Deep Six (Dirk Pitt 7)
"No more of your lies, Doctor. Your insane project has placed our government in extreme jeopardy. It is you who will be executed. It is you who is the traitor."
"Wrong," Lugovoy said in near shock. "Can't you see the truth?"
"I see you working for the Koreans. Most likely the South Koreans who have bought you off."
"For God's sake, listen to me."
"A good Communist has no God but the party," said Suvorov, roughly elbowing Lugovoy aside and shoving the unprotesting Americans into the elevator. "I have no more time to argue."
A wave of despair swept Lugovoy. "Please, you can't do this," he pleaded.
Suvorov did not reply. He turned and glared malevolently as the elevator doors closed and blocked him from view.
ASTHE ELEVATOR ROSE, Suvorov reversed the gun and smashed out the overhead light with the butt. Moran moaned and went through the motions of coming to, rubbing his eyes and shaking his head to clear the fog. Larimer became sick and vomited in a corner, his breath coming in great croaking heaves.
The elevator eased to a smooth stop and the doors automatically opened to a smothering rush of warm air. The only light came from three dim yellow bulbs that hung suspended on a wire like ailing glowworms. The air was dank and heavy and smelled of diesel oil and rotting vegetation.
Two men stood about ten feet away, engaged in conversation, waiting for Lugovoy to make his scheduled progress report. They turned and glared questioningly into the darkened elevator. One of them bels an attache' case. The only other
detail Suvorov noted before he shot them each twice in the chest was the Oriental fold of their eyes.
He slung his free arm under Moran's waist and hauled him across what seemed like a rusting iron floor. He kicked Larimer ahead of him as he would a remorseful dog that had run away from home. The senator reeled like a drunk, too sick to speak, too stunned to resist. Suvorov pushed the gun inside his belt and took Larimer's arm, guining him.
The skin under his hand felt goosefleshed and clammy. Suvorov hoped the old legislator's heart wasn't about to give out.
Suvorov cursed as he stumbled over a large chain. Then he stopped and peered down an enclosed ramp that stretched into the dark. He felt as if he were inside a sauna; his clothes were turning damp with sweat and his hair was plastered down his forehead and temples. He tripped and almost fell, regaining his balance just before he was about to sprawl on the cross slats of the ramp.
Moran's dead weight was becoming increasingly burdensome, and Suvorov realized his strength was ebbing. He doubted whether he could lug the congressman another fifty yards.
At last they left the tunnel-like ramp and staggered out into the night. He looked up and was vastly relieved to see a diamondclear sky carpeted with stars. Beneath his feet the ground felt like a graveled road and there were no lights to be seen anywhere. In the shadows off to his left he dimly recognized the outline of a car.
Pulling Larimer into a ditch beside the road, he gratefully dropped Moran like a bag of sand and cautiously circled around, approaching the car from the rear.
He froze into immobility, rigin against the shadowless landscape, and listened. The engine was running and music was playing on the radio. The windows were tightly rolled up and Suvorov right
assumed the air conditioner was on.
Silent as a cat, he crouched and moved in closer, keeping low and out of any reflection in the side-view mirror on the door. The inside was too dark to make out more than one vague form behind the wheel. If there were others, Suvorov's only ally was the element of surprise.
The car was a stretch-bodied limousine, and to Suvorov it seemed as long as a city block. From the raised letters on the rear'of the trunk, he identified it as a Cadillac. He'd never driven one and hoped he would have no trouble finding the right switches and controls.
His groping fingers found the door handle. He took a deep breath and tore open the door. The interior light flicked on and the man in the front seat twisted his head around, his mouth opening to shout.
Suvorov shot him twice, the silver-tip hollow-point bullets tearing through the rib cage under the armpit.
Almost before the blood began to spurt, Suvorov jerked the driver's body out of the car and rolled it away from the wheels. Then he roughly crowded Larimer and Moran into the back seat. Both men had lost their blankets, but they were too deeply gripped by shock to even notice or care. No longer the power brokers of Capitol Hill, they were as helpless as children lost in the forest.
Suvorov dropped the shift lever into drive and jammed the accelerator to the floor mat so fiercely, the rear tires spun and sprayed gravel for fifty yards before finally gaining traction. Only then did Suvorov's fumbling hand find the headlight switch and pull it on.
He sagged in relief at discovering the big car was hurtling down the precise middle of a rutted country road.
As he threw the heavy, softly sprung limousine over three miles of choppy washboard, he began to take stock of his surroundings.
Cypress trees bordering the road had great tentacles of moss hanging from their limbs. This and the heavy atmosphere suggested they were somewhere in the Southern United States. He spotted a narrow paved crossroad ahead and slin to a stop in a swirling cloud of dust.
On the corner stood a deserted building, more of a shack actually, with a decrepit sign illuminated by the headlights: GLOVER CULPEPPER. GAS & GROCERIES. Apparently Glover had packed up and moved on many years before.
The intersection had no marker, so he mentally flipped a coin and turned left. The cypress gave way to groves of pine and soon he began passing an occasional farmhouse. Traffic was scarce at this hour of morning. Only one car and a pickup truck passed him, both going in the opposite direction. He came to a winer road and spotted a bent sign on a leaning post designating it as State Highway 700. The number meant nothing to him, so he made another left turn and continued on.