Pacific Vortex! (Dirk Pitt 1)

“Please,” she implored softly, “It was not my intent to harm you. I must work for my government just as you must work for yours. You have information I was ordered to obtain. The content of the syringe was an ordinary solution of scopolamine.”

“Truth serum?”

“Yes. Your reputation with women made you a prime suspect”

“You’re not making sense.”

“The United States Navy, or at least its intelligence section, has reason to believe one of Miss Hunter’s lovers has been trying to gain classified information concerning her father’s fleet operations. I was ordered to investigate your involvement with her. That’s all there is to it.”

That wasn’t all there was to it. There was no doubt in Pitt’s mind that she was lying. He also knew that she was trying to buy time. The only classified information that Adrian Hunter possessed was how the Navy’s up-and-coming crop of future admirals rated on her personal lovemaking scale.

As Pitt rose from the floor and moved in front of her, she saw the brutal gleam in his eyes and she visibly tensed. Confused and angry, Pitt found himself sensing a strong degree of compassion toward the girl. He gazed at the red hair tousled over one eye, and the long slender hands reclining loosely on an inviting lap.

“I’m sorry it turned out this way,” he said. “Damned sorry.” He felt a little foolish. “Too bad you ruined a good thing. You’re not with Naval Intelligence, dear heart. You’re not even a bona fide American. Hell, nobody’s used the term gangster in this country since the 1930

s. You also failed your secret agent test. No professional would have bought that phony telephone call to the police, but you did. Anyway, the Navy isn’t in the habit of allowing their female operators to run loose among villain types minus a backup crew armed to the teeth within screaming distance. You don’t carry a purse, and your dress is too tight to hide a transmitter to warn the watchdogs when the going gets nasty.” The shock treatment was working too well. Her face drained of all color and she truly looked sick.

He went on. “And, in case you think I might be as pure and virginal as you are, you’re sadly mistaken. I checked you over from hair to painted toenails when I carried you here from the beach. The only thing you’ve got on under that dress is a tiny holster for the syringe, taped to the inside of your left thigh.”

Summer’s eyes were glazed with revulsion. Pitt couldn’t remember when a woman had looked at him like that. She turned and stared at the bathroom as if she were making up her mind to throw up in the sink or on the shag carpet. The sink won. She rose unsteadily from the chair and reeled into the bathroom, slamming the door.

He soon heard the sound of water gushing as the commode was flushed; then the faucet on the sink was turned on. Pitt walked over to the balcony and gazed at the twinkling lights of Honolulu in the distance, while far below, the ocean breakers droned against the beach. He lingered at the balcony perhaps a little too long.

He was jolted back to reality by the sound of running water in the bathroom; the flow was too constant, too prolonged for normal routine. It took him three steps to reach the door-locked from the inside. No time for a theatrical “are you in there” line. Balancing on one leg, he kicked hard at the lock with the other, revealing an empty room.

Summer was gone. Her only trace was a trail of knotted bath towels, tied to the shower curtain railing and stretching over the windowsill. Casting an anxious eye below, he saw the last towel dangling only four feet above a chaise lounge on the balcony belonging to the room beneath his. No lights were showing, no shouts of alarm from the tenants. She had escaped safely. For that he was thankful.

He stood there recalling her face-a face that was probably compassionate and tender and gay.

Then he cursed himself for letting her get away.

It was early morning. Thin, ghostly trails of vapor were left behind from a light rain that had come and gone during the night The humidity would have been stifling but for the tradewinds that swept clean the sodden atmosphere and dispersed it over the blue ocean beyond the encircling reefs. The sandy strip of beach that curled from Diamond Head to the Reef Hotel was empty, but already tourists were beginning to trickle from the great glass and concrete hotels to begin a day of sightseeing and shopping excursions.

Lying crosswise on the sweat-dampened sheets of his bed, a naked Pitt gazed out the open window at a pair of myna birds who were fighting over a disinterested female perched in a neighboring palm tree. Black feathers flew in profusion as the birds squawked riotously, creating a disturbance heard for nearly a block. Then, just as the miniature brawl was about to reach its final round, Pitt’s door chime sounded. Reluctantly, he slipped on a terrycloth robe, walked yawning to the door, and opened it.

“Good morning, Dirk.” A short, fire-haired man with a protruding face, stood in the hall. “I hope I’m not interrupting a romantic interlude?”

Pitt stretched out his hand. “No, I’m quite alone. Come on in.”

The little man crossed the threshold, looked unhurriedly about the room, then stepped out on the balcony, taking in the splendid view. He was nattily dressed in a light tan suit and vest, complete with watch and chain. He had a neatly trimmed Ahab, the whaler’s red beard, with two evenly spaced white streaks on each side of the chin, presenting a facial growth that was strikingly uncommon. The olive face was beaded with perspiration either from the humidity or from climbing the stairs, or both. When most men wove their lives through the channels of least resistance, Admiral James Sandecker, Chief Director of the National Underwater and Marine Agency, hit every barrier, every obstacle in the shortest line from point A to point B.

Sandecker turned and nodded over his shoulder. “How in hell do you get any sleep with those damned crows screeching in your ears?”

“Fortunately, they don’t fly amok until the sun’s up.” Pitt motioned to the sectional couch. “Get comfortable, Admiral, while I get the coffee going.”

“Forget the coffee. Nine hours ago I was in Washington. The jet lag has my body chemistry all screwed up. I’d prefer a drink.”

Pitt pulled out a bottle of Scotch from a cabinet and poured. He glanced across the room only to be met by Sandecker’s twinkling blue eyes. What was coming? The head of one of the nation’s most prestigious governmental agencies didn’t fly six thousand miles just to chat with his Special Projects Director about birds. He handed Sandecker a glass and asked, “What brings you from Washington? I thought you were buried in plans for the new deep-sea current expedition?”

“You don’t know why I’m here?” He was using his quiet cynical tone, the one that always made Pitt involuntarily cringe. ‘Thanks to your meddling in affairs that don’t concern you, I had to make a special trip to bail you out of one mess and throw you into another.”

“I don’t follow.”

“A talent I know only too well.” There was the slight hint of a derisive smile. “It seems you aggravated a hornet’s nest when you showed up with the Starbuck’s message capsule. You unknowingly set off an earthquake in the Pentagon that was picked up on a seismograph in California. It also made you a big-man-on-campus with the Navy Department. I’m only a retired castoff to those boys, so I wasn’t offered a peek behind the curtain. I was simply asked by the Joint Chiefs of Staff, courteously, I might add, to fly to Hawaii posthaste, explain your new assignment, and arrange for your loan to the Navy.”

Pitt’s eyes narrowed. “Who’s behind this?”

“Admiral Leigh Hunter of the 101st Salvage Fleet.”