Numa Files: Ghost Ship Part 6

"You'd be surprised what Sienna told me about Kurt Austin," he said. "The biggest thing is that he's a decent human being. As good as they come."

"Well, that decent human being could destroy this company with one wrong word."

Westgate saw fear light up in Forrester's eyes. It was something he'd never seen before. "What are you talking about?"

Forrester was blunt. "You don't know this but we're teetering on the brink of financial collapse. Working on Phalanx to the detriment of all other products has put us in a desperate spot. So far, I've managed to hide this with a few accounting tricks I learned from my Wall Street days, and some recent cash flow that's tiding us over."

Westgate could guess where the money was coming from. "The yacht belonged to the company," he said. "The fifty-four million from Lloyd's . . . that's what's tiding us over. You're worried they'll stop the payout."

Forrester waved as if he was way off. "That would be the least of our problems," he said. "Sienna's knowledge is the real threat. She designed the system. If a rumor that she's alive and hiding out somewhere got traction . . . Can you imagine? We'd be dead in the water."

Westgate looked away. "Dead in the water," he whispered. "Like my wife and kids."

"You know I didn't mean that . . ."

Westgate nodded. "What if Austin's right?"

Forrester narrowed his gaze, studying Westgate as if searching for something. He slid one hand into a pocket as if fishing for his keys and settled back on the couch. "We've talked about this before, Brian."

Westgate felt the ringing in his head once again. "Yes . . . I guess we have talked about this . . ."

"Maybe we'd better go over it again."

Westgate felt a migraine coming on. The pain was scalding, the room seemed too bright.

"What happened in the storm?" Forrester asked. "How did you end up on the raft?"

Westgate hesitated. He knew what to say. But the words stuck in his throat, and he took another swig of the gin to try and free up his vocal cords.

Strangely, Forrester began telling him the story. "The yacht was taking on water. You were prepping the raft. A huge wave hit and you got swept over the side."

Westgate remembered this. He felt the cold of the sea. "I almost drowned," he said.

"That's right, Brian. You almost drowned."

He looked over at Forrester. The pain in his head was now blurring his vision. Soon, Forrester was just a voice at the end of a tunnel. "You couldn't get back to them."

"I tried," Westgate said. He could feel the pain in his shoulders from rowing with all his might. He could taste the salt on his lips from the sea, could feel his eyes burning. "The weather was so bad . . . In twenty minutes, I couldn't even see the ship. I heard . . . I heard . . ."

"You heard the helicopter," Forrester reminded him.

"But they didn't see me."

"And before that?" Forrester asked. "Before you went out on the deck?"

Westgate remembered something. Shouting. Chaos. It seemed to make the pain in his head flare again. Even with his eyes shut, he saw a scalding light. He recalled something about the pumps. A failed hatch. He remembered Sienna and their children huddled in their life jackets. But there was something odd about the memory. It was too still. No one was moving. No one was talking.

The voice in the fog pressed, "I need an answer, Brian. What happened on that yacht before you were swept overboard? Can you tell the story without help this time?"

Westgate fumbled for the words.

"Brian?"

The truth. For once, Westgate managed to speak it. "I wish," he said. "I wish to G.o.d I knew."

As Westgate said these words, the pain spiked to unbearable levels. His vision faded, his world shrank to nothing. Nothing except the sound of David Forrester's voice.

"I'm sorry, Brian. But that's not the answer I'm looking for."

Dirk Pitt was the Director of NUMA, a post he'd held for several years since his mentor and friend, Admiral James Sandecker, had gone on to be Vice President of the United States.

At six foot three, Pitt was lean and a little on the lanky side. His opaline eyes conveyed an intensity and a sense of mirth equally well. With thick dark hair, broad shoulders, and a square jaw, he cut a striking figure. That was especially true tonight, clad in a tuxedo, freshly shaved, and doused with a splash of musky cologne.

A charity ball for wounded military veterans was on the agenda for the evening, a cause Pitt was glad to be part of. He would give a speech, present an award, and submit a private donation anonymously. For the rest of the night, he'd mix and mingle with a crowd of interesting people. Despite all that, Pitt knew the true star of the night would be his wife, Loren Smith.

She'd chaired the ball, overseen the committees and the invitations, and even chosen the orchestra. With her striking beauty and effortless charm, she would captivate all whom she encountered. No doubt she'd look resplendent in whatever she wore, and most of the attendees might remember Pitt only as that handsome gentleman who stood beside her. Which suited him just fine.

The only drawback was dressing for the evening. They were going to be late if Loren wasn't ready soon.

Rather than badger her-which would only slow the process further-he stood calmly among a group of perfectly restored antique cars. The vehicles were part of his collection. They graced the ground floor of the aircraft hangar he lived in at Washington National Airport.

As the current Director of NUMA, and the head of the Special Projects Division prior to that, Pitt had been all around the world on various missions and expeditions. Many of the vehicles in the hangar had come back with him or were delivered shortly afterward by grateful colleagues or thankful governments.

To the victor went the spoils.

Before he could decide which of the magnificent vehicles to drive tonight, the intercom system buzzed. Pitt glanced at a monitor on the wall. He saw the face of an old friend with a neatly trimmed Vand.y.k.e beard standing at the door. Two larger men loomed behind him, no doubt members of the Secret Service.

Pitt touched a b.u.t.ton that released the locks on the steel door. It swung open and the Vice President of the United States walked in. The bodyguards tried to follow, but Sandecker waved them back.

"At ease, men," he said.

"Mr. Vice President," Pitt said. "I wasn't expecting to see you until later on this evening. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"I thought you might have some time to talk before the event," Sandecker said.

Pitt glanced up the spiral staircase to the apartment above. No sign of Loren yet. "I think we're onto the third wardrobe change," he said. "You probably have at least one more before the big reveal."

Sandecker grinned. "I played the odds. You have anything in this joint to quench a weary traveler's thirst?"

Pitt walked Sandecker to the bar and filled a couple of shot gla.s.ses with Johnnie Walker Blue Label scotch.

After handing a gla.s.s to the Vice President, Pitt opened the questioning. "Why doesn't this seem like a social call?"

"Because I'm here on business," Sandecker said. "Specifically, that business Kurt pulled this morning on Brian Westgate."

Pitt nodded. "I've been fielding some blowback from that myself."

"It didn't put NUMA in a good light."

If there was anything to get Sandecker riled up, it was bad publicity for NUMA, the organization he'd built from the ground up and still protected like an avenging angel.

"True," Pitt said. "But I think Kurt's earned a free pa.s.s or two at this point."

Sandecker narrowed his gaze. "Is that what you told David Forrester? I heard he called you."

Pitt grinned mischievously and took a sip of the scotch. "What I told Forrester," he began, "shouldn't be repeated in good company. But the gist of it went like this: If he was going to go after Kurt, he was going to have to get through me first."

Sandecker grinned. "I should have guessed. Lucky for Kurt."

"Kurt screwed up," Pitt admitted, "but I'm not throwing him to the wolves. If it comes to a shoving match, I've got his record to stand on. That's good enough for me."

Sandecker nodded. There was an unmistakable sense of pride in his eyes. "I wouldn't have expected anything else. Loyalty's a two-way street and Kurt's never let us down. So you'll have my support. But there's a bigger issue. What's your take on Kurt's state of mind?"

Pitt wasn't sure how to answer. And he wasn't used to Sandecker beating around the bush. "What are you getting at?"

"Kurt's been contacting foreign sources. Wiring money to people who might work what we call the shady side of the street."

This, Pitt didn't know. "To what end?"

"Looking for any sign that Sienna Westgate might somehow be alive."

Pitt's eyebrows went up. "Are you sure?"

Sandecker nodded.

Pitt looked off into the hangar. That didn't sound healthy. Nor, honestly, did it sound like Kurt. Kurt was pragmatic, not given to flights of fancy.

"Every man has his limits," Pitt mused, considering Sandecker's original question. "Even you and I have been close to ours a time or two. I suppose it's possible Kurt's reached his."

"Possibly," Sandecker said. "But in this case, there's a twist. Trent MacDonald over at Central Intelligence handed me a file today. They've looked at the same photos Kurt received and they can't rule out the chance that Kurt might be onto something."

"'Can't rule out'? What does that mean?"

"It means they think he's tilting at windmills, but they can't prove it." From his pocket, Sandecker produced a three-by-five glossy. It showed a woman who looked somewhat like Sienna Westgate getting in a car with a burly-looking bodyguard. "This was taken in Bandar Abbas."

Dirk studied the image. It was a little grainy from being blown up. "Do they really think it's her?"

"A one-in-five chance, I'm told. Not all that high. But the possibility of a missing American being chauffeured around Iran doesn't make the government happy. Especially not when she was the guiding force behind Phalanx."

"I can see why that would make people nervous," Pitt said. "What do they plan on doing about it?"

"Well, there's the rub," Sandecker said. "Despite my efforts, the Agency is reluctant to do more than keep an eye on things. They see it as a catch-22. If that's her-and the Iranians took her-that's an act of war. And believe me, no one wants to open that can of worms. On the other hand, if it isn't her, they risk exposing precious resources in the effort."

Dirk understood the dilemma. He glanced back at the photo. The woman was made-up, her hair pulled back, her clothes conservative business style. Large sungla.s.ses made it impossible to see her eyes or perform any type of facial recognition a.n.a.lysis. "She doesn't appear to be under any duress."

"That's another concern."

"Who's the jughead next to her?"

"He's a mystery," Sandecker said. "He goes by the name of Acosta. He's a minor player in the Middle East and Africa. Weapons mostly. We know he's run guns and other contraband from time to time, but he's not a big name."

Dirk handed the photo back. "So what does this have to do with Kurt?"

"It's been expressed to me that, should Kurt Austin be interested in poking around a little, no one in a position of power would be too upset about the matter. As long as he did it in the capacity of a private citizen."

Pitt raised an eyebrow. "I see."

"He already shook the tree," Sandecker noted. "If he shakes a little harder, who knows what might fall out."

Pitt wasn't sure he liked the idea. "So they want to use Kurt to sound out the edges of this dark little cave. If he finds something, we're a little wiser. And if he gets burned in the process, nothing strategic gets lost."

"That's life in the big leagues," Sandecker said.

"I don't have a problem with that," Dirk replied. "But did anyone consider Kurt's condition in all this? I'm not interested in sending a wounded man into the lion's den."

"Nor am I," the VP said. "Which brings us back to my original question. In your opinion, is Kurt Austin fit for duty?"

The conversation had come full circle, and Pitt was left to consider the question on his own.

Sandecker pulled a thin black memory stick from his pocket. A tiny green LED on the end glowed dimly. "Encrypted files. To get Kurt on his way. But only if you think he's up to it."

Pitt took the memory stick from Sandecker without comment. As he did, the door to the upstairs apartment opened and Loren Smith stepped out. She was dressed in a golden-vanilla Ralph Lauren gown that hugged her body perfectly. Her auburn hair was swept off her face and draped softly over one shoulder.

"Congresswoman," the Vice President said, "you look radiant. Beautiful enough to make up for the lunk you'll be dragging around with you all night."

"Thank you, Mr. Vice President," she said. "But one look at Dirk and I'm quite sure I'll need a club to chase away all the admiring women."

Sandecker's eyes twinkled. "Chase a few of them my way." He leaned in and kissed her on the cheek and then turned to let himself out. "See you at the party."

As Sandecker left, Loren slid her arm around Dirk and then paused. She could instinctively sense the tension. "What's wrong?"

"I have a difficult decision to make," he said.

"You've never been one to have trouble deciding anything." "This choice is more complicated than most," he said. "Hope you're not too hungry. We're going to have to make a detour on our way to the event."

Kurt Austin was busy packing. He filled a duffel bag with clothes and anything he thought might come in handy. A stack of cash and various credit cards were ready, along with his pa.s.sport and other forms of ID.

He'd written two notes. One for Anna, which read as a combination apology and thank-you letter. The second was for Dirk Pitt. It contained his resignation from NUMA. He hadn't expected to be handing it over in person.

"Would Loren like to come in?" Kurt asked as he met Pitt at the door.

"She'd rather we talk alone," Pitt said. "Besides, she likes nothing better than to rearrange the presets on my car radio b.u.t.tons. It's one of her secret joys."

Kurt nodded and led Dirk to his office.

"Going somewhere?"

Kurt didn't try to hide it. "Iran."