Cyclops

  Pitt hesitated and looked across the hangar floor at a car parked by the main door. "An old convertible."

  "Old?"

  "Yes, a 1951."

  "Then would you be so kind to park in the lot by the servants' house. It's to the right as you come up the drive."

  "Aren't you ever ashamed of the way you dictate to people?"

  "I don't have to be ashamed of anything, Mr. Pitt. We'll expect you at four."

  "Will you be through with me before the guests arrive?" asked Pitt, his voice heavy with sarcasm. "I wouldn't want to embarrass anyone by having them see my old junk car littering the grounds."

  "Not to worry," she replied testily. "The party doesn't begin until eight. Goodbye."

  After Sandra Cabot hung up, Pitt walked over to the convertible, staring at it for several moments. He removed the floorboards under the rear seat and clipped on the cables of a battery charger. Then he returned to the Talbot-Lago and calmly took up where he left off.

  At precisely eight-thirty, the security guard at the LeBaron estate's front gate greeted a young couple driving a yellow Ferrari, checked their names on the party list, and waved them through. Next came a Chrysler limousine carrying the President's chief adviser, Daniel Fawcett, and his wife.

  The guard was immune to the exotic cars and their celebrity occupants. He raised his hands over his head in a bored stretch and yawned. Then his hands froze in midair and his mouth snapped shut as he found himself staring at the largest car he'd ever seen.

  The car was a veritable monster, measuring nearly twenty-two feet from bumper to bumper and weighing well over three tons. The hood and doors were silver-gray and the fenders a metallic maroon. A convertible, its top was completely hidden from view when folded down. The body lines were smooth and elegant in the grand manner, an example of flawless craftsmanship seldom equaled.

  "That's some kind of car," the guard finally said. "What is it?"

  "A Daimler," replied Pitt.

  "Sounds British."

  "It is."

  The guard shook his head in admiration and looked at his guest list. "Your name, please."

  "Pitt."

  "I can't seem to find your name. Do you have an invitation?"

  "Mrs. LeBaron and I had an earlier appointment."

  The guard went into the gatehouse and checked a clipboard. "Yes, sir, your appointment was for four o'clock."

  "When I phoned to say I was running late, she said to join the party."

  "Well, since she expected you," the guard said, still soaking in the Daimler's lines, "I guess it's all right.

  Have a good evening."

  Pitt nodded a thank-you and eased the immense car silently up the winding drive to the LeBaron residence. The main building sat on a low hill above a tennis court and a swimming pool. The architecture was common to the area, a three-story brick colonial with a series of white columns holding up the roof over a long front porch, the wings extending to each side. To the right a clump of pine trees shielded a carriage house with a garage below, what Pitt assumed were the servants' living quarters. Opposite and to the left of the manor sat a huge glass-enclosed structure, lit by crystal chandeliers hanging from the roof. Exotic flowers and shrubs blossomed around twenty or more dinner tables while a small orchestra played on a stage beneath a waterfall. Pitt was properly impressed. The perfect setting for a party on a brisk October evening. Raymond LeBaron got high marks for originality. He pulled the Daimler up to the front of the greenhouse where a liveried parking valet stood with the awed expression of a carpenter gazing at redwoods.

  As he slid from behind the wheel and straightened the jacket of his tuxedo Pitt noticed a crowd beginning to gather behind the transparent wall of the greenhouse, pointing and gesturing at the car. He gave the valet instructions on how to shift the transmission and then passed through the glass doors. The orchestra was playing themes from John Barry scores, light on the brass and heavy on the strings. A woman, elegantly dressed in the latest designer fashion, was standing just inside the entrance, greeting the guests.

  He had no doubt she was Jessie LeBaron. Cool composure, the embodiment of grace and style, the living proof women can be beautiful after fifty. She wore a glittery beaded green and silver tunic over a long, slim velvet skirt.

  Pitt approached and gave a brief bow. "Good evening," he said, flashing his best gate crasher's smile.

  "What is that sensational car?" Jessie asked, peering through the doorway.

  "A Daimler powered by a 5.4 liter, straight-eight engine with Hooper coachwork."

  She smiled' graciously and extended her hand. "Thank you for coming, Mr. . ." She hesitated, gazing at him curiously. "Forgive me, but I don't seem to recall meeting you before."

  "That's because we've never laid eyes on each other," he said, marveling at her throaty voice, almost husky, with a sensual coarseness about it. "My name is Pitt, Dirk Pitt."

  Jessie's dark eyes looked at Pitt in a most peculiar way. "You're four and a half hours late, Mr. Pitt.

  Did you suffer some sort of accidental delay?"

  "No accident, Mrs. LeBaron. I planned my arrival most carefully."

  "You weren't invited to the party," she said smoothly. "So you'll have to leave."

  "A pity," said Pitt mournfully. "I seldom get a chance to wear my tux."

  Jessie's face registered scorn. She turned to a prim woman wearing large-lensed glasses and standing slightly to her rear, who Pitt guessed was her secretary, Sandra Cabot.

  "Find Angelo and tell him to show this gentleman out."

  Pitt's green eyes glinted mischievously. "I seem to have a talent for spreading ill will. Do you wish me to go peacefully or cause a nasty scene?"

  "I think peacefully would be best."

  "Then why did you ask to meet with me?"

  "A matter concerning my husband."

  "He was a perfect stranger to me. I can't tell you anything about his death that you don't already know."

  "Raymond is not dead," she said adamantly.

  "When I saw him in the blimp he gave a damn good imitation of it."

  "That wasn't him."

  Pitt stared at her skeptically, saying nothing.

  "You don't believe me, do you?"

  "I don't really care."

  "I was hoping you'd help me."

  "You have a strange way of asking for favors."

  "This a formal charity dinner, Mr. Pitt. You don't fit in. We'll set a time to meet tomorrow."

  Pitt decided his anger wasn't important, so he shoved it aside. "What was your husband doing when he disappeared?" he asked abruptly.

  "Searching for the El Dorado treasure," she replied, looking nervously around the greenhouse at her guests. "He believed it sank on a ship called the Cyclops."

  Before Pitt could make a comment, Cabot returned with Angelo, the Cuban chauffeur.

  "Goodbye, Mr. Pitt," said Jessie, dismissing him and greeting a pair of new arrivals.

  Pitt shrugged and offered his arm to Angelo. "Let's make it official. You lead me out." Then he turned to Jessie. "One last thing, Mrs. LeBaron. I don't respond to shabby treatment. You needn't bother to contact me again, ever."

  Then Pitt allowed Angelo to escort him from the greenhouse to the driveway where the Daimler was waiting. Jessie watched as the great car disappeared into the night. Then she began mingling with her guests.

  Douglas Oates, the Secretary of State, looked over from a conversation he was having with presidential adviser Daniel Fawcett as she approached. "Splendid affair, Jessie."

  "Yes indeed," echoed Fawcett. "Nobody in Washington puts on a finer spread."

  Jessie's eyes flashed and her full lips curved in a warm smile. "Thank you, gentlemen."

  Oates nodded toward the doorway. "Was I imagining things, or did I see Dirk Pitt bounced out the door?"

  Jessie looked at Oates blankly. "You know him?" she asked, surprised.

  "Of course. Pitt is the number two man over at NUMA. He's the guy who rais
ed the Titanic for the Defense Department."

  "And saved the President's life in Louisiana," added Fawcett.

  Jessie noticeably paled. "I had no idea."

  "I hope you didn't make him mad," said Oates.

  "Perhaps I was a bit rude," she conceded.

  "Aren't you interested in drilling for offshore oil below San Diego?"

  "Yes. Seismic surveys indicate a vast untapped field. One of our companies has the inside track for the drilling rights. Why do you ask?"

  "Don't you know who heads up the Senate committee for oil exploration on government lands?"

  "Certainly, it's. . ." Jessie's voice trailed off and her composure melted away.

  "Dirk's father," Oates finished. "Senator George Pitt of California. Without his backing and the blessing of NUMA on environmental issues, you don't stand a prayer of winning the drilling rights."

  "It would appear," Fawcett said sardonically, "your inside track just washed out."

  >

  Thirty minutes later, Pitt rolled the Daimler into his parking stall in front of the tall, solar-glassed building that housed NUMA headquarters. He signed in at the security desk and took the elevator to the tenth floor. When the doors opened, he stepped into a vast electronic maze, comprising the communications and information network of the marine agency.

  Hiram Yaeger looked up from behind a horseshoe-shaped desk, whose surface lay unseen beneath a jungle of computer hardware, and smiled. "Hullo, Dirk. All dressed up and no place to go?"

  "The party's hostess decided I was persona non grata and made me walk the plank."

  "Anybody I know?"

  It was Pitt's turn to smile. He looked down at Yaeger. The computer wizard was a throwback to the hippie days of the early seventies. He wore his blond hair long and tied in a ponytail. His beard was untrimmed and kinky with uncontrolled curls. And his standard uniform for work and play was Levi jacket and pants stuffed into scruffy cowboy boots.

  Pitt said, "I can't picture you and Jessie LeBaron traveling in the same social circles."

  Yaeger gave out a low whistle. "You got booted from a Jessie LeBaron bash? Man, you're some kind of hero to the downtrodden."

  "Are you in the mood for an excavation?"

  "On her?"

  "On him."

  "Her husband? The one who's missing?"

  "Raymond LeBaron."

  "Another moonlight operation?"

  "Whatever you want to call it."

  "Dirk," Yaeger said, peering over the rims of his granny glasses, "you are a nosy bastard, but I love you just the same. I'm hired to build a world-class computer network and amass an archive on marine science and history, but every time I belch you turn up, wanting to use my creation for shady purposes.

  Why do I go along? Okay, I'll tell you why. Larceny flows faster in my veins than yours. Now, how deep do you want me to dig?"

  "To the bottom of his past. Where he came from. What was the money base for his empire?"

  "Raymond LeBaron was pretty secretive about his private life. He may have covered his trail."

  "I realize that, but you've pulled skeletons out of the closet before."

  Yaeger nodded thoughtfully. "Yes, the Bougainville shipping family a few months ago. A neat little caper, if I do say so."

  "One more thing."

  "Lay it on me."

  "A ship called the Cyclops. Could you pull her history for me?"

  "No sweat. Anything else?"

  "That should do it," Pitt answered.

  Yaeger stared at him. "What's going down this time, old friend? I can't believe you're going after the LeBarons because you were dumped at a society party. Take me, I've been thrown out of the worst sleaze joints in town. And I just accept it."

  Pitt laughed. "No revenge. I'm just curious. Jessie LeBaron said something that struck me odd about her husband's disappearance."

  "I read about it in the Washington Post. There was a paragraph mentioning you as the hero of the hour, saving LeBaron's blimp with your rope and palm tree trick. So what's the catch?"

  "She claimed that her husband wasn't among the dead I found inside the control cabin."

  Yaeger paused, his eyes uncomprehending. "Doesn't make sense. If old man LeBaron flew off in that gas bag, it stands to reason he'd still be inside when it turned up."

  "Not according to the bereaved wife."

  "Think she's got an angle, insurance or financial?"

  "Maybe, maybe not. But there is a chance that because the mystery occurred over water, NUMA will be called in to assist in the investigation."

  "And we'll already be on first base."

  "Something like that."

  "Where does the Cyclops fit in the picture?"

  "She told me LeBaron was looking for it when he vanished."

  Yaeger rose from his chair. "All right then, let's get off the mark. While I design a search program, you study what we have on the ship in our data files."

  He led Pitt into a small viewing theater with a large monitor mounted on the far wall and motioned for him to sit behind a console containing a computer keyboard. Then he leaned over Pitt and pressed a series of commands on the keyboard.

  "We installed a new system last week. The terminal is hooked into a voice synthesizer."

  "A talking computer," said Pitt.

  "Yes, it can comprehend over ten thousand verbal commands, make the appropriate reply, and actually carry on a conversation. The voice sounds a little weird, sort of like Hal, the giant computer in the movie 2001. But you get used to it. We call her Hope."

  "Hope?"

  "Yeah, we hope she'll come up with the right answers."

  "Funny"

  "I'll be at the main terminal desk if you need help. Just pick up the phone and dial four-seven."

  Pitt looked up at the screen. It had a bluish-gray cast. He warily picked up a microphone and spoke into it.

  "Hope, my name is Dirk. Are you ready to conduct a search for me?"

  God, he felt like an idiot. It was like talking to a tree and expecting a reply.

  "Hello, Dirk," replied a vaguely female voice that sounded as if it was coming out of a harmonica.

  "Ready when you are."

  Pitt took a deep breath and made the plunge. "Hope, I'd like you to tell me about a ship named Cyclops."

  There was a five-second pause, then the computer said, "You will have to be more specific. My memory disks contain data on five different vessels called Cyclops."

  "This one had treasure on board."

  "Sorry, none show any treasure in their cargo manifest."

  Sorry? Pitt still couldn't believe he was conversing with a machine. "If I may digress for a moment, Hope, allow me to say you're a very bright and most congenial computer."

  "Thank you for the compliment, Dirk. In case you're interested, I can also do sound effects, imitate animals, sing-- though not too well-- and pronouncèsupercalifragilisticexpialidocious,' even if I haven't been programmed to its exact definition. Would you like me to say it backwards?"

  Pitt laughed. "Some other time. Getting back to the Cyclops, the one I'm interested in probably sank in the Caribbean."

  "That narrows it down to two. A small steamer that ran aground in Montego Bay, Jamaica, 5 May 1968, and a U.S. Navy collier-- an ore or coal transport-- lost without a trace, between 5 and 10

  February 1918."

  Raymond LeBaron wouldn't be flying around searching for a ship stranded in a busy harbor only twenty years ago, Pitt reasoned. The tale of the Navy collier came back to him. The loss was touted as one of the great mysteries of the mythical Bermuda Triangle.

  "We'll go with the Navy collier," said Pitt.

  "If you wish me to print out the data for you, Dirk, press the control button on your keyboard and the letters PT. Also, if you watch the screen I can project whatever photos are available."

  Pitt did as he was told and the printer began pounding away. True to her word,' Hope flashed a picture of the Cyclops lying at ancho
r in an unnamed port.

  Although her hull was slender with its old-fashioned straight-up-and-down bow and graceful champagne-glass stern, her superstructure had the look of a child's erector set gone wild. A maze of derricks, spiderwebbed by cables and laced by overhead supports, rose amidships like a dead forest. A long deckhouse ran along the aft part of the ship above the engine room, its roof festooned with towering twin smokestacks and several tall ventilators. Forward, the wheelhouse perched above the main deck like a vanity table on four legs, spotted with a single row of portholes and open beneath. Two high masts with a crossbar protruded from a bridge that could have passed for a football goalpost. She seemed ungainly, an ugly duckling that never made it to swan.

  There was also a ghostly quality about her. At first Pitt couldn't put his finger on it, and then it struck him-- oddly, no crew member was visible anywhere on her decks. It was if she were deserted.

  Pitt turned from the monitor and scanned the printout of the ship's statistics: Launched: 7 May 1910 by William Cramp & Sons Shipbuilders, Philadelphia Tonnage: 19,360 displaced

  Length: 542 feet (actually longer than the battleships of her time) Beam: 65 feet

  Draft: 27 feet 8 inches

  Speed: 15 knots (3 knots faster than the Liberty ships of World War II) Armament: Four 4-inch guns

  Crew: 246

  Master: G. W Worley, Naval Auxiliary Service

  Pitt noted that Worley was the Cyclops' captain from the time she was placed in service until she disappeared. He sat back, his mind drifting as he studied the picture of the ship.

  "Do you have any other photographs of her?" he asked Hope.

  "Three from the same angle, one stern shot, and four of the crew."

  "Let's have a look at the crew."

  The monitor went black for a moment and soon an image of a man, standing at a ship's railing and holding a little girl's hand, came into view.

  "Captain Worley with his daughter," explained Hope.

  A huge man with thinning hair, neatly trimmed moustache, and massive hands stood in a dark suit, necktie casually askew outside the jacket, shoes highly shined, staring into a camera that froze his image seventy-five years ago. The little blond girl at his side wore a knee-length jumper and a little hat, and gripped what looked to be a very rigid doll in the shape of a bottle.