Tom Swift and His Jetmarine (18 page)

"And he moved out of the rooming house, of course. He deliberately got himself in a little trouble with the law, because he wanted to get his fingerprints into the system under his new name."

"Aha!" Rita tapped her pen against her forehead. "When he was in trouble before, he was a
juvenile!
The records were sealed, and his prints were never entered." She made a note. "And then he went off with the Sea Snipers and started raiding the ships."

Tom stroked the end of his chin thoughtfully, silent for a moment. "No. Harlan Ames tells me Rosello was seen in town at the time of the raids, including the attack on the
Nantic
. And his jet didn’t leave the airport, either."

"Chilcote must not have needed his help."

"Perhaps not," agreed Tom. "Besides, Rosello had some sort of mission involving Swift Enterprises. Chilcote must have guessed that ONDAR would turn to us to develop a counter-weapon. But why would he deliberately provoke me the way he did…" Tom’s gaze became distant.

"As a reporter, I was always taught:
the outcome is the reason why."

"All right," said the young inventor, "then what
was
the outcome? We thought he was Dansitt … Bud and I chased him … He palmed off the phony memory cartridge…"

"And then what?" asked Miss Scheering. "Follow the trail. What happened because you had that cartridge?"

"I found out that the gang knew about our plans for moving the jetmarine, which meant they were spying on us in some way, or—"

"Or?"

"Or somehow monitoring our internal communications without actually being present! But we use a special ‘double-blind’ encryption system for all internal telephone or intercom contacts, including the modem you and I spoke over."

"Absolutely all?"

"No!" cried Tom abruptly.
"The televoc signals are not encrypted!"
He slumped back into the chair, silent again, rubbing his chin. "It’s our internal person-to-person communication system," he explained. "But we thought it secure—the maximum range, unit to unit, is just three miles. Besides, the perimeter fence has a signal jammer. No one outside could tune in."

"You give up much too soon," Rita commented with a patronizing smile. "Why couldn’t someone have planted their own relay device somewhere inside your fence?"

"They could have," Tom conceded. "But then we’re back to suspecting an Enterprises employee of betraying us."

"Perhaps he didn’t know he was betraying you. Stop making assumptions and
follow the trail!"

Tom sat bolt upright. "The cartridge! Good night!
I brought the relay onto the grounds myself—in the cartridge!"

Rita pointed her pen at Tom in condescending approval. "They do say anything can be micro-miniaturized these days."

"Okay," murmured Tom, ruffling his fingers through his spiky crewcut. "The cartridge had a relay circuit of some kind. And I spoke to my father by televoc about moving the launch site to our Florida facility, giving them a target for that first torpedo strike." Tom ruefully thrashed his head side to side.

"Ah me, but nobody’s perfect," said Rita. "I’ll write my article in a way that won’t embarrass you or the company."

Tom nodded and rose to his feet. "I’ll be going now. I think we’ve both got enough information."

She nodded back. "Yes, I think so. Goodbye, Tom."

Tom stood silently for a second, looking at her. Then he said in reply,
"Doss vedanya."

She raised her eyebrows. "Is that Russian?"

He stood unmoving in front of his chair, a slight smile on his lips, studying her.

"Russian," she said thoughtfully. "A guttural language. I’ve come to find it ugly."

"Bad memories?" Tom asked.

"Try living there, in Russia," she said, pausing to light another cigarette. "Try being born there, under the Soviets. Perhaps things are better now. Ten years ago, it was all black-marketeers and thugs."

Tom settled back down in the chair.

"Of course my husband was both, you know," she continued. "I myself profited in the end."

"Your American accent is flawless."

"Thank you, Thomas. I worked so very hard." She looked at him piercingly. "And I did nothing wrong, you know. I changed my name legally, for legitimate business reasons."

"I don’t call piracy a legitimate business, Miss Ozkhodskaya."

"Please, I was not involved in any piracy. Robbery, very well, yes. Not piracy."

"The authorities may feel otherwise," said Tom. "The gang attacked nine ships by submarine, sinking one, stealing valuables, kidnapping Hank Sterling, endangering lives. I’m not sure whether you were in charge or not, but you clearly knew what was going on, and you didn’t come forward. That makes you culpable."

"But you’re so very wrong, young man. Shall I tell you how?"

"Please."

Her gaze radiated calm arrogance. "As you know, I took a certain picture with a powerful undersea camera. I thought I saw in it traces of the ancient civilization I was seeking. I tried to assemble a company to explore that area of the sea bottom, but no one thought it was genuine—not enough to put money into it, at least.

"I might have given up but like you, Tom, I do not give up easily. Through my contacts from the old days I learned of poor Herman Chilcote, nursing his grudges in the Caribbean. With the small remainder of my fortune, I provided Herman with the means to finally complete what you call his ‘pulsator.’ He wished to do various nonsensical things with it, but I reined him in, you see. Perhaps I was wrong to dangle before him promises that I had no intention of keeping, but I remained focused on my goal.

"For some time I kept track of passengers who traveled in the Gulf of Mexico, noting their precise routes. Out of thousands there remained only a few dozen, and from that number, only nine who made a second ocean voyage that met my criteria as to time and place.

"Not one of those ships was ever attacked by submarine.
Instead, some of the passengers in each case were employees of mine—trusted criminal types, you might say. They brought the blackout machine on board the ships in parts, in their luggage. Then they assembled the parts, activating the machine at the appointed moment."

Tom had been sitting, listening intently hand to chin. Now he interrupted. "Why weren’t your cronies knocked out?"

"They took a little pill," she replied. "A sort of brain-inoculation. When everyone had lost consciousness—the range was originally about one-thousand feet, and the signal is quite penetrating—my agents would make some token thefts, to make the thing look legitimate. And then do you know what we did, Tom?"

"I do now," he answered. "You threw the items overboard, with the pulsator equipment."

"Yes, in weighted sacks of netting. Why not? The paltry sums we could get for those stolen items were as nothing compared to the risk of creating a trail."

"But why did you sink the
Nantic?"
Tom demanded.

"Me?
I
did not sink anything! As we now know, it seems Herman was rather more clever than a mad genius ought to be. He arrived with his submarine, took off his men and your Mr. Sterling, and torpedoed the hull. Why? If you wish a pundit’s insight, he intended to turn up the heat, energizing law enforcement and driving me deeply into hiding—which was indeed the result. But you see, I used my hiding to play the game against him, using you as a pawn, dear Tom. You are very trusting. Admirable. But in this world, foolish.

"Herman is not so trusting. He arranged the business with Rosello and the spy-relay as a side-venture. Do you think, just maybe, he did not trust me? You know, I believe he may have diverted a good part of the funds I provided him—enough to buy that old submarine and create his underwater base. I knew nothing about it. He played
me
for a fool, didn’t he? Had I known that what lay upon the bottom was just a wrecked Soviet sub, not a lost city—"

"Then it would have been
you,
not Chilcote, who would have grabbed the uranium slugs."

"True. Of course. But I would merely have sold them, not used them against this adopted country of mine, the land of opportunity. Alas, my dear young genius, I knew of no deviation from my plan until Herman sank the last ship. At that point, of course, I knew I had been thoroughly betrayed."

"I don’t think I’ll feel sorry for you," Tom declared. "You could have come forward with useful information. They could have decided to kill Hank."

"Sorry," she said blandly. "Had to save my hide. You
do
understand."

Tom leaned forward now, his eyes blazing. "I can figure out the rest, the part you haven’t said. You faked the attacks, endangered all those people, as part of your idiotic scheme to get me involved in using my jetmarine to scope out your ‘lost city’ obsession!"

The Russian regarded Tom coldly.

"Hardly idiotic. It worked, you know. My confidential sources—I do love this ‘freedom of the press’!—told me you were preparing just such a trip even before that fount of pomposity Nemastov told you about the
Vostok
."

"But why didn’t you just approach us directly?"

Aia Ozkhodskaya smirked. "I did. Seven years ago, through a representative. Your cautious, respectable father said he wasn’t interested in such a thing. No doubt he’s forgotten it. But you, Tom, are not half so cautious and respectable. And what did I do that was so bad? All in the cause of science, yes? The risk of a few lives, some sleepless nights—so? You know I am correct. In your own way you too are ruthless in your pursuits. And that is why, when I walk away with the small bag I keep packed and ready, you will not try to stop me. You will give me the six minutes I require to move on in my life. I don’t need to pull out the little gun I have under this table, do I, Tom? You’ll promise me my six minutes, I trust? Believe me, I know how it hurts to be on the losing end. But this time, you must accept it. Really, you must."

Tom shrugged, sitting still.

"I
am
curious, though," said Miss Ozkhodskaya. "You would not have come here had you already known the truth. Was there some mistake, some little flaw, that came to you as we talked? Or did you merely guess at my identity on impulse?"

"Well, since you asked—Americans don’t usually hold their cigarettes the European way, from underneath," he replied with a slight smile. "Though actually I didn’t notice it, to tell the truth."

"Something else, then?"

He pointed to the ashtray on the endtable. "The cigarette butts. I’ve learned just enough to recognize Cyrillic lettering when I see it. Your favorite brand?"

"Hm! I have them imported," she replied. "Nothing else comes close. At any rate, I—"

Suddenly she froze in mid-sentence.

There was a clamor of heavy footfalls on the stairs, a sound of many men approaching. Her eyes widened, glaring into Tom’s.

"But you couldn’t have called the cops on me, Tom Swift!" she hissed. "You entered this room not knowing who I was."

The young inventor gave an ironic shrug. "Follow the trail, ma’am."

"I watched your every move." She whipped her head around in fierce reaction to the sharp pounding on her apartment door, continuing, "You were sitting in front of me the whole time!"

She glanced back at Tom.

He was grinning slyly. His eyes glinted blue. The small pin, which he had unclipped from his collar and now held between thumb and forefinger, glinted silver.

"Gotcha!"
he said.