"Seems I recall you doing that to me when we played football in high school. The team doctor raised holy hell. Said you should have let him do it."

"That's because he was a sadist," Pitt said, grasping Giordino's arm. "Ready?"

"Go on, tear it off."

Pitt yanked and the joint snapped into place with an audible pop. Giordino let out a gasp that died into a relieved sigh. Pitt felt around in the dark beside the road until he found a stout branch that had been torn off a small scrub pine, and gave it to Gunn to use as a staff in place of a crutch. Jessie clutched one of Gunn's arms to steady him, while Pitt hoisted Giordino onto his sound leg and supported him with an arm around his waist. This time Pitt led the way, mentally flipping a coin and heading up the road to their right, plodding close to the high embankment to shelter their progress from the unabating onslaught of the storm. Now the going was easier. No deep sand to wade through, no fallen trees to stumble over, not even the wind-propelled rain to torture them, for the edge of the slope caused it to fly over their heads. Just the graded flat of the road leading off into the stricken darkness.

After an hour had passed, Pitt figured they had hobbled about a mile. He was about to call a rest stop when Giordino suddenly stiffened and stopped so unexpectantly that he lost Pitt's support and toppled to the road.

"Barbecue!" he yelled. "Smell it? Somebody's barbecuing beef." Pitt sniffed the air. The aroma was faint, but it was there. He lifted Giordino and pushed ahead. The smell of steaks broiling over charcoal grew stronger with every step. In another fifty yards they met with a massive iron gate whose bars were welded in the shape of dolphins. A wall topped by broken glass stretched into the darkness on either side and stood astride a guardhouse. Not surprisingly, in light of the hurricane, it was vacant.

The gate, reaching a good twelve feet toward the ebony sky, was locked, but the outer and inner doors of the guardhouse were open, so they walked through. A short distance beyond, the road ended in a circular drive that passed in front of what seemed in the stormy dark to be a large mound. As they approached, it became a castlelike structure whose roof and three sides were covered over with sandy soil and planted with palmetto trees and native scrub brush. Only the front of the building lay exposed, starkly barren with no windows and only one huge, mahogany door artistically carved with lifelike fish.

"Reminds me of a buried Egyptian temple," said Gunn.

"If it wasn't for the ornate door," said Pitt, "I'd guess it was some kind of military supply depot."

Jessie set them straight. "A subinsulator house. Soil is an ideal insulation against temperatures and weather. Same principle as the sod houses on the early American prairie. I know an architect who specializes in designing them."

"Looks deserted," observed Giordino.

Pitt tried the doorknob. It turned. He eased the door open. The aroma of food wafted out from somewhere within the darkened interior.

"Doesn't smell deserted," said Pitt.

The foyer was paved in tile with a Spanish motif and was lit by several large candles set on a tall stand. The walls were carved blocks of black lava rock and their only decoration was a gruesome painting of a man hanging from the fanged mouth of a snakelike sea monster. They entered and Pitt pulled the door closed behind them. For some strange reason, the howl of the tempest outside and everyone's weary breathing seemed to add to the deathly stillness of the house.

"Anyone home?" Pitt called out.

He repeated the question twice more, but his only reply was a ghostly silence. A dim corridor beckoned, but Pitt hesitated. Another smell invaded his nostrils. Tobacco smoke. Stronger than the nearlethal gas emitted by Admiral Sandecker's cigars. Pitt was no expert, but he knew that expensive cigars smelled more rotten than the cheap ones. He guessed the smoke must be coming from prime Havanas.

He turned to the others. "What do you think?"

"Do we have a choice?" Giordino asked dumbly.

"Two," replied Pitt. "We can either get out of here while we can and take our chances in the hurricane. Then, when it begins to die down, we can try to steal a boat and head back to Florida="

"Or throw ourselves on the mercy of the Cubans," Gunn interrupted.

"That's how it boils down."

Jessie shook her head and stared at him through soft, tender eyes. "We can't go back," she said quietly with no trace of fear. "The storm will take days to die, and none of us is in any condition to survive out there another four hours. I vote we take our chances with Castro's government. The very worst they can do is throw us in jail while the State Department negotiates our release."

Pitt looked at Gunn. "Rudi, how say you?"

"We're done in, Dirk. Logic is on Jessie's side."

"Al, how do you see it?"

Giordino shrugged. "Say the word, pal, and I'll swim back to the States." And Pitt knew he meant it too. "But the honest truth is we can't take much more. It pains me to say this, but I think we'd better throw in the towel."

Pitt looked at them and reflected that he couldn't have been blessed with a better team of people to face an unpleasant situation, and it didn't take a visionary to see things were going to become very unpleasant indeed.

"Okay," he said with a grim smile. "Let's crash the party." They set off down the corridor and soon passed under an archway that opened onto a vast living room decorated in early Spanish antiques. Giant tapestries hung on the walls, depicting galleons sailing sunset seas or being driven helplessly onto reefs by thrashing storms. The furnishings seemed to have a nautical flair, the room was illuminated by ancient ship's lanterns of copper and colored glass. The fireplace was glowing with a crackling fire that warmed the room to hothouse temperatures.

There wasn't a soul to be seen anywhere.

"Ghastly," murmured Jessie. "Our host has simply dreadful taste in decor." Pitt held up his hand for quiet. "Voices," he said softly. "Coming from that other archway between those two suits of armor."

They moved into another corridor that was dimly lit by candle holders every ten feet. The sounds of laughter and obscure words, from both male and female, became louder. A light loomed from under a curtain ahead. They paused for a second, and then swung it aside and passed through.

They had entered a long dining hall filled with nearly forty people, who stopped in midconversation and stared at Pitt and the others with the awed expression of a group of villagers meeting their first aliens from space.

The women were elegantly dressed in evening gowns, while half the men wore tuxedos and the other half were attired in military uniforms. Several servants waiting on the table stood stock-still like images on motion picture film that was suddenly freeze-framed. The stunned silence was as thick as a wool blanket. A scene straight out of an early thirties Hollywood melodrama.

Pitt realized he and the rest must have made a shocking picture. Soaking wet, their clothing torn and ragged, bruised and gashed skin, torn muscles, broken bones. Hair plastered down around their heads, they must have looked like drowned rats rejected from a polluted river.

Pitt looked at Gunn and said, "How do you say `Pardon the intrusion' in Spanish?"

"Haven't the vaguest idea. I took French in school."

Then it struck Pitt. Most of the uniformed men were high-ranking Soviet officers. Only one appeared to be from the Cuban military.

Jessie was in her element. To Pitt she couldn't have looked more regal, even if the designer safari suit hung on her body in tatters.

"Is there a gentleman among you who will offer a lady a chair?" she demanded. Before she received an answer, ten men with Russian-type machine pistols burst into the room and surrounded them in a loose circle, sphinx-faced men whose weapons were aimed at all four stomachs. Their eyes were icy and their lips set in tight lines. There was little doubt in Pitt's mind that they were highly trained to kill on command. Giordino, with the appearance of a man run over by a garbage truck, painfully pulled himself to his full height and stared back. "Did you ever see so many smiling faces?" he asked conversationally.

"No," said Pitt with the beginning of a to-hell-with-you grin. "Not since Little Big Horn."

Jessie didn't hear them. As if in a trance she shouldered her way through the armed guards and stopped near the head of the table, staring down at a tall, gray-haired man attired in formal evening wear, who stared back at her in shocked disbelief. She brushed back her wet, tangled hair and struck a sophisticated, feline pose. Then she spoke in a soft, commanding voice. "Be a dear, Raymond, and pour your wife a glass of wine."

<<25>>

Hagen drove nineteen miles east of downtown Colorado Springs on Highway 94 until he came to Enoch Road. Then he turned right and arrived at the main entrance of the Unified Space Operations Center.

The two-billion-dollar project, constructed on 640 acres of land and manned by 5,000

uniformed and civilian personnel, controlled all military space vehicle and shuttle flights as well as satellite monitoring programs. An entire aerospace community mushroomed around the center, covering thousands of acres with residential developments, scientific and industrial parks, high-tech research and manufacturing plants, and Air Force test facilities. In ten short years, what had once been sparse grazing land inhabited by small herds of cattle had become the "Space Capital of the World." Hagen flashed his security clearance, drove into the parking lot, and stopped opposite a side entrance to the massive building. He did not get out of the car but opened his briefcase and removed his worn legal pad. He turned to a page with three names and added a fourth.

Raymond LeBaron....Whereabouts unknown.

Leonard Hudson....Same.

Gunnar Eriksen....Same.

General Clark Fisher....Colorado Springs.

Hagen's call to the Drake Hotel from Pattenden Lab had alerted an old friend at the FBI, who traced the number of Anson Jones to a classified line at an officer's residence on Peterson Air Force Base outside of Colorado Springs. The house was occupied by four-star General Clark Fisher, head of the joint Military Space Command. Posing as a pest control inspector, Hagen had been given the run of the house by the general's wife. Fortunately for him, she considered his unexpected arrival as a heavensent opportunity to complain about an army of spiders that had invaded the premises. He listened attentively and promised to attack the insects with every weapon in his arsenal. Then, while she fussed around in the kitchen with the hired cook, experimenting with a new recipe for apricot sautéed prawns, Hagen tossed the general's study. His search revealed only that Fisher was a stickler for security. Hagen found nothing in desk drawers, files, or hidden recesses that could prove beneficial to a Soviet agent or himself. He decided to wait it out until the general left for the evening and then search his office at the space center. As he left by the rear door Mrs. Fisher was talking on the telephone and simply waved goodbye. Hagen paused for a moment and overheard her telling the general to stop off on his way home and pick up a bottle of sherry. Hagen put the legal pad back in the briefcase and took out a can of diet cola and a thick salami sandwich with sliced dill pickle, wrapped in wax paper with a delicatessen's advertising printed on both sides. The Colorado temperature had cooled considerably once the sun had dropped over the Rocky Mountains. The shadow of Pike's Peak stretched out over the plains, casting a dark veil over the treeless landscape. Hagen didn't notice the scenic beauty unfolding through the windshield. What disturbed him was that he did not have a firm grip on any member of the "inner core." Three of the names on his list remained hidden, God only knew where, and the fourth was still innocent until proven guilty. No hard facts, only a phone number and a gut instinct that Fisher was part of the Jersey Colony conspiracy. He had to be absolutely certain, and most important, he desperately needed to pick up a thread to the next man. Hagen stopped his mental wanderings, his eyes focused on the rearview mirror. A man in a blue officer's uniform was passing through the side entrance, the door held open by a five-stripe sergeant, or whatever specialist rating the Air Force gave its enlisted men these days. The officer was tall, athletically built, wore four stars on his shoulders, and was quite handsome in a Gregory Peck way. The sergeant accompanied him across a sidewalk to a waiting Air Force blue sedan and smartly opened the rear door. Something about the scene snapped a string in Hagen's mind. He sat up straight and turned around to stare boldly out the side window. Fisher was in the act of bending over to enter the backseat of his car, holding a briefcase. That was it. The briefcase wasn't held by the handle as it would normally be carried. Fisher was clutching it like a football, under his arm and against the side of his chest.

Hagen had no qualms against changing his carefully laid out plan in midstream. He improvised on the spot, quickly forgetting about searching Fisher's command office. If his sudden creative spark didn't pan out, he could always go back. He started the engine and moved off across the parking lot behind the general's car.

Fisher's driver pulled across the intersection and turned onto Highway 94 under a yellow light. Hagen hung back until the traffic thinned. Then he ran the red light and accelerated until he was close enough behind the Air Force blue car to make out the driver's face in its rearview mirror. He held that position, watching to see if there was any eye contact. There was none. The sergeant was not a suspicious sort and never checked his tail. Hagen rightly assumed the man had no training in defensive driving tactics against possible terrorist attack.

After a slight bend in the highway the lights of a shopping center came into view. Hagen glanced at his speedometer. The sergeant was cruising along five miles an hour below the posted speed limit. Hagen pulled into the outer lane and passed. He speeded up slightly and then slowed down to turn into the driveway of the shopping center, gambling that one of the stores sold liquor, gambling that General Fisher hadn't forgotten his wife's instructions to buy the bottle of sherry.

The Air Force car drove on past.

"Damn!" Hagen muttered to himself. It struck him that any serviceman would have purchased liquor at his base post exchange, where it was sold for much less than at a retail store.

Hagen was stalled for a few seconds behind a woman trying to back out of a parking slot. When he finally broke free, he burned rubber swinging from the driveway onto the road. Luckily, Fisher's driver had caught a red light at the next intersection and Hagen was able to catch and pass him again.

He pressed the accelerator to the floor, trying to put as much distance as he could between them. In two miles he turned into the narrow road leading to the main gate of Peterson Air Force Base. He showed his security clearance to the Air Policeman standing stiffly, wearing a white helmet, matching silk scarf at the neck, and a black leather side holster that contained a pearl-handled revolver.

"Where can I find the PX?" Hagen asked.

The AP pointed up the road. "Straight ahead to the second stop sign. Then left toward the water tower. A large gray building. You can't miss it."

Hagen thanked him and moved away just as Fisher's car pulled up behind and was smartly waved on through the gate. Taking his time, he stayed within the base speed limit and eased into the post exchange parking area only fifty feet ahead of Fisher. He stopped between a jeep Wagoneer and a Dodge pickup truck with a camper that effectively hid most of his car from view. He slipped from behind the wheel, turning off the lights but keeping the engine running.

The general's car had stopped, and Hagen unhurriedly approached it in a direct line, wondering if Fisher would get out and buy the sherry or send the sergeant to run the errand.

Hagen smiled to himself. He should have known it was a preordained conclusion. The general, of course, sent the sergeant.

Hagen reached the car at nearly the same moment as the sergeant walked through the door into the PX. One quick scan to see if some bored soul waiting in a parked car might be idly staring in his direction or a shopper from the PX pushing a grocery cart close by. The old cliché "The coast is clear" ran through his mind. Without the slightest hesitation or wasted movement, Hagen slipped a weighted rubber sap from a specially sewn pocket under one arm of his windbreaker, jerked open the rear car door, and swung his arm in a short arc. No words of greeting, no trivial conversation. The sap caught Fisher precisely on the point of his jaw.

Hagen snatched the briefcase from the general's lap, slammed the door, and walked casually back to his car. From start to finish the action had taken no more than four seconds.

As he drove away from the PX toward the main gate he ticked off the timing sequence in his mind. Fisher would be unconscious for twenty minutes, maybe an hour. Give the sergeant four to six minutes to find the shelf with the sherry, pay for it, and return to the car. Another five minutes before an alert was sounded, providing the sergeant even noticed the general had been mugged in the backseat.

Hagen felt pleased with himself. He would be through the main gate and halfway to the Colorado Springs airport before the Air Police realized what had happened. An early snow started to fall over southern Colorado shortly after midnight. At first it melted when it met the ground, but soon an icy sheet formed, and then a white blanket began to build. Farther east the winds kicked up, and the Colorado Highway Patrol closed off the smaller county roads due to blizzard conditions.

Inside a small, unmarked Lear jet parked at the far end of the airport terminal, Hagen sat at a desk and studied the contents of General Fisher's briefcase. Most of it was highly classified material concerning day-to-day operations of the space center. One file of papers concerned the flight of the space shuttle Gettysburg, which had been launched from Vandenberg Air Force Base in California only two days before. He was amused to find amid the slots of the briefcase a pornographic magazine. But the champion prize was a black leather book that contained a total of thirty-nine names and phone numbers. No addresses or notations, only names and numbers segregated in three sections. The first section gave fourteen; the second, seventeen; and the third, eight. None of them struck a chord with Hagen. It was possible they were simply friends and associates of Fisher's. He stared at the third list, the printing beginning to blur before his eyes from weariness.

Abruptly the top name leaped out at him. Not the surname, but the first name. Startled, shocked that he had missed something so simple, a code so obvious that no one would consider it, he copied the list on his legal pad and matched up three of the names by adding the correct ones.

Gunnar Monroe/Eriksen

Irwin Dupuy

Leonard Murphy/Hudson

Daniel Klein

Steve Larson

Ray Sampson/LeBaron

Dean Beagle

Clyde Ward

Eight names instead of nine. Then Hagen shook his head, marveling at his slow grasp of the conspicuous fact that General Clark Fisher would hardly have included his own name on a telephone list.

He was almost home, but his elation was muted by fatigue. He'd had no sleep in the past twenty-two hours. The gamble to snatch General Fisher's briefcase had paid off with unexpected dividends. Instead of one thread, he held five, all the remaining members of the "inner core." Now all he had to do was match up the first names with the phone numbers and he would have a neat and tidy package.

All this was wishful thinking. He had made an amateur's error by mouthing off to General Clark Fisher, alias Anson Jones, over the telephone from Pattenden Lab. He'd tried to write it off as a shrewd move designed to goad the conspirators into making a mistake and give him an opening. But now he realized it was nothing but cockiness mixed with a healthy dose of stupidity.

Fisher would alert the "inner core," if he hadn't already done so. There was nothing Hagen could do now. The damage was done. He was left with no choice but to plunge ahead.

He was staring blankly into the distance when the aircraft pilot entered the main compartment from the cockpit. "Excuse me for interrupting, Mr. Hagen, but the snowstorm is expected to get worse. The control tower just informed me they're going to close down the airport. If we don't take off now, we may not get clearance till tomorrow afternoon."

Hagen nodded. "No sense in hanging around."

"Can you give me a destination?"

There was a short pause as Hagen looked down at his handwritten notes on the legal pad. He decided to leave Hudson until last. Besides, Eriksen, Hudson, and Daniel Klein or whoever, all had the same telephone area code. He recognized the code after Clyde Ward's name and settled on it simply because the location was only a few hundred miles south of Colorado Springs.

"Albuquerque," he said finally.

"Yes, sir," replied the pilot. "If you'll strap yourself in, I'll have us off the ground in five minutes."

As soon as the pilot disappeared into the control cabin, Hagen stripped to his shorts and dropped into a soft berth. He was dead asleep before the wheels left the snowcarpeted runway.

<<26>>

The fear that the President's chief of staff, Dan Fawcett, inspired inside the White House was immense. His was one of the most powerful positions in Washington. He was the keeper of the sanctum sanctorum. Virtually every document or memo sent to the President had to go through him. And no one, including members of the cabinet and the leaders of Congress, gained entry to the Oval Office unless Fawcett approved it. The times that someone, high-ranking or low, refused to take no for an answer were nonexistent. So he was uncertain how to react as he looked up from his desk into the smoldering eyes of Admiral Sandecker. Fawcett couldn't remember when he had seen a man seething with so much anger, and he sensed that the admiral was exerting every disciplined resource to hold it under control.

"I'm sorry, Admiral," said Fawcett, "but the President's schedule is airtight. There is no way I can squeeze you in."

"Get me in," Sandecker demanded through tight lips.

"Not possible," replied Fawcett firmly.

Sandecker slowly braced his arms and hands sacrilegiously on the paperwork strewn on Fawcett's desk and leaned over until only a few inches separated their noses.

"You tell the son of a bitch," he snarled, "that he just killed three of my best friends. And unless he gives me a damned good reason why, I'm going to walk out of here, hold a press conference, and reveal enough dirty secrets to scar his precious administration for the rest of his term. Am I getting through to you, Dan?"

Fawcett sat there, rising anger unable to overcome shock. "You'll only destroy your own career. What would be the sense?"

"You're not paying attention. I'll run it by you again. The President is responsible for the deaths of three of my dearest friends. One of them you knew. His name was Dirk Pitt. If it wasn't for Pitt, the President would be resting on the bottom of the sea instead of sitting in the White House. Now, I demand to know for what purpose Pitt died. And if it costs me my career as chief of NUMA, then you can damn well let it." Sandecker's face was so close that Fawcett could have sworn the admiral's red beard had a life force all its own. "Pitt's dead?" he said dumbly. "I haven't heard=

"Just tell the President I'm here," Sandecker cut in, his voice turned to steel. "He'll see me."

The news came so abruptly, so coldly, that Fawcett was startled. "I'll inform the President about Pitt," he said slowly.

"Don't bother. If I know, he knows. We're tuned into the same intelligence sources."

"I need time to find out what this is all about," Fawcett said.

"You don't have time," said Sandecker stonily. "The President's nuclear energy bill is coming up for a vote before the Senate tomorrow. Think what might happen if Senator George Pitt is told the President had a hand in murdering his son. I don't have to paint you a picture of what will happen when the senator stops throwing his weight in support of presidential policies and starts opposing them."

Fawcett was shrewd enough to recognize an ambush looming in the distance. He pushed himself back from the desk, clasped his hands and stared at them for a few moments. Then he stood and walked toward the hallway.

"Come with me, Admiral. The President is in a meeting with Defense Secretary Jess Simmons. They should be wrapping up about now."

Sandecker waited outside the Oval Office while Fawcett entered, pardoned himself, and spoke a few whispered words to the President. Two minutes later Jess Simmons came out and exchanged a friendly greeting with the admiral, followed by Fawcett, who motioned for him to come in.

The President came from behind his desk and shook Sandecker's hand. His face was expressionless, his body loose and composed, and his intelligent eyes locked on the hard, burning stare of his visitor.

He turned to Fawcett. "Would you please excuse us, Dan? I'd like to speak with Admiral Sandecker privately."

Wordlessly Fawcett stepped out and closed the door behind him. The President gestured toward a chair and smiled. "Why don't we sit down and relax."

"I'd rather stand," Sandecker said flatly.

"As you wish." The President eased into an overstuffed armchair and crossed his legs.

"I'm sorry about Pitt and the others," he said without preamble. "No one meant for it to happen."

"May I respectfully ask what in hell is going on?"

"Tell me something, Admiral. Would you believe that when I asked for your cooperation in sending out a crew on the blimp it went far beyond a mere hunt for a missing person?"

"Only if there was a solid explanation to back you up."

"And would you also believe that besides looking for her husband, Mrs. LeBaron was part of an elaborate deception to open a direct line of communication between myself and Fidel Castro?"

Sandecker stared at the President, his anger momentarily placed on hold. The admiral was not awed in the least by the nation's leader. He had seen too many Presidents come and go, seen too many of their human frailties. He could not think of one he'd have set on a pedestal.

"No, Mr. President, I can't buy that," he said, his tone sarcastic. "If my memory serves me, you have a very capable Secretary of State in Douglas Oates, who is backed by an occasionally efficient State Department. I'd have to say they're better equipped to communicate with Castro through existing diplomatic channels." The President smiled wryly. "There are times negotiations between unfriendly countries must deviate from normal standards of statesmanship. Surely, you must believe that."

"I do."

"You don't involve yourself with politics, matters of state, Washington social parties, cronies or cliques, do you, Admiral?"

"That's right."

"But if I gave you an order, you'd obey it."

"Yes, sir, I would," Sandecker replied without hesitation. "Unless, of course, it was illegal, immoral, or unconstitutional."

The President considered that. Then he nodded and held out his hand toward a chair.

"Please, Admiral. My time is limited, but I'll briefly explain what's going down." He paused until Sandecker was seated. "Now then. . .

"Five days ago a highly classified document written by Fidel Castro was smuggled out of Havana to our State Department. Basically it was a proposal for paving the way for positive and constructive relations between Cuba and America."

"What's so startling about that?" Sandecker asked. "He's been angling for closer ties since President Reagan kicked his ass out of Grenada."

"True," the President acknowledged. "Until now the only agreement we've reached over the bargaining table was a deal raising immigration quotas for dissident Cubans coming to America. This new stance, however, went way beyond. Castro wants our help in throwing off the Russian yoke."

Sandecker looked at him, skeptical. "Castro's hatred of the U.S. is an obsession. Why, hell, he still holds rehearsals for an invasion. The Russians aren't about to be shoved out. Cuba represents their only toehold in the Western Hemisphere. Even if they suffered from a moment of madness and yanked their support, the island would sink in an economic quagmire. Cuba can't possibly stand on its own feet, it doesn't have the resources. I wouldn't buy Fidel's act if Christ himself applauded."

"The man is mercurial," admitted the President. "But don't underestimate his intentions. The Soviets are buried in their own economic quagmire. The Kremlin's paranoia against the outside world has driven their military budget to astronomical heights they can no longer afford. Their citizens' standard of living is the worst of any industrialized nation. Their agricultural harvests, industrial goals, and oil exports have all fallen into the cellar. They've lost the means to continue pumping massive aid to the Eastern bloc countries. And in Cuba's situation, the Russians have reached a point where they're demanding more while supplying less. The days of the billion-dollar aid grants, soft loans, and cheap arms supplies have passed. The free ride is over." Sandecker shook his head. "Still, if I were in Castro's shoes, I'd consider it a bad trade. There is no way Congress would vote billions of dollars to subsidize Cuba, and the island's twelve million people could barely exist without imported goods." The President glanced at the clock on the mantel. "I've only got another couple of minutes. Anyway, Castro's greatest fear doesn't come from economic chaos or a counterrevolution. It comes from the slow, steady creep of Soviet influence into every corner of his government. The people from Moscow chip off a little here, steal a little there, waiting patiently to make the right moves until they can dominate the government and control the country's resources. Only now has Castro awakened to the fact that his friends in the Kremlin are attempting to steal the country out from under him. His brother, Raul, was stunned when he became alerted to the heavy infiltration of his officer corps by fellow Cubans who had shifted their loyalty to the Soviet Union."

"I find that surprising. The Cubans detest the Russians. Their viewpoints on life don't mix at all."

"Certainly Cuba never intended to become a Kremlin pawn, but since the revolution thousands of Cuban students have studied in Russian universities. Many, rather than return home and work in a job dictated by the state, a job they might hate or which could lead to a dead end, were swayed by subtle Russian offerings of prestige and money. The canny ones, who placed their future above patriotism, secretly renounced Castro and swore allegiance to the Soviet Union. You have to give the Russians credit. They kept their promises. Using their influence over the Cuban government, they wove their new subjects into positions of power."

"Castro is still revered by the Cuban people," said Sandecker. "I can't see how they could stand by and watch him totally subjugated by Moscow."

The President's expression turned grave. "The very real threat is that the Russians will assassinate the Castro brothers and throw the blame on the CIA. Easy enough to do since the agency is known to have made several attempts on his life back in the sixties."

"And the Kremlin walks through the open door and installs a puppet government." The President nodded. "Which brings us to his proposed U.S.-Cuban pact. Castro doesn't want to scare the Russians into making their move before we've agreed to back his play to boot them out of the Caribbean. Unfortunately, after making the opening gambit, he has stonewalled all replies from myself and Doug Oates."

"Sounds like the old stick-and-carrot routine to whet your appetite."

"The way I see it too."

"So where do the LeBarons fit into all this?"

"They fell into it," the President said with a touch of irony. "You know the story. Raymond LeBaron flew off in his antique blimp in search of a treasure ship. Actually, he had another target in mind, but that needn't concern NUMA or you personally. As fate would have it, Raul Castro was on an inspection tour of the island's defense command complex outside of Havana when LeBaron was spotted by their offshore detection systems. The thought struck him that the contact might prove useful. So he ordered his guard forces to intercept the blimp and escort it to an airfield near the city of Cardenas."

"I can guess the rest," said Sandecker. "The Cubans reinflated the blimp, hid an envoy on board, who was carrying the U.S.-Cuban document, and sent it aloft, figuring prevailing winds would nudge it toward the States."

"You're close," the President acknowledged, smiling. "But they didn't take any chances on fickle winds. A close friend of Fidel's and a pilot sneaked on board with the document. They flew the blimp to Miami, where they jumped into the water a few miles offshore and were picked up by a waiting yacht."

"I'd be curious to learn where the three bodies in the control cabin came from," Sandecker probed.

"A melodramatic display by Castro to prove his good intentions that I haven't got time to go into."

"The Russians haven't become suspicious?"

"Not yet. Their superior attitude over the Cubans prevents them from seeing anything resembling Latin ingenuity."

"So Raymond LeBaron is alive and well somewhere in Cuba." The President made an open gesture with his hands. "I can only assume that's his situation. CIA sources report that Soviet intelligence demanded to interrogate LeBaron. The Cubans obliged and LeBaron hasn't been seen since."

"Aren't you going to even try to negotiate LeBaron's release?" asked Sandecker.

"The situation is delicate as it is without throwing him on the bargaining table. When we can nail down and sign the U.S.-Cuban pact, I have no doubt that Castro will take custody of LeBaron from the Russians and turn him over to us." The President paused and stared at the mantel clock. "I'm late for a conference with my budget people." He stood up and started for the door. Then he turned to Sandecker. "I'll wrap this up quickly. Jessie LeBaron was briefed on the situation and memorized our response to Castro. The plan was to have the blimp return with a LeBaron on board. A signal to Castro that my reply was being sent in the same way his proposal was sent out. Something went wrong. You passed Jess Simmons on your way in. He briefed me on the photos taken by our aerial reconnaissance. Instead of stopping the blimp and escorting it to Cardenas, the Cuban patrol helicopter fired upon it. Then for some unexplained reason the helicopter exploded, and they both crashed into the sea. You must realize, Admiral, I couldn't send rescue forces because of the sensitive nature of the mission. I'm truly sorry about Pitt. I owed him a debt I could never repay. We can only pray that he, Jessie LeBaron, and your other friends somehow survived."

"Nobody could survive a crash in the path of hurricane," Sandecker said caustically.

"You'll have to pardon me, Mr. President, but even Mickey Mouse could have put together a better operation."

A pained expression lined the President's face. He started to say something, thought better of it, and pulled open the door. "I'm sorry, Admiral, I'm late for the conference." The President spoke no more. He walked from the Oval Office and left Sandecker standing confused and alone.

<<27>>

The worst of hurricane Little Eva skirted the island and turned northeast into the Gulf of Mexico. The winds dropped off to forty miles an hour, but another two days would pass before they were replaced by the gentle trade winds from the south. Cayo Santa Maria seemed empty of any life, animal or human. Ten years earlier, in a moment of generous comradeship, Fidel Castro had deeded the island over to his Communist allies as a gesture of goodwill. He then slapped the face of the White House by proclaiming it as a territory of Russia.

The natives were quietly but forcefully relocated onto the mainland, and engineering units of the GRU (Glavnoye Razvedyvatelnoye Upravleniye, or Chief Intelligence Directorate of the Soviet General Staff), the military arm of the KGB, moved in and began building a highly secret underground installation. Working in stages and only under cover of darkness, the complex slowly took shape beneath the sand and palm trees. CIA spy planes monitored the island, but intelligence analysis failed to detect any defense installations or heavy shipment of supplies by sea or air. Enhanced photo examination showed little except a few eroding roads that seemingly went nowhere. Only as a matter of routine was the island studied, but nothing ever turned up that indicated a threat to United States security.

Somewhere beneath the wind-beaten island, Pitt awoke in a small sterile room on a bed with a goosedown mattress under a fluorescent light that blazed continuously. He could not recall if he had ever slept in a feather bed, but he found it most comfortable and made a mental note to look around for one, if and when he ever got back to Washington. Apart from bruises, sore joints, and a slight throb in his head he felt reasonably fit. He lay there and stared at the gray-painted ceiling, recalling the night before--Jessie's discovery of her husband, the guards escorting Pitt, Giordino, and Gunn to an infirmary, where a female Russian doctor, who was built like a bawling pin, tended to their injuries, a meal of mutton stew in a mess hall that Pitt rated six points below an east Texas truck stop, and finally being locked in a room with a toilet and washbasin, a bed, and a narrow wooden wardrobe.

Slipping his hands under the sheet, he explored his body. Except for several yards of tape and gauze, he was naked. He marveled at the homely doctor's fetish for bandages. He swung his bare feet onto the concrete floor and sat there, pondering his next move. A signal from his bladder reminded him he was still human, so he moved over to the commode and wished he had a cup of coffee. They, whoever they were, had left him his Doxa watch. The dial read 11:55. Since he had never slept more than nine hours in his life, he rightly assumed that it was the following morning.

A minute later he leaned over the basin and splashed cold water on his face. The single towel was coarse and hardly absorbed the moisture. He went over to the wardrobe, pulled it open, and found a khaki shirt and pants on a hanger and a pair of sandals. Before he put them on he removed several bandages over wounds that were already beginning to scab, and flexed the newfound freedom of movement. After he dressed, he tried the heavy iron door. The latch was still locked, so he pounded on the thick metal panel, causing a hollow boom to reverberate around the concrete walls.

A boy who looked no older than nineteen and wearing Soviet army fatigues opened the door and stood back, aiming a machine pistol, no larger than an ordinary household hammer, at Pitt's midsection. He motioned down a long hall to the left, and Pitt obliged. They passed several other iron doors, and Pitt wondered if Gunn and Giordino were behind any of them.

They stopped at an elevator whose doors were held open by another guard. They entered and Pitt felt the slight pressure against his feet as the car rose. He glanced at the indicator above the door and noticed that it showed lights for five levels. A good-sized layout, he thought. The elevator came to a stop and the automatic doors glided open. Pitt and his guard stepped out into a carpeted room with a vaulted ceiling. The two side walls held shelves stacked with hundreds of books. Most of the books were in English and many of them were by current best selling American authors. A vast map of North America covered the entire far wall. The room looked to Pitt to be a private study. There was a big, antique carved desk whose marble top was strewn with current issues of the Washington Post, the New York Times, the Wall Street Journal, and USA Today. Stacked atop tables on each side of the doorway were piles of technical magazines, including Computer Technology, Science Digest, and the Air Force Journal. The carpet was burgundy red with six green leather chairs spaced evenly about its thick pile. Maintaining his silence, the guard reentered the elevator and left Pitt standing alone in the empty room.

Must be time to observe the monkey, he mused. Pitt didn't bother to probe the walls for the lens to the video camera. There was little doubt in his mind that it was concealed in the room somewhere, recording his actions. He decided to try for a reaction. He swayed drunkenly for a moment, rolled his eyes upward, and then crumpled onto the carpet. Within fifteen seconds a hidden door, whose edges perfectly matched latitude and longitude lines of the giant wall map, swung open and a short, trim man in an elegantly tailored Soviet military uniform walked into the room. He knelt down and peered into Pitt's half-open eyes.

"Can you hear me?" he asked in English.

"Yes," Pitt mumbled.

The Russian went over to a table and tilted a crystal decanter over a matching glass. He returned and lifted Pitt's head.

"Drink this," he ordered.

"What is it?"

"Courvoisier cognac with a sharp, biting taste," the Russian officer answered in a flawless American accent. "Good for what ails you."

"I prefer a richer, smoother Remy Martin," said Pitt, holding up the glass. "Cheers." He sipped the cognac until it was gone, then rose lightly to his feet, found a chair, and sat down.

The officer smiled with amusement. "You seem to have made a quick recovery, Mr. .

."

"Snodgrass, Elmer Snodgrass, from Moline, Illinois."

"A nice Midwestern touch," the Russian said, coming around and sitting behind the desk. "I am Peter Velikov."

"General Velikov, if my memory of Russian military insignia is correct."

"Quite correct," Velikov acknowledged. "Would you care for another cognac?" Pitt shook his head and studied the man across the desk. He judged Velikov to be no taller than five foot seven, weighing about a hundred and thirty pounds, and somewhere in his late forties. There was a comfortable friendliness about him, and yet Pitt sensed an underlying coldness. His hair was short and black with only a touch of gray at the sideburns and receding around a peak above the forehead. His eyes were as blue as an alpine lake, and the light-skinned face seemed sculptured more by classic Roman influence than Slavic. Dress him in a toga and set a wreath on his head, Pitt imagined, and Velikov could have posed for a marble bust of Julius Caesar.

"I hope you don't mind if I ask you a few questions," said Velikov politely.

"Not at all. I have no pressing engagements for the rest of the day. My time is yours." A look of ice glinted in Velikov's eyes for an instant and then quickly faded. "Suppose you tell me how you came to be on Cayo Santa Maria."

Pitt held out his hands in a helpless gesture. "No sense in wasting your time. I might as well make a clean breast of it. I'm president of the Central Intelligence Agency. My board of directors and I thought it would be a great promotional idea to charter a blimp and drop redeemable coupons for toilet paper over the length of Cuba. I'm told there's an acute shortage down here. Unfortunately, the Cubans didn't agree with our marketing strategy and shot us down."

General Velikov gave Pitt a tolerant but irritated look. He perched a pair of reading glasses on his nose and opened a file on his desk.

"I see by your dossier, Mr. Pitt--Dirk Pitt, if I read it right--that your character profile mentions a drift toward dry wit."

"Does it also tell you I'm a pathological liar?"

"No, but it seems you have a most fascinating history. A pity you aren't on our side."

"Come now, General, what future could a nonconformist possibly have in Moscow?"

"A short one, I'm afraid."

"I compliment your honesty."

"Why not tell me the truth?"

"Only if you're willing to believe it."

"You don't think I can?"

"Not if you adhere to the Communist mania of seeing a CIA plot under every rock."

"Seems you have a high disregard for the Soviet Union."

"Name one thing you people have ever done in the last seventy years to earn a humanity award. What is baffling as hell is why the Russians have never wised up to the fact they're the laughing stock of the world. Your empire is history's most pathetic joke. The twenty-first century is just around the corner and your government operates as though it never advanced past the nineteen-thirties."

Velikov didn't bat an eyelid, but Pitt detected a slight redness in his face. It was clear the general wasn't used to being lectured by a man he looked down upon as an enemy of the state. His eyes examined Pitt with the unmistakable gaze of a judge who was weighing a convicted murderer's life in the balance. Then his gaze turned speculative.

"I'll see that your comments are passed on to the Politburo," he said dryly. "Now if you're through with the speech, Mr. Pitt, I'd be interested in hearing how you came to be here."

Pitt nodded toward the table with the decanter. "I think I'd like that cognac now."

"Help yourself."

Pitt half filled his glass and returned to the chair. "What I'm about to tell you is the straight truth. I want you to understand I have no reason to lie. To the best of my knowledge I am not on any sort of intelligence mission for my government. Do you understand me so far, General?"

"I do."

"Is your hidden tape recorder running?"

Velikov had the courtesy to nod. "It is."

Pitt then related in detail his discovery of the runaway blimp, the meeting with Jessie LeBaron in Admiral Sandecker's office, the final flight of the Prosperteer, and finally the narrow escape from the hurricane, omitting any mention of Giordino's downing of the patrol helicopter or the dive on the Cyclops.

Velikov did not look up when Pitt finished speaking. He sifted through the dossier without a flicker of change in his expression. The general acted as if his mind were lightyears away and he hadn't heard a word. Pitt could play the game too. He took his cognac glass and rose from his chair. Picking up a copy of the Washington Post, he noted with mild surprise that the masthead carried that day's date.

"You must have an efficient courier system," he said.

"Sorry?"

"Your newspapers are only a few hours old."

"Five hours, to be exact."

The cognac fairly glowed on Pitt's empty stomach. The awkward consequences of his predicament mellowed after his third drink. He went on the attack.

"Why are you holding Raymond LeBaron?" he asked.

"At the moment he is a house guest."

"That doesn't explain why his existence has been kept quiet for two weeks."

"I don't have to explain anything to you, Mr. Pitt."

"How is it LeBaron receives gourmet dinners in formal dress, while my friends and I are forced to eat and dress like common prisoners."

"Because that is precisely what you all are, Mr. Pitt, common prisoners. Mr. LeBaron is a very wealthy and powerful man whose dialogue is most enlightening. You, on the other hand, are merely an inconvenience. Does that satisfy your curiosity?"

"It doesn't satisfy a thing," Pitt said, yawning.

"How did you destroy the patrol helicopter?" Velikov asked suddenly.

"We threw our shoes at it," Pitt fired back testily. "What did you expect from four civilians, one of whom was a woman, flying in a forty-year-old gas bag?"

"Helicopters don't blow up in midair for no reason."

"Maybe it was struck by lightning."

"Well, then, Mr. Pitt, if you were on a simple search mission to locate a clue to Mr. LeBaron's disappearance and hunt for treasure, how do you explain the report from the captain of the patrol boat, who stated that the blimp's control car was so shattered by shellfire that no one could have survived, and that a streak of light issued from the blimp an instant before the helicopter exploded, and that a thorough search over the crash site showed no signs of survivors? Yet you all appear like magic on this island in the middle of a hurricane, when the security patrols were taking shelter from the winds. Most opportune, wouldn't you say?"

"How do you read it?"

"The blimp was either remote controlled or another crew was killed by the gunners on board the helicopter. You and Mrs. LeBaron were brought close to shore by submarine, but during the landing everyone was thrown onto the rocks and injured."

"You get a passing grade for creativity, General, but you fail accuracy. Only the landing part is correct. You forgot the most important ingredient, a motive. Why would four unarmed castaways attack whatever it is you've got here?"

"I don't have the answers yet," said Velikov with a disarming smile.

"But you intend to get them."

"I'm not a man who accepts failure, Mr. Pitt. Your story, though imaginative, does not wash." He pressed a button on the desk intercom. "We'll talk again soon."

"When can we expect you to contact our government so they can begin negotiations for our release?"

Velikov gave Pitt a patronizing look. "My apologies. I neglected to mention that your government was notified only an hour ago."

"Of our rescue?"

"No, of your deaths."

For a long second it didn't dawn on Pitt. Then it slowly began to register. His jaw stiffened and his eyes bored into Velikov.

"Spell it out, General."

"Very simple," said Velikov in a manner as friendly as if he were passing the time of day with a mailman. "Whether by accident or by design, you have stumbled onto our most sensitive military installation outside the Soviet Union. You cannot be permitted to leave. After I learn the true facts, you will all have to die."

<<28>>

Indulging in his favorite pastime--eating--Hageri stole an hour to enjoy a Mexican lunch of flat enchiladas topped with an egg followed by sopaipillas and washed down with a tequila sour. He paid the check, left the restaurant, and drove to the address assigned to Clyde Ward. His source with the telephone company had traced the number in General Fisher's black book to a public phone in a gas station. He marked the time. In another six minutes his pilot would call the number from the parked jet. He found the gas station in an industrial area near the rail yards. It was self-serve, selling an unknown independent brand. He pulled up to a pump whose red paint was heavily coated by grime and inserted the nozzle into the car's fuel spout, careful to avoid looking toward the pay phone inside the station's office.

Shortly after landing at the Albuquerque airport, Hagen had rented a car and siphoned ten gallons of fuel from the tank so his pit stop would appear genuine. The trapped air pockets inside the tank gurgled and he screwed on the cap and replaced the nozzle. He entered the office and was fumbling with his wallet when the pay phone mounted on the wall began to ring.

The only attendant on duty, who was in the act of repairing a flat tire, wiped his hands on a rag and picked up the receiver. Hagen tuned in on the one-way conversation.

"Mel's Service. . . Who. . .? There ain't no Clyde here. . . Yeah, I'm sure. You got the wrong number. . . That's the right number, but I've worked here for six years and I ain't never heard of no Clyde."

He hung up and stepped up to the cash register and smiled at Hagen. "How much you get?"

"Ten point two gallons. Thirteen dollars and fifty-seven cents." While the attendant made change for a twenty, Hagen scanned the station. He couldn't help admiring the professionalism that went into setting up the stage, because that's what it was, a stage setting. The office and lube bay floors hadn't seen a mop in years. Cobwebs hung from the ceilings, the tools had more rust than oil on them, and the attendant's palms and fingernails didn't look as if they had ever seen grease. But it was the surveillance system that astounded him. His trained eye picked out subtly placed electrical wiring that didn't belong in a run-of-the-mill service station. He sensed rather spotted the bugs and cameras.

"Could you do me a favor?" Hagen asked the attendant as he received his change.

"Whatta you need?"

"I've got a funny noise in the engine. Could you take a look under the hood and tell me what might be wrong?"

"Sure, why not. Ain't got much else to do."

Hagen noticed the attendant's designer hair style and doubted if it had ever been touched by the neighborhood barber. He also caught the slight bulge in the pants leg, on the outer right calf just above the ankle.

Hagen had parked the car on the opposite side of the second gaspump island away from the station building. He started the engine and pulled the hood latch. The attendant put his foot on the front bumper and peered over the radiator.

"I don't hear nothin'."

"Come around on this side," said Hagen. "It's louder over here." He stood with his back to the street, shielded from any electronic observation by the pumps, the car, and its raised hood.

As the attendant leaned over the fender and poked his head into the engine compartment, Hagen slipped a gun from a belt holster behind his back and pushed the muzzle between the man's buttocks.

"This is a two-and-a-half-inch-barreled combat magnum .357 shoved up your ass and it's loaded with wad cutters. Do you understand?"

The attendant tensed, but he did not show fear. "Yes, I read you, friend."

"And do you know what a wad cutter can do at close range?"

"I'm aware of what a wad cutter is."

"Good, then you know it'll make a nice tunnel from your asshole to your brain if I pull the trigger."

"What are you after, friend?"

"What happened to your phony jerkwater accent?" Hagen asked.

"It comes and goes."

Hagen reached down with his free hand and removed a small Beretta .38-caliber automatic from under the attendant's pants leg. "Okay, friend, where can I find Clyde?"

"Never heard of him."

Hagen rammed the muzzle of the magnum up against the base of the spine with such force the fabric on the seat of the attendant's pants split and he grunted in agony.

"Who are you working for?" he gasped.

"The ìnner core,' " answered Hagen.

"You can't be."

Hagen gave an upward thrust with the snub-nosed gun barrel again. The attendant's face contorted and he moaned as his lower body burned with the jarring pain.

"Who is Clyde?" Hagen demanded.

"Clyde Booth," the attendant muttered through clenched teeth.

"I can't hear you, friend."

"His name is Clyde Booth."

"Tell me about him."

"He's supposed to be some kind of genius. Invents and manufactures scientific gadgets used in space. Secret systems for the government. I don't know exactly, I'm only a member of the security staff."

"Location?"

`The plant is ten miles west of Santa Fe. It's called QB-Tech."

"What's the QB stand for?"

"Quarter Back," the attendant answered. "Booth was an allAmerican football player for Arizona State."

"You knew I would show up?"

"We were told to be on the lookout for a fat man."

"How many others positioned around the station?" asked Hagen. "Three. One down the street in the tow truck, one on the roof of the warehouse behind the station, one in the red van parked beside the western bar and diner next door."

"Why haven't they made their move?"

"Our orders were only to follow you."

Hagen eased the pressure and reholstered his revolver. Then he removed the shells from the attendant's automatic, dropped it on the ground, and kicked it under the car.

"Okay," said Hagen. "Now walk, don't run, back inside the station." Before the attendant was halfway across the station drive, Hagen had turned the corner a block away. He made four more quick turns to lose the tow truck and the van, and then sped toward the airport.

<<29>>

Leonard Hudson stepped out of the elevator that lowered him into the heart of the Jersey Colony headquarters. He carried an umbrella that was dripping from the rain outside, and a fancy briefcase of highly polished walnut.

He looked neither right nor left and acknowledged the greetings from his staff with a curt wave. Hudson was not the nervous type, nor was he a worrier, but he was concerned. The reports coming in from other members of the "inner core" spelled danger. Someone was methodically tracking each of them down. An outsider had breached their carefully devised cover operations.

Now the whole lunar base effort--the ingenuity, the planning, the lives, the money, and the manpower that had gone into the Jersey Colony--was in jeopardy because of an unknown intruder.

He walked into his large but austere office and found Gunnar Eriksen waiting for him. Eriksen was sitting on a couch, sipping a cup of hot coffee and smoking a curved pipe. His round, unlined face wore a somber look and his eyes had a benign glow. He was dressed casually, but unrumpled, in an expensive cashmere sports jacket and a tan V-neck sweater over matching woolen slacks. He would not look out of place selling jaguars or Ferraris.

"You talked to Fisher and Booth," said Hudson, hanging up the umbrella and setting the briefcase beside the desk.

"I have."

"Any idea who it might be?"

"None."

"Strange that he never leaves fingerprints," said Hudson, sitting on the couch with Eriksen and pouring himself a cup of coffee from a glass pot.

Eriksen sent a puff of smoke toward the ceiling. "Stranger yet that every image we have of him on videotape is a blur."

"He must carry some sort of electronic erasing device."

"Obviously not your ordinary private investigator," Eriksen mused. "A top-of-the-line professional with heavy backing."

"He knows his way around, produces all the correct identification papers and security clearances. The story he handed Mooney about being an auditor with the General Accounting Office was first-rate. I'd have swallowed it myself."

"What have we got on him?"

"Only a stack of descriptions that don't agree on anything except his size. They're unanimous in referring to him as a fat man."

"Could be the President has turned an intelligence agency loose on us."

"If that were the case," said Hudson doubtfully, "we'd be looking at an army of undercover agents. This man appears to work alone."

"Did you consider the possibility the President might have quietly hired an agent outside the government?" asked Eriksen.

"The thought crossed my mind, but I'm not completely sold on it. Our friend in the White House is tapped into the Oval Office. Everyone who calls or walks in and out of the executive wing is accounted for. Of course, there's always the President's private line, but I don't think this is the sort of mission he could instigate over the telephone."

"Interesting," said Eriksen. "The fat man started his probe at the facility where we first created the idea of the Jersey Colony."

"That's right," Hudson acknowledged. "He rifled Earl Mooney's office at Pattenden Lab and traced a phone call to General Fisher, even made some remark about you wanting me to pay for the airplane."

"An obvious reference to our advertised deaths," Eriksen said thoughtfully. "That means he's tied us together."

"Then he turned up in Colorado and mugged Fisher, stealing a notebook with the names and numbers of the top people on the Jersey Colony project, including those of the ìnner core.' Then he must have seen through the trap we laid to trail him from New Mexico and escaped. We got a small break when one our security men who was watching the Albuquerque airport spotted a fat man arrive in an unmarked private jet and take off again only two hours later."

"He must have rented a car, used some sort of identification." Hudson shook his head. "Nothing of any use. He showed a driver's license and a credit card from a George Goodfly of New Orleans, who doesn't exist." Eriksen tapped the ashes from his pipe into a glass dish. "Seems odd he didn't drive to Santa Fe and attempt to penetrate Clyde Booth's operation."

"My guess is he's only on a fact-finding hunt."

"But who is paying him? The Russians?"

"Certainly not the KGB," said Hudson. "They don't send subtle messages over the phone or move around the country in a private jet. No, this man moves fast. I'd say he's running on a tight deadline."

Eriksen stared into his coffee cup. "The Soviet lunar mission is scheduled to set down on the moon in five days. That has to be his deadline."

"I believe you may be right."

Eriksen stared at him. "You realize now that the power behind the intruder has to be the President," he said quietly.

Hudson nodded slowly. "I blinded myself to the possibility," he said in a distant voice.

"I wanted to believe he would back the security of the Jersey Colony from Russian penetration."

"From what you told me of your meeting, he wasn't about to condone a battle on the moon between our people and Soviet cosmonauts. Nor would he be overjoyed to learn Steinmetz destroyed three Soviet spacecraft."

"The point that bothers me," said Hudson, "is if we accept the President's interference, why, with all of his resources, would he send only one man?"

"Because once he accepted the Jersey Colony as a reality, he realized our supporters cover his every move, and he rightly assumed we could throw a school of red herrings across our trail to mislead any investigation. A wise man, the President. He brought in a ringer from left field who cracked our walls before we knew what was happening."

"There may still be time to send him on the wrong scent."

"Too late. The fat man has Fisher's notebook," said Eriksen. "He knows who we are and where to find us. He is a very real threat. He started at the tail and now he's working toward the head. When the fat man comes through this door, Leo, the President will surely move to stop any confrontation between the Soviet cosmonauts and our people in the Jersey Colony."

"Are you hinting we eliminate the fat man?" asked Hudson.

"No," Eriksen replied. "Better not to antagonize the President. We'll merely put him on ice for a few days."

"I wonder where he'll turn up next," Hudson pondered.

Eriksen methodically reloaded his pipe. "He began his witch-hunt in Oregon and from there to Colorado and then New Mexico. My guess is his next stop will be Texas, at the office of our man with NASA in Houston."

Hudson punched a number on his desk phone. "A pity I can't be there when we snare the bastard."

<<30>>

Pitt spent the next two hours on his back in bed, listening to the sounds of metal doors being opened and closed, tuning in on the footsteps heard outside his cell. The youthful guard brought lunch and waited while Pitt ate, making sure all the utensils were accounted for when he left. This time the guard seemed in a better humor and was unarmed. He also left the door open during the meal, giving Pitt a chance to study the latch.

He was surprised to see that it was an ordinary doorknob lock instead of a heavysecurity or mortice throw bolt. His cell was never meant to serve as a jail. It was mostly likely intended as a storeroom.

Pitt stirred a spoon over a bowl of foul-smelling fish stew and handed it back, more interested in the closing of the door than eating slop that he knew was the first step of a psychological ploy to lower his mental defense mechanisms. The guard stepped back and yanked the iron door shut. Pitt cocked his ear and caught a single, decisive click immediately after the slam.

He knelt and closely examined the crack between the door and the strike. The gap was 1/8 inch across. Then he scoured the cell, searching for an object thin enough to slip between the crack so he could jimmy the latch.

The bunk supporting the down mattress was made of wood with grooved joints. No metal or hard, flat surface there. The faucets and spouts on the sink were ceramic and the plumbing underneath and in the toilet tank offered nothing he could mold with his hands. He got lucky with the wardrobe. Any one of the hinges would work perfectly, except he could not remove the screws with his fingernails.

He was pondering this problem when the door swung open and the guard stood in the entrance. His eyes cautiously scanned the cell for a moment. Then he brusquely motioned Pitt outside, led him through a maze of gray concrete corridors, stopping finally outside a door marked with the numeral 6.

Pitt was roughly shoved into a small boxlike room with a sickly stench about it. The floor was cement with a drain in its center. The walls were painted a dreary shade of red that ominously matched the pattern of stains that were splattered on them. The only illumination came from a dull yellow bulb hanging by a cord from the ceiling. It was the most depressing room Pitt had ever entered.

The only furniture was a cheap, deeply scarred wooden chair. But it was the man seated in the chair that Pitt's eyes focused on. The eyes that stared back were as expressionless as ice cubes. Pitt could not tell the stranger's height, but his chest and shoulders were so ponderous they seemed deformed, the look of a body builder who had spent thousands of hours of sweat and effort. The head was completely shaven, and the face might have been considered almost handsome but for the large misshapen nose that was totally out of place with its surroundings. He was wearing only a pair of rubber boots and tropical shorts. Except for a Bismarck moustache, he looked strangely familiar to Pitt.

Without looking up he began reading off a list of crimes Pitt was accused of. They began with violating Cuban air space, shooting down a helicopter, murdering its crew, working as an agent for the Central Intelligence Agency, entering the country illegally. The accusations droned on until they ended at last with unlawful entry into a forbidden military zone. The voice spoke in pure American with a trace of a Western accent.

"How do you respond?"

"Guilty as sin."

A piece of paper and a pen were held out by an enormous hand. "Please sign the confession."

Pitt took the pen and signed the paper against a wall without reading the wording. The interrogator stared at the signature broodingly. "I think you've made a mistake."

"How so?"

"Your name is not Benedict Arnold."

Pitt snapped his fingers. "By God, you're right. That was last week. This week I'm Millard Fillmore."

"Very amusing."

"Since General Velikov has already informed American officials of my death," said Pitt seriously, "I fail to see any good of a confession. Seems to me it's like injecting penicillin into a skeleton. What purpose can it possibly serve?"

"Insurance against an incident, propaganda reasons, even a bargaining position," answered the interrogator amiably. "There could be any number of reasons." He paused and read from a file on the desk. "I see from the dossier General Velikov gave me that you directed a salvage project on the Empress of Ireland shipwreck in the Saint Lawrence River."

"That is correct."

"I believe I was on the same project."

Pitt stared at him. There was a familiarity, but it wouldn't frame in his mind. He shook his head. "I don't recall you working on my team. What's your name?"

"Foss Gly," he said slowly. "I worked with the Canadians to disrupt your operations." A scene burst within Pitt's mind of a tugboat tied to a dock in Rimouski, Quebec. He had saved the life of a British secret agent by braining Gly on the head with a wrench. He also remembered with great relief that Gly's back had been turned and he had not seen Pitt's approach.

"Then we've never met face to face," Pitt said calmly. He watched for a faint sign of recognition from Gly, but he didn't bat an eye.

"Probably not."

"You're a long way from home."

Gly shrugged his great shoulders. "I work for whoever pays top dollar for my special services."

"In this case the money machine spits out rubles."

"Converted into gold," Gly added. He sighed and pulled himself to a standing position and stretched. The skin was so taut, the veins so pronounced, they actually looked grotesque. He rose from the chair and looked up, the smooth dome of his head on a level with Pitt's chin. "I'd like to continue the small talk about past events, Mr. Pitt, but I must have the answers to several questions and your signature on the confession."

"I'll discuss whatever subject that interests you when I'm assured the LeBarons and my friends will not be harmed."

Gly did not reply, only stared with a look that bordered on indifference. Pitt sensed a blow was coming and tensed his body to roll with it. But Gly did not cooperate. Instead, he slowly reached out with one hand and gripped Pitt at the base of the neck on the soft part of the shoulder. At first the pressure was light, a squeeze, and then a gradual tightening until the pain erupted like fire.

Pitt clutched Gly's wrist with both hands and tried to wrench away the ironlike claw, but he might as well have tried to pull a twenty foot oak out of the ground by the roots. He ground his teeth together until he thought they would crack. Dimly through the bursting fireworks in his brain, he could hear Gly's voice.

"Okay, Pitt, you don't have to go through this. Just tell me who masterminded your intrusion on this island and why. No need to suffer unless you're a professional masochist. Believe me, you won't find the experience enjoyable. Tell the general what he wants to know. Whatever you're hiding won't change the course of history. Thousands of lives won't hang in the balance. Why feel your body being pulped day after day until all bones are crushed, all joints are cracked, your sinews reduced to the consistency of mashed potatoes. Because that is exactly what will happen if you don't play ball. You understand?"

The ungodly agony eased as Gly released his grip. Pitt swayed on his feet and stared through half-open eyes at his tormentor, one hand massaging the ugly bruise that was spreading on his shoulder. He realized that whatever story he told, true or fabricated, would never be accepted. The torture would continue until his physical resources finally gave in and numbed to it.

He asked politely, "Do you get a bonus for every confession?"

"I do not work on commission," said Gly with friendly humor.

"You win," said Pitt easily. "I have a low threshold of pain. What do you want me to confess to, attempting to assassinate Fidel Castro or plotting to convert Russian advisers to democrats?"

"Merely the truth, Mr. Pitt."

"I've already told General Velikov."

"Yes, I have your recorded words."

"Then you know that Mrs. LeBaron, Al Giordino, Rudi Gunn, and I were trying to find a clue to the disappearance of Raymond LeBaron while searching for a shipwreck supposedly containing treasure. What's so sinister about that?"

"General Velikov sees it as a front for a more classified mission."

"For instance?"

"An attempt to communicate with the Castros."

"Ridiculous is the first word that comes to mind. There must be easier ways for our governments to negotiate with each other."

"Gunn has told us everything," said Gly. "You were to head the operation to stray into Cuban waters, where you were to be captured by their patrol craft and escorted to the mainland. Once there, you were to turn over vital information dealing with secret U.S.Cuban relations." Pitt was genuinely at a loss. This was all Greek to him. "That has to be the dumbest cock-and-bull tale I've ever heard."

"Then why were you armed and able to destroy the Cuban patrol helicopter?"

"We carried no arms," Pitt lied. "The helicopter suddenly exploded in our faces. I can't give you a reason."

"Then explain why the Cuban patrol boat could find no survivors at the crash site."

"We were in the water. It was dark and the seas were rough. They didn't spot us."

"Yet you were able to swim six miles through the violent water of a hurricane, all four of you keeping together as a group, and landing intact on Cayo Santa Maria. How was it possible?"

"Just lucky, I guess."

"Now who's telling a dumb cock-and-bull tale?"

Pitt never got a chance to answer. Without a flicker of warning, Gly swung and rammed a fist into the side of Pitt's body near the left kidney.

The pain and the sudden understanding burst within him at the same time. As he sank into the black pool of unconsciousness he reached out for Jessie, but she laughed and made no effort to reach back.

<<31>>

A deep, resonant voice was saying something, almost in his ear. The words were vague and distant. An army of scorpions crept over the edge of the bed and began thrusting their poisoned tails in his side. He opened his eyes. The bright fluorescent light above blinded him, so he closed them again. His face felt wet and he thought he might be swimming and threw out his arms. Then the voice beside him spoke more distinctly.

"Lie easy, partner. I'm just sponging off your face."

Pitt reopened his eyes and focused them on the face of an older, gray-haired man with soft, concerned eyes in a warm, scholarly face. The eyes met his and he smiled.

"Are you in much pain?"

"It smarts a bit."

"Would you like some water?"

"Yes, please."

When the man stood up, the hair on his head nearly touched the ceiling. He produced a cup from a small canvas bag and filled it from the washbasin.

Pitt clutched his side and eased very slowly to a sitting position. He felt rotten and realized he was ravenously hungry. When was the last time he'd eaten? His drowsy mind couldn't recall. He accepted the water thankfully and quickly downed it. Then he looked up at his benefactor.

"Old rich and reckless Raymond, I presume."

LeBaron smiled tightly. "Not a title I'm fond of."

"You're not an easy man to locate."

"My wife has told me how you saved her life. I wish to thank you." "According to General Velikov, the rescue is only temporary"

LeBaron's smile vanished. "What did he tell you?"

"He said, and I quote, `You all have to die.' "

"Did he give you a reason?"

"The story he handed me was that we had stumbled into a most sensitive Soviet military installation."

A pensive look crossed LeBaron's face. Then he said, "Velikov was lying. Originally this place was built to gather communications data from microwave transmissions around the U.S., but the rapid development of eavesdropping satellites made it obsolete before it was completed."

"How do you know that?"

"They've allowed me the run of the island. Something impossible if the area was highly secret. I've seen no evidence of sophisticated communications equipment or antennas anywhere. I've also become friendly with a number of Cuban visitors who let slip bits and pieces of information. The best I can figure is that this place is like a businessmen's retreat, a hideaway where corporate executives go to discuss and plan marketing strategy for the coming year. Only here, high-ranking Soviet and Cuban officials meet to create political and military policy."

It was difficult for Pitt to concentrate. His left kidney hurt like hell and he felt drowsy. He staggered over to the commode. His urine was pink with blood, but not very much, and he didn't feel the damage was serious.

"We had best not continue this conversation," said Pitt. "My cell is probably bugged." LeBaron shook his head. "No, I don't think so. This level of the compound wasn't constructed for maximum security detention because there is no way out. It's like the old French penal colony at Devil's Island--impossible to escape from. The Cuban mainland is over twenty miles away. The water teems with sharks, and the currents sweep out to sea. In the other direction the nearest landfall is in the Bahamas, a hundred and ten miles to the northeast. If you're thinking of escape, my advice is to forget it." Pitt gingerly settled back on his bed. "Have you seen the others?"

"Yes.

"Their condition?"

"Giordino and Gunn are together in a room thirty feet down the corridor. Because of their injuries they've been spared a visit to room number six. Until now, they've been treated quite well."

"Jessie?"

LeBaron's face tensed very slightly. "General Velikov has graciously allowed us a VIP

room to ourselves. We're even permitted to dine with the officers."

"I'm glad to hear you've both been spared a trip to room six."

"Yes, Jessie and I are lucky our treatment is humanly decent." LeBaron's tone seemed unconvincing, his words spoken in a flat monotone. There was no light in his eyes. This wasn't the man who was famous for his audacious and freewheeling adventures and flamboyant fiascos in and out of the business world. He seemed completely out of character with the prodigious dynamo whose advice was sought by financiers and world leaders. He struck Pitt as a beaten farmer, forced off his land by an unscrupulous banker.

"And the status of Buck Caesar and Joe Cavilla?" Pitt asked. LeBaron shrugged sadly. "Buck eluded his guards during an exercise period outside the compound and tried to swim for it, using the trunk of a fallen palm tree as a raft. His body, or what was left after the sharks were through with it, drifted onto the beach three days later. As for Joe, after several sessions in room six, he went into a coma and died. A great pity. There was no reason for him not to cooperate with General Velikov."

"You've never paid a visit to Foss Gly?"

"No, I've been spared the experience. Why, I can't say. Perhaps General Velikov thinks I'm too valuable as a bargaining tool."

"So I've been elected," said Pitt grimly.

"I wish I could help you, but General Velikov ignored all my pleas to save Joe. He is equally cold in your case."

Pitt idly found himself wondering why LeBaron always referred to Velikov with due respect to the Russian's military rank. "I don't understand the brutal interrogation. What was to be gained by killing Cavilla? What do they hope to get out of me?"

"The truth," LeBaron said simply.

Pitt gave him a sharp look. "The truth as I know it is, you and your team searched for the Cyclops and vanished. Your wife and the rest of us went after the shipwreck in hopes we could get a clue as to what happened to you. Tell me where it rings false." LeBaron wiped newly formed sweat from his forehead with his sleeve. "No use in arguing with me, Dirk, I'm not the one who doesn't believe you. The Russian mentality thinks there is a lie behind every truth."

"You've talked with Jessie. Surely she explained how we happened to find the Cyclops and land on the island."

LeBaron visibly winced at Pitt's mention of the Cyclops. He suddenly seemed to recoil from Pitt. He picked up his canvas bag and pounded on the door. It swung open almost immediately and he was gone.

Foss Gly was waiting when LeBaron entered room six. He sat there, a brooding evil, a human murder machine immune to suffering or death. He smelled of decayed meat. LeBaron stood trembling and silently handed over the canvas bag. Gly rummaged inside and drew out a small recorder and rewound the tape. He listened for a few seconds to satisfy himself that the voices were distinct.

"Did he confide in you?" asked Gly.

"Yes, he made no attempt to hide anything."

"Is he working for the CIA?"

"I don't believe so. His landing on the island was merely an accident." Gly came from behind the desk and grabbed the loose skin on the side of LeBaron's waist, squeezing and twisting in the same motion. The publisher's eyes bulged, gasping as the agony pierced his body. He slowly sank to his knees on the concrete. Gly bent down until he stared with frozen malignancy scant inches from LeBaron's eyes. "Do not screw with me, scum," he said menacingly, "or your sweet wife will be the next one who pays with a mutilated body."

<<32>>

Ira Hagen threw Hudson and Eriksen a curve and bypassed Houston. There was no need for the trip. The computer on board his jet told him all he needed to know. A trace of the Texas phone number in General Fisher's black book led to the office of the director of NASAs Flight Operations, Irwin Mitchell, alias Irwin Dupuy. A check of another name on the list, Steve Larson, turned up Steve Busche, who was director of NASAs Flight Research Center in California.

Nine little Indians, and then there were four. . .

Hagen's tally of the "inner core" now read:

Raymond LeBaron....Last reported in Cuba.

General Mark Fisher....Colorado Springs.

Clyde Booth....Albuquerque.

Irwin Mitchell....Houston.

Steve Busche....California.

Dean Beagle (?)....Philadelphia. (ID and location not proven)

Daniel Klein (?)....Washington, D.C. (ditto)

Leonard Hudson....Maryland. (location not proven)

Gunnar Eriksen....Maryland. (ditto)

His deadline was only sixty-six hours away. He had kept the President advised of his progress and warned him that his investigation would be cutting it thin. Already, the President was putting together a trusted team to gather up members of the "inner core" and transport them to a location the President had yet to specify. Hagen's ace card was the proximity of the last three names on the list. He was gambling they were all sitting in the same basket.

Hagen altered his routine and did not waste time renting a car when his plane landed at Philadelphia International Airport. His pilot had called ahead, and a Lincoln limousine was waiting when he stepped down the stairway. During the twenty-four-mile drive along the Schuylkill River to Valley Forge State Park, he worked on his report to the President and formulated a plan to speed the discovery of Hudson and Eriksen, whose joint phone number turned out to be a disconnected number in an empty house near Washington. He closed his briefcase as the car rolled past the park where George Washington's army had camped during the winter of 1777-78. Many of the trees still bore golden leaves and the rolling hills had yet to turn brown. The driver turned onto a road that wound around a hill overlooking the park and was bordered on both sides by old stone walls. The historic Horse and Artillery Inn was built in 1790 as a stagecoach stop and tavern for colonial travelers and sat amid sweeping lawns and a grove of shade trees. It was a picturesque three-story building with blue shutters and a stately front porch. The inn was an original example of early limestone farm architecture and bore a plaque designating it as listed on the National Register of Historic Places.

Hagen left the limousine, climbed the steps to the porch furnished with old-fashioned rockers, and passed into a lobby filled with antique furniture clustered around a cozy fireplace containing a crackling log. In the dining room he was shown to a table by a girl dressed in colonial costume.

"Is Dean around?" he asked casually.

"Yes, sir," answered the girl brightly, "The Senator is in the kitchen. Would you like to see him?"

"I'd be grateful if he could spare me a few minutes."

"Would you like to see a menu in the meantime?"

"Yes, please."

Hagen scanned the menu and found the list of early American dishes to be quite tempting. But his mind didn't really dwell on food. Was it possible, he thought, that Dean Beagle was Senator Dean Porter, who once chaired the powerful Foreign Relations Committee and narrowly lost a presidential primary race to George McGovern? A member of the Senate for nearly thirty years, Porter had left an indelible mark on American politics before he had retired two years ago.

A baldheaded man in his late seventies walked through a swinging door from the kitchen, wiping his hands on the lower edge of an apron. An unimpressive figure with a grandfatherly face. He stopped at Hagen's table and looked down without expression.

"You wish to see me?"

Hagen came to his feet. "Senator Porter."

"Yes.

"My name is Ira Hagen. I'm a restaurateur myself, specializing in American dishes, but not nearly as creative as your recipes."

"Leo told me you might walk through my door," Porter said bluntly.

"Won't you please sit down."

"You staying for dinner, Mr. Hagen?"

"That was my plan."

"Then permit me to offer you a bottle of local wine on the house."

"Thank you."

Porter called over his waitress and gave the order. Then he turned back to Hagen and looked him solidly in the eye. "How many of us have you tagged?"

"You make six," Hagen answered.

"You're lucky you didn't go to Houston. Leo had a reception committee waiting for you."

"Were you a member of the ìnner core' from the beginning, Senator?"

"I came on board in 1964 and helped set up the undercover financing."

"I compliment you on a first-rate job."

"You're working for the President, I take it."

"Correct."

"What does he intend to do with us?"

"Eventually hand out the honors you all so richly deserve. But his main concern is stopping your people on the moon from starting a war."

Porter paused when the waitress brought over a bottle of chilled white wine. He expertly pulled the cork and poured one glass. He took a large sip and swished the wine around in his mouth and nodded. "Quite good." Then he filled Hagen's glass.

"Fifteen years ago, Mr. Hagen, our government made a stupid mistake and gave away our space technology in a sucker play that was heralded as a `handshake in space'. If you remember, it was a much publicized joint venture between American and Russian space programs that called for our Apollo astronauts to team up and meet with the Soyuz cosmonauts in orbit. I was against it from the beginning, but the event occurred during the détente years and my voice was only a cry in the wilderness. I didn't trust the Russians then and I don't trust them now. Their whole space program was built on political propaganda and damned little technical achievement. We exposed the Russians to American technology that was twenty years ahead of theirs. After all this time Soviet space hardware is still crap next to anything we've created. We blew four hundred million dollars on a scientific giveaway. The fact we kissed the Russians' asses while they reamed ours only proves Barnum's moral about òne born every minute.' I made up my mind to never let it happen again. That's why I won't stand dumb and let the Russians steal the fruits of the Jersey Colony. If they were technically superior to us, there is no doubt in my mind they would bar us from the moon."

"So you agree with Leo that the first Russians to land on the moon must be eliminated."

"They'll do everything in their power to grab every scientific windfall from our moon base they can touch. Face reality, Mr. Hagen. You don't see our secret agents buying Russian high technology and smuggling it to the West. The Soviets have to rely on our progress because they're too stupid and nearsighted to create it on their own."

"You don't have a very high regard for the Russians," said Hagen.

"When the Kremlin decides to build a better world rather than divide and dictate to it, I might change my mind."

"Will you help me find Leo?"

"No," the senator said simply.

"The least the ìnner core' can do is listen while the President pleads his case."

"Is that why he sent you?"

"He hoped I could find all of you while there is still time."

"Time for what?"

"In less than four days the first Soviet cosmonauts land on the moon. If your Jersey Colony people murder them their government might feel justified in shooting down a space shuttle or the space lab."

The senator looked at Hagen, his eyes turning to ice. "An interesting conjecture. I guess we'll just have to wait and see, won't we?"

<<33>>

Pitt used the catch from his watchband as a screwdriver to remove the screws holding the hinges to the wardrobe. He then slid the flat side of one hinge between the door latch and the strike. It was a near perfect fit. Now all he had to do was wait until the guard showed up with his dinner.

He yawned and lay on the bed, his thoughts turning to Raymond LeBaron. His image of the famous publisher-tycoon was chipped and cracked. LeBaron did not measure up to his hard reputation. He gave the appearance of a man who was running scared. Not once did he quote Jessie, Al, or Rudi. Surely they would have relayed a message of encouragement. There was something very fishy about LeBaron's actions. He sat up at the sound of the door latch turning. The guard entered, holding a tray in one hand. He held it out to Pitt, who set it on his lap.

"What gourmet delight have you brought this evening?" Pitt inquired cheerfully. The guard gave a distasteful twist of his lips and shrugged indifferently. Pitt couldn't blame him. The tray held a small loaf of doughy, tasteless bread and a bowl of god-awful chicken stew.

Pitt was hungry, but more important he needed to keep his strength. He forced the slop down, somehow managing to keep from gagging. Finally he passed the tray back to the guard, who silently took it and then pulled the door closed as he stepped into the corridor. Pitt leaped from the bed, dropped to his knees, and slipped one of the wardrobe hinges between the latch and the doorjamb, preventing the bolt from passing through the strike into the catch. In almost the same motion he pressed his shoulder against the door and tapped the second hinge on it to imitate the click of the latch snapping into place. As soon as he heard the guard's footsteps fade down the corridor he eased open the door slightly, peeled a piece of tape from a bandage covering a cut on his arm, and stuck it over the latch shaft so the door would remain unlocked.

Removing his sandals and stuffing them into his waistband, he eased the door closed, taped a hair across the crack, and soundlessly padded down the empty corridor, pressing his body close against the wall. There was no sign of any guards or security equipment. Pitt's first goal was to find his friends and plan an escape, but twenty yards down the corridor he discovered a narrow, circular emergency shaft with a ladder that led upward into darkness. He decided to see where it went. The climb seemed endless and he realized it was taking him past the upper levels of the underground facility. At last his groping hands touched a wooden cover above his head. He leaned his upper back against it and slowly applied pressure. The cover creaked loudly as it lifted.

Pitt sucked in his breath and froze. Five minutes came and went and nothing happened, nobody shouted, and when he finally eased the cover high enough, he found himself looking out across the concrete floor of a garage containing several military and construction vehicles. The structure was large, eighty by a hundred feet and perhaps fifteen feet to a ceiling supported by row of steel girders. The parking area was dark, but there was an office at one end whose interior was brightly lit. Two Russians in Army fatigues were sitting at a table playing chess.

Pitt snaked from the exit shaft, skirted behind the parked vehicles, and crawled under the windows of the office until he reached the main entry door. Coming this far from his cell was surprisingly easy but now defeat had arrived where he least expected it. The door was electric. There was no way he could activate it without alerting the chess players. Staying in the shadows, he moved along the walls searching for another entrance. In his mind he knew it was a lost cause. If this building was on the surface it was probably another covered mound with the large vehicle entry door as the only means of getting in and out.

He made a complete circuit of the walls and returned to the spot where he started. Disheartened, he was about to give up when he looked upward and spotted an air vent mounted on the roof. It appeared large enough to squeeze through.

Pitt quietly climbed on top of a truck, reached over his head, and pulled himself onto a support girder. Then he inched his way about thirty feet to the vent and squirmed his way to the outside. The rush of fresh, humid air felt invigorating. He guessed that the dying wind of the hurricane was only blowing at about twenty miles an hour. The sky was only partially overcast and there was a quarter moon that provided enough visibility to vaguely make out objects within a hundred feet.

His next problem was to get beyond the high wall enclosing the compound. The guardhouse by the gate was manned, so there would be no repeat of his entry two nights ago.

In the end, luck came to his aid once again. He walked along a small drainage culvert that passed under the wall. He ducked under but was brought up short by a row of iron bars. Fortunately they were badly rusted from the tropical salt air and he easily bent them apart.

Three minutes later Pitt was well clear of the installation, jogging through the palm trees lining the sunken road. There were no signs of guards or electronic surveillance cameras and the low shrubs helped conceal his silhouette against the light-colored sand. He ran at an angle toward the beach until he was up against the electrified fence. Eventually, he came to the section damaged by the hurricane. It had been repaired, but he knew it was the correct spot because the fallen palm tree that had caused the break was lying nearby. He dropped to his knees and began scooping the sand from under the fence. The deeper he dug the more the walls of his trench kept sliding and filling in the bottom. Nearly an hour passed before he formed a crater deep enough for him to wiggle on his back through to the other side.

His shoulder and kidney ached and he was sweating like a soaked sponge. He tried to retrace his steps to the landing site by the rocks on the beach. None of the landscape seemed the same under the dim light of the moon, not that he could recall how it looked when beaten flat by hurricane winds and with his eyes mostly closed. Pitt wandered up and down the beach, probing between the rock formations. He was almost ready to give up and quit when his eye caught the moon's glint on an object in the sand. His hands reached out and touched the fuel tank of the inflatable boat's outboard motor. The shaft and propeller were buried in the sand about thirty feet from the high-tide line. He dug away the damp sand until he could pull the motor free. Then he hoisted it over his shoulder and began walking down the beach away from the Russian compound. Pitt had no idea where he was going or where he was going to hide the motor. His feet dug into the sand and the burden of sixty pounds made it tough going. He had to stop every few hundred yards and rest.

He had walked about two miles when he met a weed-covered road that passed through several rows of deserted and decaying houses. Most of them were little more than shacks and they nestled around a small lagoon. It must have once been a fishing village, Pitt thought. He could not know it was one of the settlements whose residents had been forcefully uprooted to the mainland during the Soviet takeover.

He gratefully shrugged off the motor and began rummaging in the houses. The walls and roofing were made from corrugated iron sheets and scrap wood. Little of the furnishings remained. He found a boat pulled up on the beach, but any hope of using it was crushed. The bottom was rotted away.

Pitt considered building a raft, but it would take too long, and he couldn't run the risk of putting together something under the double handicap of working in darkness with no tools. The end result would not offer much peace of mind in rough water. The luminous dial on his watch read 1:30. If he wanted to find and talk to Giordino and Gunn, he'd have to get a move on. He wondered what to do about fuel for the outboard motor, but there was no time to search now. He calculated it would take him a good hour to regain his cell.

He found an old cast-iron bathtub lying outside a collapsed shed. He placed the outboard motor on the ground and turned the tub upside down over it. Then he threw some tires and a rotting mattress on top and walked backward, brushing sand over his footprints with a palm frond until he stood a good seventy-five feet away. Sneaking back in went more smoothly than sneaking out. All he had to remember was to restraighten the bars in the culvert. Belatedly, he wondered why the island compound wasn't crawling with security guards, but then it came to him that the area was constantly overflown by American spy planes whose cameras had the uncanny ability to produce photographs that could read the name on a golf ball from ninety thousand feet. The Soviets must have figured it was better to trade heavy security for the appearance of a lifeless, abandoned island. Cuban dissidents fleeing Castro's government would ignore it and any Cuban exile commandos would certainly bypass it for the mainland. With no one landing and no one escaping, the Russians had nothing to guard against. Pitt dropped through the air ventilator and stealthily made his way back across the garage and down the exit shaft. The corridor was still quiet. He checked his door and saw the hair was still in place.

His plan now was to find Gunn and Giordino. But he didn't want to crowd his luck. Although their imprisonment was lax, there was always the problem of a chance discovery. If Pitt was caught outside his cell now, it would spell the end. Velikov and Gly were sure to keep him tightly locked away if they didn't outright execute him. He felt he had to risk it. There might not be another opportunity. Any sound echoed throughout the concrete corridor. He would be able to hear footsteps in plenty of time to regain his cell if he didn't probe too far.

The room next to his was a paint locker. He searched it for a few minutes but found nothing useful. Two rooms across the corridor were empty. The third held plumbing supplies. Then he unlatched another door and found himself staring into the surprised faces of Gunn and Giordino. He quickly slipped inside, careful to keep the door's bolt from engaging.

"Dirk!" Giordino cried.

"Keep it down," Pitt whispered.

"Good to see you, buddy."

"Have you checked this place for ears?" Pitt asked.

"Thirty seconds after they pitched us in," answered Gunn. "The room is clean." It was then Pitt saw the dark shades of purple around Giordino's eyes. "I see you've met with Foss Gly in room six."

"We had an interesting conversation. Pretty much one-sided, though." Pitt looked at Gunn but saw no marks. "What about you?"

"He's too smart to beat my brains out," said Gunn with a taut smile. He pointed to his broken ankle. The cast was gone. "He gets his kicks by twisting my foot."

"What about Jessie?"

Gunn and Giordino exchanged grim looks. "We fear the worst," said Gunn. "Al and I heard a woman's screams late in the afternoon as we stepped out of the elevator."

"We were coming from an interrogation by that slimy bastard Velikov."

"Their system," explained Pitt. "The general uses the velvet glove and then turns you over to Gly for the iron fist treatment." He angrily paced the tiny room. "We've got to find Jessie and get the hell out of here."

"How?" asked Giordino. "LeBaron has paid a visit and made a point of stressing the hopelessness of escaping the island."

"I don't trust rich and reckless Raymond as far as I can throw this building," said Pitt acidly. "I think Gly has beaten him into jelly."

"Agreed."

Gunn twisted to his side in his bunk, favoring the broken ankle. "How do you intend on leaving the island?"

"I found and stashed the outboard motor for insurance if I can't steal a boat."

"What?" Giordino stared at Pitt incredulously. "You walked out of here?"

"Not exactly a garden stroll," Pitt replied. "But I scouted an escape route to the beach."

"Stealing a boat is impossible," Gunn said flatly.

"You know something I don't."

"My smattering of Russian came in handy. I've begun developing a prison grapevine through the guards. I was also able to glean a few details from Velikov's papers in his office. One item of interesting information is that the island is supplied at night by submarine."

"Why so complicated?" muttered Giordino, "Seems to me surface transportation would be more efficient."

"That calls for docking facilities that can be seen from the air," explained Gunn.

"Whatever is going on around here, they want to keep it damned quiet."

"I'll second that," said Pitt. "The Russians have gone to a lot of work to make the island look deserted."

"No wonder it shook them up when we walked through the front door," Giordino said thoughtfully. "That explains the interrogation and torture."

"All the more reason to make a break and save our lives."

"And alert our intelligence agencies," Gunn added.

"When do you plan to cut out?" asked Giordino.

"Tomorrow night, right after the guard brings dinner."

Gun gave Pitt a long, hard stare. "You'll have to go it alone, Dirk."

"We came together, we'll leave together."

Giordino shook his head. "You can't carry Jessie and us on your back too."

"He's right," said Gunn. "Al and I are in no condition to crawl fifty feet. Better we stay than foul your chances. Take the LeBarons and swim like hell for the States."

"I can't risk taking Raymond LeBaron into our confidence. I'm positive he would inform on us. He lied up a storm claiming the island is nothing but a businessmen's retreat."

Gunn shook his head in disbelief. "Whoever heard of a retreat run by the military that tortured its guests."

"Forget LeBaron." Giordino's eyes went black with fury. "But for God's sake, save Jessie before that son of a bitch Gly kills her."

Pitt stood there confused. "I can't go off and leave you two behind to die."

"If you don't," said Gunn gravely, "you'll die too, and no one will be left alive to tell what's happening here."

<<34>>

The mood was somber but softened by the long gap in time. No more than one hundred people had assembled for the early morning ceremony. In spite of the President's presence, only one network bothered to send a television crew. The small crowd stood quietly in a secluded corner of Rock Creek Park and listened to the conclusion of the President's brief address.

". . . and so we have gathered this morning to pay belated tribute to the eight hundred American men who died when their troopship, the Leopoldville, was torpedoed off the port of Cherbourg, France, on Christmas Eve of 1944."

"Never has such a wartime tragedy been denied the honor it deserved. Never has such a tragedy been so completely ignored."

He paused and nodded toward a veiled statue. The shroud was pulled away, revealing a solitary figure of a soldier, standing brave with grim determination in the eyes, wearing a GI overcoat and full field gear with an M-1 carbine slung over one shoulder. There was a pained dignity about the life-sized bronze fighting man, heightened by the wave of water that lapped around his ankles.

After a minute of applause, the President, who had served in Korea as a lieutenant in an artillery company of the Marine Corps, began pumping hands with survivors of the Leopoldville and other veterans of the Panther Division. As he worked his way toward the White House limousine he suddenly stiffened when he shook the hand of the tenth man in line.

"A moving speech, Mr. President," said a recognizable voice. "May we talk in private?"

Leonard Hudson's lips were spread in an ironic smile. He bore no resemblance to Reggie Salazar the caddy. His hair was thick and gray and matched a Satan-style beard. He wore a wool turtleneck sweater under a tweed jacket. The flannel slacks were a dark coffee color and the English leather shoes were highly polished. He looked as though he had stepped out of a cognac ad in Town & Country magazine.

The President turned and spoke to a Secret Service agent who stood less than a foot from his elbow. "This man will be accompanying me back to the White House."

"A great honor, sir," said Hudson.

The President stared at him for a moment and decided to carry on the charade. His face broke into a friendly grin. "I can't miss an opportunity to swap war stories with an old buddy, can I, Joe?"

The presidential motorcade turned onto Massachusetts Avenue, red lights flashing, sirens cutting the rush-hour traffic sounds. Neither man spoke for nearly two minutes. At last Hudson made the opening play.

"Have you recalled where we first knew each other?"

"No," the President lied. "You don't look the least bit familiar to me."

"I suppose you meet so many people. . ."

"Frankly, I've had more important matters on my mind."

Hudson brushed aside the President's seeming hostility. "Like throwing me in prison?"

"I thought something more along the lines of a sewer."

"You're not the spider, Mr. President, and I'm not the fly. It may look like I've walked into a trap, in this case a car surrounded by an army of Secret Service bodyguards, but my peaceful exit is guaranteed."

"The old phony bomb trick again?"

"A different twist. A plastic explosive is attached to the bottom of a table in one of the city's four-star restaurants. Precisely eight minutes ago Senator Adrian Gorman and Secretary of State Douglas Oates sat down at that table for a breakfast meeting."

"You're bluffing."

"Maybe, but if I'm not, my capture would hardly be worth the carnage inside a crowded restaurant."

"What do you want this time?"

"Call off your bloodhound."

"Make sense, for Christ's sake."

"Get Ira Hagen off my back while he can still breathe."

"Who?"

"Ira Hagen, an old school chum of yours who used to be with the justice Department." The President stared unseeing out the window as if recalling. "Seems like a lifetime since I've talked to Ira."

"No need to lie, Mr. President. You hired him to track down the ìnner core.' "

"I what?" The President acted genuinely surprised. Then he laughed. "You forget who I am. With one phone call I could have the entire capabilities of the FBI, CIA, and at least five other intelligence services on your ass."

"Then why haven't you?"

"Because I've questioned my science advisers and some pretty respected people in our space program. They agreed unanimously. The Jersey Colony is a pipedream. You talk a good scheme, Joe, but you're nothing but a fraud who sells hallucinations." Hudson was caught off base. "I swear to God, Jersey Colony is a reality."

"Yes, it sits midway between Oz and Shangri-la."

"Believe me, Vince, when our first colonists return from the moon, your announcement will fire the imagination of the world."

The President ignored the presumptuous use of his first name. "What you'd really like me to announce is a make-believe battle with the Russians over the moon. Just what is your angle? Are you some kind of Hollywood publicity flack who's trying to hype a space movie, or are you an escaped mental patient?"

Hudson could not suppress a flash of fury. "You idiot!" he snapped. "You can't turn your back on the greatest scientific achievement in history."

"Watch me." The President picked up the car phone. "Roger, pull up and stop. My guest is getting out."

On the other side of the glass divider, the Secret Service chauffeur raised one hand from the wheel and nodded in understanding. Then he notified the other vehicles of the President's order. A minute later the motorcade turned onto a quiet residential side street and stopped at the curb.

The President reached over and opened the door. "The end of the line, Joe. I don't know what your fantasy is with Ira Hagen, but if I hear of his death, I'll be the first to testify at your trial that you threatened his life. That is, of course, if your execution hasn't already been carried out for committing mass murder in a swank restaurant." In an angry daze, Hudson slowly climbed from the limousine. He hesitated, bent half in, half out of the car. "You're making a terrible mistake," he said accusingly.

"It won't be a new experience," the President said, dismissing him. The President leaned back in his seat and smiled smugly to himself. A masterful performance, he thought. Hudson was off balance and building barricades on the wrong streets. Moving up the unveiling of the Leopoldville memorial by a week was a shrewd move. An inconvenience to the veterans who attended perhaps, but a boon to an old spook like Hagen.

Hudson stood on a grassy parkway and watched the motorcade grow smaller before turning on the next cross street, his mind confused and disoriented. "Goddamned mudbrained bureaucrat!" he shouted in frustration. A woman walking her dog on the sidewalk gave him a distasteful look indeed. An unmarked Ford van eased to a stop, and Hudson climbed inside. The interior was plush with leather captain's chairs spaced around a highly polished redwood table. Two men, impeccably dressed in business suits, looked at him expectantly as he slipped tiredly into a chair.

"How did it go?" asked one.

"The dumb bastard threw me out," he said in exasperation. "Claims he hasn't seen Ira Hagen in years and couldn't care less if we killed him and blew up the restaurant."

"I'm not surprised," said an intense-looking man with a square red face and a condor nose. "The guy is pragmatic as hell."

Gunnar Eriksen sat with a dead pipe stuck between his lips. "What else?" he asked.

"Said he believed the Jersey Colony was a hoax."

"Did he recognize you?"

"I don't think so. He still called me Joe."

"Could be an act."

"He was pretty convincing."

Eriksen turned to the other man. "How do you read it?"

"Hagen is a puzzle. I've closely monitored the President and haven't detected any contact between them."

"You don't think Hagen was brought in by any of the intelligence directors?" asked Eriksen.

"Certainly not through ordinary channels. The only meeting the President has had with any intelligence people was a briefing by Sam Emmett of the FBI. I couldn't get my hands on the report, but it had to do with the three bodies found in LeBaron's blimp. Beyond that, he's done nothing."

"No, he's most certainly done something." Hudson's voice was quiet but positive. "I fear we've underestimated his shrewdness."

"In what way?"

"He knew I would make contact again and warn him to call off Hagen."

"What brought you to that conclusion?" asked Condor Nose.

"Hagen," replied Hudson. "No good undercover operative calls attention to himself. And Hagen was one of the best. He had to have a good reason for advertising his presence by that phone call to General Fisher and his little face-to-face chat with Senator Porter."

"But what was the President's purpose in forcing our hand if he made no demands, no requests?" asked Eriksen.

Hudson shook his head. "That's what scares me, Gunnar. I can't see for the life of me what he had to gain."

Unnoticed in the downtown traffic, an old dusty camper with Georgia license plates kept a discreet distance behind the van. In the back, Ira Hagen sat at a small dining table with earphones and a microphone clamped to his head and uncorked a bottle of Martin Ray Cabernet Sauvignon. He let the opened bottle sit while he made an adjustment with the voice-tone knob on a microwave receiving set that was plugged into reel-to-reel tape decks.

Then he raised his headset to expose one ear. "They're fading. Close up a bit." The driver, wearing a fake scraggly beard and an Atlanta Braves baseball cap, replied without looking back. "I had to drop off when a taxi cut in front of me. I'll make up the distance in the next block."

"Keep them in sight until they park."

"What's going down, a drug bust?"

"Nothing that exotic," replied Hagen. "They're suspected of working a traveling poker game."

"Big deal," grunted the driver without realizing the pun.

"Gambling is still illegal."

"So is prostitution and it's a helluva lot more fun."

"Just keep your eyes glued on the van," Hagen said in an official tone. "And don't let it get more than a block away."

The radio crackled. "T-bone, this is Porterhouse.'

"I hear you, Porterhouse."

"We have Sirloin in visual but would prefer a lower altitude. If he should happen to merge with another similar-colored vehicle under trees or behind a building, we could lose him."

Hagen turned and stared upward from the camper's rear window at the helicopter above. "What's your height?"

"The limit for aircraft over this section of the city is thirteen hundred feet. But that's only half the problem. Sirloin is heading for the Capitol mall. We're not allowed to fly over that area."

"Stand by, Porterhouse. I'll get you an exemption."

Hagen made a call over a cellular telephone and was back to the helicopter pilot in less than a minute. "This is T-bone, Porterhouse. You are cleared for any altitude over the city so long as you do not endanger lives. Do you read?"

"Man, you must carry some kind of heavy weight."

"My boss knows all the right people. Don't take your eyes off Sirloin." Hagen lifted the lid of an expensive picnic basket from Abercrombie & Fitch and pried open a can of goose liver path. Then he poured the wine and returned to listening in on the conversation ahead.

There was no doubt that Leonard Hudson was one of the men in the van. And Gunnar Eriksen was mentioned by his first name. But the identity of the third man remained a mystery.

Hagen was dogged by an unknown. Eight men of the "inner core" were accounted for, but number nine was still lost in the fog. The men in the van were heading. . . where?

What kind of facility housed the headquarters for the Jersey Colony project? A dumb name, the Jersey Colony. What was the significance? Some connection with the state of New Jersey? There must be something that could be comprehended, that might explain how none of the information on the establishment of the moon base ever came to the attention of a high government official. Someone with more power than Hudson or Eriksen had to be the key. The last name on the "inner core" list perhaps.

"This is Porterhouse. Sirloin has turned northeast onto Rhode Island Avenue."

"I copy," answered Hagen.

He spread a map of the District of Columbia on the table and unfolded a map of Maryland. He began tracing a line with a red grease pencil, extending it as they crossed from the District into Prince Georges County. Rhode Island Avenue became U.S. Highway 1 and swung north toward Baltimore.

"Got any idea where they're heading?" asked the driver.

"Not the slightest," replied Hagen. "Unless. . ." he muttered under his breath. The University of Maryland. Not twelve miles from downtown Washington. Hudson and Eriksen would hang close to an academic institution to take advantage of the research facilities.

Hagen spoke into the mike. "Porterhouse, keep a sharp eye. Sirloin may be heading for the university."

"Understood, T-bone."

Five minutes later the van turned off the highway and passed through the small city of College Park. Then after about a mile it pulled into a large shopping center, anchored on both ends by well known department stores. The several acres of parking space were filled with shoppers' cars. All conversation had died inside the van, and Hagen was caught off guard.

"Damn!" Hagen swore.

"Porterhouse," came the voice of the helicopter pilot.

"I read you."

"Sirloin just pulled under a big projection in front of the main entrance. I have no visual contact."

"Wait until he appears again," ordered Hagen, "and then stay on his tail." He rose from the table and stepped behind the driver. "Pull up on his ass."

"I can't. There are at least six cars between him and me."

"Did anybody get out and enter the stores?"

"Hard to tell in the crush of people. But it looked like two, maybe three heads ducked out of the van."

"Did you get a good look at the guy who was picked up in town?" asked Hagen.

"Gray hair and beard. Thin, about five nine. Turtleneck, tweed coat, brown pants. Yeah, I'd recognize him."

"Circle the parking lot and watch for him. He and his pals may be switching cars. I'm going inside the shopping mall."

"Sirloin is moving," announced the helicopter pilot.

"Stick with him, Porterhouse," said Hagen. "I'm going off the air for a while."

"I read you."

Hagen jumped out of the camper and rushed through the crowd of shoppers into the interior mall. It was like looking for three needles hidden inside a straw in a haystack. He knew what Hudson looked like, and he had obtained photographs of Gunnar Eriksen, but either one or both might still be in the van.

Frantically he rushed from store to store, searching the faces, staring at any male head that showed above the mob of female shoppers. Why did it have to be a weekend, he thought. He could have shot a cannon through the mall at this early hour on a weekday and not hit anybody. After nearly an hour of fruitless searching, he went outside and stopped the camper.

"Spot them?" he questioned, knowing the answer.

The driver shook his head. "Takes me almost ten minutes to make a full circuit. The traffic is too thick and most of them drive like zombies when they're looking for a parking space. Your suspects could have easily come out another exit and driven off while I was on the opposite side of the building."

Hagen pounded his fist against the camper in frustration. He had come so close, so damned close, only to stumble at the finish line.

<<35>>

Pitt solved the problem of sleeping without the constant glare from the fluorescent light by simply climbing on top of the wardrobe and disconnecting the tubes. He did not wake up until the guard brought him breakfast. He felt refreshed and dug into the thick gruel as if it were his favorite dish. The guard seemed upset at finding the light fixture dark, but Pitt simply held up his hands in a helpless gesture of ignorance and finished his gruel.

Two hours later he was escorted to General Velikov's office. There was the expected interminable wait to crack his emotional barriers. God, but the Russians were transparent. He played along by pacing the floor and acting nervous.

The next twenty-four hours were, to say the least, critical. He was confident that he could escape the compound again, but he could not predict any new obstacles that might be thrown in his way, or whether he would be capable of physical exertion after another interview with Foss Gly.

There could be no postponement, no falling back. He had to somehow leave the island tonight.

Velikov finally entered the room and studied Pitt for several moments before addressing him. There was a noticeable coldness about the general, an unmistakable toughness in his eyes. He nodded for Pitt to sit on a hard chair that hadn't been in the room during the last meeting. When he spoke, his tone was menacing.

"Will you sign a valid confession to being a spy?"

"If it will make you happy."

"It will not pay you to act clever with me, Mr. Pitt."

Pitt could not contain his anger and it overpowered his common sense. "I do not take kindly to scum who torture women."

Velikov's eyebrows raised. "Explain."

Pitt repeated Gunn's and Giordino's words as though they were his. "Sound carries in concrete hallways. I've heard Jessie LeBaron's screams."

"Have you now?" Velikov brushed at his hair in a practiced gesture. "It seems to me you should see the advantages of cooperating. If you tell me the truth, I might see my way clear to relax the discomfort of your friends."

"You know the truth. That's why you've reached a dead end. Four people have given you identical stories. Doesn't that seem odd to a professional interrogator like yourself?

Four people who have been physically tortured in separate sessions, and yet give the same answers to the same questions. The utter lack of depth in the Russian mentality equals your fossilized infatuation with confessions. If I signed a confession for espionage, you'd demand another for crimes against your precious state, followed up with one for spitting on a public sidewalk. Your tactics are as unsophisticated as your architecture and gourmet recipes. One demand comes on the heels of another. The truth? You wouldn't accept the truth if it rose up out of the ground and bit you in the balls." Velikov sat silent and examined Pitt with the contempt only a Slav could show to a Mongol. "I'll ask you again to cooperate."

"I'm only a marine engineer. I don't know any military secrets."

"My only interest is what your superiors told you about this island and how you came to be here."

"What are the percentages? You've already made it clear my friends and I are to die."

"Perhaps your future can be extended."

"Makes no difference. We've already told you all we know." Velikov drummed his fingers on the desktop. "You still claim you landed on Cayo Santa Maria purely by chance?"

"I do."

"And you expect me to believe that of all the islands and all the beaches in Cuba Mrs. LeBaron came ashore at the exact spot--without any prior knowledge, I might add--where her husband was residing?"

"Frankly, I'd have a tough time believing it too. But that's exactly how it happened." Velikov glared at Pitt, but he seemed to sense an integrity that he could not bring himself to approve. "I have all the time in the world, Mr. Pitt. I'm convinced you're withholding vital information. We'll talk again when you're not so arrogant." He pushed a button on his desk that summoned the guard. There was a smile on his face, but there was no satisfaction, no hint of pleasure. If anything, the smile was sad.

"You must excuse me for being so abrupt," said Foss Gly. "Experience has taught me that the unexpected produces more effective results than lengthy anticipation." No word had been spoken when Pitt entered room six. He had taken only one step over the threshold when Gly, who was standing behind the half-opened door, struck him in the small of his back just above the kidney. He gasped in agony and nearly blacked out but somehow remained standing.

"So, Mr. Pitt, now that I have your attention, perhaps there is something you wish to say to me."

"Did anybody ever tell you you're a psycho case?" Pitt muttered through pressed lips. He saw the fist lashing out, expected it, and rolled with the punch, reeling backward into a wall and melting to the floor, feigning unconsciousness. He tasted the blood inside his mouth and felt a numbness creeping over the left side of his face. He kept his eyes closed and lay limp. He had to feel his way with this sadistic hulk of slime, assess Gly's reaction to answers and attitude, and predict when and where the next blow would strike. There would be no stopping the brutality. His only objective was to survive the interrogation without a crippling injury.

Gly went over to a dirty washbasin, filled a bucket of water, and splashed it on Pitt.

"Come now, Mr. Pitt. If I'm any judge of men, you can take a punch better than that." Pitt struggled to his hands and knees, spit blood on the cement floor, and groaned convincingly, almost pitiable. "I can't tell you any more than I already have," he mumbled.

Gly picked him up as if he were a small child and dropped him in a chair. Out of the corner of one eye Pitt caught Gly's right fist coming at him in a vicious swing. He rode the impact as best he could, catching the blow just above the cheekbone under the temple. For a few seconds he absorbed the stunning pain and then pretended to pass out again. Another bucket of water and he went through his moaning routine. Gly leaned down until they were face to face. "Who are you working for?" Pitt raised his hands and clutched his throbbing head. "I was hired by Jessie LeBaron to find out what happened to her husband."

"You landed from a submarine."

"We left the Florida Keys in a blimp."

"Your purpose in coming here was to gather information on the transfer of power in Cuba."

Pitt furrowed his brow in confusion. "Transfer of power? I don't know what you're talking about."

This time Gly struck Pitt in the upper stomach, knocking every cubic inch of wind from him. Then he calmly sat down and watched the reaction.

Pitt went rigid as he fought for breath. He felt as if his heart had stopped. He could taste the bile in his throat, feel the sweat seep from his forehead, and his lungs seemed to be twisted in knots. The walls of the room wavered and swam before his eyes. Gly looked to be smiling wickedly at the end of along tunnel.

"What were your orders once you arrived on Cayo Santa Maria?"

"No orders," Pitt rasped.

Gly rose and approached to strike again. Pitt drunkenly came to his feet, swayed for a moment, and began to sag, his head drooping to one side. He had Gly's measure now. He recognized a weak point. Like most sadists, Gly was basically a coward. He would flinch and be thrown off his track if he was evenly matched.

Gly flexed his body to swing, but suddenly froze in stunned astonishment. Bringing up his fist from the floor and pivoting his shoulder, Pitt threw a right-hand cross that carried every ounce of power he could muster. He connected with Gly's nose, mashing the cartilage and breaking the bone. Then he followed up with two left jabs and a solid hook to the body. He might as well have attacked the cornerstone of the Empire State Building. Any other man would have fallen flat on his back. Gly staggered back a few feet and stood there with his face slowly reddening in rage. The blood streamed from his nose but he took no notice of it. He raised one fist and shook it at Pitt. "I'll kill you for that," he said.

"Stick it in your ear," Pitt replied sullenly. He grabbed the chair and threw it across the room. Gly merely smashed it aside with his arm. Pitt caught the shift of the eyes and realized his whiplash speed was about to lose out to brute strength. Gly tore the washbasin from the wall, literally ripped it from its plumbing, and lifted it over his head. He took three steps and heaved it in Pitt's direction. Pitt jumped sideways and ducked around in one convulsive motion. As the sink sailed toward him like a safe falling from a high building, he knew his reaction came a split second too late. He threw up his hands instinctively in a hopeless gesture to ward off the flying mass of iron and porcelain.

Pitt's salvation came from the door. The latch caught the main crush from one corner of the washbasin and was smashed out of its catch. The door burst open and Pitt was knocked backward into the hallway, crashing in a heap at the feet of the startled guard. A shooting pain in his groin and right arm compounded the agonies already piercing his side and head. Gray-faced, waves of nausea sweeping over him, he shook away the beckoning unconsciousness and came to his feet, his hands spread on the wall for support.

Gly tore the sink from the doorway where it had become jammed and stared at Pitt with a look that could only be described as murderous. "You're a dead man, Pitt. You're going to die slowly, an inch at a time, begging to be put out of your agony. The next time we meet I'll snap every bone in your body and tear your heart out." There was no fear in Pitt's eyes. The pain was draining away, to be replaced with elation. He had survived. He hurt, but the way was clear.

"The next time we meet," he said vengefully, "I'll carry a big club."

<<36>>

Pitt slept after the guard helped him back to his cell. When he woke up it was three hours later. He lay there for several minutes until his mind slowly shifted into gear. His body and face were an unending sea of contusions, but no bones were broken. He had survived.

He sat up and swung his feet to the floor, waiting for a few moments of dizziness to pass. He pushed himself to his feet and began doing stretching exercises to ease the stiffness. A wave of weakness swept over him, but he willed himself to reject it, continuing the drill until his muscles and joints became limber.

The guard came and went with dinner, and Pitt adroitly jammed the latch again, a maneuver he had honed so there would be no fumbling, no last-minute bungle. He paused, and hearing no footsteps or voices, stepped into the corridor. Time was a luxury. There was too much to accomplish and too few hours of darkness to manage it. He regretfully wished he could say his farewells to Giordino and Gunn, but every minute he lingered in the compound depleted his odds of success. The first order of business was to find Jessie and take her with him.

She was behind the fifth door he tried, lying on the concrete floor with nothing under her but a dirty blanket. Her naked body was completely unmarked, but her once lovely face was grotesquely swollen with purplish bruises. Gly had shrewdly worked his evil by humiliating her virtue and brutalizing a beautiful woman's most valued asset--her face. Pitt bent over and cradled her head in his arms, his expression tender, but his eyes insane with rage. He was consumed with revenge. He shook with a madness for savage vengeance that went far beyond anything he had experienced before. He gritted his teeth and gently shook her awake.

"Jessie. Jessie, can you hear me?"

Her mouth trembled open as her eyes focused on him. "Dirk," she moaned. "Is it you?"

"Yes, I'm taking you out of here."

"Taking. . . how?"

"I've found a way for us to escape the compound."

"But the island. Raymond said it's impossible to escape from the island."

"I've hidden the outboard motor from the inflatable boat. If I can build a small raft=

"No!" she whispered adamantly.

She struggled to sit up, a look of concentration crossing the swollen mask that was her face. He lightly gripped her by the shoulders and held her down.

"Don't move," he said.

"You must go alone," she said.

"I won't leave you like this."

She shook her head weakly. "No. I would only increase your chances of getting caught."

"Sorry," Pitt said flatly. "Like it or not, you're coming."

"Don't you understand," she pleaded. "You're the only hope for saving all of us. If you make it back to the States and tell the President what's happening here, Velikov will have to keep us alive."

"What does the President have to do with this?"

"More than you know."

"Then Velikov was right. There is a conspiracy."

"Don't waste time conjecturing. Go, please go. By saving yourself you can save all of us."

Pitt felt an overwhelming surge of admiration for Jessie. She looked like a discarded doll now, battered and helpless, but he realized her outer beauty was matched by an inner one that was brave and resolute. He leaned over and kissed her lightly on puffed and split lips.

"I'll make it," he said confidently. "Promise me you'll hang on till I get back." She tried to smile, but her mouth couldn't respond. "You crazy clown. You can't return to Cuba."

"Watch me."

"Good luck," she murmured softly. "Forgive me for messing up your life." Pitt grinned, but the tears were welling in his eyes. "That's what men like about women. They never let us get bored."

He kissed her again on the forehead and turned away, his tanned fists white-knuckled by his side.

The climb up the emergency-shaft ladder made Pitt's arms ache, and when he reached the top he rested for a minute before pushing the lid aside and crouching in the darkness of the garage. The two soldiers were still engaged in a game of chess. It seemed to be a nightly routine to pass the boring hours of standby duty. They seldom bothered to glance at the vehicles parked outside their office. There was no reason to anticipate trouble. They were probably mechanics, Pitt reasoned, not security guards.

He reconnoitered the garage area--tool benches, lubrication racks, oil and parts storage, trucks, and construction equipment. The trucks had spare five-gallon fuel cans attached to their beds. Pitt lightly tapped the cans until he found one that was full. The rest were all half empty or less. He groped around a tool bench until he found a rubber tube and used it to siphon gas from one of the truck's tanks. Two cans containing ten gallons were all he could carry. The problem he faced now was getting them through the vent in the roof.

Pitt took a towrope that was hanging from one wall and tied the ends to the handles on the gas cans. Holding the middle in a loop, he climbed to the support girders. Slowly, watching to see that the mechanics kept their attention on the chess game, he pulled the cans to the roof one at a time and pushed them ahead of him into the vent. In another two minutes he was lugging them across the yard into the culvert that ran under the wall. He quickly spread the bars apart and hurried outside. The sky was clear and the quarter-moon floated in a sea of stars. There was only a whisper of wind and the night air was cool. He fervently hoped the sea was calm. For no particular reason he skirted the opposite side of the road this time. It was slow going. The heavy cans soon made his arms feel as though they were separating at the joints. His feet sank into the soft sand, and he had to stop every two hundred yards to catch his breath and allow the growing ache in his hands and arms to subside. Pitt tripped and sprawled on the edge of a wide clearing surrounded by a thick grove of palm trees, so thick their trunks almost touched each other. He reached out and swept around with his hands. They touched a metal network that blended into the sand and became nearly invisible.

Curious, he left the gas cans and crawled cautiously around the edge of the clearing. The metal grid rose two inches off the ground and extended across the entire diameter. The center dropped away until it became concave like a bowl. He ran his hands over the trunks of the palm trees circling the rim.

They were fake. The trunks and fronds were constructed out of aluminum tubes and covered with realistic sheathing made from sanded plastic. There were over fifty of them, painted with camouflage to deceive American spy planes and their penetrating cameras. The bowl was a giant dish-shaped radio and television antenna and the bogus palm trees were hydraulic arms that raised and lowered it. Pitt was stunned at the implication of what he had accidentally discovered. He knew now that buried under the sands of the island was a vast communications center.

But for exactly what purpose?

Pitt had no time to reflect. But he was determined more than ever to get free. He continued walking in the shadows. The village was farther than he remembered. He was a mass of sweat and panted heavily from exhaustion when he finally stumbled into the yard where he'd hidden the outboard motor under the bathtub. He thankfully dropped the gas cans and lay down on the old mattress and dozed for an hour.

Although he could not afford the time, the short rest refreshed him considerably. It also allowed his mind to create. An idea crystallized that was so incredibly simple in concept he couldn't believe he hadn't thought of it before.

He carried the gas cans down to the lagoon. Then he returned for the outboard. Looking through piles of trash, he located a short plank that showed no rot. The last chore was the hardest. Necessity was the mother of invention, Pitt kept telling himself. Forty-five minutes later, he had dragged the old bathtub from its resting place in the yard down the road to the water's edge.

Using the plank as a transom, Pitt bolted the outboard to the rear of the tub. Next he cleaned out the fuel filter and blew out the lines. A piece of tin bent in a cone served as a funnel to fill the outboard's tank. By holding his thumb over the bottom hole he could also use it for a bailing can. His final act before stuffing a rag plug in the drain was to knock off the bathtub's four webbed feet with an iron bar.

He pulled at the starter cord twelve times before the motor sputtered, caught, and began to purr. He shoved the tub into deeper water until it floated. Then he climbed in. The ballast weight of his body and the two full gas cans made it surprisingly stable. He lowered the propeller shaft into the water and pushed the gear lever to Forward. The oddball craft slowly moved out into the lagoon and headed for the main channel. A shaft of moonlight showed the sea was calm, the swells no more than two feet. Pitt concentrated on the surf. He had to pass through the breaking waves and place as much distance between himself and the island by sunrise as possible.

He slowed the motor and timed the breakers, counting them. Nine heavies crashed one behind the other, leaving a long trough separating the tenth. Pitt pushed the throttle to Full and settled in the stern of the tub. The next wave was low and crashed immediately in front of him. He took the impact of the churning foam bow-on and plowed through. The tub staggered, then the propeller bit the water and it surged over the crest of the following wave before it curled.

Pitt let out a hoarse shout as he broke free. The worst was over. He knew he could only be discovered by sheer accident. The bathtub was too small to be picked up by radar. He eased up on the throttle to conserve the motor and the fuel. Dragging his hand in the water, he guessed his speed at about four knots. He should be well clear of Cuban waters by morning.

He looked up at the heavens, took his bearings, picked out a star to steer by, and set a course for the Bahama Channel.

<3>SELENOS 8

October 30, 1989

Kazakhstan, USSR

<<37>>

With a fireball brighter than the Siberian sun, Selenos 8 rose into a chilly blue sky carrying the 110-ton manned lunar station. The super rocket and four strap-on boosters, generating 14 million pounds of thrust, threw out a tail of orange-yellow flame 1,000 feet long and 300 feet wide. White smoke burst around the launch pad and the rumble from the engines rattled glass twelve miles away. At first it lifted so ponderously that it hardly seemed to be moving at all. Then it picked up speed and thundered skyward. Soviet President Antonov observed the liftoff from an armored glass bunker through a pair of large binoculars mounted on a tripod. Sergei Kornilov and General Yasenin stood beside him, intently monitoring voice communications between the cosmonauts and the space control center.

"An inspiring sight," Antonov muttered in awe.

"A textbook launch," Kornilov said. "They'll reach escape velocity in four minutes."

"Does all go well?"

"Yes, Comrade President. All systems are functioning normally. And they are exactly on track."

Antonov gazed at the long tongue of flame until it finally vanished. Only then did he sigh and step away from the binoculars. "Well, gentlemen, this space spectacular should take the world's eyes off the next American shuttle flight to their new orbital station." Yasenin nodded in agreement and gripped Kornilov's shoulder. "My congratulations, Sergei. You stole the Yankee triumph for the Soviet Union."

"No brilliance on my part," said Kornilov. "Because of orbital mechanics, our lunar launch window happened to be open for an advantageous shot several hours ahead of their scheduled launch."

Antonov stared into the sky as if mesmerized. "I assume American intelligence isn't privy to the fact our cosmonauts are not what they seem."

"A flawless deception," Yasenin said without reservation. "The switch of five space scientists for specially trained soldiers shortly before liftoff went smoothly."

"I hope we can say the same about the crash program to replace test equipment with weapons," said Kornilov. "The scientists whose experiments were canceled nearly caused a riot. And the engineers, who were ordered to redesign the interior of the station to accommodate new weight factors and weapon storage requirements, became angry at not being told the reason behind the last-minute changes. Their displeasure will most certainly be leaked."

"Don't lose any sleep over it," Yasenin laughed. "The American space authorities will suspect nothing until communication with their precious moon base goes dead."

"Who is in command of our assault team?" asked Antonov.

"Major Grigory Leuchenko. An expert on guerrilla warfare. The major won many victories against the rebels in Afghanistan. I can personally vouch for his qualities as a loyal and outstanding soldier."

Antonov nodded thoughtfully. "A good choice, General. He should find the lunar surface little different from that of Afghanistan."

"There is no question that Major Leuchenko will conduct a successful operation."

"You forget the American astronauts, General," said Kornilov.

"What about them?"

"The photographs demonstrate they have weapons too. I pray they are not fanatics who will wage a strong fight to protect their facility."

Yasenin smiled indulgently. "Pray, Sergei? Pray to whom? Certainly not to any God. He won't help the Americans once Leuchenko and his men begin their attack. The outcome is a foregone conclusion. Scientists cannot stand up against professional soldiers trained to kill."

"Do not underrate them. That's all I have to say."

"Enough!" Antonov said loudly. "I'll hear no more of this defeatist talk. Major Leuchenko has the double advantage of surprise and superior weaponry. Less than sixty hours from now the first real battle for space will begin. And I do not expect the Soviet Union to lose it."

In Moscow, Vladimir Polevoi sat at his desk in the KGB center on Dzerzhinski Square, reading a report from General Velikov. He did not glance up as Lyev Maisky strode into the room and sat down without an invitation. Maisky's face was common, blank and onedimensional like his personality. He was Polevoi's deputy head of the First Chief Directorate, the foreign operations arm of the KGB. Maisky's relations with Polevoi were restrained, but they complemented each other.

Finally, Polevoi's eyes bored through Maisky. "I'd like an explanation."

"The LeBarons' presence was unforeseen," Maisky said tersely.

"Mrs. LeBaron and her crew of treasure hunters, perhaps, but certainly not her husband. Why did Velikov take him from the Cubans?"

"The general thought Raymond LeBaron might be a useful pawn in negotiations with the U.S. State Department after the Castros were removed."

"His good intentions have made for a dangerous game," said Polevoi.

"Velikov assures me that LeBaron is kept under strict security and fed false information."

"Still, there is always a small chance LeBaron might discover the true function of Cayo Santa Maria."

"Then he would simply be erased."

"And Jessie LeBaron?"

"My personal thoughts are that she and her friends will prove useful dupes in laying the blame for our projected disaster on the CIA's doorstep."

"Has Velikov or our resident agents in Washington uncovered any plans by American intelligence to infiltrate the island?"

"Negative," Maisky answered. "A check on the blimp's crew showed none have current ties with the CIA or the military."

"I want no screw-ups," said Polevoi firmly. "We're too close to success. You pass my words on to Velikov."

"He shall be instructed."

There was a knock on the door and Polevoi's secretary entered. Without a word she handed him a paper and left the room.

Sudden anger reddened Polevoi's face. "Damn! Speak of a threat, and it becomes a reality."

"Sir?"

"A priority signal from Velikov. One of the prisoners has escaped." Maisky made a nervous movement with his hands. "It is impossible. There are no boats on Cayo Santa Maria, and if he is foolish enough to swim, he'll either drown or be eaten by sharks. Whoever it is won't get far."

"His name is Dirk Pitt, and according to Velikov he's the most dangerous of the lot."

"Dangerous or not--"

Polevoi waved him to silence and began pacing the carpet, his face reflecting deep agitation. "We cannot afford the unexpected. The deadline for our Cuban adventure must be moved up a week."

Maisky shook his head in disagreement. "The ships would never reach Havana in time. Also, we can't change the dates of the celebration. Fidel and every high-ranking member of his government will be on hand for the speechmaking. The wheels of the explosion are set in motion. Nothing can be done to alter the timing. Rum and Cola must either be called off or continue as scheduled."

Polevoi clasped and unclasped his hands in an agony of indecision. "Rum and Cola, a stupid name for an operation of such magnitude."

"Another reason to push on. Our disinformation program has already begun spreading rumors of a CIA plot to launch devastation in Cuba. The phrase `Rum and Cola' is patently American. No foreign government would suspect it as being hatched in Moscow."

Polevoi shrugged in assent. "Very well, but I don't want to think about the consequences if this Pitt fellow by some miracle survives and makes it back to the United States."

"He is already dead," Maisky announced boldly. "I am sure of it."

<<38>>

The President leaned into Daniel Fawcett's office and waved. "Don't get up. Just wanted you to know I'm going upstairs for a quiet lunch with my wife."

"Don't forget we have a meeting with the intelligence chiefs and Doug Oates in fortyfive minutes," Fawcett reminded him.

"I promise to be on time."

The President turned and took the elevator to his living quarters on the second floor of the White House. Ira Hagen was waiting for him in the Lincoln suite.

"You look tired, Ira."

Hagen smiled. "I'm behind on my sack time."

"How do we stand?"

"I've accounted for the identities of all nine members of the ìnner core.' Seven are pinpointed. Only Leonard Hudson and Gunnar Eriksen remain outside the net."

"You haven't picked up their trail from the shopping center?" Hagen hesitated. "Nothing that panned out."

"The Soviet moon station was launched eight hours ago," said the President. "I can't delay any longer. Orders will go out this afternoon to round up as many of the ìnner core' as we can."

"Army or FBI?"

"Neither. An old buddy in the Marine Corps has the honors. I've already supplied him with your list of names and locations." The President paused and stared at Hagen. "You said you accounted for the identities of all nine men, Ira, but your report only gave eight names.

Hagen seemed reluctant, but he reached inside his coat and withdrew a sheet of folded paper. "I was saving the last man until I could be absolutely certain. A voice analyzer confirmed my suspicions."

The President took the paper from Hagen's hand, unfolded it, and read the single handprinted name. He removed his glasses and wearily wiped the lenses as if he didn't trust his eyes. Then he slipped the paper into his pocket.

"I suppose I knew all along but couldn't bring myself to believe his complicity."

"Do not judge harshly, Vince. These men are patriots, not traitors. Their only crime is silence. Take the case of Hudson and Eriksen. Pretending to be dead all these years. Think of the agony that must have caused their friends and families. The nation can never compensate them for their sacrifices or fully comprehend the rewards of their accomplishment."

"Are you lecturing me, Ira?"

"Yes, sir, I am."

The President suddenly became aware of Hagen's inner struggle. He understood that his friend's heart wasn't in the final confrontation. Hagen's loyalty was balanced on a razor's edge.

"You're holding out on me, Ira."

"I won't lie to you, Vince."

"You know where Hudson and Eriksen are hiding."

"Let's say I have a damned solid hunch."

"Can I trust you to bring them in?"

"Yes."

"You're a good scout, Ira."

"Where do you want them delivered, and when?"

"Camp David," the President replied. "Eight o'clock tomorrow morning."

"We'll be there."

"I can't include you, Ira."

"The decent thing to do on your part, Vince. Call it a repayment of sorts. You owe it to me to be in on the finish."

The President considered that. "You're right. It's the very least I can do." Martin Brogan, director of the CIA, Sam Emmett of the FBI, and Secretary of State Douglas Oates came to their feet as the President entered the conference room with Dan Fawcett on his heels.

"Please be seated, gentlemen," the President said, smiling. There were a few minutes of small talk until Alan Mercier, the national security adviser, entered. "Sorry for being late," he said, quickly sliding into a chair. "I haven't even had time to think of a good excuse."

"An honest man," Brogan said, laughing. "How disgusting." The President poised a pen above a note pad. "Where do we stand on the Cuban pact?" he asked, looking at Oates.

"Until we can open a secret dialogue with Castro, it's pretty much on the back burner."

"Is there a remote possibility Jessie LeBaron might have gotten through with our latest reply?"

Brogan shook his head. "I feel it's very doubtful she made contact. Our sources have had no word since the blimp was shot down. The consensus is she's dead."

"Any word at all from the Castros?"

"None."

"What do you hear from the Kremlin?"

"The internal struggle going on between Castro and Antonov is about to break out in the open," said Mercier. "Our people inside the Cuban war ministry say that Castro is going to pull his troops out of Afghanistan."

"That clinches it," said Fawcett. "Antonov won't stand idle and allow that to happen." Emmett leaned forward and folded his hands on the table. "It all goes back to four years ago when Castro begged off making even a token payment on the ten billion dollars owned to the Soviet Union on loans constantly `rolled over' since the nineteen-sixties. He painted himself into an economic corner and had to knuckle under when Antonov demanded he send troops to fight in Afghanistan. Not simply a few small companies, but nearly twenty thousand men."

"What estimate does the CIA have of casualties?" asked the President, turning to Brogan.

"Our figures show approximately sixteen hundred dead, two thousand wounded, and over five hundred missing."

"Good lord, that's better than twenty percent."

"Another reason the Cuban people detest the Russians," Brogan continued. "Castro is like a drowning man, sinking between a leaking rowboat whose crew is pointing a gun at him and a luxury yacht whose passengers are waving champagne bottles. If we throw him the rope, the crew in the Kremlin will blast him."

"Actually, they're planning on blasting him anyway," Emmett added.

"Do we have any idea how or when the assassination will take place?" asked the President.

Brogan shifted in his chair uneasily. "Our sources have been unable to turn up a timetable."

"Their security on the subject is as tight as anything I've ever seen," said Mercier. "Our computers have failed to decode any data from our space listening systems tuned to the operation. Only a few bits and pieces that fail to give us a concrete fix on their plans."

"Do you know who is in charge of it?" the President persisted.

"General Peter Velikov, GRU, considered something of a wizard at third-world government infiltration and manipulation. He was the architect of the Nigerian overthrow two years ago. Fortunately, the Marxist government he set up didn't last."

"Is he operating out of Havana?"

"He's secretive as hell," replied Brogan. "The perfect image of the man who isn't there. Velikov hasn't been seen in public in the past four years. We're dead certain he's directing the show from a hidden location."

The President's eyes seemed to darken. "All we have here is vague theory that the Kremlin plans to assassinate Fidel and Raul Castro, fix the blame on us, then take over the government using Cuban stooges who receive their orders straight from Moscow. Come now, gentlemen, I can't act on what-ifs. I need facts."

"It's a projection based on known facts," Brogan explained heavily. "We have the names of the Cubans who are on the Soviet payroll and waiting on the sidelines to assume power. Our information fully supports the Kremlin's intent to murder the Castros. The CIA makes the perfect scapegoat because the Cuban people have not forgotten the Bay of Pigs or the agency's fumbling plots to assassinate Fidel by the Mafia during the Kennedy administration. I assure you, Mr. President, I have given this every priority. Sixty agents on every level in and out of Cuba are concentrating on penetrating Velikov's wall of secrecy."

"And yet we can't reach Castro for an open dialogue to help each other."

"No, sir," said Oates. "He's resisting any contact through official channels."

"Doesn't he realize his time may be running out?" asked the President.

"He's wandering in a vacuum," Oates replied. "On one hand he feels secure in knowing the great mass of Cubans idolize him. Few national leaders can command the awe and affection he enjoys from his people. And yet on the other, he cannot fully comprehend the dead seriousness of the Soviet threat on his life and government."

"So what you're telling me," said the President gravely, "is that unless we can make an intelligence breakthrough or get someone into Castro's hideout who can make him listen to reason, we can only sit back and watch Cuba sink under total Soviet domination."

"Yes, Mr. President," said Brogan. "That is exactly what we're telling you."

<<39>>

Hagen was doing some browsing. He wandered through the mall of the shopping center, casually eyeing the merchandise in the stores. The smell of roasted peanuts reminded him that he was hungry. He stopped at a gaily painted wagon and bought a bag of roasted cashews.

Resting his feet for a few minutes, Hagen sat on a couch in an appliance store and watched an entire wall of twenty television sets all tuned to the same channel. The pictures showed an hour-old rerun of the space shuttle Gettysburg as it lifted off from California. Over three hundred people had been launched into space since the shuttle's first flight in 1981, and except for the news media, nobody paid much attention anymore. Hagen wandered up and down, pausing to gawk through a large window at a disk jockey spinning records for a radio station that was located in the mall. He rubbed shoulders with the crowds of female shoppers, but he concentrated on the occasional man. Most seemed to be on their lunch break, probing the counters and racks, usually buying the first thing they saw, in contrast to the women, who preferred to keep searching in the forlorn hope they could find something better at a cheaper price. He spotted two men eating submarine sandwiches at a fast-food restaurant. They were not carrying any purchase bags, nor were they dressed like store clerks. They wore the same casual style as Dr. Mooney at the Pattenden Lab.

Hagen followed them into a large department store. They took the escalator down to the basement, passed through the shopping area, and entered a rear hallway marked with a sign that read "Employees Only."

A warning bell went off inside Hagen's head. He returned to a counter stacked with bed sheets, removed his coat, and stuck a pencil behind one ear. Then he waited until the clerk was busy with a customer before picking up a pile of sheets and heading back into the hallway.

Three doors led to stock rooms, two to restrooms, and one was marked "Danger-High Voltage." He yanked open the latter door and rushed inside. A startled security guard sitting at a desk looked up. "Hey, you're not supposed to be--" That was as far as he got before Hagen threw the sheets in his face and judo-chopped him on the side of the neck. There were two security guards behind a second door, and Hagen put them both down in less than four seconds. He crouched and whipped around in anticipation of another threat.

A hundred pairs of eyes stared at him in blank astonishment.

Hagen was confronted by a room that seemed to stretch into infinity. From wall to wall it was filled with people, offices, computer and communications equipment. For a long second, he stood stunned by the vastness of it all. Then he took a step forward and grabbed a terrified secretary by the arms and lifted her out of a chair.

"Leonard Hudson!" he snapped. "Where can I find him?" Fear shone from her eyes like twin spotlights. She tilted her head to the right. "Th-the office w-with the blue d-door," she stammered.

"Thank you very much," he said with a broad smile.

Hagen released the girl and walked swiftly through the hushed complex. His face was twisted with malevolence, as if daring anyone to stop him.

No one made the slightest attempt. The growing crowd of people parted like the Red Sea as he passed down a main aisle.

When he came to the blue door, Hagen stopped and turned around, surveying the brain trust and communications center of the Jersey Colony program. He had to admire Hudson. It was an imaginative cover. Excavated during the construction of the shopping center, it would have attracted little or no suspicion. The scientists, engineers, and secretaries could come and go amid the shoppers, and their cars simply melted into hundreds of others in the parking lot. The radio station was also a work of genius. Who would suspect they were transmitting and receiving messages from the moon while broadcasting Top 40 records to the surrounding college community.

Hagen pushed inside the door and entered what seemed to be a studio control booth. Hudson and Eriksen sat with their backs to him, staring up at a large video monitor that reflected the face and shaven head of a man who stopped speaking in midsentence and then said, "Who is that man behind you?"

Hudson made a cursory glance over his shoulder. "Hello, Ira." The voice mirrored the eyes. Hagen could almost hear the cracking of ice cubes. "I wondered when you'd show up."

"Come in," said Eriksen in an equally frigid tone. "You're just in time to talk to our man on the moon."

<<40>>

Pitt had cleared Cuban waters and was well into the main shipping lane of the Bahama Channel. But his luck was running out. The only ships that came within sight failed to spot him. A large tanker flying the Panamanian flag steamed by no more than a mile away. He stood as high as he dared without tipping over the tub and waved his shirt, but his little vessel went unnoticed by the crew.

For a watch officer on the bridge to aim his binoculars at the precise spot at the precise instant when the bathtub rose out of a trough and climbed the crest of a swell before dropping from sight again was a bet no self-respecting bookie would make. The awful truth plagued Pitt, he made too small a target.

Pitt's movements were becoming mechanical. His legs had gone numb after rolling around the sea in the cramped bathtub for nearly twenty hours, and the constant friction of his buttocks against the hard surface had raised painful blisters. The tropical sun beat on him, but he wore a good tan and the least of his problems was sunburn. The sea remained calm, but still it was a continuous effort to keep the bow of the tub straight into the swells and bail out the water at the same time. He had emptied the final drops from the fuel cans into the outboard motor before refilling them with seawater for ballast.

Another fifteen or twenty minutes, that was all he could expect the motor to keep running before it starved for gas. Then it would be all over. Without control, the tub would soon swamp and sink.

His mind began to slip away--he hadn't slept in thirty-six hours. He fought to stay awake, steering and bailing with leaden arms and water-wrinkled hands. For hour after endless hour his eyes swept the horizon, seeing nothing that was traveling toward his tiny area of the sea. A few sharks had bumped the bottom of the slow-moving tub. One made the mistake of coming too close to the spinning propeller and got his fin chewed up. Pitt eyed them with a detached air. He dumbly planned to beat them out of a meal by opening his mouth and drowning, before realizing it was a stupid thought and brushing it aside. The wind gently began to rise. A squall passed overhead and deposited an inch of water in the tub. It wasn't the cleanest, but it was better than nothing. He scooped up a few handfuls and gratefully gulped it down, feeling refreshed.

Pitt looked up at the shimmering horizon to the west. Night would fall in another hour. His last spark of hope was dying with the setting sun. Even if he somehow kept afloat, he could never be seen in the darkness.

Hindsight, he mused. If only he'd stolen a flashlight.

Suddenly, the outboard sputtered and then caught again. He slowed the throttle as much as he dared, knowing he was only pushing off the inevitable by a minute or two. Pitt fought off the cloud of morale collapse and steeled himself to bail until his arms gave out or a wave struck the drifting, helpless little tub on the beam and swamped her. He emptied one of the gas cans of seawater. When the tub sank, he reasoned, he would use the can as a float. So long as he could move a muscle, he wasn't about to give up. The faithful little outboard coughed once, twice, and then died. After hearing the beat of the exhaust since the night before, Pitt felt smothered by the abrupt silence. He sat there in a doomed little craft on a vast and indifferent sea under a clear and cloudless sky. He kept her afloat for another hour into the twilight. He was so tired, so physically exhausted that he missed a small movement five hundred yards away. Commander Kermit Fulton pulled back from the periscope eyepiece, his face wearing a questioning expression. He looked across the control room of the attack submarine Denver at his executive officer. "Any contact on our sensors?" The exec spoke into one of the control room phones. "Nothing on radar, skipper. Sonar reports a small contact, but it stopped about a minute ago."

"What do they make of it?"

The answer was slow in coming and the question was repeated.

"Sonar says it sounded like a small outboard motor, no more than twenty horsepower."

"There's something mighty peculiar out there," said Fulton. "I want to check it out. Slow speed to one-third and come left five degrees."

He pressed his forehead against the periscope eyepiece again and increased the magnification. Slowly, wonderingly, he pulled back. "Give the order to surface."

"You see something?" asked the executive officer.

He nodded silently.

Everyone in the control room stared at Fulton expectantly. The exec took the initiative.

"Mind letting us in on it, skipper?"