Sahara (Dirk Pitt 11)

Almost two hours later, after a shower and short nap, Pitt felt almost human again; the biting soreness from his wounds was almost bearable. He was seated at Massarde's desk in a silk robe at least two sizes too small that he'd found in a closet containing enough clothes to open a men's store. He was probing through the drawers of the desk, studying the Frenchman's papers and files when Giordino walked through the door, pushing a white-faced Verenne in front of him.

"You two have a nice chat?" asked Pitt.

"Amazing what a great conversationalist he can be in the right company," Giordino acknowledged.

Verenne looked around through wild unfocused eyes that seemed to have lost all contact with reality. He slowly moved his head from side to side as if he was clearing away a mist. He looked on the verge of a nervous breakdown.

Pitt studied Verenne curiously. "What did you do to him?" he inquired of, Giordino. "There isn't a mark on him."

"Like I said, we had a nice chat. I spent the time describing in vivid detail how I was going to dismember him millimeter by millimeter."

"That's all?"

"He has a great imagination. I never had to lay a hand on him."

"Did he pinpoint Massarde's island cache?"

"You had the right idea about it being owned by the French, but it's almost 5000 kilometers northeast of Tahiti and 2000 southwest of Mexico. Truly the backside of beyond."

"I don't know of a French island in the Pacific off Mexico."

"In 1979, France assumed direct administration of an atoll named Clipperton Island after the English pirate John Clipperton, who used it as a lair in 1705. According to Verenne, its land mass is only about 5 square kilometers with a 21-meter promontory as its highest point."

"Any habitants?"

Giordino shook his head. "Not unless you count a few wild pigs. Verenne says the only remnant of human activity is an abandoned lighthouse from the eighteenth century."

"A lighthouse," Pitt turned the word over slowly. "Only a slick, wily pirate like Massarde would think of hiding a treasure near a lighthouse on an uninhabited island in the middle of an ocean."

"Verenne claims he doesn't know the exact spot."

"Whenever Mr. Massarde anchored his yacht off the island," murmured Verenne, "he always took a boat ashore alone, and only at night so no one could observe his movements."

Pitt looked at Giordino. "Think he's telling the truth?"

"I am, I swear to God!" Verenne implored.

"Could be he's just a natural-born storyteller," said Giordino.

"I told the truth." His voice came like the pleas of a child. "Oh God, I don't want to be tortured. I can't stand pain."

Giordino stared at Verenne fox-like. "Or then again, he might be a naturally gifted actor."

Verenne looked stricken. "What can I do to make you believe me?"

"I'll be convinced when you inform on your boss. Supply his records, names, and dates of his victims, every filthy business deal he ever created, expose the guts of his entire rotten organization."

"I do that and he'll have me killed," Verenne croaked in a frightened whisper.

"He'll never touch you."

"Oh yes he can. You don't know the power he wields."

"I think I have an idea."

"He won't hurt you half as much as I will," said Giordino menacingly.

Verenne sank into a chair, stared at Giordino with a sweat-moistened face, with fear-widened eyes that carried the faintest flicker of hope as he turned and trained them on Pitt. These men had stripped his chief of all dignity, of all arrogance. If there was a chance of saving his life, he knew he had to choose.