Текст книги "Dragon"

Автор книги: Clive Cussler

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Текущая страница: 20 (всего у книги 31 страниц)

“I’m out of here,” Pitt spoke as he began jogging toward the forested area behind the resort compound.

And then he stiffened suddenly as a strange electronic voice called out, “Remain where you stand!”

Pitt and Giordino both reacted by darting behind the cover of heavy brush and the safety of the trees, crouching and swiftly moving from one to another, trying to distance themselves from the unknown pursuer. They’d only covered fifty meters when they abruptly met a high fence that was bristling with electrified wire and insulators.

“The shortest escape in history,” Pitt muttered dolefully. At that instant the explosives in the Ibises went off within five seconds of each other. Pitt couldn’t see, but he imagined the ugly indolent carp flying through the air.

He and Giordino turned to face the music, and although they’d been warned, they were not totally prepared for the three mechanical apparitions that emerged from the underbrush in a half circle, cutting off all avenues of escape. The trio of robots did not look like the semihuman figures out of television and motion pictures. These traveled on rubber tractor treads and showed no human qualities, except maybe speech.

The mobile automated vehicles were loaded with a jumbled assortment of articulated arms, video and thermal image cameras, speakers, computers, and a quad of automatic rifles pointed directly at Pitt and Giordino’s navels.

“Please do not move or we will kill you.”

“They don’t mince words, do they?” Giordino was frankly disbelieving.

Pitt studied the center robot and observed that it appeared to be operated under a sophisticated telepresence system by a controller at a distant location.

“We are programmed to recognize different languages and respond accordingly,” said the middle robot in a hollow voice, sounding surprisingly articulate. “You cannot escape without dying. Our guns are guided by your body heat.”

There was a brief uneasy silence as Pitt and Giordino briefly looked at each other with the looks of men committed to a job that was accomplished and they could do no more. Carefully, slowly, they raised their hands above their heads, aware that the gun muzzles pointing at them in the horizontal position never wavered.

“I do believe we’ve been cut off at the pass by a mechanical posse,” Pitt muttered softly.

“At least they don’t chew tobacco,” Giordino grunted.

Twelve guns in the front, an electrified fence at their backs, there was no way out. Pitt could only hope the robots’ controllers were wise enough to know he and Giordino presented no threat.

“Is this a good time to ask them to take us to their leader?” Giordino spoke through a grin that was cold as stone.

“I wouldn’t if I were you,” Pitt answered mildly. “They’re liable to shoot us for using a bad cliché.

45

NO ONE GAVE Stacy, Mancuso, and Weatherhill a second look as they penetrated the depths of Edo City with relative ease and precision. The Hollywood makeup expert Jordan flew to Tokyo did a masterful job of applying false folds to their eyes, realigning and darkening the eyebrows, and designing wigs of luxuriant thick black hair. Mancuso, because he spoke flawless Japanese, was dressed in a business suit and acted as boss to Stacy and Weatherhill, who wore the yellow jumpsuits of Suma’s engineering inspection teams.

Using data from Jim Hanamura’s report on the security procedures, along with identification cards and pass codes provided by a British deep-cover operative working in cooperation with Jordan, they smoothly passed through the checkpoints and finally reached the entrance to the tunnel. This was the tricky part of the operation. The human security guards and identity detection machines had not proven difficult to deceive, but according to Penner during their final briefing, the final barrier would be the toughest test.

A robotic sensory security system met them as they entered a totally featureless, glaringly lit white-painted room. The floor was empty of all furniture and the walls barren of signs or pictures. The door they entered from seemed to be the only entrance and exit.

“State your business,” the robot demanded in mechanical Japanese.

Mancuso hesitated. He was told to expect robot sentry machines, but not something that looked like a trash can on wheels that spouted orders. “Fiber optic communications section to modify and inspect system,” he complied, trying to hide his awkwardness at interacting with artificial intelligence.

“Your job order and pass code.”

“Emergency order forty-six-R for communications inspection and test program.” Then he brought his open hands together, touching the fingertips lightly, and repeated the word “sha” three times.

Mancuso could only hope the British operative had supplied them with the correct pass sign and code word and had programmed their genetic codes into the robotic security memories.

“In sequence, press your right hands against my sensing screen,” ordered the roboguard.

All three dutifully took turns placing their hands on a small blinking blue screen recessed in the barrel-round chest. The robot stood mute for a few moments, processing the data from its computer and comparing facial features and body size against the names and description in its memory disks—a remarkable advance, thought Weatherhill. He’d never seen a computer that could put into memory the data fed to it by a television camera and process the images in real time.

They stood composed and businesslike, knowing from their briefing the robot was programmed to spot the slightest measure of nervousness. They also kept their eyes trained on him. Wandering, avoiding eyes would have invited suspicion. Weatherhill managed a bored yawn while their genetic codes and finger and hand prints were matched up.

“Clearance confirmed,” the roboguard said at last. Then the entire wall at the opposite end of the barren room swung inward and he rolled aside. “You may enter. If you remain beyond twelve hours, you must notify security force number six.”

The British operative had come through. They had passed the obstacle with flying colors. They walked through the door into a carpeted passageway that led to the main tunnel. They exited onto a boarding platform as a buzzer sounded and red and white strobe lights flashed. A work train loaded with construction materials was pulling away from an expansive underground rail yard with the tracks converging at the main tunnel entrance that Mancuso judged was four meters in diameter.

After three eerie minutes of complete silence, an aluminum car with a glass bubble top that could seat ten people approached the platform on a single rail. The interior was empty, the controls unmanned. A door slid open with a slight hiss and they entered.

“A Maglev,” Weatherhill said quietly.

“A what?” Stacy asked.

“Maglev, for ‘magnetic levitation.’ It’s the concept based on the repulsion and attraction between two magnets. The interaction between powerful magnets mounted under the train with others lining a single rail raised in the center moves the cars on a field of electromagnetism. That’s why it’s usually referred to as a floating train.”

“The Japs have developed the most advanced system in the world,” Mancuso added. “Once they mastered the cooling of the on-board electromagnetic superconductors, they had a vehicle that literally flies inches above its track at aircraft speeds.”

The doors closed and the little car paused as its computerized sensors waited for the all-clear-ahead. A green light blinked on above the track, and they glided into the main tube soundlessly, picking up speed until the sodium vapor lamps embedded in the roof of the tunnel merged into an eye-dazzling yellow blur.

“How fast are we going?” Stacy wondered.

“A wild guess would be three hundred and twenty kilometers an hour,” Weatherhill replied.

Mancuso nodded. “At this rate the trip should only take about five minutes.”

It seemed the floating train had no sooner reached its cruising speed than it began to slow. With the smoothness of a skyscraper elevator, it slid to a quiet stop. They stepped out onto another deserted platform. Once they were clear, the car came about on a turntable, aligned itself on the opposite rail, and accelerated back to Edo City.

“The end of the line,” Mancuso said softly. He turned and led the way through the only door on the platform. It opened into another carpeted passageway that stretched thirty meters before ending at an elevator.

Inside, Weatherhill nodded at the Arabic numerals on the control buttons. “Up or down?”

“How many floors and which one are we on?” inquired Stacy.

“Twelve. We’re on two.”

“Hanamura’s sketches only indicated four,” said Mancuso.

“They must have been preliminary drawings that were altered later.”

Stacy stared at the lighted panel pensively. “So much for the hub and spoke layout.”

“Without exact directions to the computerized electronics section,” said Weatherhill, “we’ll have to scratch our original plan and go for the power generating station.”

“If we can find it before arousing suspicion,” complained Mancuso.

“It’s all we’ve got going. Tracing electrical wiring to the source will take less time than trying to stumble onto the control center.”

“Twelve floors of rooms and passageways,” murmured Stacy uneasily. “We could wander around lost for hours.”

“We’re here and we have no alternatives,” said Mancuso, glancing at his watch. “If Pitt and Giordino were successful in landing on the island’s surface and diverting Suma’s security systems, we should have time enough to plant the plastic and escape back through the tunnel to Edo City.”

Weatherhill looked at Stacy and Mancuso, then looked at the elevator panel. He knew exactly how they felt—nerves tense, minds alert, their bodies honed and ready to act. They had come this far and now it all depended on their decisions in the next few minutes. He punched the button marked 6.

“Might as well try the middle floor,” he said with practical logic.

Mancuso raised the briefcase that camouflaged two automatic weapons and clutched it under his arm. Immobile, he and Stacy and Weatherhill stood quietly in uneasy apprehension. A few seconds later there was an audible bong, the digital light for the sixth floor flashed, and the doors spread apart.

Mancuso went through with Stacy and Weatherhill at his heels. When he stopped dead after two steps, he hardly felt the others bump into him. They all stood and stared like village idiots on a space journey to Mars.

Everywhere inside a vast domed gallery there was a bustling purposeful confusion one would expect from an army of efficient assembly line workers, except there were no spoken orders or shouts or group conversations. All of the specialists, technicians, and engineers working on a great semicircle of computers and instrument consoles were robots in myriad different sizes and shapes.

They’d struck gold on the first try. Weatherhill had unwittingly pushed the floor button that took them directly to the electronic brains of Suma’s nuclear command center. There were no human helpers anywhere in the complex. The entire work force was totally automated and made up of sophisticated high-tech machines that worked twenty-four hours a day without coffee breaks, lunch, or sick leave. An operation inconceivable to an American union leader.

Most rolled on wheels, some on tractor treads. Some had as many as seven articulated arms sprouting like octopus tentacles from wheeled carts, a few could have passed as the familiar multipurpose units found in a dentist’s office. But none walked on legs and feet, or remotely resembled C3P0 from Star Wars or Robby from Forbidden Planet. The robots were immersed in their individual work programs and went about their business without taking notice of the human intruders.

“Do you get the feeling we’ve become obsolete?” whispered Stacy.

“Not good,” said Mancuso. “We’d better get back inside the elevator.”

Weatherhill shook his head. “Not a chance. This is the complex we came to destroy. These things don’t even know we’re here. They’re not programmed to interfere with humans. And there are no robotic security guards around. Pitt and Giordino must have saved our ass by distracting them. I say we send this automated anthill to the moon.”

“The elevator has moved on,” said Stacy, pressing the “down” button. “For the next minute we’ve got nowhere else to go.

Mancuso wasted no more time in discussion. He set the briefcase on the floor and began tearing the packets of C-8 plastic explosives attached by tape from around his lower legs. The rest did the same from under their jumpsuit uniforms.

“Stacy, the computer section. Tim, the nuclear bomb prime systems. I’ll tackle the communications gear.”

They had moved less than five steps toward their given targets when a voice boomed and echoed through the concrete walls of the chamber.

“Remain where you are! Do not move or you will surely die!” Perfect English, with barely a trace of a Japanese accent, and the voice cold, menacing.

The surprise was complete, but Mancuso bluffed it out, trying to find a target for the automatic weapons inside his briefcase.

“We are test engineers on an inspection and test program. Do you wish to see and hear our pass code?”

“All human engineers and inspectors along with their codes were discontinued when the fully autonomous vehicles could perform their programs without intervention and human supervision,” the disembodied voice rumbled.

“We were not aware of the change. We were instructed by our superior to inspect the fiber-optic communications,” Mancuso persisted as his hand pressed a button disguised as a cleat on the bottom of his briefcase.

And then the elevator door opened and Roy Orita stepped out onto the control center floor. He paused for a moment, his eyes staring with a certain respect at his former MAIT team members.

“Spare the bravado,” he said with a triumphant smile. “You’ve failed. Your covert operation to stop the Kaiten Project has failed, totally and absolutely. And you’re all going to die for it.”

Jordan and Sandecker shared a light breakfast with the President at the executive retreat at Camp David. They sat at a table in a small cottage in front of a crackling hickory log fire. Jordan and the admiral found the room uncomfortably warm, but the President seemed to enjoy the heat, sipping a cup of Southern chicory-flavored coffee while wearing an Irish wool knit sweater.

The President’s special assistant, Dale Nichols, came in from the kitchen with a glass of milk. “Don Kern is outside,” he reported, addressing Jordan.

“I believe he has an update on Soseki Island,” said Jordan.

The President gestured at Nichols. “By all means, send him in.” And as an afterthought, “Get him a cup of coffee and see if he’d like anything to eat.”

Kern only accepted the coffee and took a seat on a nearby sofa. The President stared expectantly at him, but Jordan gazed emptily into the fire.

“They’re in,” Kern announced.

“They’re in,” echoed the President. “Every one of them?”

Kern nodded. “All three.”

“Any problems?” asked Jordan.

“We don’t know. Before our British contact’s signal was mysteriously cut off, he said they’d made it safely through the tunnel.”

The President reached out and shook Jordan’s hand. “Congratulations, Ray.”

“A bit premature, Mr. President,” said Jordan. “They still have hurdles to clear. Penetrating the Dragon Center is only the first step in the plan.”

“What about my men?” demanded Sandecker testily.

“They signaled a safe landing,” answered Kern. “We have no reason to believe they were injured or harmed by Suma’s security guards.”

“So where do we go from here?” inquired the President.

“After placing their explosives and putting the Dragon Center temporarily out of commission, our people will attempt to effect a rescue of Congresswoman Smith and Senator Diaz. If all goes according to plan, we’ll have breathing space to nail Hideki Suma to the nearest cross and send in our military for a wholesale destruction operation.”

The President’s face took on a concerned look. “Is it possible for two men and a woman to accomplish all that in the next thirty-six hours?”

Jordan smiled tiredly. “Trust me, Mr. President, my people can walk through walls.”

“And Pitt and Giordino?” Sandecker pressured Kern.

“Once our people signal they’re ready, a submarine will surface and launch a Delta One team to evacuate them from the island. Pitt and Giordino will be brought out too.”

“Seems to me you’re taking an awful lot for granted,” said Sandecker.

Kern gave the admiral a confident smile. “We’ve analyzed and fine-tuned every phase of the operation until we’re certain it has a ninety-six-point-seven-percent chance of success.”

Sandecker shot Kern a withering stare. “Better make that a ninety-nine-point-nine percentage factor.”

Everyone looked at Sandecker questioningly. Then Kern said uncertainly, “I don’t follow you, Admiral.”

“You overlooked the capabilities of Pitt and Giordino,” Sandecker replied with a sharp edge to his voice. “It wouldn’t be the first time they bailed out a fancy intelligence agency carnival.”

Kern looked at him strangely, then turned to Jordan for help, but it was the President who answered.

“I think what Admiral Sandecker is referring to are the several occasions Mr. Pitt has saved the government’s ass. One in particular hits close to home.” The President paused for effect. “You see, it was Pitt who saved my life along with that of Congresswoman Smith four years ago in the Gulf.”

“I remember.” Jordan turned from the fire. “He used an old Mississippi River paddle steamer to do it.”

Kern refused to back down. He felt his reputation as the nation’s best intelligence planner was on the line. “Trust me, Mr. President. The escape and evacuation will go as planned without help from NUMA. We’ve taken into account every possible flaw, every contingency. Nothing but an unpredictable act of God can prevent us from pulling it off.”

46

IT WASN’T AN act of God that prevented Mancuso, Weatherhill, and Stacy from carrying through with Kern’s exacting plan. Nor were they lacking in skill and experience. They could and occasionally did open any bank vault in the world, escape from the tightest security prisons, and penetrate the KGB headquarters in Moscow or Fidel Castro’s private residence in Cuba. There wasn’t a lock built or a security system created that would take them more than ten minutes to circumvent. The unpredictability of attack dogs could present a troublesome obstacle, but they were expert in a variety of methods to leave snarling hounds either dead or docile.

Unfortunately their bag of well-practiced tricks did not include escaping from prison cells with no windows or with doors that could only be opened from the floor when the stainless steel ceiling and walls were lifted by a mechanical arm. And after being stripped of all weapons, their martial arts training was useless against sentry robots who felt no pain and whose computerized reaction time was faster than humans’.

Suma and Kamatori considered them extremely dangerous and confined them in separate cells that held only a Japanese tatami mat, a narrow hole in the floor for a toilet, and a speaker in the ceiling. No lights were installed, and they were forced to sit alone and totally enclosed in pitch darkness, void of all emotion, their minds seeking a direction, no matter how small or remote, toward escape.

Then came a bitter realization that the cells were escape-proof. Then numbed disbelief and chagrin that despite their almost superhuman skills there was no way out. They were absolutely and hopelessly trapped.

Positive identification of Pitt and Giordino was made by Roy Orita after studying videotapes of their capture. He immediately reported his revelation to Kamatori.

“Are you certain?”

“Yes, there is no doubt in my mind. I sat across a table from them in Washington. Your security intelligence staff will bear me out after a genetic code check.”

“What is their purpose? They are not professional agents.”

“They were simply diversionary decoys for the team given the assignment for destroying the control center.”

Kamatori couldn’t believe his luck in finding the man he’d been ordered to assassinate appear out of the blue into his own backyard.

He dismissed Orita and went into solitary meditation, his mind meticulously planning a cat-and-mouse game, a sport that would test his hunting skills against a man like Pitt, whose courage and resourcefulness were well known, and who would make a worthy competitor.

It was a contest Kamatori had played many times with men who had opposed Suma, and he had never lost.

Pitt and Giordino were heavily guarded around the clock by a small crew of sentry robots. Giordino even struck up a friendship of sorts with one of the robots who had captured them, calling it McGoon.

“My name is not McGoon,” it spoke in reasonable English. “My name is Murasaki. It means purple.”

“Purple,” Giordino snorted. “You’re painted yellow. McGoon fits you better.”

“After I became fully operational, I was consecrated by a Shinto priest with food offerings and flower garlands and given the name Murasaki. I am not operated by telepresence. I have my own intelligence and decision-making capability and can control appropriate operations.”

“So you’re an independent free agent,” said Giordino, astounded at speaking to a mechanism that could carry on a conversation.

“Not entirely. There are limits to my artificial thought processes, of course.”

Giordino turned to Pitt. “Is he putting me on?”

“I have no idea.” Pitt shrugged. “Why don’t you ask him what he’d do if we made a run for it.”

“I would alert my security operator and shoot to kill as I have been programmed,” the robot answered.

“Are you a good shot?” Pitt asked, intrigued with conversing with artificial intelligence.

“I am not programmed to miss.”

Giordino said succinctly, “Now we know where we stand.”

“You cannot flee the island and there is no place to hide. “You would only die by drowning, eaten by sharks, or be executed by beheading. Any escape attempt would be illogical.”

“He sounds like Mr. Spock.”

There was a knock from the outside, and a man with a permanently scowling face pushed the fusuma sliding door with its shoji paper panes to one side and came in. He stood silent as his eyes traveled from Giordino standing beside the robot to Pitt, who was comfortably reclining on a triple pile of tatami mats.

“I am Moro Kamatori, chief aide to Mr. Hideki Suma.”

“Al Giordino,” greeted the stocky Italian, smiling grandly and sticking out his hand like a used car salesman. “My friend in the horizontal position is Dirk Pitt. We’re sorry to drop in uninvited but—”

“We are quite knowledgeable of your names and how you came to be on Soseki Island,” Kamatori interrupted Giordino. “You can dispense with any attempt at denials, self-defeating tales of misdirection, or counterfeit excuses of innocence. I regret to inform you that your diversionary intrusion was a failure. Your three team members were apprehended shortly after they exited the tunnel from Edo City.”

There was a hushed quiet. Giordino gave Kamatori a dark look, then turned to Pitt expectantly.

Pitt’s face was quite composed. “You wouldn’t happen to have anything to read around here?” He spoke boredly. “Maybe a guide to the local restaurants.”

Kamatori looked at Pitt with pure antagonism in his eyes. After a lapse of nearly a minute he stepped forward until he was almost leaning over Pitt.

“Do you like to hunt game, Mr. Pitt?” he asked abruptly.

“Not really. It’s no sport if the prey can’t shoot back.”

“You abhor the sight of blood and death then?”

“Don’t most well-adjusted people?”

“Perhaps you prefer to identify with the hunted.”

“You know Americans,” Pitt said conversationally. “We’re suckers for the underdog.”

Kamatori stared at Pitt murderously. Then he shrugged. “Mr. Suma has honored you with an invitation for dinner. You will be escorted to the dining room at seven o’clock. Kimonos can be found in the closet. Please dress appropriately.” Then he spun about briskly and strode from the room.

Giordino stared after him curiously. “What was all that doubletalk about hunting?”

Pitt closed his eyes in preparation to doze. “I do believe he intends to hunt us down like rabbits and lop off our heads.”

It was the kind of dining room the most palatial castles of Europe still have to entertain royal and celebrity guests. It was of vast proportions, with an open heavy-beamed ceiling twelve meters high. The floor was covered by a bamboo carpet interwoven with red silk, and the walls were paneled in highly polished rosewood.

Authentic paintings by Japanese masters hung precisely spaced as though each was in harmony with the other. The room was lit entirely with candles inside paper lanterns.

Loren had never seen anything to match its beauty. She stood like a statue as she admired the startling effect. Mike Diaz walked around her. He also came to a halt as he gazed about the richly adorned walls.

The only thing that seemed oddly out of place, that was not distinctly Japanese, was the long ceramic dining table that curled halfway across the room in a series of curves and appeared to have been fired in one giant piece. The matching chairs and place settings were spaced so that guests were not elbow-to-elbow but sitting partially in front of or in back of one another.

Toshie, dressed in a traditional blue silk kimono, came forward and bowed. “Mr. Suma begs your forgiveness for being late, but he will join you shortly. While you wait, may I fix you a drink?”

“You speak very good English,” Loren complimented her.

“I can also converse in French, Spanish, German, and Russian,” Toshie said with eyes lowered as if embarrassed to tout her knowledge.

Loren wore one of several kimonos she found in the closet of her guarded cottage. It beautifully draped her tall lithe body, and the silk was dyed a deep burgundy that complemented the light bronze of her fading summer tan. She smiled warmly at Toshie and said, “I envy you. I can barely order a meal in French.”

“So we’re to meet the great yellow peril at last,” muttered Diaz. He was in no mood to be polite and went out of his way to be rude. As a symbol of his defiance he had refused the offered Japanese-style clothing and stood in the rumpled fishing togs he wore when abducted. “Now maybe we’ll find out what crazy scheme is going on around here.”

“Can you mix a Maiden’s Blush?” Loren asked Toshie.

“Yes,” Toshie acknowledged. “Gin, curacao, grenadine, and lemon juice.” She turned to Diaz. “Senator?”

“Nothing,” he said flatly. “I want to keep my mind straight.”

Loren saw that the table was set for six. “Who will be joining us besides Mr. Suma?” she asked Toshie.

“Mr. Suma’s right-hand man, Mr. Kamatori, and two Americans.

“Fellow hostages, no doubt,” muttered Diaz.

Toshie did not answer but stepped lightly behind a polished ebony bar inlaid with gold tile and began mixing Loren’s drink.

Diaz moved over to one wall and studied a large painting of a narrative scene drawn in ink that showed a bird’s-eye view onto several houses in a village, revealing the people and their daily lives inside. “I wonder what something like this is worth?”

“Six million Yankee dollars.”

It was a quiet Japanese voice in halting English with a trace of a British accent, courtesy of a British tutor.

Loren and Diaz turned and looked at Hideki Suma with no small feeling of nervousness. They identified him immediately from pictures in hundreds of magazine and newspaper articles.

Suma moved slowly into the cavernous room, followed by Kamatori. He stared at them benignly for a few moments with a slight inscrutable smile on his lips. ” ‘The Legend of Prince Genji,’ painted by Toyama in fourteen eighty-five. You have excellent commercial taste, Senator Diaz. You chose to admire the most expensive piece of art in the room.”

Because of Suma’s awesome reputation, Loren expected a giant of a man. Not, most certainly, a man who was slightly shorter than she.

He approached, gave a brief bow to both of them, and shook hands. “Hideki Suma.” His hands were soft but the grip firm. “And I believe you’ve met my chief aide, Moro Kamatori.”

“Our jailer,” Diaz replied acidly.

“A rather disgusting individual,” said Loren.

“But most efficient,” Suma came back with a sardonic inflection. He turned to Kamatori. “We seem to be missing two of our guests.”

Suma had no sooner spoken when he felt a movement behind him. He looked over his shoulder. Pitt and Giordino were being hustled through the dining-room entrance by two security robots. They were still clad in their flying suits, both with huge garish neckties knotted around their necks that were obviously cut from the sashes of kimonos they’d declined to wear.

“They do not show respect for you,” Kamatori growled. He made a move toward them, but Suma held out a hand and stopped him.

“Dirk!” Loren gasped. “Al!” She rushed over and literally leaped into Pitt’s arms, kissing him madly over his face. “Oh, God, I’ve never been so happy to see anyone.” Then she hugged and kissed Giordino. “Where did you come from? How did you get here?”

“We flew in from a cruise ship,” Pitt said cheerfully, hugging Loren like the father of a kidnapped child who had been returned. “We heard this place was a four-star establishment and thought we’d drop in for some golf and tennis.”

Giordino grinned. “Is it true the aerobics instructors are built like goddesses?”

“You crazy nuts,” she blurted happily.

“Well, Mr. Pitt, Mr. Giordino,” said Suma. “I’m delighted to meet the men who have created an international legend through their underwater exploits.”

“We’re hardly the stuff legends are made of,” Pitt said modestly.

“I am Hideki Suma. Welcome to Soseki Island.”

“I can’t say I’m thrilled to meet you, Mr. Suma. It’s difficult not to admire your entrepreneurial talents, but your methods of operation fall somewhere between Al Capone and Freddie from Elm Street.”

Suma was not used to insults. He paused, staring at Pitt in puzzled suspicion.