and she saw clearly that her only hope of saving them was to submit to her father's will. She was achingly aware of her helplessness. Somehow she had to stall for time until she devised a plan to save her boys. Nothing else mattered. If only she had gotten her plight across to the man from NUMA. He might have thought of a way to help her. But he was thousands of kilometers away.
She sagged into an empty chair, beaten but still defiant, her emotions in upheaval. "What do you want from me?"
Her father relaxed and pushed a button on the phone, ending the call. The deep creases that ran from the corners of his eyes widened. "I should have beaten you when you were young."
"You did, Daddy dear," she said, remembering. "Many times."
"Enough sentiment," he growled. "I want you to return to the United States and work with their National Underwater & Marine Agency. Watch them carefully. Observe their methods in attempting to discover the cause of the unexplained deaths. If they begin to get close to an answer, do what you can to stall them. Sabotage or murder, whatever it takes. Fail me and those dirty little urchins you whelped in the gutter will surely die. Do well, and they'll live in wealth."
"You're mad," she gasped, stunned at what she'd heard. "You'd murder your own flesh and blood as if it meant nothing--"
"Oh, but you're very wrong, dear sister," Boudicca interrupted. "Twenty billion dollars is far more than nothing."
"What insane scheme have you hatched?" asked Maeve.
"If you hadn't run away from us, you'd know," said Deirdre nastily.
"Daddy is going to collapse the world diamond market," revealed Boudicca as unruffled as if she were describing a new pair of shoes.
Maeve stared at him. "That's impossible. De Beers and the rest of the cartel will never permit a drastic fall in the price of diamonds."
Dorsett seemed to bulk even larger behind his desk. "Despite their usual manipulation of the laws of supply and demand, in another thirty days the collapse will be a reality, when a tidal wave of stones hits the market at prices any child can afford from his or her allowance."
"Even you can't dictate the diamond market."
"You're dead wrong, Daughter," said Dorsett smugly. "The overhyped prices on diamonds have traditionally depended on manufactured scarcity. To exploit the myth of diamond rarity, De Beers has propped up the values by buying into new mines in Canada, Australia, Africa, and then stockpiling the production. When Russia opened up their mines in Siberia and filled a five-story warehouse with thousands of tons of stones, De Beers could hardly allow them to flood the market. So they worked out a deal together. De Beers makes billion-dollar trade loans to the new state of Russia and is paid back in diamonds, thus maintaining high prices in the best interests of the producers and dealers. Many are the mines the cartel has purchased, then closed to keep the supply down. The American pipe in the state of Arkansas is a case in point. If mined, it has every potential of becoming one of the world's leading producers of diamonds. Instead, De Beers bought the property and turned it over to the U.S. Park Service, which only allows tourists to dig around the surface for a small charge."
"They used the same methods with the owners of mining companies from Tanzania to Brazil," said Deirdre. "You taught us well, Daddy. We're all familiar with the behind-the-scenes intrigues of the diamond cartel."
"I'm not," snapped Maeve at Dorsett. "I was never interested in the diamond trade."
"A pity you turned a deaf ear to Daddy's lectures," said Boudicca, "It would have been in your best interests to have been more attentive."
"What has all this to do with causing the market to fall?" asked Maeve. "A collapse in prices would wipe out Dorsett Consolidated Mining too. How could you possibly profit from such a disaster?"
"Better you not know until after the event," Dorsett said, clamping his stained teeth on the stem of the empty pipe. "Unlike Boudicca and Deirdre, you can't be trusted to keep silent."
"Thirty days. That's your timetable?"
Dorsett sat back, folded his huge hands across his chest and nodded. "I've had our mining crews working three shifts, twenty-four hours a day for the past ten years. In another month I will have accumulated a stockpile of over $2 billion worth of stones. With the worldwide economy flat, diamond sales to consumers have temporarily stagnated. All of the enormous sums the cartel has spent in advertising have failed to push sales. If my instincts are right, the market will reach bottom in thirty days before it rebounds. I intend to attack when it's down."
"What are you doing in the mines that causes death throughout the ocean?" demanded Maeve.
"About a year ago, my engineers developed a revolutionary excavator using high-energy pulsed ultrasound to carve through the blue clay that contains the major deposits of diamonds. Apparently, the subterranean rock under the islands we mine creates a resonance that channels into the surrounding water. Though a rare event, it occasionally converges with the resonance from our other mining operations, near Siberia, Chile and Canada. The energy intensifies to a level that can kill animals and humans. However unfortunate, I cannot allow these aberrant side effects to throw off my time schedule."
"Don't you understand?" pleaded Maeve. "Don't you care about the sea life and hundreds
of people your greed has killed? How many more must die before this madness is satisfied?"
"Only after I have destroyed the diamond market will I stop," Dorsett said coldly. He turned to Boudicca. "Where is the yacht?"
"I sent it on to Kunghit Island after I debarked in Honolulu and flew home. My chief of security there has informed me that the Canadian Mounties are becoming suspicious. They've been flying over the island, taking photographs and asking questions of the nearby inhabitants. With your permission, I would like to rejoin the yacht. Your geophysicists are also predicting another convergence approximately five hundred kilometers west of Seattle. I should be standing by to remove any possible wreckage to frustrate investigation by the American Coast Guard."
"Take the company jet and return as soon as possible."
"You know where the deaths will occur next?" Maeve demanded in dismay. "You must warn ships to stay out of the area."
"Not a practical idea," Boudicca answered, "letting the world in on our secret. Besides, Daddy's scientists can only give rough estimates for where and when the sound waves will strike."
Maeve stared at her sister, her lips slowly tightening. "You had a pretty good idea when you put Deirdre on the Polar Queen to save my life."
Boudicca laughed. "Is that what you think?"
"That's what she told me."
"I lied to keep you from informing the NUMA people," said Deirdre. "Sorry, sister dear, father's engineers made a slight miscalculation in time. The acoustic plague was estimated to strike the ship three hours earlier. . ."
"Three hours earlier . . ." Maeve murmured as the awful truth slowly dawned on her. "I would have been on the ship."
"And you would have died with the others," said Deirdre as if disappointed.
"You meant for me to die!" Maeve gasped, contempt and horror in her expression.
Her father looked at her as if he were examining a stone he'd picked up at his mine. "You turned your back on your sisters and me. To us, you no longer existed. You still don't."
A strawberry-red floatplane with Chinook Cargo Carriers painted in white block letters on the side of the fuselage rocked gently in the water beside a refueling dock near the Shearwater Airport in British Columbia. A short, brown-haired man with an unsmiling face, dressed in an old-fashioned leather flight suit, was holding a gas nozzle in one of the wing tanks. He looked down and examined the man who walked casually along the dock, carrying a backpack and a large black case. He was dressed in jeans with a skier's down vest. A cowboy hat was set square on his head. When the stranger stopped beside the aircraft and looked up, the pilot nodded at the widebrimmed hat.
"A Stetson?"
"No, it was custom-shade by Manny Gammage out of Austin, Texas."
The stranger studied the floatplane. It looked to have been built prior to 1970. "A de Havilland, isn't she?"
The pilot nodded. "De Havilland Beaver, one of the finest bush planes ever designed."
"An oldie but goody."
"Canadian-built in 1967. She'll lift over four thousand kilograms off a hundred meters of water.
Revered as the workhorse of the North. Over a hundred of them are still flying."
"Don't see big radial engines much anymore."
"You a friend of Ed Posey?" the pilot asked abruptly.
"I am," answered Pitt without introducing himself.
"A bit breezy today."
"About twenty knots, I should judge."
"You a flyer?"
"I have a few hours in the air."
"Malcolm Stokes."
"Dirk Pitt."
"I understand you want to fly to Black Water Inlet."
Pitt nodded. "Ed Posey told me that's where I could find a totem carver by the name of Mason Broadmoor."
"I know Mason. His village sits at the lower end of Moresby Island, across the Houston Stewart Channel from Kunghit Island."
"How long a flight?"
"An hour and a half across Hecate Strait. Should get you there in time for lunch."
"Sounds good," said Pitt.
Stokes gestured at the black case. "What you got in there, a trombone?"
"A hydrophone, an instrument for measuring underwater sound."
Without further discussion, Stokes capped the fuel tank and inserted the nozzle back into the gas pump as Pitt loaded his gear on board. After untying the mooring lines and pushing the plane away from the dock with one foot, Stokes made his way to the cockpit.
"Care to ride up front?" he asked.
Pitt smiled inwardly. He saw no passenger seats in the cargo section. "Don't mind if I do."
Pitt strapped himself into the copilot's seat as Stokes started and warmed up the big single radial engine and checked his gauges. Already the receding tide had carried the aircraft three meters from the dock. After a visual check of the channel for other boats or planes, Stokes eased the throttle forward and took off, banking the Beaver over Campbell Island and heading west. As they climbed, Pitt recalled the report Hiram Yaeger had given him before leaving Washington.
The Queen Charlotte Islands are made up of about 150 islands running parallel to the Canadian mainland 160 kilometers to the east. The total area of the islands comes to 9,584 square kilometers. The population of 5,890 is made up mostly of Haida Indians, who invaded the islands in the eighteenth century. The Haida used the abundant red cedars to build huge dugout canoes and. multifamily plank houses supported by massive portal poles, and to carve splendid totem poles as well as masks, boxes and dishes.
The economy is based on lumber and fishing as well as the mining of copper, coal and iron ore. In 1997, prospectors working for Dorsett Consolidated Mining Ltd., found a kimberlite pipe on Kunghit Island, the southernmost island in the Queen Charlotte chain. After drilling a test hole, 98 diamonds were found in one 52-kilogram sample. Although Kunghit Island was part of the South Moresby National Park Reserve, the government allowed Dorsett Consolidated to file a claim and lease the island. Dorsett then launched an extensive excavation operation and closed off the island to all visitors and campers. It was estimated by New York brokers C. Dirgo & Co. that the mine could bring out as much as $2 billion in diamonds.
Pitt's thoughts were interrupted by Stokes. "Now that we're away from prying eyes, how do I know you're Dirk Pitt with the National Underwater & Marine Agency?"
"Do you have the authority to ask?"
Stokes took a leather case from his breast pocket and flipped it open. "Royal Canadian Mounted Police, Criminal Intelligence Directorate."
"So I'm addressing Inspector Stokes."
"Yes, sir, that is correct."
"What would you like to see, credit cards, driver's license, NUMA ID, a blood donor card?"
"Just answer one question," said Stokes, "dealing with a shipwreck."
"I have my reasons for wanting to land. Reason one. To allow the cameras encased in the floats to take close-up pictures during landing and takeoff."
"Somehow I have the impression they hate uninvited visitors. What makes you think we won't be stood against a privy and shot?"
"Reason two," said Stokes, brushing off Pitt's objections. "My superiors are hoping for just such an event. Then they can come swooping in here and close the bastards down."
"Naturally."
"Reason three. We have an undercover agent working in the mines. We're hoping he can pass me information while we're on the ground."
"We're just full of devious little plots, aren't we?" said Pitt.
"In a more serious vein, if worse comes to worst, I'll let Dorsett's security people know I'm a Mountie before they offer us a cigarette and a blindfold. They're not so stupid as to risk invasion by a small army of law officers running about the place searching for the body of one of their finest."
"You did notify your team and superiors we'd be dropping in?"
Stokes looked hurt. "Any disappearance is timed to make the evening newspapers. Not to worry, Dorsett's mine executives abhor bad publicity."
"When
exactly do we pull off this marvel of Royal Mounted Police planning?"
Stokes pointed down to the island again. "I should begin my descent in about five minutes."
Pitt could do little but sit back and enjoy the view. Below he could see the great volcanic cone with its central pipe of blue ground that contained the rough diamonds. What looked like a giant bridge of steel girders stretched over the open core, with a myriad of steel cables that raised and lowered the excavated debris. Once they reached the top, the buckets then moved horizontally like ski gondolas across the open pit to buildings where the diamonds were extracted from the tailings, which were then dumped onto a huge mound that enclosed the diggings. The mound also acted as an artificial barrier to discourage anyone from entering or leaving, a reality Pitt found obvious from the total absence of any entrances except one, a tunnel that opened to a road that led to a dock on a small bay. He knew from his map that the bay was called Rose Harbour. As he watched, a tug with an empty barge in tow was pulling away from the dock and heading toward the mainland.
A series of prefabricated buildings grouped between the mound and the pit were apparently used for offices and living quarters for the miners. The enclosure, easily two kilometers in diameter, also accommodated the narrow airstrip with a hangar. The entire mining operation looked like a gigantic scar on the landscape from the air.
"That's one big pockmark," said Pitt.
Without looking down, Stokes said, "That pockmark, as you call it, is where dreams come from."
Stokes leaned out his fuel mixture and starved his big 450-horsepower Pratt & Whitney R-985 Wasp engine until it began to miss and backfire. Already, a voice was coming over the radio warning him away from the property, but he ignored it. "I have a fuel blockage and must borrow your airstrip for an emergency landing. Sorry for the inconvenience, but it can't be helped." Then he switched off the radio.
"Don't you just hate dropping in unannounced?" said Pitt.