Clive Cussler dp-6 Read online

  "How so?"

  "As soon as word gets around that I was seen kissing a sailor, I'm through."

  "You clown." She pulled his head down and kissed him long and hard. Finally she released him and blinked back the tears. "Goodbye, Dirk Pitt."

  "Goodbye, Heidi Milligan."

  She picked up her bags and walked toward the boarding ramp. Then she paused as though remembering something and returned. Fishing in her purse, she pulled out an envelope and pushed it into his hand.

  "Listen! Read these papers," she said urgently. "They explain what's been sidetracking me. And…... Dirk…... There may be something here. Something important. See what you think. If you feel it's worth pursuing, call me in San Diego." Before Pitt could reply, she had turned and was gone.

  They say that after death, there is no more idyllic setting in which to await eternity than the graveyard of an English village. Nestled about the parish church in timeless tranquillity, the headstones stand moss-covered and mute, their carved names and dates eroded and seldom readable farther back than the nineteenth century.

  Outside of London, in the tucked-away village of Manuden, a solitary bell tolled for a funeral. It was a chilly but beautiful day, the sun skirting rolling masses of pearl-tinted clouds.

  Fifty or sixty people clustered about a flag-draped military coffin as the local vicar delivered the eulogy.

  A regal- looking woman in her early sixties heard none of it. Her attention was focused on a man who stood alone, several paces away from the outer edge of the mourners.

  He must be sixty-six, she thought. His black, carelessly brushed hair was sprinkled with gray and had receded slightly. The face was still handsome, but the ruthless look had softened. With a slight tinge of envy she noted that he maintained a trim and fit shape, while she had tended to spread. His eyes were aimed at the church steeple, his thoughts distant.

  Only after the coffin was lowered into the ground and the crowd had dispersed did he step forward and stare into the grave as though piercing a window to the past.

  "The years have treated you well," she said, coming up behind him.

  He turned and recognized her presence for the first time. Then he smiled the old engaging smile she recalled so well and kissed her on the cheek.

  "How incredibly, you look even more sensuous than I remembered."

  "You haven't changed," she laughed, self-consciously patting her gray hair with its few remaining sandy strands. "The same old flatterer."

  "How long has it been?"

  "You left the service twenty-five years ago."

  "God, it seems two centuries at least."

  "Your name is Brian Shaw now."

  "Yes." Shaw nodded at the coffin waiting for the diggers to cover it. "He insisted I take a new identity when I retired."

  "A wise move. You had more enemies than Attila the Hun. The SMERSH agent who assassinated you would have become a Soviet hero."

  "No need to worry any longer." He smiled. "I doubt if my old adversaries are still alive. Besides, I'm an old has-been. My head isn't worth the price of a liter of petrol."

  "You never married." It was a statement, not a question.

  He shook his head. "Only briefly, but she was killed. You remember."

  She flushed slightly. "I guess I never really accepted you as having a wife."

  "And you?"

  "A year after you left. My husband worked in the cryptographic analysis section. His name is Graham Huston. We live in London and manage nicely with our pensions and the profits of an antique shop."

  "Not quite like the old days."

  "Are you still living in the West Indies?"

  "It became rather unhealthy, so I came home. Bought a small working farm on the Isle of Wight."

  "I can't picture you as a gentleman farmer."

  "Ditto for you selling antiques."

  The grave diggers appeared from a pub across the road and took up their shovels. Soon the dirt was slapping against the wooden top of the coffin.

  "I loved that old man," Shaw said wistfully. "There were times I wanted to kill him, and there were times I wished I could have embraced him as a father."

  "He had a special affection for you too," she said. "He always fussed and worried when you were on an assignment. The other agents he treated more like chess pieces."

  "You knew him better than anyone," he said softly. "A man has few secrets from his secretary of twenty years."

  She gave a slight, perceptible nod. "It used to annoy him. I came to read his thoughts on many occasions."

  Her voice faltered and she could no longer bear to look at the grave. She turned away, and Shaw took her arm and led her from the churchyard. "Have you time for a drink?"

  She opened her handbag, picked out a tissue and sniffled into it. "I really must be getting back to London."

  "Then it's goodbye, Mrs. Huston."

  "Brian." She uttered the sound as if it stuck in her throat, yet she refrained from speaking his real name. "I will never get used to thinking of you as Brian Shaw."

  "The two people we were died long before our old chief," Shaw said gently.

  She squeezed his hand and her eyes were moist. "A pity we can't relive the past."

  Before he could answer she pulled an envelope from her purse and slipped it into the side pocket of his overcoat. He said nothing, nor did he appear to notice.

  "Goodbye, Mr. Shaw," she said in a voice he could hardly hear. "Take care of yourself."

  A cold evening sleet lashed London as the diesel engine of a black Austin cab knocked to an idle in front of a large stone building in Hyde Park. Shaw paid the driver and stepped out to the pavement. He stood for a few moments, ignoring the particles of wind-driven ice that pelted his face, staring up at the ugly edifice where he had once worked.

  The windows were dirty and streaked and the walls bore soot and pollution from half a century of neglect. Shaw thought it odd that the building had never been sandblasted as had so many others around the city.

  He climbed the steps and entered the lobby. A security guard matter-of-factly asked to see his identification and checked his name against a list of scheduled appointments.

  "Please take the lift to the tenth floor," said the guard. "Someone will meet you."

  The lift trembled and rattled as it always had, but the operator was gone, replaced by a panel of buttons. Shaw stopped the lift on the ninth floor and walked into the corridor. He found his old office and opened the door, expecting to see a secretary busily typing in the front area and a man sitting at his desk in the rear.

  He was numbed to find the two rooms empty except for a few pieces of dusty litter.

  He shook his head sadly. Who was it who said you can't go home again?

  At least the stairway was where it was supposed to be, even though the security guard was no longer there. He climbed to the tenth floor and stepped out behind a blond girl, wearing a loose-fitting knit dress, who was facing the lift.

  "I believe you're waiting for me," he said.

  She whirled around startled. "Mr. Shaw?"

  "Yes, sorry for the delay, but since this is a bit like old home week I thought I'd take a nostalgic tour."

  The, girl looked at him with ill-concealed curiosity. "The brigadier is waiting for you, please follow me." She knocked on the familiar door and opened it. "Mr. Shaw, sir."

  Except for a different desk and the man rising behind it, the bookcases and fixtures were the same. At last he felt as though he was on home ground.

  "Mr. Shaw, do come in."

  Brigadier General Morris V. Simms extended a hand that was firm and dry. The peacock-blue eyes had a fluid friendliness to them, but Shaw wasn't fooled. He could feel their gaze reading him like a computerized body scan.

  "Please be seated."

  Shaw sat in a tall-armed chair that was hard as marble. A rather unimaginative ploy, he thought, designed to place the brigadier's callers with an uncomfortable handicap. His former chief would have cursed s
uch amateurish pettiness.

  He noticed that the desk was untidy. Files were carelessly piled, several of their headings facing upside down. And there were indications of dust. Not spread evenly on the desk top, but in places where dust was not supposed to be. The upper rims of the In and Out baskets, under the receiver of the telephone, between the edges of papers protruding from their file covers.

  Suddenly Shaw saw through the sham.

  First there was the missing elevator operator who used to ensure that visitors went where they were sent. Then the missing security guards who had patrolled the stairways and acted as receptionists on every floor. Then there was his deserted office.

  His former section of the British Secret Intelligence Service was no longer in this building.

  The whole scene was a mock-up, a stage erected to act out a play for his benefit.

  Brigadier Simms dropped stiffly into his chair and stared across at Shaw. There was no giveaway expression on the smooth soldier's face. It was as inscrutable as a jade Buddha.

  "I suppose this is your first trip to the old haunt since you retired."

  Shaw nodded. "Yes." He found it strange to sit in this room opposite a younger man.

  "Must look about the same to you."

  "There's been a few changes."

  Simms' left eyebrow lifted slightly. "You no doubt mean in personnel."

  "Time clouds one's memory," Shaw replied philosophically.

  The eyebrow slipped back into place. "You must be wondering why I asked you to come?"

  "Having an invitation stuck in my pocket during a funeral struck me as a bit theatrical," said Shaw. "You could have simply posted a letter or called on the telephone."

  Simms gave him a frosty smile. "I have my reasons, sound reasons.

  Shaw decided to remain aloof. He didn't like Simms and he saw no reason to be anything but civil. "You obviously didn't request my presence for a section reunion."

  "No," Simms said, pulling out a bottom drawer and casually resting a highly polished shoe on it. "Actually I'd like to put you back in harness."

  Shaw was stunned. What in hell lwas going on? He was amazed to feel a wave of excitement course through him. "I can't believe the service is so hard up it has to recall decrepit old agents from the rubbish heap."

  "You're too hard on yourself, Mr. Shaw. You were perhaps the best the service ever recruited. You became something of a legend in your own time."

  "A canker that led to my forced retirement."

  "Be that as it may, I have an assignment that fits your talents like a glove. It requires a mature man with brains. There will be no call for physical agility or bloodletting. It's purely a case for investigative skill and wits. Despite your qualms about age, I have little question that a man of your experience can bring it off."

  Shaw's mind was whirling. He was finding it difficult to make sense of Simms' statements. "Why me? There must be an army of other agents who are better qualified. And the Russians. They never throw out their files. The KGB will have me pegged an hour after I resurface."

  "This is the era of electronic brains, Mr. Shaw. Section heads no longer sit in stuffy old offices and make opinionated decisions. All data on current assignments are now fed into computers. We leave it to their memory banks to tell us which agent is best suited to send out. Apparently they took a dim view of our present crop. So we programmed a list of retirees. Your name popped out at the top. As to the Russians, you are not to worry. You won't be dealing with them."

  "Can you tell me what it is I'm so ideally suited for?"

  "A watchdog job."

  "If not the Russians, then who?"

  "The Americans."

  Shaw sat silent, not sure he heard right. Finally he said, "Sorry, Brigadier, but your robots made a mistake. Granted, I've never thought the Americans as civilized as the British, but they're a good people. During my years in the service I formed many warm relationships with them. I've worked closely with men in the CIA. I refuse to spy on them. I think you better find someone else."

  Simms' face reddened. "You're overreacting. Listen to the facts, Mr. Shaw. I'm not asking you to steal classified information from the Yanks; only keep an eye on them for a few weeks. Not to sound maudlin, but this is a matter which could very well threaten Her Majesty's government."

  "I stand rebuked," said Shaw. "Please continue."

  "Thank you," Simms replied haughtily. "All right, then. Routine investigation into something called the North American Treaty. A rusty can of worms the Americans have dug up. You're to learn what they know and if they intend to do anything about it."

  "Sounds vague. What exactly is this treaty business?"

  "I think it best if you weren't privy to its ramifications just yet," Simms said without elaboration.

  "I understand."

  "No, you don't, but that's neither here nor there. Care to give it a go?"

  Shaw was torn momentarily by indecision. His reflexes had faded, his strength was half what it once had been. He could not read without glasses. He could still bring down a grouse at fifty yards with a shotgun, but he had not fired a pistol in twenty years. Shaw did not dodge the fact that he was an aging man.

  "My farm…...?"

  "Run by a professor of agronomy in your absence." Simms smiled. "You'll find us more liberal with our purse strings than during your day. I might add that the eighty acres you've been dickering for that border your farm will be purchased in your name, courtesy of the service, when you finish the assignment."

  Times had changed, but the section's efficiency, had not. Shaw was never aware he was under surveillance. He was indeed getting old. "You make it extremely difficult to say no, Brigadier."

  "Then say yes."

  The old line "In for a penny, in for a pound" ran through Shaw's mind. Then he shrugged and spoke with the old selfassurance. "I'll give it a try."

  Simms rapped the desk with his fist. "Jolly good." He pulled open a drawer and threw an envelope in front of Shaw. "Your airline tickets, traveler's checks and hotel reservations. You'll go under your new identity, of course. Is your passport in order?"

  "Yes," replied Shaw. "It will take me a fortnight to clean up my affairs."

  Simms waved a hand airily. "Your plane leaves in two days. Everything will be taken care of. Good hunting."

  Shaw's face tensed. "You were pretty damned sure of me."

  Simms' lips spread into a toothy smile. "I was betting on an old warhorse who yearns for one more battle."

  It was Shaw's turn to smile. He wasn't going to exit looking insipid.

  "Then why the clandestine crap?"

  Simms stiffened. His face took on a cornered look. He said nothing.

  "The masquerade," snapped Shaw. "This building hasn't been used for years. We could have just as easily met on a park bench."

  "It was that obvious?" Simms said in a quiet voice.

  "You might as well have posted a sign."

  Simms shrugged. "Perhaps I went to extremes, but the Americans have an uncanny way of knowing what goes on in British intelligence circles. Besides, it was necessary to see if you still possessed your powers of perception."

  "A test."

  "Call it what you will." Simms rose to his feet and walked around the desk. He offered his hand to Shaw. "I am sincerely sorry to have mucked up your schedule. I do not relish depending on someone who is out of his prime, but I am a blind man in a fog and you are my only hope to guide me out."

  Ten minutes later, Brigadier Simms and his secretary stood side by side in the lift as it rattled down to the lobby. She was adjusting a rain cap on her head while Simms seemed deep in thought. "He was a strange one," she said.

  Sims looked up. "I'm sorry."

  "Mr. Shaw. He moves like a cat. Gave me a fright the way he sneaked up behind me when I was expecting him to step out of the lift."

  "He came up the stairs?"

  "From the ninth floor," she said. "I could tell from the pause in the indicator."

>   "I rather hoped he'd do that," said Simms. "Makes it comforting to know he hasn't lost his devious touch."

  "He seemed a friendly old fellow."

  Simms smiled. "That friendly old fellow has killed over twenty men."

  "Would have fooled me."

  "He'll need to fool a lot of people," Simms muttered. The lift door clanked open. "He has no idea of the massive stakes riding on his shoulders. It may well be we have thrown the poor bastard to the sharks."

  An officer in a Royal Navy uniform stepped forward as Brian Shaw cleared airport customs. "Mr. Shaw?"

  "Yes, I'm Shaw."

  "Lieutenant Burton-Angus, British embassy. Sorry about not seeing you through customs; I was held up in traffic. Welcome to Washington."

  As they shook hands, Shaw cast a disapproving eye at the uniform. "A bit open, aren't we?"

  "Not at all." Burton-Angus smiled. "If I suddenly showed up at the airport in mufti, someone might think I was playing cloak and dagger. Better to appear routine."

  "Which way to the luggage claim?"

  "Not necessary. Actually, I'm afraid your stay in the capital city has been cut rather short."

  Shaw got the picture. "When does my plane leave and where am I going?"

  "You depart for Los Angeles in forty minutes. Here is your ticket and boarding pass."

  "Shall we discuss it?"

  "Of course." Burton-Angus took Shaw by the arm. "I suggest we talk while mingling with the crowd. Makes it difficult for an eavesdropper, human or electronic."

  Shaw nodded in understanding. "Been in the service long?"

  "General Simms recruited me six years ago." Burton-Angus steered him to the book section of a gift shop. "You know of my involvement with your job."

  "I read the report. You're the chap who discovered the first clue to the treaty from the Senate historian."

  "Jack Murphy." Burton-Angus nodded.

  "Were you able to get any more information out of him?" Shaw asked.

  "General Simms thought it best not to press him. I told Murphy London had no record of the treaty."

  "He bought it?"