She attempted something between a glower and a scowl, but her beautiful face really wasn’t made for it, so she settled for a rueful smile, rose and replenished his glass of malt whisky.
Mitchell removed the gun and two large keys from the pockets of an unconscious Durand, made his way to the main entrance to the oriental quarters, opened the door and switched on the corridor lights.
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”Commander Larsen,” he called out. “Palermo.”
Doors opened and the two men were with him in a few seconds. Larsen said: “Mitchell! What the hell are you doing here?”
“Just a harmless seismologist taking a stroll.**
“But didn’t you hear the broadcast warning— anyone on the platform will be shot on sight?”
“That’s past. One piece of bad news, two of good. Bad news first Roomer and Miss Melinda didn’t hear the warning—those quarters are sound-insulated. So they took a walk. Both were hurt badly. Melinda has a shattered left shoulder. Roomer was shot through the neck and chest The doctor thinks the bullet is lodged against his spine. We’ve got to get them to the hospital and quick. Who’s Lord Worth’s personal pilot?”
“Chambers,” Larsen said.
“Get one of your men to have him refuel his machine. Now the good news. Durand is in the radio room; his number two, guy named Aaron, is in the radar room. Both are unconscious.” He looked at Palermo. “When they come to—it’ll be some time yet—can you have them looked after with loving care and attention?”
“Our pleasure.”
Larsen said: “Durand had three other men.**
“They’re dead.”
“You?”
“Yes.”
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“We didn’t hear any shooting.”
Mitchell gave them a brief sight of his silenced .38. Larsen looked thoughtful. “Lord Worth has talked about you: I used to think he was exaggerating.”
“The other bit of good news. Cronkite is sending some reinforcements by helicopter—not many, I believe, eight or nine—and they should be taking off about now. A fifteen-minute flight, I gather, so I think Cronkite’s boat is somewhere just below the horizon, below our radar sweep.”
Palermo brightened. “We blast this chopper out of the sky?”
“My first thought, I must admit. But let’s try to play it smart and put him off his guard.-Let’s let them land, then take them. We’ll make their leader report to Cronkite that everything’s okay.”
“What if he won’t? Or tries to warn him?”
“We’ll write out his script. If he changes one word Fll shoot him. Silencer. Cronkite won’t hear it.**
“He might hear the guy scream.”
“When a .38 slug enters the base of your skull and travels upward at forty-five degrees, you don’t scream very much.”
“You mean you’d kill him?” While not exactly incredulous, Larsen was obviously taken aback.
“Yes. Then we’d line up number two. We shouldn’t have too much trouble with him.”
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Larsen said with some feeling: “When Lord Worth talked about you he didn’t tell me the half of it”
“Another thing. I want that helicopter. Well fake a story that the engine failed above the pad and it crash-landed, and will take several hours to repair. It’s always handy to have another helicopter around but, more important, I want to deprive Cronkite of the use of his.” He looked at Palermo. “I take it that the reception committee can be safely left in your hands?”
“It sure can. Any suggestions?”
“Well, I doubt that I need to lecture an expert like you.”
“You know me?”
“I used to be a cop. In any case, the rig is loaded with portable searchlights. They’ll head for the administration buildings. I’d stay in hiding, switch off the deck lights and then turn on the searchlights when they’re, say, thirty yards away. They’ll be blinded and won’t be able to see you.”
“You can’t count on what nutcases like that’ll do.”
‘Til bet you can.” Mitchell smiled briefly at him, cop to crook. He said to Larsen: “I have a feeling that Lord Worth would like to confer with his rig boss.”
“Yes.” They walked away as Palermo was already giving rapid instructions to his men. “Lord Worth know what you’re up to?”
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*T haven’t had time. Anyway, I wouldn’t tell Lord Worth how to make a billion out of oil.”
“Good point.” They stopped briefly by the radio room. Larsen gazed at the crumpled form of Durand, half in appreciation, half in regret. “What a beautiful sight Wish it had been me, though.”
“I’ll bet Durand—when he wakes up—doesn’t Plastic surgeons come high.”
They made their next brief stop at the sick bay. Larsen looked at a still comatose Melinda and a wide-awake Roomer and his massive fists clenched. Roomer smiled. “I know. But you’re too late. How deep’s the water here?”
“Nine hundred feet.”
“Then you’d need a diving bell to get your hands round the throats of those responsible. And how are things with you, Commander Larsen? You can see how things are with us.”
“I’ve been resting. Mitchell has been more active. Besides the three men at the bottom of the Gulf, he’s also deprived me of the pleasure of beating the hell out of Durand. Aaron isn’t feeling too well either.”
Roomer said apologetically: “He doesn’t go in much for diplomacy. So the Seawitch is in our hands?”
“For the moment”
“For the moment?”
“Do you expect a man like Cronkite to give up? So ke’s lost five men and is probably about
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to lose another eight or nine. What’s that for a man with ten million to play around with? And he’s got his personal vendetta against Lord Worth. If he has to cripple or even destroy the Seawitch, including everybody aboard—well, it isn’t going to bother Cronkite’s conscience for long.” He turned to Dr. Greenshaw. “I think it’s time you got busy with the stretchers. Can you spare four of your drilling crew, Commander, to help transfer them to the stretchers and then across to the helicopter? I’m afraid, John, you’re going to have some unpleasant company on the trip. Durand and Aaron. Tied up like chickens, of course.”
“Well, thank you very much.”
“I can—occasionally—be as leery as you. I wouldn’t put it past Cronkite to get aboard the Seawitch. How, I haven’t the faintest idea, but with a highly devious mind a driven man can accomplish most anything. If he succeeded I don’t want Durand and Aaron blowing the whistle on me. I want to stay an inconspicuous and harmless seismologist.”
Larsen gave a few orders on the phone, then he and Mitchell went through to Lord Worth’s room. Lord Worth was on the phone, listening and scowling. Marina looked at Mitchell with an expression as forbidding as her father’s.
“I suppose you’ve been Uttering the platform with a few more dead men?”
“You do me a grave injustice. There’s no one
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left to kill.” She gave what might have been a tiny shudder and looked away.
Larsen said: “The ship is in our hands, Miss Marina. We’re expecting a little more trouble in about ten minutes, but we can take care of that.”
Lord Worth replaced his receiver. “What’s that?”
“Cronkite is sending some reinforcements by helicopter. Not many—eight or nine. They won’t have a chance. He’s under the Impression that Durand is still in charge here.”
“I take it he’s not.”
“He’s unconscious and tied up. So is Aaron.”
A yearning look came over Lord Worth’s face. “Is Cronkite coming with them?”
“No.”
“How very unfortunate. And I’ve just had some more bad news. The Torbello has broken down.”
“Sabotage?”
“No. The main fuel-supply line to its engine has fractured. Just a temporary stop, though it may take some hours to repair. But there’s no cause for worry, and half-hourly reports on the state of repairs should be forthcoming.”
Another disturbing point had arisen: Lord Worth disclosed that no major marine-insurance companies or Lloyd’s of London had ever heard of the existence of the Tiburon, The fact was less than surprising if one knew of Mulhooney’s renaming exploits—Hammond to Tiburon to
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Georgia. The vessel had virtually ceased to exist Even more disturbing, however, was the fact that the Marine Gulf Corporation had reported the disappearance of its seismological survey vessel from Freeport. It was called the Hammond.
The U. S. Navy had two points of cold comfort to offer. What the United States did with its obsolete submarines was to scrap them or sell them to foreign governments: none had ever fallen into the hands of commercial companies or private individuals. Nor were there any Cous-teau-type submersibles along the Gulf Coast
The telephone bell jangled. Lord Worth switched on the wall receivers. The radio officer was succinct
“Helicopter, flying low, due northwest, five miles out.”
“Well, now,** Larsen said, “this should provide a diversion. Coming, Mitchell?”
“In a minute. I have a little note to write. Remember?”
“The note, of course.*’ Larsen left. Mitchell penned a brief note in neat printed script that left no room for misinterpretation, folded it in his pocket and went to the door. Lord Worth said: “Mind if I come along?”