"With respects, sir, none of this figures."
"Until an hour ago, those were our words precisely," Kippmann said.
"Just what have you got in mind?" Pitt asked.
"This." Kippmann pulled more papers from his seemingly bottomless briefcase and studied them briefly.
"Until we were able to question you and the other survivors who were physically up to it, we had only a sketchy idea at best as to the purpose behind Hermit Limited. We knew it existed, and we were fortunate to ferrett out a small percentage of their business dealings, but their ultimate goal, the brains, the money behind the entire operation remained a mystery-" Pitt broke in guardedly. "But you had a lead. You suspected Dr. Hunnewell."
"I'm glad you didn't tumble sooner, Major. Yes, the N.I.A. was trailing Dr. Hunnewell. No concrete evidence, of course.
That's why we set him in the hope he would lead us to the men at the top of the organization.".
"Oh, God, it was a setup!" It wasn't easy to combine a sour exclamation and an anguished moan in the same breath, but Pitt pulled it off. "The whole goddamned scene on that iceberg was a setup."
"Yes, Hunnewell came to our attention when he so thoughtfully provided all the right solutions for Fyrie Limited's undersea probe, but offered absolutely nothing toward the efforts under development in his own country."
"Then emtombing the Lax was a neat little piece of deception," Pitt said. "That was your drawing card.
Hunnewell was bound to come forward as an investigator when the admiral here asked him out of what Hunnewell probably couldn't seemed sheer coincidence. . believe his luck. He immediately volunteered, not to see what happened to his old friend Kristjan Fyrie-he'd already guessed that-or to inspect the strange phenomenon of a ship locked in ice, but rather to discover what had become of his precious undersea probe."
"Again, Yes. Major."
Kippmann handed Pitt several glossy photographs. "Here are pictures taken from the submarine that kept a watch on the Lax for almost three weeks. They show an unusual feature about the crew."
Pitt ignored him, and looked up at Sandecker evenly and steadily. "The truth comes out at last. The Lax was found by the search fleet and then tailed until it burned."
88
Sandecker shrugged. "Mr. Kippmann took the trouble to notify me of that interesting little fact only last night." The tight grin on his griffineke features hardly indicated friendliness toward Kippmann.
"Reproach us if you will," Kippmann said seriously, "but it was vital that you both were kept on the sidelines as much as possible. If Kelly or Rondheim or Particularly Hunnewell had smelled your connection with us, our whole operation would have bombed." He stared at Pitt, his voice low. "Major, you were simply to act as pilot for Hunnewell while he inspected the Lax. You then were to fly him to Reykjavik where we would have again taken over our observation of his movements."
"It didn't quite work out that way, did it?"
"We underestimated the other side," Kippmann said candidly.
Pitt inhaled on a cigarette and idly watched the smoke curl toward the ceilng. "You haven't explained how the Lax came to be in the iceberg. Nor have you shed any light on what happened to the pirate crew, or given a hint as to how Fyrie and his crew and scientists could disappear for over a year and then suddenly hove their charred bodies turn up on the ship again."
"The answer to both questions is simple," Kippmann said. "Fyrie's crew never left the ship."
Sandecker took his hands from behind his head and slowly leaned forward, placing them palms down on the desk in front of him. His eyes were rock-hard. "Matajic reported a crew of Arabs, not fair-haired Scandinavians."
"That's true," Kippmann agreed. "I think if you gentlemen will oblige me by glancing at these photographs, you'll see what I mean about the crew."
He passed the prints to Sandecker and extra copies to Pitt. He then sat down in a chair and lit a cigarette after inserting it in a long holder. Kippmann was totally relaxed. Pitt -was beginning to think the man would have yawned if he'd been stabbed in the crotch.
"Please note photo number one," Kippmann said.
"It was taken with a very sharp telephoto lens through a periscope. As you can see, it clearly shows ten crew members going about their duties on various parts of the ship. There isn't a dark-skinned man in the bunch."
"Coincidence," Sandecker said guardedly. "The Arabs Matajic reported seeing might have been below."
"A slim possibility, Admiral, providing we stopped at one picture.
However, the other photos were taken at different times and on different days. By comparing them all together, we get a count of approximately fourteen men, not one of Arab ancestry. Surely, gentlemen, if there were even one arab on that ship, he would have had to make an appearance during a three-week period." Kippmann broke in and tapped his cigarette holder against the rim of an ashtray. "Also, we have definitely identified the faces in the photographs as the same people who set sail on the Lax shortly before it vanished."
"And what of Matajic?" Sandecker asked, probing. "He was a top scientist, trained in accurate observation. Surely he was positive of what he saw' "Matajic saw men who were made up to look like other nationalities," Kippmann said. "The crew should have been masters at disguise by the time he stumbled onto them-remember they had visited a number of ports. They took no chances of recognition-It's only guesswork, of course, we'll never know for certain, but it's fairly safe to say the crew caught O'riley watching them and slipped into their phony pose before Matajic came on board for supper."
"I see," Pitt said mildly. "And then what?"
"You can guess the rest, if you don't already know it." Kippmann toyed with his cigarette holder a moment and then continued. "Somehow, it's not difficult to imagine, the celtinium-279 ignited and transformed the Lax into a floating incinerator. Our submarine could only stand by and watch helplessly-it happened so quickly, there were no survivors.
Fortunately the Navy had put a fast-thinking skipper in command of the sub.
A storm was approaching and he knew it was only a question of time before the red-hot plates on the Lax's hull cooled and contracted, bursting their seams and letting the sea water flood in and sink her, a finale further speeded by the Force Eight storm building on the horizon."
"So he turned a twenty-million-dollar submarine into a tugboat and nudged the burning hulk against a convenient iceberg until it melted its way inside,." Pitt sat there looking at Kippmann, his expression pleasant.
"Your theory is quite correct, Major," Kippmann said thinly"Not my theory." Pitt smiled. "Dr. Hunnewell's. It was he who came up with the hot poker in ice proposal."
"I see," Kippmann said, but he didn't.
"The next question that interests me directly"Pitt hesitated, mashing out his cigarette-"is why did you send Hunnewell and me chasing all over the North Atlantic hunting down a particular iceberg after you erased all of its distinguishable markings?
Why did you set Hunnewell up to find the Lax and then deliberately try to hide it?"
Impassively Kippmann stared at Pitt. "Thanks to you, Major, my men were forced to work their asses off in freezing temperatures, chipping the Coast Guard's red dye marker from the iceberg simply because you showed up two days ahead of schedule."
"You were going over the Lax with a fine-toothed comb and hadn't finished when Hunnewell and I appeared on the scene. Is that it?"
"Precisely," Kippmann said. "Nobody expected you to fly a helicopter through the aftermath of the season's worst storm."
"Then your men were there-" Pitt broke off, looked at Kippmann for a long speculative moment, then went on quietly, "Your agents were concealed on the berg the entire time Hunnewell and I explored the Lax."
Kippmann shrugged. "You didn't give us a chance to pull them off."
89
Pitt half rose from the couch. "You mean they stood by and did nothing when Hunnewell and I damned near fell from the berg into the sea, no rope, no help, no enco
uraging word, nothing?"
"In our business we have to be ruthless." Kippmann offered a tired smile. "We don't like it, but we have to. It's just that it's the nature of the game."
"A game?" Pitt said. "A fantasy of intrigue? A sport of make-believe dog eat dog? You're in a rotten occupation?"
"A never-ending cycle, my friend," Kippmann said acidly. "We didn't start out to be this way. America has always been the good guy. But you can't play knit when the other side uses every dirty rule in the book."
"Granted, we're the land of suckers, always believing that good never fails to triumph over evil. But where does that leave us? Back in Disneyland?"
"I'll come to that in due time," Kippmann said with restraint. "Now then, from what you and the others in the hospital reported, Hermit Limited intends to make their move approximately nine hours and forty-five minutes from now. Their first step will be to assassinate the leader of the Latin American country that they plan to take over. Am I correct?"
"That's what the man said," Pitt nodded. "Beginning with Bolivia."
"You shouldn't believe all you hear, Major. Kelly only used Bolivia as an example. He and his group aren't strong enough for a country that size. He's too much of a businessman to make a grab until he is ninety percent sure of a profit."
"The target could be any one of half a dozen countries," said Sandecker. "How in hell can you be sure which one it is?"
"We have computers too" Kippmann said with some satisfaction. "The processed data narrowed the choice down to four.
Major Pitt helpfully narrowed it down to two."
"You've lost me," Pitt said. "How could I-"
"The models you dredged from the sea, Kippmann cut in quickly. "One is the exact repleca of the capitol building of the Dominican Republic. The other is the government legislative chambers of French Guiana."
"A fifty-fifty chance at best," Sandecker said slowly.
"Not really," Kippmann said. "It's the honored opinion of the N.I.A. that Kelly and his little troop will try for a double-header."
"Both countries at once?" Sandecker looked at Kippmann inquiringly. "You can't be serious?"
"Yes, we're serious, and if you'll pardon the expression', we're deadly serious."
"What can Kelly hope to gain by splitting his efforts?" Pitt asked.
"Trying for the Dominican Republic and French Guiana at the same time isn't the gamble it seems."
Kippmann pulled a map from the folder and smoothed it on Sandecker's desk. "On the northern coast of South America you have Venezuela, and British, Dutch and French Guiana. Further north, a day's passage by boat, a few hours' flight by plane, the island that contains Haiti and the Domini'can Republic. Strategically it's a beautiful situation."
"In what way?"
"Suppose," Kippmann said thoughtfully, "just suppose a dictator who ruled Cuba also ruled Florida as well."
Sandecker looked at Kippmann, his face set and intense. "By God, it is a beautiful situation. It would only be a matter of time before Hermit Limited, operating on the same island, strangled Haiti's economy and took over."
"Yes, then using the island as a base, they could slowly spread into the central Latin countries and absorb them one by one."
Pitts voice was impassive. "History recalls that Fidel Castro tried to infiltrate the mainland countries and failed on every occasion."
"Yes," Kippmann repeated. "But Kelly and Hermit Limited have the one thing Castro lacked-a foothold. Kelly will have French Guiana." He paused in reflection a moment. "A foothold as sure and as firm as the Allies had in 1944 when they invaded France at Normandy."
Pitt shook his head slowly. "And I thought Kelly was insane. The bastard just might do it. He just might pull his fantastic scheme off."
Kippmann nodded. "Let us say, considering all facts, at the present time the odd makers would probably lay their bets in favor of Kelly and Hermit Limited."
"Maybe we should let him do it," Sandecker said.
"Maybe, he was somehow meant to have his utopia."
"No, it is not meant to be," Kippmann said calmly.
"It can never happen."
"You seem pretty certain," Pitt said.
Kippmann stared at him and grinned thinly.
"Didn't I tell you? One of the birds that tried to kill you in that doctor's office decided to cooperate. He told us quite a story."
"It seems there are a number of things you forgot to tell us." Sandecker grunted acidly.
Kippmann went on. "Kelly's glorious enterprise is doomed to failure; I have it on the best authority." He paused, his grin broadening. "As soon as Hermit Limited is entrenched in the Dominican Republic and French Guiana, there will be a proxy fight among the board of directors. Major Pitts passing acquaintance, Mr. Oskar Rondheim, intends to emate Kelly, Marks, Von Hummel and the rest and take over as chairman of the board. Sad to say, Mr. Rondheim's future intentions will hardly be classed as honorable and benevolent."
90
Tidi was sitting prettily in a wheelchair beside Lillie's bed when Pitt entered the hospital room, followed by Sandecker and Kippmann.
"The doctors tell me you'll both live," Pitt said, smiling. "Just thought I'd . . . ah . offer my farewells.", . . drop by and
"You're leaving?" Tidi asked sadly.
"Afraid so. Someone has to identify Rondheim's triggermen."
"You-be careful," she stammered. "After all you went through to save us, we don't want to lose you now."
Lillie raised his head stiffly. "Why didn't you say something out there in the ravine?" he asked seriously.
"God, I had no idea your ribs were kicked in."
"It made no difference. I was the only one who could walk. Besides, I never fail to get carried away when I have a good audience."
Lillie smiled. "You had the best."
Pitt asked, "How's your back?"
"I'll be in this miserable body cast longer than I care to think about, but at least I'll be able to dance again when it comes off."
Pitt stared down at Tidi. Her face was pale and tears were beginning to well in her eyes and Pitt understood.
"When the big day arrives," Pitt said, forcing a grin, "we'll celebrate with a party, even if it means I have to drink your old man's beer."
"That I'll have to see."
Sandecker cleared his throat. "Ah . . . I take it that Miss Royal is as good a nurse as she is a secretary. Lillie grasped Tidi's hand. "I'd break a bone every day of the week if it always meant meeting someone like her."
There was a short pause. "I think we should be leaving," Kippmann said. "Our Air Force transportation is waiting even now."
Pitt leaned down and kissed Tidi and then shook Lillie's hand. "Look after yourselves. I'll be expecting an invitation to that party soon." He turned his palms upward and shrugged helplessly. "God only knows where I'll be able to find a date who'd be seen in public with a battered face like this."
Tidi laughed at that. He squeezed her shoulder and then turned and left the room.
In the car on the way to the air base, Pitt stared out the window, his eyes unseeing, his mind back in the hospital. "He'll never walk again, will he?"
Kippmann shook his head sadly. "It's doubtful . . . very doubtful."
Fifteen minutes later, without a further word being spoken, they arrived at the Keilavik Air Field to find an Air Force B-92
reconnaissance bomber waiting by the terminal. Another ten minutes and the supersonic jet was speeding down the runway, soaring out over the ocean.
Sandecker, alone in the terminal, watched the plane lifting into the azure sky, his eyes following it until it disappeared into the distance of the cloudless horizon. Then, wearily, he walked back to the car.
Chapter 19
Because of the seven-hour time gain in flying from east to west and the twelve-hundred-mile-per-hour-plus speed of the jet bomber, it was still on the morning of the same day he left Iceland when a bleary-eyed Pitt yawned, stretched in the confined limitations of the
tiny cabin, and looking idly out the navigator's side window, watched the tiny shadow of the aircraft dart across the green slopes of the Sierra Madre mountains.
And what now? Pitt smiled wryly back at his reflection in the (tiass as the bomber now swung out of the foothills and across the smog-blanketed San Gabriel Valley. Gazing down at the Pacific Ocean as it came into view, he cleared his mind of the past and directed it on the immediate future. He didn't know how nor did he have even a remote scrap for a plan, but he knew, no matter the obstacles, he knew he was going to kill Oskar Rondheim.
His mind abruptly returned to the present as the landing gear thumped down and locked into place at the same moment that Dean Kippmann nudged him on the arm.
"Have a nice nap?"
"Slept like the dead."
The B-92 touched down and the engines screamed as the pilot threw the thrust into reverse. The day outside looked warm 91
and comfortable and the California sun gleamed blindingly on the long rows of military jets parked along the taxiways. Pitt read the twelve-foot-high letters painted across a giant hangar: WELCOME TO EL TORO MARINE AIR STATION.
The bomber's engines slowly died and an automobile sped over the apron as Pitt, Kippmann and the Air Force crew climbed down a narrow ladder to the concrete. Two men unreeled from a blue Ford stationwagon and approached Kippmann. Greetings and handshakes were exchanged. 'Then they all walked back to the car. Pitt, left standing with nothing to do, followed them.
Beside an open car door the three men huddled together and conversed in undertones while Pitt stood several feet away and enjoyed a cigarette. Finally Kippmann turned and came over.