Deep Six (Dirk Pitt 7)

"Bank security codes," he said without elaboration.

Yaeger set to work and horned in on Sosan Trading's bank in two minutes. "Got it!" he exclaimed. "An obscure Inchon branch of a big bank headquartered in Seoul. Account was closed six years ago."

"Are the statements still on file?"

Without answering, Yaeger stabbed the terminal's keys and then sat back, arms folded, and eyed the printouts. The data blinked on with the account number and a request for the monthly statements desired.

He looked up at Pitt expectantly.

"March through September 1976," Pitt directed.

The bank's computer system in Korea obliged.

"Most curious," Yaeger said, digesting the data. "Only twelve transactions over a span of seven years. Sosan Trading must have cleared their overhead and payroll with cash."

"Where did the deposits originate?" Pitt asked.

"Appears to be a bank in Bern, Switzerland."

"One step closer."

"Yes, but here it gets tricky," said Yaeger. "Swiss bank security codes are more complex. And if this shipping outfit is as cagey as they appear, they probably juggle bank accounts like a vaudeville act."

"I'll get the coffee while you start digging."

Yaeger looked pensively at Pitt for a moment. "You never give up, do you?"

"No."

Yaeger was surprised at the sudden coldness in Pitts tone. He shrugged. "Okay, pal, but this isn't going to be a walkover. It may take all night and turn up zilch. I'll have to keep sending different number combinations until I strike the right codes."

"You got something better to do?"

"No, but while you're getting the coffee, I'd appreciate it if you scare up some donuts."

The bank in Bern, Switzerland, proved discouraging. Any trail to Sosan Trading's parent company ended there. They spotchecked six other Swiss banks, hoping they might get lucky, like a treasure bunter who finds the shipwreck chart he's searching for hidden away in the wrong drawer of an archive. But they turned up nothing of value. Groping through the account records of every banking house in Europe presented a staggering problem. There were over six thousand of them.

"Looks pretty dismal," said Yaeger after five hours of staring at the display screen.

"I agree," said Pitt.

"Shall I keep punching away?"

"If you don't mind."

Yaeger raised his arms and stretched. "This is how I get my kicks. You look like you've had it, though. Why don't you s

hove off and get some sleep? If I stumble on anything, I'll give you a call."

Pitt gratefully left Yaeger at NUMA headquarters and drove across the river to the airport. He stopped the Talbot-Lago in front of his hangar door, slipped a small transmitter from his coat pocket and pressed a preset code. In sequence the security alarm systems closed down and the massive door lifted to a height of seven feet.

He parked the car inside and reversed the process. Then wearily he climbed the stairway, entered the living room and turned on the lights.

A man was sitting in Pitts favorite reading chair, his hands folded on a briefcase that rested on his lap. There was a patient look about him, almost deadly, with only the tiniest hint of an indifferent smile. He wore an old-fashioned fedora hat and his customtailored coat, specially cut to conceal a lethal bulge, was unbuttoned just enough to reveal the butt of a.45 automatic.

For a moment they stared at each other, neither speaking, like fighters sizing up their opponents.

At last Pitt broke the silence. "I guess the appropriate thing to say is, Who the hell are you?"