"Are you into Jet Skis?" asked Pitt.
Broadmoor smiled. "I believe the term is now watercraft."
Pitt studied the pair of sleek Duo 300 WetJets by Mastercraft Boats. High-performance craft that could seat two people, they were vividly painted with Haida animal symbols. "They look like they can almost fly."
"Over water, they do. I modified their engines to gain another fifteen horsepower. They move along at almost fifty knots." Broadmoor suddenly changed the subject. "Ed Posey said you wanted to circle Kunghit Island with acoustic measuring equipment. I thought the watercraft might be an efficient means of conducting your project."
"They'd be ideal. Unfortunately, my hydrophone gear was badly damaged when Stokes and I crashed.
The only other avenue left open to me is to probe the mine itself."
"What do you hope to discover?"
"The method of excavation Dorsett is using to retrieve the diamonds."
Broadmoor picked up a pebble at the waterline and threw it far out into the deep green water. "The company has a small fleet of boats patrolling the waters around the island," he said finally. "They're armed and have been known to attack fishermen who venture too close."
"It seems Canadian government officials didn't tell me all I needed to know;" said Pitt, cursing Posey under his breath.
"I guess they figured since you were under their license to do field research, you wouldn't be harassed by the mine's security."
"Your brother. Stokes mentioned the assault and burning of his boat."
He pointed back toward the partially carved totem pole. "Did he also tell you they killed my uncle?"
Pitt shook his head slowly. "No. I'm sorry."
"I found his body floating eight kilometers out to sea. He had lashed himself to a pair of fuel cans. The water was cold, and he died of exposure. All we ever found of his fishing boat was a piece of the wheelhouse."
"You think Dorsett's security people murdered him."
"I know they murdered him," Broadmoor said, anger in his eyes.
"What about the law?"
Broadmoor shook his head. "Inspector Stokes only represents a token investigative force. After Arthur Dorsett sent his prospecting geologists swarming all over the islands until they found the main diamond source on Kunghit, he used his power and wealth to literally take over the island from the government. Never mind that the Haida claim the island as tribal sacred ground. Now it is illegal for any of my people to set foot on the island without permission or to fish within four kilometers of its shore. We can be arrested by the Mounties who are paid to protect us."
"I see why the mine's chief of security has so little regard for the law."
"Merchant, 'Dapper John' as he's called," Broadmoor said, pure hatred in his round face. "Lucky you escaped. Chances are you'd have simply disappeared. Many men have attempted to search for diamonds in and around the island. None were successful and none were ever seen again."
"Has any of the diamond wealth gone to the Haida?" Pitt asked.
"So far we've been screwed," answered Broadmoor. "Whether wealth from the diamonds will come to us has become more a legal than a political issue. We've negotiated for years in an attempt to get a piece of the action, but Dorsett's attorneys have stalled us in the courts."
"I can't believe the Canadian government allows Arthur Dorsett to dictate to them."
"The country's economy is on the ropes, and the politicians close their eyes to payoffs and corruption while embracing any special interest that slips money into the treasury." He paused and stared into Pitt's eyes as if trying, to read something. "What is your interest, Mr. Pitt? Do you want to shut the mine down?"
Pitt nodded. "I do, providing I can prove their excavation is causing the acoustic plague responsible for the mass killing of humans and sea life."
He looked at Pitt. "I will take you inside the mining property."
Pitt considered the offer briefly. "You have a wife and children. No sense in risking two lives. Put me on the island and I'll figure a way to get over the mound without being seen."
"Can't be done. Their security systems are state-of-the-art. A squirrel can't get past them, as proven by their little bodies that litter the mound, along with those of hundreds of other animals that inhabited the island before Dorsett's mining operation gutted what was once a beautiful environment. And then there are the Alsatian police dogs that can smell out a diamond-smuggling intruder at a hundred meters."
"There's always the tunnel."
"You'll never get through it alone."
"Better that than your wife becoming another widow."
"You don't understand," Broadmoor said patiently; his eyes burned with consuming flames of revenge.
"The mine pays my tribal community to keep their kitchen stocked with fresh fish. Once a week my neighbors and I sail to Kunghit and deliver our catch. At the docks we load it on carts and transport the fish through the tunnel to the office of the head cook. He serves us breakfast, pays us in cash-not nearly what the catch is worth and then we leave. You've got black hair. You could pass for a Haida if you wear fisherman's work clothes and keep your head down. The guards are more concerned with diamonds smuggled out of camp than fish coming in. Since we only deliver and take nothing, we're not suspect."
"Are there no good paying jobs for your people at the mine?"
Broadmoor shrugged. "To forget how to fish and hunt is to forget independence. The monies we make stocking their kitchen goes toward a new school for our children."
"There's a small problem. Dapper John Merchant. We've met and struck up a mutual dislike. He had a close look at my face."
Broadmoor waved a hand airily. "Merchant recognizing you is not a problem. He'd never soil his expensive Italian shoes by hanging around the tunnel and kitchens. In this weather he seldom shows his face outside his office."
"I won't be able to gather much information from the kitchen help," said Pitt. "Do you know any miners you can trust to describe the excavation procedures?"
"All the mine workers are Chinese, illegally brought in by criminal syndicates. None speak English.
Your best hope is an old mining engineer who hates Dorsett Consolidated with a passion."
"Can you contact him?"
"I don't even know his name. He works the graveyard shift and usually eats breakfast about the same time we deliver our fish. We've talked a few times over a cup of coffee. He's not happy about the working conditions. During our last conversation, he claimed that in the past year over twenty Chinese workers have died in the mines."
"If I can get ten minutes alone with him, he might be of great help in solving the acoustics enigma."
"No guarantee he'll be there when we make the delivery," said Broadmoor.
"I'll have to gamble," Pitt said thoughtfully'. "When do you deliver your next catch?"
"The last of our village fleet should be docking within a few hours. We'll ice and crate the catch later this evening and be ready to head for Kunghit Island at first light."
Pitt wondered if he was physically and mentally primed to lay his life on the line again. Then he thought of the hundreds of dead bodies he'd seen on the cruise ship, and there wasn't the slightest doubt about what he must do.
Six small fishing boats, painted in a variety of vivid colors, sailed into Rose Harbour, their decks stacked with wooden crates filled with fish packed in ice. The diesel engines made a soft chugging sound through tall exhaust stacks as they turned the shafts to the propellers. A low mist covered the water and turned it a gray green. The sun was half a globe on the eastern horizon, and the wind was less than five knots. The waves showed no whitecaps, and the only foam came from the prop wash and the bows of the boats as they shouldered their way through gentle swells.
Broadmoor came up to Pitt, who was sitting in the stern, watching the gulls that dipped and soared over the boat's wake in hope of a free meal. "Time to go into your act, Mr. Pitt."
Pitt could never get Broadmoor
to call him Dirk. He nodded and pretended to carve a nose on a half-finished mask the Haida had loaned him. He was dressed in yellow oilskin pants with suspenders that were slung over a heavy woolen sweater knitted by Irma Broadmoor. He wore a stocking cap pulled down over his thick, black eyebrows. Indians are not known for five o'clock shadows so he had given his face a close shave. He did not look up as he lightly scraped the dull side of the knife over the mask, staring out of the corners of his eyes at the long dock-not a small pier but a true landing stage for big ships, with anchored pilings-that loomed larger as the boats entered the harbor. A tall crane moved on rails along one side of the dock to unload heavy equipment and other cargo from oceangoing ships.
A large craft with unusually smooth lines and a globular-shaped superstructure, unlike any luxury yacht Pitt had ever seen, lay moored to the dock. Her twin high performance fiberglass hulls were designed for speed and comfort. She looked capable of skimming the sea at over eighty knots. Going by Giordino's description of a seagoing, space-age design, this was the boat seen running from the freighter Mentawai.
Pitt looked for the name and port, normally painted across the transom, but no markings marred the beauty of the yacht's sapphire-blue hull.
Most owners are proud of their pet name for their boat, Pitt thought, and its port of registry. He had a pretty good idea why Arthur Dorsett didn't advertise his yacht.
His interest kindled, he stared openly at the' windows with their tightly drawn curtains. The open deck appeared deserted. None of the crew or passengers were about this early in the morning. He was about to turn his attention from the yacht and focus on half a dozen uniformed security guards standing on the dock, when a door opened and a woman stepped out onto the deck.
She was incredibly stunning, Amazon tall, strikingly beautiful. Shaking her head, she tossed a long, unbrushed mane of red-blond hair out of her face. She was wearing a short robe and looked as if she had just risen from bed. Her breasts looked plump but oddly out of proportion, and were completely covered by the robe that shielded any hint of cleavage. Pitt perceived an untamed, ferocious look about her, as undaunted as a tigress surveying her domain. Her gaze swept over the little fishing fleet, then fell on Pitt when she caught him openly staring at her.
The everyday, devil-may-care Pitt would have stood up, swept off his stocking cap and bowed. But he had to play the role of an Indian, so he looked at her expressionless and merely nodded a respectful greeting. She turned away and dismissed him as if he were simply another tree in the forest, while a uniformed steward approached and held out a cup of coffee on a silver tray. Shivering in the cold dawn, she returned inside the main salon.
"She's quite impressive, isn't she?" said Broadmoor, smiling at the look of awe on Pitt's face.
"I have to admit she's unlike any woman I've ever seen."
"Boudicca Dorsett, one of Arthur's three daughters. She shows up unexpectedly several times a year on that fancy yacht of hers."
So this was the third sister, Pitt mused. Perlmutter had described her as ruthless and as cold and hard as ice from the bottom of a glacier. Now that he had laid eyes on Dorsett's third daughter, Pitt found it hard to believe Maeve had come out of the same womb as Deirdre and Boudicca. "No doubt to demand higher production from her slave laborers and count the take."
"Neither," said Broadmoor. "Boudicca is director of the company's security organization. I'm told she travels from mine to mine, inspecting the systems and personnel for any weaknesses."
"Dapper John Merchant will be particularly vigilant while she's probing for cracks in his security precautions," said Pitt. "He'll take special pains to ensure his guards look alert to impress his boss."
"We'll have to be extra cautious," Broadmoor agreed. He nodded toward the security guards on the dock, waiting to inspect the fishing boats. "Look at that. Six of them. They never sent more than two on any other delivery. The one with the medallion around his neck is in charge of the dock. Name is Crutcher. He's a mean one."
Pitt gave the guards a cursory glance to see if he recognized any that had gathered around the floatplane during his intrusion with Stokes. The tide was out, and he had to stare up at the men on the dock. He was especially apprehensive about being recognized by the guard he'd laid out in John Merchant's office. Luckily, none looked familiar.
They carried their weapons slung over one shoulder, muzzle pointing forward in the general direction of .the Indian fishermen. It was all for show and intimidation, Pitt quickly perceived. They weren't about to shoot anyone in front of observing seamen on a nearby cargo ship. Crutcher, a cold-faced, arrogant young man of no more than twenty-six or -seven, stepped up to the edge of the dock as Broadmoor's helmsman eased the fishing boat along the pilings. Broadmoor cast a line that fell over the guard's combat boots.
"Hi there, friend. How about tying us up?"
The cold-faced guard kicked the rope off the dock back onto the boat. "Tie up yourself," he snapped.
A dropout from a Special Forces team, that one, Pitt thought as he caught the line. He scrambled up a ladder onto the dock, and purposely brushed against Crutcher as he looped the line around a small bollard.
Crutcher lashed out with his boot and kicked Pitt upright, then grabbed him by his suspenders and shook him violently. "You stinking fish head, mind your manners."
Broadmoor froze. It was a trick. The Haida were a quiet people, not prone to quick anger. He thought with fearful certainty that Pitt would shake himself loose and punch the contemptuous guard.
But Pitt didn't bite. He relaxed his body, rubbed a hand over a blossoming bruise on his buttocks and stared at Crutcher with an unfathomable gaze. He pulled off his stocking cap as if in respect, revealing a mass of black hair whose natural curls had been greased straight. He shrugged with a careless show of deference.
"I was not careful. I'm sorry."
"You don't look familiar," said Crutcher coldly.
"I make this trip twenty times," Pitt said quietly. "I've seen you lots before. Your name is Crutcher.
Three deliveries back, you punched my gut for unloading the fish too slow."
The guard studied Pitt for a moment, then gave a short laugh, a jackal laugh. "Get in my way again, and I'll boot your ass across the channel. . ."
Pitt registered a look of friendly resignation and jumped back onto the deck of the fishing boat. The rest of the fishing fleet was slipping into the openings at the dock between the supply ships. Where there was no room, the boats tied together parallel, end to end, the crew of the outer boat transferring their cargo of fish across the deck of the one moored to the dock. Pitt joined the fishermen and began passing crates of salmon up to one of Broadmoor's crew, who stacked them on flatbed trailers that were hitched to a small tractor vehicle with eight drive wheels. The crates were heavy, and Pitt's biceps and back soon ached in protest. He gritted his teeth, knowing the guards would suspect he didn't belong if he couldn't heave the ice-filled fish crates around with the ease of the Haida.
Two hours later the trailers were loaded, then four of the guards and the crews of the fishing boats piled aboard as the train set off toward the mining operation's mess hall. They were stopped at the tunnel entrance, herded into a small building and told to strip to their underwear. Then their clothes were searched and they were individually X-rayed. All passed scrutiny except one Haida who absentmindedly carried a large fishing knife in his boot. Pitt found it strange that instead of merely confiscating the knife, it was returned and the fisherman sent back to his boat. The rest were allowed to dress and reboard the trailers for the journey to the excavation area.
"I would think they'd search you for concealed diamonds when you came out rather than entering,"
said Pitt.
"They do," explained Broadmoor. "We go through the same procedure when we exit the mine. They X-ray you going in as a warning that it doesn't pay to smuggle out a handful of diamonds by swallowing them."
The arched concrete tunnel that penetrated t
he mound of mine tailings was about five meters high by ten wide, ample room for large trucks to transport men and equipment back and forth from the loading dock. The length stretched nearly half a kilometer, the interior brightened by long rows of fluorescent lighting. Side tunnels yawned about halfway through, each about half the size of the main artery.
"Where do those lead'?" Pitt asked Broadmoor.
"Part of the security system. They circle the entire compound and are filled with detection devices."
"The guards, the weapons, the array of security systems. Seems like overkill, just to prevent a few diamonds from being smuggled off the property."
"Only the half of it. They don't want the illegal laborers escaping to the mainland. It's part of the deal with corrupt Canadian officials."
They emerged at the other end of the tunnel amid the busy activity of the mining operation. The driver of the tractor curled the train of trailers onto a paved road that circled the great open pit that was the volcanic chute. He pulled up beside a loading dock that ran along a low concrete building in the shape of a quonset hut, and stopped.
A man wearing the white attire of a chef under a furtrimmed overcoat opened a door to a warehouse where foodstuffs were stored. He threw a wave of greeting to Broadmoor. "Good to see you, Mason.
Your arrival is timely. We're down to two cases of cod."
"We've brought enough fish to grow scales on your workers." Broadmoor turned and said in a low voice to Pitt, "Dave Anderson, the head cook for the miners. A decent guy but he drinks too much beer."
"The frozen-food locker is open," said Anderson. "Mind how you stack the crates. I found salmon mixed in with flounder your last trip. It screws up my menus."
"Brought you a treat. Fifty kilos of moose steaks."
"You're okay, Mason. You're the reason I don't buy frozen fish from the mainland," the cook replied with a wide smile. "After you've stored the crates, come on into the mess hall. My boys will have breakfast waiting for your people. I'll write a check as soon as I've inventoried your catch.''
The wooden crates of fish were stacked in the frozen food locker, and the Haida fishermen, followed by Pitt, thankfully tramped into the warmth of the mess hall. They walked past a serving line and were dished up eggs, sausages and flapjacks. As they helped themselves to coffee out of a huge urn, Pitt looked around at the men sitting at the other tables. The four guards were conversing under a cloud of cigarette smoke near the door. Close to a hundred Chinese miners from the early morning graveyard shift filled up, most of the room. Ten men who Pitt guessed to be mining engineers and superintendents sat at a round table that was set off in a smaller, private dining room.