Night Probe! - Cussler Clive - Страница 55

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Somewhere in the distance, it seemed miles off, came the sound of a loud crack, and Shaw thought it was all over. The relentless pressure fell away and the agony dropped by several degrees. He went limp and crumpled to the deck.

Shaw wondered what would happen next. A long walk down a dark tunnel before reaching a blinding light? He was vaguely disappointed that there was no music. He began to itemize his sensations. It struck him as odd that he could still feel pain. His ribs ached and his spine felt as though it was on fire. Apprehensively he opened his eyes. It took them a few moments to focus properly.

The first objects he distinguished were a pair of cowboy boots.

He blinked, but they were still there. Calfskin with stitched design on the sides, high heel and modified pointed toe. He turned his head and looked up into a craggy face with eyes that seemed to smile. "Who are you?" he mumbled. "Pitt. Dirk Pitt."

"Strange, you don't look like the devil." Shaw had never doubted where he would eventually wind up.

Now the lips smiled. "There are some who would disagree." He knelt and hooked his hands under Shaw's arms. "Here, let me help you up, dad."

"God, how I wish," Shaw murmured irritably, "that people would stop calling me dad."

Gly lay like a dead man. His arms were loosely outflung, his legs twisted and slightly bent. He looked like a deflated rubber balloon.

"How did you manage that?" asked a dazed Shaw.

Pitt held up a very large wrench. "Equally good for turning bolts and denting skulls."

"Is he dead?"

"I doubt it. Nothing less than a cannon could wipe him out."

Shaw took several deep breaths and massaged his aching hands. "I'm grateful for your timely intervention, Mr…... er…..."

"The name is Pitt, Mr. Shaw. And you can cut the charade. We both know all about each other."

Shaw shifted his mind from first gear into second. Through luck he had barely survived one opponent, and now he was facing another.

"You're taking quite a chance, Mr. Pitt. My crew could come marching through the door any second."

"If anybody comes marching in here," Pitt said nonchalantly, "it'll be my crew. While you were waltzing with that walking muscle on the floor, your crew got securely stowed away in the engine room."

"My compliments," replied Shaw. "You walk softly and carry a big wrench."

Pitt shoved the tool into the side pocket of his windbreaker and sat down. "They were very cooperative. But I guess that happens to men when they stare into the business end of an automatic rifle."

Pain waves shot up and down Shaw's back. His lips pressed together and his face paled. He tried a few bending exercises, but they only made matters worse.

Pitt watched him. "I suggest you see an osteopath after you notify MI6 of recent events."

"Thank you for your concern," Shaw muttered. "How do you come to know so much?"

"You became an instant celebrity when you-looked into the cameras of our survey vehicle. Heidi Milligan recognized your face, and the CIA fleshed out your past."

Shaw's eyes narrowed. "Commander Milligan is on board your ship?"

"You're old friends, she tells me. A lovely girl, and savvy too. She conducts our historical research."

"I see," said Shaw. "She laid out the path for your salvage operation."

"If you mean that Heidi pointed out the location of Harvey Shields' cabin, yes."

Shaw was always amazed at the frankness of the Americans. Pitt, on the other hand, was always irritated by the British preference for fencing around.

"Why are you here, Mr. Pitt?"

"I felt the time had come to warn you to lay off."

"Lay off"

"There's no law that says you can't sit in the bleachers as a spectator, Mr. Shaw. But keep your boys out of our salvage area. The last one tried to play rough."

"You must be talking about Mr. Gly there."

Pitt looked down at the inert body. "I should have guessed."

"There was a time when I might have made him a good match," said Shaw wistfully.

Pitt smiled a smile that warmed the room. "I only hope I'm in as good a shape as you when I'm sixty-six."

"Good guess."

"Weight one hundred and seventy pounds; height six feet one inch, right-handed, numerous scars. No guess, Mr. Shaw. I have a copy of your biography. You've led an interesting life."

"Perhaps, but your accomplishments far outstrip mine." Shaw smiled for the first time. "You see, I have a file on you too."

Pitt looked at his watch. "I must be getting back to-the Ocean Venturer. It was a pleasure meeting you."

"I'll see you to your boat. It's the least I can do for a man who saved my life."

Two men stood guard on the deck outside. They were about the size and shape of polar bears. One of them spoke with a voice that seemed to come up from his socks when he spotted Shaw.

"Any problems, sir?" Pitt shook his head. "None. Are we ready to shove off?"

"Everyone is aboard except us."

"Go ahead. I'll follow."

Both men gave Shaw a don't-try-anything-funny look and climbed over the side to a launch moored beside the tug.

Pitt turned and said, "Give my regards to General Simms."

Shaw peered at Pitt with continued respect. "Is there anything you don't know?"

"There's lots I don't know." Pitt's expression turned devilish. "For one thing, I never took the time to learn backgammon."

God, Shaw thought, the man is beyond wonder, but he was too much the professional not to see the icy shrewdness beneath the outer layer of friendly warmth. "I shall be happy to teach you sometime. I'm rather good at the game."

"I'll look forward to it."

Pitt held out his hand.

In all his years in the deadly business of espionage, this was the first time Shaw ever recalled shaking hands with the enemy. He stared into Pitt's eyes for a long moment.

"Forgive me for not wishing you luck, Mr. Pitt, but you cannot be allowed to find the treaty. Your side has everything to gain. Mine has everything to lose. You must understand that."

"We both know the score."

"I would very much regret having to kill you,"

"I wouldn't like it much either." Pitt straddled the railing, paused and threw a wave. "Break a leg, Mr. Shaw." And then he dropped onto the foredeck of the launch.

Shaw stood for several minutes, watching the tiny boat until it became lost in the darkness. Then he wearily walked down to the engine room and released Dr. Coli and the tug's crew. When he returned to his cabin, Foss Gly was gone.

A crowd of nearly one thousand people stood outside the residence of the Prime Minister, applauding and waving placards and hand-painted banners in French and English, wishing Charles Sarveux well as he arrived home from the hospital. The doctors had insisted that he be transported by ambulance, but he firmly ignored their advice and rode home in the official limousine, impeccably dressed in a newly purchased suit, his scarred hands concealed by a pair of oversize kid gloves.

One of his party advisers suggested he keep his bandages in plain view to evoke public sentiment. But Sarveux would have no part of gimmicky politics. It was not his way.

The pain in his hip was excruciating. His arms were stiff with scar tissue and exploded in agony every time he attempted to move them. He was thankful the crowds and reporters were too distant to see the sweat that ran down his face as he smiled through tight lips and waved to their cheers.

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