Pacific Vortex! (Dirk Pitt 1)

Lieutenant Buckmaster took the offered receiver, dreading what he had to say.

“Big Daddy... Big Daddy. This is Mad Chopper. Over.”

“This is Big Daddy, Mad Chopper. Go ahead. Over.” The voice in the receiver sounded as though it were coming from the bottom of a well.

“The gang down the block blew the deal right in our faces. I repeat, blew the deal right in our faces. We won’t tune in the news tonight”

“Big Daddy understands, Mad Chopper. He sends his regrets. Over and out”

Buckmaster jammed the receiver back in its cradle. He was mad and he didn’t care if they knew it all the way back to the Pentagon. Something had gone terribly wrong here tonight. The whole atmosphere had an ominous stink about it He vaguely wondered, as his men began regrouping, whether he would ever know who had gotten the short end of the stick.

The door opened and two men dragged Giordino into the room, dropping him roughly onto the floor. Pitt caught his breath. Al was in pitiful shape; his mangled feet hadn’t been treated; there wasn’t the least sign of disinfectant or bandages on them. Blood from a gash above his left eye had hardened, gluing his eye half shut, leaving an appalling malevolent expression that burned with the fires of unadult

erated defiance.

“Well now, Major Pitt,” Delphi said reproachfully. “Nothing to say to your boyhood friend? No? Perhaps you have forgotten his name? Does Albert Giordino ring a bell?”

“You know his name?”

“Of course. Does that surprise you?”

“Not really,” Pitt said easily. “I imagine Orl Cinana supplied you with a complete rundown on Giordino and myself.”

For one long moment the towering hulk behind the desk didn’t get it. Then Pitt’s words began to sink in and Delphi lifted an interrogatory eyebrow.

“Captain Cinana?” His voice was rock-steady, but Pitt detected a very slight touch of doubt. “You’re fishing in the wrong current You have nothing to...”

“Cut the theatrics,” Pitt sharply interrupted. “Cinana may have collected his captain’s pay from the United States Navy, but he played ball on your team. A nice setup: an informer sitting on the top level of your opposition. You knew what the 101st Fleet’s operational plans were before they were set down on paper. How did you recruit Cinana, Delphi? Money? Or was it blackmail? Judging from your track record, I’d say blackmail.”

“You’re very observant”

“Not really. An easy scent to pick up. The good captain had outlived his usefulness as a stool pigeon. He couldn’t live with the role of traitor any longer. Cinana began cracking; he was on the verge of a nervous breakdown. Add his little illicit affair with Adrian Hunter, and poor Cinana had to be eliminated before he spilled your organization. But you bungled his murder, Delphi. You bungled it beyond comprehension.”

Delphi looked at Pitt in bleak suspicion. “You’re guessing.”

“No guesswork,” Pitt said. “It was a chance meeting between us in the Royal Hawaiian Hotel Bar that fouled your plan. Cinana was waiting for Adrian Hunter when I wandered in the door. He, of course, had no idea I was another one of Adrian’s playmates, but he couldn’t run the risk of an embarrassing introduction-a rendezvous with an admiral’s daughter twenty years his junior, in a dark corner of a bar, might conjure up any number of nasty visions-so he ducked out before she showed up. Then when Summer stepped on stage for the assassination, she mistook me for Cinana. And why not? I fit the description. Neither Cinana nor I had worn our uniforms that night, and to top it off, I was conveniently drinking with Miss Hunter. There was no doubt in Summer’s mind. She took care of Adrian and then lured me onto the beach where she tried to pump me full of poison. It was only after she found herself in my apartment, that it began to dawn on her that she’d made a terrible mistake. My first hint came when she addressed me as Captain. And later, you yourself supplied the clincher when you admitted to having an informant. Two and two went together: the answer was Cinana. All in all, very elementary.”

“Yes, you’re a weird breed of cat, Delphi. What other man would have sent his own flesh and blood out in the dead of night to commit murder? Hardly the Father of the Year. Even your hired help wander around like robots. What’s your trick, Delphi? You sprinkle mind-deadening drugs in their cornflakes, or do you mesmerize them with those phony yellow eyes?”

Delphi looked unsure; Pitt wasn’t acting like a man who’d come to the end of his string.

“You push too far.” Delphi leaned forward and locked a hypnotic gaze on Pitt’s eyes.

Pitt’s deep green eyes never hesitated, meeting Delphi’s stare with burning intensity. “Don’t strain yourself, Delphi. I’m not the least impressed. As I’ve said, they’re phony. Yellow contact lenses, nothing more. You can’t cast a spell over a man who’s laughing at you. You’re a fraud from top to bottom. Lavella and Roblemann. Who’re you trying to kid? You’re not fit to wipe their blackboards. Hell, you can’t even do a decent impression of Frederick Moran...”

Pitt broke off abruptly, dodging to the side as Delphi, clenched teeth bared in rage, leaped from behind the desk and swung in a wide, windmilling arc with his fist. The blow carried every ounce of Delphi’s immense strength, but the blinding haze of anger blurred his timing and the fist soared past without making a connection. He stumbled, recovered, and then lost his balance, going down on his hands and knees with a grunt of agony as Pitt’s foot caught him on the side of his body. He stayed where he was, swaying from side to side.

There was a moment of stunned silence throughout the room as Delphi rose unsteadily, supporting himself on the top of the heavy desk. His breath was coming in gasps, his mouth a taut white line.

Pitt stood frozen, cursing himself for overplaying his hand. There was no doubt in his mind-there could be no doubt in the mind of all who were in the room- that Delphi meant to kill him and Al. Delphi reached behind the desk, pulling open a drawer and lifting out a gun. Not one of the projectile pistols, but an automatic, Pitt noticed uneasily-a heavy dark blue .44 Colt revolver-hardly the gun he expected Delphi to wield. Unhurriedly, Delphi broke the gun open, checked the shells, and snapped it shut again. The yellow eyes hadn’t yet changed-they were as expressionless and icy as ever. Pitt turned and looked down at Giordino who met his eyes with a wry grin. They tensed their bodies, waiting for the end. But Delphi’s yellow eyes strayed over his targets, toward the door.

“No, Father!” Summer implored. “Not that way!”

She stood at the door, wearing a green robe that came to mid thigh, her beautifully tanned and smooth skin radiating warmth and self-assurance. Pitt’s blood began to pump rapidly through his veins. She moved into the room, her eyes touching Delphi with a confident, challenging gaze.

“Do not interfere,” Delphi whispered, “This matter does not concern you.”

“You just can’t shoot them down here,” Summer persisted. “You just can’t!” Her great gray eyes suddenly became soft and pleading. “Not within these walls!”