Celtic Empire (Dirk Pitt 25)

She nodded. “It was made to look like an accident. Fortunately, it happened just as the job was winding down.”

“It will probably be best if you return to Scotland with me tomorrow.” She paused. “We do have, however, one more loose end. I learned from the senator that the U.S. aid scientist from El Salvador is here in Washington. Her name is Elise Aguilar.”

“I tried to dispatch her in El Salvador.”

McKee gave her daughter a stern look. “Your operation in El Salvador was a fiasco.”

“We were just following up on the EP-2 deployment,” Audrey said. “We didn’t know the U.S. scientific team would be there testing the water. We thought it best not to take chances.”

“Take chances? They were an agricultural team helping farmers. You created an international incident.”

“We know they took water samples—or at least the woman did.”

“If she had been killed with the others, then at least there would be no worries now.”

“There’s . . . something I need to tell you about that,” Audrey said. “The man who rescued this Aguilar woman at Cerrón Grande was the same person from NUMA who raised the Mayweather.”

“He was at Cerrón Grande? You are certain of this?”

Audrey nodded. “His name is Dirk Pitt. He is the Director of NUMA.”

“Yes, I met Pitt at the gala. Did he recognize you?”

“No.”

“Well, he should be no bother now.”

“I’ve heard he’s quite accomplished.”

“I may need his wife, but not him.” McKee turned and admired the lights of Washington. “I have two people in-country to take care of Aguilar. If Pitt chooses to interfere, it will be his misfortune.”

15

It was customary for Rudi Gunn to find a stack of correspondence waiting on his desk when he arrived at NUMA headquarters in the morning. What wasn’t usual was the extra-large paperweight he found awaiting him this day. It was a slightly used yellow dive scooter, with NUMA lettered in turquoise, parked on the center of his desk. Wrapped around it was a dive regulator. Gunn studied the object, then carried it down the hall to the corner office of Dirk Pitt.

“Warranty problem?” He set the scooter down and took a seat.

Pitt was examining a sheriff’s report from Detroit. “It was Mike Cruz’s.”

Gunn nodded, still not sure why it had ended up on his desk. He waited for Pitt to explain.

“I found it on the bottom of the Detroit River. About two hundred feet from Mike’s body.”

“He might have lost his grip on it and it propelled off without him.”

“No, the device requires pressure on the throttle. Otherwise, it stops.”

“Perhaps the river carried it. I know you were working in strong currents.”

“Mike was roughly at the center of the ship, near its keel line. The device would have to move fifty feet abeam of his position, take a ninety-degree turn, then proceed downriver. I know strange things can happen with underwater currents, but I’m not buying it.”

“So what are you saying?”

“I think Mike was murdered.”

Gunn considered the comment, his studious blue eyes refusing to blink. “I just read the Detroit Sheriff’s Office’s preliminary findings.” He nodded to the report in Pitt’s hands. “They call it an accidental drowning, pending autopsy results.”

“Mike was too experienced.”