Текст книги "Iceberg"

Автор книги: Clive Cussler

Соавторы: Clive Cussler
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He crouched on one knee, fighting to catch his breath, waiting for his heart to slow down to a reasonably nominal rate and scanned the make-believe set, his eyes trying desperately to pierce the darkness beyond the flaming half light. The bridge was empty, the third pirate was gone, and the boat was just disappearing around a curve into the next gallery. He turned in the opposite direction just in time to see another sightseeing boat approaching up the canal.

All these things he noted mechanically, without consciously classifying their significance. All he could think of was that a killer was somewhere close by, disguised as one of the pirates. He felt helpless, the mannequins all began to look alike, and the action on the bridge had happened with such speed that he hadn't been able to perceive any details of the man's costume.

Almost frantically, he tried to plan the next step.

There was no more chance in the world for surprise on his part-the human pirate knew what Pitt looked like, while he was helpless to detect the real from the fake and had now lost the opportunity to move first. Even as these thoughts flashed through Pitts mind, he knew he must act.

A second later, he was half running, half stumbling along the quay, gasping at every step as waves of pain shot through every tendon of his body. He burst through a black curtain and into the next stage set. It had a huge domed chamber dimly lit for a nighttime scene.

Built into the far wall, a scaled-down version of a pirate's corsair ship, complete with dummy crew and Jolly Roger rippling in a breeze urged on by a hidden electric fan, fired stimulated broadsides from replica cannon across fifty feet of water and over the heads of the people in the excursion boat at a miniature fortress sitting high atop a jagged cliff on the opposite side of the cavernous chamber.

It was too dark to make out any details on the excursion boat. Pitt could detect no movement at the stern and he felt certain that Kippmann and Lazard had everything under their command. Everything, that is, that was within their reach. As his eye, began to penetrate the heavy darkness, of the simulated nighttime harbor between the ship and the fortress, he saw that the bodies in the boat were all huddled below the sides of the hull.

He was about halfway up the maintenance ramp to the deck of the corsair ship when he knew why, when he heard a strange sound, the almost silent thump of a gun with a silencer. And then suddenly he was standing in back of a form in a pirate costume who was holding something in his hand and pointing it at the little boat in the water.

Pitt looked at him curiously, with only a detached sort of interest. He raised the cutlass and brought the flat side of the blade down on the pirate's wrist.

The gun dropped from the man's wristover the railing and into the water below. The pirate swung around, the white hair falling from under a scarlet bandanna that was knotted around his head, the cold blue-gray eyes flashing with anger and frustration, the lines about the mouth deeply etched. He searched the comical figure that had so coolly killed two of his comrades. His voice was hard and metallic.

"It seems I am your prisoner."

Pitt wasn't fooled for an instant. The words were only a stall, a curtain to shield the lighg move that would surely come. The man behind the voice was dangerous and he was playing for high stakes. But Pitt had more than an edged weapon-he had a newly found strength that was suddenly coursing through his body like a gathering tidal wave. He began to smile.

"Ah-so it is you, Oskar."

Pitt paused significantly, watching Rondheim like a cat. Holding Hermit Limited's chief executioner on the end of the cutlass. Pitt pulled off the rubber wolf's head. Rondheim's face was still set and hard, but the eyes betrayed total incomprehension. Pitt dropped the mask, bracing himself for the moment he had planned for but never really believed would happen. Slowly, he unwrapped the bandages with one hand, letting the gauze fall to the deck in little unraveled piles, building the suspense. When he finished, he gazed steadily at Rondheim and stood back. Rondheim's lips began to work in a half-formed question and dazed expression spread across his features.

"Sorry you can't recall the face, Oskar," Pitt said quietly. "But you didn't leave a great deal to recognize.

Rondheim stared at the swollen eyes, the bruised and puffed lips, the sutures that laced the cheekbones and eyebrows, and then his mouth fell open and in a whisper he breathed, "Pitt!"

Pitt nodded.

"It's not possible," Rondheim gasped.

Pitt laughed. "I apologize for ruining your day, but it just goes to prove that you can't always trust a computer."

Rondheim looked at Pitt long and searchingly.

"And the others?"

"With one exception, they're all alive and mending the broken bones you so generously dispensed." Pitt focused his gaze beyond Rondheim's shoulder and saw that the excursion boat was safely entering the next gallery.

"Then it's back to you and me again, Major. Under conditions more favorable to you than those I enjoyed in the gym. But don't get your hopes up." A sort of smile twisted the tight lips. "fairies are no match for men."

"I agree," Pitt returned. He hurled the cutlass over Rondheim's head into the water and stood back. He looked down and examined his hands. They would have to do the job. He took several slow deep breaths, ran his hands through his wet hair, rubbed them roughly on the sides of his costume and then gave a final flex to his fingers. He was ready.

"I misled you, Oskar. Round one was an unequal contest. You had the numbers, the planning and the initiative from the beginning. How are you alone, Oskar, without your paid help to prop your victims? How are you when you're on strange ground? You still have time to escape. Nothing stands between you and a chance for freedom except me.

But there's the rub, Oskar. You have to get by me."

Rondheim's teeth showed. "I don't need anyone to break you, Pitt.

My only regret is that I don't have the time to stretch out your next lesson in pain."

"Okay, Oskar, so much for the psychological bullshit," Pitt said calmly. He knew exactly what he was going to do. True, he was still weak and dead tired, but that was more than canceled out by the selfdetermination, the invisible figures of Lillie, Tidi, Sam Kelly, Hunnewell and the rest who stood at his side giving him strength he could have never possessed alone.

An uncertain smile came to Rondheim's mouth as he crouched in a karate stance. The smile didn't last.

Pitt hit him. He hit Rondheim with a right cross, a perfectly timed punch that jerked Rondheim's head sideways and staggered him into the ship's main mast.

Deep down Pitt had known that he had little chance of taking Rondheim in a prolonged fight, that he couldn't hold the other man off for more than a few minutes, but he had schemed and timed for the element of surprise, the one advantage that played on his side before the karate blows could lash his face again. As it turned out, the advantage was a small one.

Rondheim was incredibly tough; he had taken a hard blow, yet he was already recovering. He sprang from the mast and threw a kick to Pitts head, missing by a scant inch as Pitt ducked easily away. The ill timing cost him. Pitt caught Rondheim with a series of left jabs and another short, hard right that sent him to his knees on the deck, holding a hand to a broken, bleeding nose.

"You've improved," Rondheim whispered through the streaming blood.

"I said I misled you." Pitt was hanging back tensed in a half boxing, half judo position, waiting for Rondheim's next move. "In reality, I'm about as queer as Carzo Butera."

With the sound of his true name, Rondheim could see death's fingers reaching out to touch him, but he kept his voice under iron control, his bleeding face an expressionless mask. "It seems I underestimated you, Major."

"You were an easy man to lead astray, Oskar, or should I call you by the name on your birth certificate?

No matter, your run has played out."

Mouthing a string of curses through blood-speck lips, his face now frozen in insane hate, Rondheim flung himself at Pitt. He hadn't taken a second step when Pitt brought an uppercut from the deck and rammed it as solidly as a sledgehammer into Rondheim's teeth. Pitt had given it everything he had, thrown his shoulder and body into it with such force that his ribs screamed in agony and he knew even as he did it that he could never marshal the strength to do it again.

There came a dull squish sound, mingled with a muffled cracking noise. Rondheim's teeth were jerked from their sockets and imbedded in torn lips as Pitts wrist snapped. For two or three seconds Rondheim seemed to straighten and stand there poised like a frame frozen in a movie projector, then, with the unbelievably slow, irrevocable finality of a falling tree, he crumbled to the deck and lay still.

Pitt stood and panted through clenched teeth, his right wrist hanging – limply at his side. He stared up at the little lights flashing from the make-believe cannon on the fortress and then he noticed that the next excursion boat was passing through the chamber. He blinked his eyes to focus more clearly and the sweat ran into them and stung. There was something he had to do. At first the thought repulsed him, but he shook it aside, determined that there could be no other way.

He stepped over the sprawling legs of the unconscious man and bent down, propping one of Rondheim's arms against the deck and the bottom base of the railing. Then, riisin,g one of his feet, he stomped on it, shuddering inwardly as the bone broke a few inches below the elbow.

Rondheim stirred sluggishly and moaned.

"That's for Jerome Lillie," Pitt said, his voice bitter.

He repeated the process with Rondheim's other arm, noting with grim satisfaction that his victim's eyes had opened and were staring vacantly, pupils enlarged, in a glassy state of physical shock.

"Score that one ior Tidi Royal."

Pitt moved automatically as he turned Rondheim's body so that the legs were pointing in the opposite direction, propped as the arms had been on the deck and trained The thinking, emotional part of Pitts mind was C, no longer part of his brain. It floated outside its cranial vault, keeping enouph contact to pull the strings that made the hands and feet work. Inside the bruised, cut, and in some places. deserted shelter, the machine was quietly, smoothly ticking over. The deadly exhaustion and pain were pushed into the background, forgotten for the moment until his mind regained full control.

There. he jumped on Rondheim's left leg.

"Mark that up for Sam Kelly."

Rondheim screamed a scream that died in his throat. The glazed blue-gray eyes stared upward intg Pitts. "Kill me," he whispered. "why don't you kill me?"

"If you lived for a thousand years," Pitt said grimly, "you could never make up for all the pain and misery you've caused. I want you to know what it's like, feel the agony as your bones part, the helplessness of lying there and watching it happen. I should break your spine like you did Lillie's; watch you rot your life away in a wheelchair. But that would be wishful Thinking, Oskar. Your trial might last a few weeks, even months, but there isn't a jury in the world that won't hand you a death sentence without leaving the box. No, I'd be doing you a favor by killing you, and that would never do. This one is for Willie Hunnewell."

There was no grin on Pitts face, no gleam of anticipation in the deep green eyes. He leaped for the fourth and final time and the hoarse, horrible scream of pain rolled over the ship's decks, echoed through the chamber, then slowly faded and died.

With a feeling of emptiness, almost sadness, Pitt sat there on a hatch cover and stared down at the broken figure of Rondheim. It wasn't a pretty sight. The fury within him had found its outlet and now he felt totally drained as he waited for his lungs and heart to slow back to normal.

He was sitting there like that when Kippmann and Lazard came charging across the deck, followed by a small army of security men. They said nothing. there was nothing they could say, at least not for a full sixty seconds, not until the full significance of what Pitt had done became clear to them.

Finally Kippmann broke the silence. "A little rough on him, weren't you?"

"He's Oskar Rondheim," Pitt said vaguely.

Are you sure?"

"I seldom forget a face," Pitt said. "Especially when it belongs to a man who kicked the hell out of me."

Lazard tur-led to look at him. His lips twisted in a wry smile. "What was it I said about you hardly being in shape for hand-to-hand combat?"

"Sorry I couldn't get to Rondheim before he started popping away with his silencer," Pitt said. "Did he hit anyone?"

"Castile was nicked in the arm," Lazard said.

"After we cold-cocked those two clowns in the stern seat, I turned and saw you playing Errol Flynn on the bridge. I knew then we weren't out of the woods yet, so I threw myself over the family up front and forced them to the bottom of the boat."

"Likewise with our visitors from Latin America."

Kippmann smiled and rubbed a bruise on his forehead.

"They thought I was crazy and gave me a rough go for a minute."

"What happens to Kelly and Hermit Limited?" Pitt asked.

"We'll arrest Mr. Kelly along with his internationally wealthy partners, of course, but the chances of convicting men of their stature are almost impossible. I should imagine the governments involved will hurt them where it hurts them most-in the pocketbook. The fines they'll probably have to pay should build the Navy a new aircraft carrier."

"That's a small price to pay for the suffering they've caused," Pitt said wearily.

"None the less, it is a price," Kippmann murmured.

"Yes… yes, it is that. Thank God they were stopped."

Kippmann nodded to Pitt. "We have you to thank, Major Pitt, for blowing the whistle on Hermit Limited."

Lazard smbed suddenly. "And I'd like to be the first to express my gratitude for your Horatius-at-the-bridge act. Kippmann and I couldn't be standing here now if you hadn't taken the cue when you did." He put his hand on Pitts shoulder. "Tell me something. I'm curious."

"About what?"

"How did you know those pirates on the bridge were real flesh and blood?"

"As the man once said," Pitt said casually, "there we were just sitting on the bridge eyeball to eyeball… and I could swear I saw the other guys blink."

Epilogue

It was a pleasant Southern California evening. The day's smog had cleared away and a cool breeze from the west carried the strong, clean smell of the Pacific Ocean through the center garden of the Disneyland Hotel, soothing the soreness of Pitts injuries and tranquilizing his mind for the task ahead. He stood silent, waiting for the glass-enclosed elevator to descend along the exterior of the building.

The elevator hummed and stopped and the doors slid open. He scratched an imaginary itch in his eye and lowered his head, shielding his face as a young man and woman, arm in arm, laughing gaily to themselves, stepped past him without noticing his worse-for-wear features or the arm enclosed in a plaster cast and supported by a black cloth sling.

He entered and pushed the button marked six. The elevator rose swiftly, and he turned and looked through the windows at the skyline of Orange County. He took a deep breath and slowly exhaled, watching the sparkling carpet of lights spread and widen toward the dark horizon as the first three floors slid by. The lights blinked in the crystal air, reminding him of a jewel box.

It hardly seemed like two hours since the park doctor had set his wrist and Pitt had showered and shaved and eaten his first solid meal since leaving Iceland.

The doctor was quite definite that he go to a hospital but Pitt wouldn't hear of it.

The doctor had said sternly, "You're a fool, you're damn near dead on your feet. You should have given up and collapsed hours ago. If you don't get your butt between the sheets of a hospital bed, you're going to experience a first-class breakdown."

"Thanks," Pitt had said shortly. "I'm grateful for your professional concern, but there's one more act to play out. Two hours-no more-then I'll dedicate what's left of my body to medical science."

The elevator slowed and stopped, the door opened and Pitt stepped onto the soft red carpet of the sixth floor foyer. He abruptly halted in midstep to keep from colliding with three men who were waiting to go down.

Two of the men he took to be Kippmann's agents. Of the third man, the one slumped head downward in the middle, there was no doubt, it was F. James Kelly.

Pitt stood there blocking their way. Kelly slowly lifted his head and stared at Pitt vacantly, unrecognizing. Finally Pitt broke the uneasy silence.

"I'm almost sorry your grand scheme failed, Kelly.

"In theory, it was glorious. In execution, it was impossible."

Kelly's eyes widened by slow degrees and the color drained from his face. "My God… is that you, Major Pitt? But no… you're…"

"Supposed to be dead?" Pitt finished, as if it no longer mattered too much except to himself.

"Oskar swore he killed you."

"I managed to leave the party early," Pitt said coldly.

Kelly shook his head back and forth. "Now I understand why my plan failed. It seems, Major, that fate cast you in the role of my avenging nemesis."

"Purely a matter of my being at the wrong place at the wrong time."

Kelly smiled thinly and nodded to the two agents. The three of them entered the waiting elevator.

Pitt stood aside, then suddenly said, "Sam left you a message."

Kelly took seconds to recover. "Is Sam-"

"Sam died out on the tundra," Pitt finished. "Near the end he wanted you to know he forgave you."

"Oh, God… oh, Cod," Kelly moan in agony, his fingers covering his eyes. For many years afterward, Pitt carried the mental picture of Kelly's face just before the elevator door closed– The stricken lines, the dull, lifeless eyes, the ashen skin. It was the face of a man who looked as if he was strangling.

Pitt tried the door with the numerals 605. It was locked. He walked to the door of 607 and twisted the knob. It opened. He quietly stepped over the threshold and eased the door closed. The, room was cool and dark. The smell of stale cigar butts invaded his nostrils before he passed through the entry hall. The odor was all he needed to know it was Rondheim's room.

Moonlight filtered through the drapes, casting long shapeless shadows as he searched through the bedroom, nothing but Rondheim's clothes and luggage was undisturbed. Kippmann had kept his word. His men had been careful not to alert Kirsti Fyrie or give her the slightest warning of Rondheim's fate or the sudden demise of Hermit Limited.

He moved toward a shaft of yellow light that split the half-open door to the adjoining room. He entered, treading softly, noiselessly like a night animal ready to spring. It could hardly be called a room, a plush suite would have been a fairer description. it consisted of a hall, a living room with an amply stocked bar, a bathroom and a bedroom, edged on one side by a large sliding glass door that led to a small balcony.

All the rooms were empty except the bathroom; the sound Of running water told him that Kirsti was in the shower. Pitt walked over to the bar, casually poured himself a scotch on the rocks and just as casually eased into a long comfortable sofa. Twenty minutes and two drinks later, Kirsti emerged from the bathroom. She was wearing a green silk kimono, loosely sashed at the waist. Her golden hair danced around her head like a silver-colored halo. She looked incredibly fresh and lovely.

She walked through the bedroom into the living room and was in the midst of mixing herself a drink when she saw Pitts reflection in the mirror behind the bar. She stood there as if suddenly struck by paralysis, very pale, with an expression of uncertainty on her face.

"I suppose," Pitt said quietly, "the appropriate thing for a gentleman to say when a beautiful woman leaves her bath is, Behold, Venus arises from the waves."

She turned and the look of uncertainty slowly turned to one of curiosity. "Do I know you?"

"We've met."

She clutched the edge of the bar, silent, her eyes searching him. "Dirk!" she whispered softly. "It's you. It's really you. Thank God, you're still alive."

"Your concern for my welfare comes a little late."

They stared at each other, green eyes locked on violet.

"Elsa Koch, Bonny Parker and Lucretia Borgia," he said, "all could have taken lessons from you on how to kill friends and influence enemies."

"I had to do what I've done," she said faintly' "But I swear to you I have killed no one. I was unwillingly pulled into the vortex by Oskar. I never dreamed that his association with Kelly would lead to death for so many."

"You say you've killed no one."

"Yes.

"You're lying."

She gazed at him oddly. "What are you talking about?"

"You killed Kristjan Fyrie!"

She looked at him now as if he'd gone mad. Her lips were trembling, and her eyes-those lovely violet eyes-were dark with fear.

"You can't mean what you're saying," she gasped.

"Kristjan died on the Lax; he was burned… burned to death."

The time had come, Pitt told himself, to settle the account, balance the entries, tally the final score. He leaned forward.

"Kristjan Fyrie didn't die a fiery death on a ship in the North Atlantic-he died under a surgeon's scalpel on an operating table in Veracruz, Mexico."

Pitt let it sink in. He took a couple of sips of his drink and lit a cigarette. The words were not easy for him. He watched her without speaking.

Kirsti's mouth had fallen open. She closed it quickly and numbly searched for something to say. She was on the verge of tears that would never come. Then she lowered her head and covered her face with her hands.

"I have it on good authority," Pitt continued. "The operation took place at the Sau de Sol Hospital and the surgeon was a Dr. Jesus Ybarra."

She looked up with an expression of agony. "Then you know everything."

"Almost. There are still a couple of loose ends."

"Why do you torture me by beating around the bush? Why don't you come out and say it."

Pitt spoke calmly. "Say what? That you're really Kristjan Fyrie?

That there never was a sister. That Kristjan died at the exact moment you were born?" He shook his head. "What difference would it make? As Kristjan you weren't willing to accept the sex your body had given you so you undertook sex conversion surgery and became Kirsti. You came into this world a transsexual. Your genes crossed you up. You weren't satisfied with the hand nature dealt you so you made a change.

What more is there?"

She came from behind the bar and leaned against the leather-padded surface. "You can never know, Dirk. You can never know what it is to lead a frustrating and complicated existence, playing the strong, virile male adventurer on the outside while inside you are a woman longing to be free."

"So you escaped the shell," Pitt said. "Slipped away to Mexico to a surgeon who specializes in conversions. You took hormone injections and silicone implants for your… ah… chest. Then you soaked up the sun on a Veracruz beach, getting a tan while your incision healed. Later, at the appropriate time, you showed up in Iceland claiming to be your long-lost sister from New Guinea.

"What astonishing confidence you must have had to think you could get away with it," Pitt continued.

"I've met a few slick operators in my short life span, but by God, Kirsti, or Kristjan, or whoever, you've got to be the shrewdest bastard… or rather, bitch that ever came down the pike. You took everyone. You conned Admiral Sandecker into thinking you were going to turn the undersea probe over to our government. You faked a thousand men and their ships and aircraft into a wild-goose chase, searching for a ship that was never missing. You beguiled Dr. Hunnewell, an old friend, into identifying a charred body as your own. You used Fyrie Limited's personnel-and they died carrying out your orders. You used Rondheim.

You used Kelly. And you even tried to use me in the hope I might erase Oskar. Too bad the bubble had to burst. The first step to all frauds is to cheat oneself. At that you were a raving success."

Kirsti had moved slowly around to a small traveling case on an end table, lifted out a tiny Colt twenty-five automatic and leveled it on Pitts chest. "Your accusations are not nearly as neat and organized as you think. You're groping, Dirk; you're groping in the dark like a blind man."

Pitt glanced at the gun and then nonchalantly turned away and ignored it. "Suppose you show me the light."

She looked uncertainly at Pitt, but she still held the gun as steady as a statue. "I had every intention of turning the undersea probe over to your country. My original plan was to put my scientists and engineers on board the Lax and send them to Washington for the presentation ceremonies. Then on the voyage across the North Atlantic, Kristjan Fyrie was to have been lost overboard."

"In the meantime, you had flown to Mexico for the operation."

"Yes," Kirsti answered softly. "But the totally unexpected, and unforeseen coincidence, spelled disaster to the new life I had so carefully planned. Dr. Jesus Ybarra was a memberof Hermit Limited.)) 9$ "So he blew the whistle and informed Rondheim.

Kirsti nodded, "From that moment on I was Oskar's slave. He threatened to expose my transition to the world if I didn't turn my business resources over to him and Kelly. I had no choice. If my secret had become known, the resulting scandal would have wrecked Fyn'e Limited and shattered the economy of my country."

"Why the masquerade with the Lax?"

"Now that Oskar and Kelly controlled me, they were not about to let the sea probe out of their hands.

So they created a fraudulent story about the Lax's disappearance. You must admit, it was an efficient situation. To the world the sea probe was lost on the bottom of the sea."

"And so was Kristjan Fyrie."

"Yes, it also served my purpose."

"That doesn't explain the alteration to the Lax's Superstructure," Pitt persisted. ")"y wasn't the sea probe simply removed and installed on another ship?" For the first time she smiled. "The sea probe is a complicated piece of equipment. A ship must literally be designed around it, To have taken it from the Lax and reinstalled it in a nondescript fishing trawler would have taken months. While everyone was searching for her, the Lax was secretly being face-lifted in a cove on the eastern coast of Greenland."

"And Dr. Hunnewell, how did he figure in the picture?"

"He worked with me in developing the probe."

"I know, but why you? Why not with someone in his own country?"

She looked at him and studied his face for a long moment. "I paid for the research and development with no strings attached. The technological corporations 'm the United States wanted to tie up his services and all his experimental results. Dr. Hunnewell despised doing anything that reeked of commercial profit."

"Yet he became associated with Kelly and Hermit Limited."

"When the Lax was prospecting the sea floor off Greenland, the probe malfunctioned. Dr. Hunnewell was the only one with the technical knowledge to suggest a quick repair. Kelly flew him there from California. A very persuasive talker, that F. James Kelly. He sold Dr. Hunnewell on jog Hermit Limited to save the world. The doctor couldn't resist. He was always what you Americans call a do-gooder." A pained expression crossed Kirsti's face. "He came to regret his decision, and he died for it."

"That explains the fire on the ship," Pitt said thoughtfully. "You underestimated Dr. Hunnewell. He didn't fall under the spell of Kelly. He saw through the whole dirty scheme. He didn't like what he saw on the Lax-Rondheim's crew holding your scientists prisoners. It's even likely your people on the ship slipped him the facts on Dr. Matajic's and his assistant's deaths.

Hunnewell knew then he had to do something to stop Kelly so he wired the probe, timing it to self-destruct after he was in the air and on his way back to the States. Only he made a mistake. Something even he didn't understand about the reactive elements of celtinium caused it to ignite and not only destroy the probe but the entire ship and the crew as well. I was there when he set foot on the Lax again. I saw the stunned expression on his face when he realized what he'd done."

"It was my fault," Kirsti said shakuy. "I am to blame. I should have never divulged Dr. Hunnewell's name to Oskar and Kelly."

"Kelly guessed what had happened and ordered Rondheim to silence Hunnewell."

"He was my oldest friend," Kirsti moaned softly.

"And I signed his death warrant."

"Did he know about you?"

"No, Oskar simply told him I was in the hospital recuperating from another illness."

"He was a better friend than you knew," Pitt said.

"He falsely identified a body on the Lax as yours. Dr. Hunnewell did it so that Kristjan Fyrie he knew wouldn't be implicated when he went to the authorities and spilled the damning facts about Hermit Limited. Unfortunately, evil triumphed over good. Rondheim got to him first." Pitt shook his head sadly and sighed. "Then enter Dirk Pitt, stage left."

Kirsti shivered visibly. "that's why I insisted on meeting you. I had to express my gratitude for your attempt to save his life. I am still in your debt."

Pitt rolled the cool glass over his forehead. "Too late; it makes little difference now," he said wearily.

"It does to me. That's why I saved you from being beaten to pieces by Oskar." Her voice began to tremble.

"But I… I can't save you a second time. I must protect myself, Dirk. I am sorry. Please do not move and make me pull the trigger. You must wait until Oskar arrives."

Pitt shook his head again. "Don't look for Oskar to come bounding in here to rescue you. At this moment, your ex-slavemaster is lying unconscious, encased in half a ton of plaster in a hospital bed. Surrounded, I might add, by a bevy of National Intelligence agents.