Seawitch (12 page)

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and Roomer on guard?" He looked at his now-empty glass and the stenographer took it away.

Benton was faintly skeptical. "But against five armed men?"

Lord Worth looked at him morosely. "I had forgotten that you don't know those men. Mitchell, for example, could have taken care of them all by himself. He's lethal."

"So they're your friends, and you respect them. Don't take offense, Lord Worth, but is there any way that they could be implicated in this?"

"You must be out of your mind." Lord Worth, still morose, sipped his third brandy. "Sorry, I'm not myself. Sure, they'd like to kidnap my daughters, almost as much as my daughters would like to be kidnaped by them."

"That the way it is?" Benton seemed mildly astonished. In his experience, billionaires' daughters did not normally associate with the likes of private investigators.

"That's the way. And hi answer to your next two questions: yes, I approve and no, they don't give a damn about my money." He shook his head wonderingly. "It is extremely odd. And I shall forecast this, Mr. Secretary. When Marina and Melinda are brought back to me it won't be through the good offices of either the local police or your precious FBI. Mitchell and Roomer will bring them back. One does not wish to sound overly dramatic, but they would, quite literally, give their lives for my daughters."

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"And, as a corollary, they would cut down anyone who got in their way?"

For the first time since the phone call Lord Worth smiled, albeit faintly. "I'll take the fifth amendment on that one."

"I must meet those paragons sometime."

"Just as long as it's not over the wrong end of Mitchell's gun." He rose, leaving his drink unfinished, and looked round the room. "I must go. Thank you all for your kindness and consideration, not to say forbearance." He left with the Secretary by his side.

When the door closed behind him General Zweicker rose and poured himself a brandy. "Well. What may be the kidnaping of the century pales into insignificance compared to the likelihood of the Russkies starting to throw things at us." He took some brandy. "Don't tell me I'm the only person who can see the hellish witches' brew Lord Worth is stirring up for us?"

It was clear that all three listening to him had a very sharp view of the cauldron. Howell said: "Let's give Lord Worth his due. He could even be right when he says he's glad he's got a British passport. The stirrers-up are our own compatriots; the holier-than-thou major American oil companies, who are willing to crucify Lord Worth and put their country at jeopardy because of their blind stupidity."

"I don't care who's responsible." The stenog-

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rapher's voice was plaintive. "Does anyone know where I can get a bomb shelter cheap?"

Benton led Worth down one flight of stairs and out onto the sunlit lawn, where the helicopter was waiting.

Benton said: "Ever tried to find words to tell someone how damnably sorry you feel?"

"I know from experience. Don't try. .But thanks."

"I could have our personal physician accompany you down to Florida."

"Thanks again. But I'm fine now."

"And you haven't had lunch?" Benton, clearly, was finding conversational gambits heavy going.

"As I don't much care for plastic lunches from plastic trays, I have an excellent French chef aboard my plane." Again a faint smile. "And two stewardesses, chosen solely for their good looks. I shall not want. "

They reached the steps of the helicopter. Benton said: "You've had neither the time nor opportunity to give me that list of names. For the moment that's of no consequence. I just want you to know that my guarantee of protection remains in force."

Lord Worth shook his hand silently and climbed the steps.

By this time Conde, aboard the Roomer, had arrived at the S&awitch, and the big derrick crane aboard the platform was unloading the heavy

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weaponry and mines from the Louisiana arsenal It was a slow and difficult task, for the tip of the derrick boom was two hundred feet above sea level and, in all, the transfer was to take about three hours. As each dual-purpose antiaircraft gun came aboard Larsen selected its site and supervised Palermo and some of his men in securing it in position: this was done by drilling holes in the concrete platform, then anchoring the gun-carriage base with sledgehammer-driven steel spikes. The guns were supposed to be re-coilless, but then neither Larsen nor Palermo was much given to taking chances.

The depth charges, when they came, were stacked together in three groups, each halfway between the three apexes of the triangle. That there was an inherent risk in this Larsen was well aware: a stray bullet or shell—or perhaps not so stray—could well trigger the detonating mechanism of one of the depth charges, which would inevitably send up the other charges in sympathetic detonation. But it was a risk that had to be taken if for no other reason than the fact there was no other place where they could be stored ready for immediate use. And when and if the time came for their use the need would be immediate.

The drilling crew watched Palermo and his men at work, their expressions ranging from disinterest to approval. Neither group of men spoke

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to the other. Larsen was no great believer in fraternization.

Things were going well. The defensive system was being steadily installed. The Christmas tree, the peculiar name given to the valve which controlled the flow of oil from the already tapped reservoir, was wide open and oil was being steadily pumped to the huge storage tank while the derrick drill, set at its widest angle, was driving even deeper into the substratum of the ocean floor, seeking to discover as yet untapped oil deposits. All was going well, there were no overt signs of attack or preparation for attack from air or sea, but Larsen was not as happy as he might have been, even despite the fact that they were still receiving the half-hour regular "on course, on time" reports from the ^prbello.

He was unhappy partly because of the non-existence of the Tiburon. He had recently learned from Galveston that there was no vessel listed in naval or coast guard registries under the name Tiburon. He had then asked that they check civilian registrations and had been told that this was a forlorn hope. It would take many hours, perhaps days, to carry out this type of investigation, and private vessels, unless fully insured, would show up neither in official registries nor in those of the major marine-insurance companies. There was no law which said they had to be insured, and the owners of the older

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and more decrepit craft didn't even bother to insure: there are such things as tax write-offs.

Larsen was not to know that his quest was a hopeless one. When Mulhooney had first taken over the Tiburon it had been called the Ham-mond, which he had thoughtfully had painted out and replaced by the name Tiburon on the way to Galveston. Since Cronkite had since replaced that by the name Georgia, both the Ham-mond and the Tiburon had ceased to exist.

But what concerned Larsen even more was his conviction that something was far wrong. He was unable to put a finger on what this might be. He was essentially a pragmatist of the first order, but he was also a man who relied heavily on instinct and intuition. He was a man occasionally given to powerful premonitions, and more often than not those premonitions had turned into reality. And so when the loudspeaker boomed "Commander Larsen to the radio cabin, Commander Larsen to the radio cabin," he was possessed of an immediate certainty that the hour of his premonition had come.

He walked leisurely enough toward the radio cabin, partly because it would never do for Commander Larsen to be seen hurrying anxiously anywhere, partly because he was in no great hurry to hear the bad news he was convinced he was about to hear. He told the radio operator that he would like to take this call privately,

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waited until the man had left and closed the door behind him, then picked up the telephone.

"Commander Larsen."

"Mitchell. I promised I'd call."

"Thanks. Heard from Lord Worth? He said he'd keep in touch, but no word."

"No wonder. His daughters have been kidnaped."

Larsen said nothing immediately. Judging from the ivoried knuckles, the telephone hand-piece seemed in danger of being crushed. Although caring basically only for tirmself, he had formed an avuncular attachment toward Lord Worth's daughters, but even that was unimportant compared to the implications the kidnaping held for the welfare of the Seawitch. When he did speak it was in a steady, controlled voice.

"When did this happen?"

"This morning. And no trace of them. We've blocked every escape route in the southern part of the state. And there is no report from any port or airport of any unusual departure since the time of the kidnaping."

"Vanished into thin air?"

"Vanished, anyway. But not into thin air, we think. Terra firma, more likely. We think they've gone to earth, and are holed up not far away. But it's only a euess."

"No communication, no demands, from the kidnapers?"

"None. That's what makes it all so odd."

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"You think this is a ransom kidnap?"

"No."

"The Seawitchr

"Yes,"

"Do you know why Lord Worth went to Washington?"

"No. I'd like to."

"To demand naval protection. Early this morning a Russian destroyer and a Cuban submarine left Havana, while another destroyer left Venezuela. They are on converging courses. The point of convergence would appear to be the Seawitch."

There was a silence, then Mitchell said: "This is for sure?"

"Yes. Well, Lord Worth's cup of woes would seem to be fairly full. The only consolation is that nothing much else can happen to him after this. Please keep me informed."

In Lord Worth's radio room both Mitchell and Roomer hung up their phones.

Mitchell briefly indulged in some improper language. "God, I never thought his enemies would go to this length."

Roomer said: "Neither did I. I'm not sure that I even think so now."

"You mean Uncle Sam's not going to let any foreign naval powers play games in our own backyard?"

"Something like that. I don't think the Soviets

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would go so far as to risk a confrontation. Could be a bluff, a diversionary move. Maybe the real attack is coming from elsewhere."

"Maybe anything. Could be a double blwff. One thing's sure: Larsen's right in saying that Lord Worth's cup of woes is fairly full. In fact, I'd say it was running over."

"Looks that way," Roomer said absently. His thoughts were clearly elsewhere.

Mitchell said: "Don't tell me you're in the throes of intuition again?"

"I'm not sure. When you were talking to Larsen just now you mentioned 'terra firma.' Firm land, dry land. What if it weren't dry land? What if it were wnfirm land?"

Mitchell waited patiently.

Roomer said: "If you wanted to hole up, really get lost hi Florida, where would you go?"

Mitchell hardly had to think. "You're right! Unfirm laud, infirm land, whatever you want to call it. The Everglades, of course. Where else?"

"Man could hide out for a month there, and a battalion of troops couldn't find him. Which explains why the cops have been unable to find the station wagon." Between them, MacPherson and Jenkins had been able to give a fairly accurate description of the kidnapers' wagon. "They've been checking the highways and byways. I'll bet they never even thought of checking the roads into the swamps."

"Did we?"

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"Right. We blew it. There are dozens of those roads into the glades, but most of them are very short and right away you reach a point where a wheeled vehicle can't go any further. A few dozen police cars could comb the nearest swamps in an hour."

Mitchell said to Robertson: "Get Chief Mc-Garrity."

A knock came on the half-open door and Louise, one of the young housemaids, entered. She held a card in her hand. She said: "I was just making up Miss Marina's bed when I found this between the sheets."

Mitchell took the card. It was a plain calling card giving Marina's name and address.

Louise said: "Other side."

Mitchell reversed the card, holding it so that Roomer could see. Handwritten with a ballpoint were the words: "Vacation. Little island in the sun. No swimsuit."

"You know Marina's handwriting, Louise?" Mitchell had suddenly realized that he didn't.

The girl looked at the card. "Yes, sir. I'm sure."

"Thanks, Louise. This could be very useful." Louise smiled and left. Mitchell said to Roomer: "What kind of lousy detective are you? Why didn't you think of searching the bedrooms?" . "Hmm. She must have asked them to leave while she dressed."

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"You'd have thought she'd have been too scared to think of this."

"The handwriting's steady enough. Besides, she doesn't scare easily. Except, that is, when you point a gun between her eyes."

"I wish, right here and now, that I was pointing a gun between someone else's eyes. Little island in the sun where you can't go bathing. An overconfident kidnaper can talk too much. You thinking what I'm thinking?"

Roomer nodded. "The Seawitch."

At thirty-three thousand feet, Lord Worth had just completed a light but delicious lunch accompanied by a splendid Bordeaux wine, specially laid down for him in a Rothschild winery. He had regained his habitual calm. He had, he reckoned, touched his nadir. All that could happen had happened. In common with Larsen, Mitchell and Roomer, he was convinced that the fates could touch him no more. AH four were completely and terribly wrong. The worst was yet to come. It was, in fact, happening right then.

Colonel Farquharson, Lieutenant-Colonel Dewings, and Major Breckley were not in fact the people their ID cards claimed they were, for the sufficient reason that there were no officers of that rank with corresponding names in the U. S. Army. But then, it was a very big army, and nobody, not even the officers, could possibly be