Clive Cussler dp-6 Read online

  "He had no reason not to."

  "So we write Murphy off and begin somewhere else," said Shaw.

  "The reason you're going to Los Angeles," Burton-Angus told him. "Murphy became aware of the treaty when a naval officer, a woman, made an inquiry. He found an old photograph and made her a copy. One of our people burglarized his office and scanned the file on research requests. The only female naval officer whose name appeared was a Lieutenant Commander Heidi Milligan."

  "Any chance of reaching her?"

  "Commander Milligan is communications officer on board an amphibious landing transport vessel bound for the Indian Ocean. It sailed from San Diego two hours ago."

  Shaw stopped. "With Milligan out of reach, where does that leave us?"

  "Fortunately, her ship, the U.S. S. Arvada, is under orders to lay over in Los Angeles harbor for three days. Something to do with modifications to the automated steering system."

  They walked on. Shaw looked at the lieutenant with a growing respect. "You're very well informed."

  "Part of the job." Burton-Angus shrugged modestly. "The Americans have few secrets from the British."

  "That's a comforting thought."

  Burton- Angus flushed slightly. "We better move along to the concourse. Your plane departs at gate twenty-two."

  "Since there's been a change of plan," said Shaw, "I'd be interested in learning my new instructions."

  "I thought it obvious," Burton-Angus replied. "You have approximately seventy-two hours to find out what Commander Milligan knows."

  "I'll need help."

  "After you've settled into your hotel, you'll be contacted by a Mr. Graham Humberly, a rather well-heeled Rolls-Royce dealer. He'll arrange for you to meet Commander Milligan."

  "He'll arrange for me to meet Commander Milligan," Shaw repeated, his tone sarcastic.

  "Why, yes," said Burton-Angus, momentarily taken back by Shaw's evident skepticism. "Humberly is a former British subject. The man cultivates an enormous channel of important contacts, particularly in the U.S. Navy."

  "And he and I are going to march up the gangplank of an American naval vessel, waving the Union Jack and whistling "Brittania rules the waves," and demand to interrogate a ship's officer."

  "If anybody can do it, Humberly can," Burton-Angus said resolutely.

  Shaw drew deeply on his cigarette and stared at the lieutenant.

  "Why me?" he asked stonily.

  "The way I understand it, Mr. Shaw, you were once the most able operative in the service. You know your way around Americans. Also, Humberly is planning on introducing you as a British businessman, an old friend from his Royal Navy days who also achieved fleet rank. Naturally, you're the right age."

  "Sounds logical."

  "General Simms is not expecting miracles. But we've got to go through the motions. The best we can hope from Milligan is that she proves to be a stepping-stone."

  "One more time," Shaw said. "Why me?"

  Burton- Angus stopped and looked up at the televised departure schedules. "Your plane is on time. Here are your tickets. Don't worry about the luggage. It's been taken care of."

  "I assumed as much."

  "Well I guess what it came down to was your past record of ah…... shall we say, successful dealings with members of the opposite sex. General Simms thought it an asset. Of course, the fact that Commander Milligan recently had an intimate affair with an admiral twice her age rolled the dice in your favor."

  Shaw gave him a withering stare. "Just goes to show what you've got to look forward to someday, laddy."

  "Nothing personal." Burton-Angus smiled wanly. "You say you've been in the service six years?"

  "And four months, to be more precise."

  "Did they teach you how to detect a surveillance blind?"

  Burton- Angus' eyes narrowed questioningly. "The class was mandatory. Why do you ask?"

  "Because you flunked," Shaw said. He let it sink in a moment and then tilted his head to the left. "The man with the metal attachd case, staring innocently at his watch. He's been glued to us since we left the customs exit. Also, the stewardess in the Pan American uniform about twenty feet behind. Her airline is on another concourse. She's his backup. They'll have a third eye lurking ahead of us. I haven't fixed him yet."

  Burton- Angus visibly paled. "Not possible," he muttered. "They can't be on to us."

  Shaw turned and showed his ticket and passed it to the girl at the boarding entrance. Then he refaced the lieutenant.

  "It would seem," he said in his best sardonic voice, "that the British have few secrets from the Americans."

  He left Burton-Angus standing there looking like a drowning man.

  Shaw sat back in his seat, relaxed, and felt in the mood for champagne. The stewardess brought him two small bottles with plastic glasses. The labels said California. He would have preferred a Tattinger, brut reserve vintage. California bubbly and plastic glasses, he mused. Would the Americans ever become civilized?

  After he had polished off one bottle, he took stock. The CIA had put the finger on him the instant he boarded the plane in England, just as he knew General Simms knew they would.

  Shaw was worried not at all. He operated better when things were out in the open. Skulking around alleys like an unperson was never to his liking. He felt exhilarated to be doing what he had once done so well. His senses had not left him-a shade slower perhaps, but still sharp enough. He Was playing his kind of game and he reveled in it.

  The dingy gas station stood on a corner in the industrial outskirts of Ottawa. Erected soon after the Second World War, it was a square steel structure with one island containing three gas pumps that were scarred from years of hard use and badly in need of new paint. Inside the office, cans of oil and mummified flies littered dusty shelves while the windows, streaked with grime, displayed faded signs advertising some long forgotten tire sale.

  Henri Villon turned his Mercedes-Benz sedan in over the driveway and stopped at the pumps. An attendant in grease stained coveralls stepped out from under a car on the lube rack and approached, wiping his hands on a rag. "What'll it be?" he asked with a bored expression.

  "Fill it, please," answered Villon.

  The attendant eyed an elderly man and woman sitting on a nearby bus bench, and then spoke in a tone they could not fail to overhear. "Five gallons is the government limit, you know, the oil shortage being what it is."

  Villon nodded silently and the attendant pumped the gas. When he finished he went around to the front of the car and pointed. Villon pulled the release lever and the attendant raised the hood.

  "You better take a look at your fan belt. She looks pretty worn."

  Villon got out of the car and leaned on the fender opposite the attendant. He said in an undertone, "Do you have any idea of the unholy mess your bungling has caused?"

  Foss Gly stared back across the engine. "What's done is done. The weather closed in at the last minute and the first missile lost the target. It's that simple."

  "It's not that simple!" Villon snapped back. "Nearly fifty people killed for nothing. If the air safety inspectors discover the true cause of the crash, Parliament will be in an uproar demanding investigations into every organization, including the Boy Scouts. The news media will cry for blood after they learn twenty of their top political journalists were murdered. And the worst of it is, the Free Quebec Society will be suspected by all."

  "No one will trace the blame to the FQS." Gly's voice was cold and final.

  "Damn!" Villon struck the fender with his fist. "If only Sarveux had died. The government would be in confusion and we could have made our move on Quebec."

  "Your buddies in the Kremlin would have loved that."

  "I won't be able to count on their support if we have another setback of this magnitude."

  Gly extended a hand toward the engine as though he was working on it. "Why get cozy with the reds? Once they get their hooks in you, they never let loose."

  "Not that it concerns
you, but a government along Communist lines is Quebec's only hope of standing alone."

  Gly shrugged indifferently and continued to pretend to work on the engine. "What do you want from me?"

  Villon considered. "No percentage in panic. I think it best if you and your team of specialists, as you call them, continue your cover employment as usual. None of you are French, so it's doubtful you'll come under suspicion."

  "I can't see the percentages in waiting around to get caught."

  "You forget that since I am minister of internal affairs, all security matters pass through my office. Any leads pointing to you will be quietly lost in bureaucratic red tape."

  "I'd still feel safer if we left the country."

  "You underestimate events, Mr. Gly. My government is cracking at the seams. The provinces are snapping at one another's throats. The only question is, When will Canada shatter? I know it's coming, Charles Sarveux knows it, and so do those English stiff-necks who out speech each other in that old stone relic by the Thames River. Soon, very soon, Canada, as the world knows her, will be no more. Believe me, you will be lost in the chaos."

  "Lost and out of a job."

  "A temporary situation," said Villon, his tone heavy with cynicism. "As long as there are governments, financial corporations and wealthy individuals who can afford your special bag of dirty tricks, Mr. Gly, your kind will never be forced to sell vacuum cleaners for a living."

  Gly gave an indolent twist to his head and changed the subject "How can I get in touch with you in case of a problem?"

  Villon moved around the front of the car and clutched Gly's upper arm in an iron grip. "Two things you must remember. First, there will be no more problems. And second, under no circumstances are you to attempt contact with me. I cannot run the slightest risk of being tied to the FQS."

  Gly's eyes closed for a brief instant of surprise and pain. He sucked in a breath and flexed the bicep as Villon increased the pressure. The two men stood there, neither giving an inch. Then, very slowly, a taut grin of satisfaction began to stretch Gly's lips and he glared into Villon's eyes.

  Villon released his grasp and smiled grimly. "My compliments. Your strength and dimensions very nearly match mine."

  Gly fought back an urge to massage the stabbing pain in his arm. "Lifting weights is as good a way as any to kill time between assignments."

  "One can almost detect a faint resemblance between our facial features," said Villon, climbing behind the wheel of the Mercedes. "Except for your repulsive nose, we might be taken for brothers."

  "Stick it in your ear, Villon!" The belligerence in Gly's voice was unmistakable. He glanced at the old couple still perched on the bench waiting for a bus, and then at the meter on the gas pump. "That'll be eighteen sixty."

  "Charge it!" Villon snarled, and drove off.

  Villon buttered a slice of breakfast toast and read the caption on page two of his morning newspaper.

  NO LEADS IN TERRORIST ATTACK ON PRIME MINISTER'S PLANE

  Foss Gly had covered his tracks well. Villon kept his hand on the investigation, and he knew that with each passing day the scent grew colder. He subtly used the influence of his office to play down any connection between the assassins and the FQS unless definite proof was found. So far things were working smoothly.

  His satisfaction faded to a chill as Villon thought of Gly. The man was nothing but a savage mercenary whose god was a fat price. There was no telling how a mad dog like Gly might run if he wasn't held on a tight leash.

  Villon's wife came to the doorway of the breakfast room. She was a pretty woman with dark brown hair and blue eyes. "There's a phone call for you in the study," she said.

  He entered the study, closed the door and picked up the phone. "This is Villon."

  "Superintendent McComb, Sir," in a voice as deep as a coal pit. "I hope I'm not interrupting your breakfast."

  "Not at all," Villon lied. "You're the officer in charge of. Mounted Police records?"

  "Yes, Sir," McComb replied. "The file you requested on Max Roubaix is on the desk in front of me. Shall I make a copy and send it to your office?"

  "Not necessary," said Villon. "Please give me the basics over the phone."

  "It's a bit bulky," McComb hedged.

  "A five- minute capsule will do." Villon smiled to himself. He could almost imagine McComb's state of mind. No doubt a family man who was irritated as hell at having to leave a warm bed and a warm wife and a Sunday sleep-in to dig through old dusty records to Satisfy the whim of a cabinet minister.

  "The pages are over a hundred years old, so they're written in hand script, but I'll do my best. Let's see now, Roubaix's early life is sketchy. No date of birth. Listed as an orphan who drifted from family to family. First official record is age twelve. He was up before a local constable for killing chickens."

  "You did say chickens?"

  "Snipped off their heads with wire cutters in wholesale lots. He worked off damages to the farmer whose stock he had decimated. Then he moved to the next town and graduated to horses. Cut the throats of half a herd before he was apprehended."

  "A juvenile psychopath with a bloodlust.

  "People simply wrote him off as the village idiot in those days," said McComb. "Psychotic motivation was not in their dictionaries. They failed to understand that a boy who slaughtered animals for the hell of it was only one step away from doing the same to humans. Roubaix was sentenced to two years in jail for the horse blood bath, but because of his age, fourteen, he was allowed to live with the constable, working off his time as a gardener and houseboy, Not long after his release, people in the surrounding countryside began to find bodies of tramps and drunks who had been strangled."

  "Where did all this take place?"

  "A radius of fifty miles around the present city of Moose Jaw, Saskatchewan."

  "Surely Roubaix was arrested as a prime suspect?"

  "The mounties didn't work as fast in the nineteenth century as we do now," McComb admitted. "By the time Roubaix was tied to the crimes, he had fled into the virgin forests of the Northwest Territory and didn't turn up again until Riel's rebellion in eighteen eighty-five."

  "The revolt by the descendants of French traders and Indians," said Villon, recalling his history.

  "Metis, they were called. Louis Riel was their leader. Roubaix oined Riel's forces and enshrined himself in Canadian legend as our most prolific killer.

  "What about the time he was missing?"

  "Six years," McComb replied. "Nothing recorded. There was a rash of unsolved killings attributed to him, but no solid evidence or eyewitness accounts. only a pattern that hinted of the Roubaix touch.

  "A pattern?"

  "Yes, all the victims were done in by injuries inflicted to the throat," said McComb. "Mostly from strangulation. Roubaix had turned away from the messy use of a knife. No great fuss was made at the time. People had a different set of moral codes then. They looked upon a scourge who eliminated undesirables as a community benefactor."

  "I seem to remember he became a legend by killing a number of Mounties during Riel's rebellion."

  "Thirteen, to be exact."

  "Roubaix must have been a very strong man."

  "Not really," replied McComb. "Actually he was described as frail of build and rather sickly. A doctor who attended him before his execution testified that Roubaix was tackled by consumption-what we now call tuberculosis."

  "How was it possible for such a weakling to overpower men who were trained for physical combat?" asked Villon.

  "Roubaix used a garrote made from rawhide not much thicker than a wire. A nasty weapon that cut halfway into his victim's throat. Caught them unaware, usually when they were asleep. Your reputation is well known in body-building circles, Mr. Villon, but I daresay your own wife could choke you away if she slipped Roubaix's garrote around your neck some night in bed."

  "You talk as if the garrote still exists."

  "It does," said McComb. "We have it on display in the criminal
section of the Mountie museum, if you care to view it. Like some other mass killers who cherished a favorite murder weapon, Roubaix lavished loving care on his garrote. The wooden hand grips that attach to the thong are intricately carved in the shape of timber wolvesl It's really quite a piece of craftsmanship."

  "Perhaps I'll have a look at it when my schedule permits," said Villon without enthusiasm. He pondered a moment, trying to make sense out of Sarveux's instructions to Danielle in the hospital. It didn't add up. A riddle of ciphers. Villon took a flyer on another tack. "If you had to describe Roubaix's case, how would you sum it up in a single sentence?"

  "I'm not sure I know what you're after," said McComb.

  "Let me put it another way. What was Max Roubaix?"

  There was silence for a few moments. Villon could almost hear the gears turn in McComb's head. Finally the Mountie said, "I guess you could call him a homicidal maniac with a fetish for the stranglehold."

  Villon tensed and then relaxed again. "Thank you, superintendent."

  "If there is anything else…..."

  "No, you've done me a service, and I'm grateful."

  Villon slowly replaced the receiver. He looked into space, focusing on the impression of a sickly man twisting a garrote. The stunned expression of incomprehension on the face of the prey. A final glimpse before the bulging eyes turned sightless.

  Sarveux's delirious ravings to Danielle suddenly began to make a shred of sense.

  Sarveux lay in the hospital bed and nodded as Deputy Prime Minister Malcolm Hunt was ushered into his hospital room. He smiled. "It was good of you to come, Malcolm. I'm well aware of the hell you're going through with the House of Commons."

  Out of habit, Hunt held out his hand, but quickly withdrew it on seeing the salve-coated arms of the Prime Minister.

  "Pull up a chair and get comfortable," Sarveux said graciously. "Smoke if you care to."

  "The effects of my pipe might lose me the medical vote come next election," Hunt smiled. "Thank you, but I'd better pass."

  Sarveux came straight to the point. "I have talked with the director of air safety. He assures me that the tragedy at James Bay was no accident."

  Hunt's face whitened suddenly. "How can he be positive?"