"You can't be faulted for nature's whims," Min Koryo said impassively. "The true blame lies with the Russians. If they hadn't backed out of their bargain to buy Nerve Agent S, there would have been no need to scuttle the ship."
"They were afraid the agent was too unstable to transport across Siberia to their chemical warfare arsenal in the Urals."
"What's puzzling is how did NUMA tie the two ships together?"
"I can't say, aunumi. We were careful to strip every piece of identification."
"No matter," Min Koryo said. "The fact remains, the article in the newspaper is a ploy. We must remain silent and do nothing to jeopardize our anonymity."
"What about the man who made the announcement?" Lee Tong asked.
"This Dirk Pitt?"
A long, cold, brooding look came over Min Koryo's narrow face.
"Investigate his motives and observe his movements. See where he fits in the picture. If he appears to be a danger to us, arrange his funeral."
The gray of evening softened the harsh outlines of Los Angeles, and the lights came on, pimpling the sides of the buildings. The noise of the street traffic rose and seeped through the old-fashioned sash window. The tracks were warped and jammed under a dozen coats of paint. It hadn't been opened in thirty years. Outside, an air conditioner rattled in its brackets.
The man sat in an aging wooden swivel chair and stared unseeing through the grime filming the glass. He stared through eyes that had seen the worst the city had to give. They were hard, stark eyes, still clear and undimmed after sixty years. He sat in shirtsleeves, the well-worn leather of a holster slung over his left shoulder. The butt of a .45 automatic protruded from it. He was largeboned and stocky.
The muscles had softened over the years, but he could still lift a two-hundred-pound man off the sidewalk and slam him in a brick wall.
The chair creaked as he swung around and leaned over a desk that was battle-scarred with uncountable cigarette burns. He picked up a folded newspaper and read the article on the ship discoveries for perhaps the tenth time. Pulling open a drawer, he searched out a dog-eared folder and stared at the cover for a long while. Long ago he had memorized every word on the papers inside. Along with the newspaper he slipped it inside a worn leather briefcase.
He rose and stepped over to a washbowl hung in one corner of the room and rinsed his face with cold water. Then he donned a coat and a battered fedora, turned off the light and left the office.
As he stood in the hallway waiting for the elevator, he was surrounded by the smells of the aging building. The mold and rot seemed stronger with each passing
day. Thirty-five years at the same stand was a long time, he mused, too long.
His thoughts were interrupted by the clatter of the elevator door.
An operator who looked to be in his seventies gave him a yellow-toothed grin. "Callin' it quits for the night?" he asked.
"No, I'm taking the red-eye flight to Washington."
"New case?"
"An old one."
There were no more questions and they rode the rest of the way in silence. As he stepped into the lobby he nodded at the operator.
"See you in a couple of days, Joe."
Then he passed through the main door and melted into the night.
To MOST, HIS NAME WAs HIRAM YAEGER. To a select few he was known as Pinocchio because he could stick his nose into a vast number of computer networks and sift over their software. His playground was the tenth-floor communications and information network of NUMA.
Sandecker hired him to collect and store every scrap of data ever written on the oceans, scientific or historical, fact or theory.
Yaeger tackled the job with a fierce dedication, and within five years had accumulated a huge computer library of knowledge about the sea.
Yaeger worked erratic hours, sometimes coming in with the morning sun and working straight through until the following dawn. He seldom showed up for departmental meetings, but Sandecker left him alone because there was none better, and because Yaeger had an uncanny ability to pry out secret access codes to a great number of worldwine computer networks.
Always dressed in Levi's jacket and pants, he wore his long blond hair in a bun. A scraggly heard combined with his probing eyes gave him the appearance of a desert prospector peering over the next hill for Eldorado.
He sat at a computer terminal stuck away in a far corner of NUMA's electronic maze. Pitt stood off to one side watching with interest the green block letters on a display screen.