Dirk Pitt 1 - Pacific Vortex (4 page)

Pitt quickly searched his memory, but with no success. He was certain he had never laid eyes on this beauty before. When he rose off the bar stool, he was pleasingly surprised to feel his heart accelerate. She was the first woman to ignite his emotions on a first meeting since a basset hound-eyed blond in the fifth grade who bit him on the arm during recess.

Adrian was the first to break the silence. “I'm sorry, honey, but as they say in the old family mining claim, you're trespassing.”

Adrian seemed to enjoy the situation. To her, the intruder was no more than a nuisance. She turned, offering her back to the girl, and began sipping her drink again.

The great gray eyes never strayed from Adrian. “Your rudeness, Miss Hunter, is only surpassed by your reputation as a tramp.”

Adrian was too cool to give up an inch. She sat immobile, staring straight ahead at the girl's reflection in the mirror behind the bar. “Fifty dollars?” she said loudly so all within thirty feet could hear. “Considering your amateur standing and less than mediocre talents, you're vastly overpriced.”

Several customers sitting in the immediate neighborhood of the bar were listening intently to the caustic exchange. The women were frowning, but the men were grinning, secretly envying the speechless male who was trapped in the no-man's-land of the sex battle. Pitt was adequately awed. It was a new experience to have two lovely females trading barbs over his possession. His ego basked in the sheer exhilaration of the moment.

“May I speak with you in private, Miss Hunter?” asked the mysterious girl in the green dress.

Adrian nodded. “Why not?” She turned and slid smoothly off the bar stool, following the stranger through the open doors that led to the hotel's private beach. Pitt stared in rapt fascination at both pairs of rounded hips as they rotated in a fluidlike motion that was, or so Pitt imagined, suggestive of two beach-balls    caught    in   the    same    swirling    whirlpool.

Pitt sighed and leaned limply against the bar, feeling like a spider eyeing two flies circling his net, and wishing they'd entangle somewhere else. Then he caught the open stares of his audience; he grinned and bowed, acknowledging their steadfast attention before he turned back to the bar.

There's been enough surprises for one day, he ruefully admitted to himself. Where will it all end? Heeding the call for more courage, he signaled the bartender and ordered another Cutty on the rocks— a double tins time.

Fifteen minutes later, Gray Eyes returned and stood silently behind him. Pitt was so deeply lost in thought that it took him several seconds before he sensed her presence and looked up to be met by her reflection in the mirror.

Her lips moved in what could have been the beginning of a smile. “To the victor goes the spoils?” It was a question asked hesitantly.

The bruise beneath her right eye had begun the transformation from red to purple, and a small cut on her lower lip unleashed a few drops of blood that trickled down her chin, failing with precise accuracy down the cleavage between her breasts. Pitt still thought she was the most desirable woman he'd ever seen.

“And the loser?” he asked.

“Shell be in need of heavy makeup for a few days, but I think shell survive to fight another day.”

He pulled his handkerchief from a pocket, wrapped it around an ice cube fished from his glass, and touched it lightly to her lip. “Here, keep this pressed against the cut It'll contain the swelling.”

She forced a wan smile and nodded a thank you.

His meddling audience was back, this time with a concerted leer that bordered on infamy. Quickly, he paid off the bartender, taking the girl by the arm and dragging her from the lounge to the beach outside. Pitt scanned the shoreline but there was no sign of Adrian.

“Mind telling me what happened?”

She had to remove the ice cube to speak. “Isn't it obvious? Miss Hunter wouldn't listen to reason.”

Pitt looked at her, half uncertainly, half specu-latively. Why elect me, he thought. Why fight over a man she'd never met? And the jackpot question— what was her game? Pitt didn't kid himself; no movie studio would ever star him in a remake of Don Juan. He'd had his share of women, but never before the usual preliminaries* the artful little lies, the step-by-step manuevers. He decided not to delve into her reasons but to let the mystery heighten the intrigue.

“Shall we walk along the beach?” he asked.

1 was hoping you'd suggest that" She smiled, and immediately had him in her power. And she knew it. She shrewdly watched Ms eyes wander to her breasts, then down her body to her legs.

Her breasts were surprisingly small and taut in contrast with the accented curves that abounded the rest of her figure. In the moonlight and the flaming glow from the torches staked around the hotel terrace, he could see where the deeply tanned flesh, speckled by blood, plunged invitingly beneath the dress. Lower and beyond, her waist gently tapered to a firm, flat stomach which then exploded into a brace of pneumatic hips that fought to escape the tight seams of their green prison. She looked Indian, but the flaming red hair that fell to the small of her back did not attest to it.

“If you keep staring at me, 111 be forced to charge you admission.”

Pitt made an effort to look shyly embarrassed but didn't pull it off. “I thought art galleries were free.”

She squeezed his arm. “Not if you wish to purchase something.”

“ I like to browse. I rarely buy.”

“So you're a man of principles.”

“I have a few, but they don't apply to women.” Her perfume was getting to him, a fragrance that somehow seemed familiar.

She stopped, clinging to him for support, and removed her shoes, wriggling her toes in the cool sand of Waikiki Beach. They strolled on in silence for a few minutes, she tightened her grip on his arm and pulled herself close as they walked.

Her eyes glinted in the dim light and she said in a low voice, “My name is Summer.”

Pitt said nothing as he enclosed her in his arms and lightly kissed her on her swollen lips. And suddenly the warning bells were clanging in his mind, but the warning came too late; the pain burst on him first His mouth dropped open and a gasp that started deep down in his throat erupted into the quiet air as Summer thrust her knee into his groin.

What caused the cells in his brain to order such a lightning reaction he would never know: through the haze of the shock he barely saw his fist lash out in a blurring reflex action and catch Summer solidly on the right side of her jaw. She swayed drunkenly for an instant and then crumpled silently onto the sand.

The hidden, unsuspected resources, ready to be called upon in a moment of desperation, kept Pitt from sliding into an unconscious void. The agony in his lower body forced him to suck in air in great wheezing gasps. He slowly sunk to his knees beside the inert form of the girl, clutching his groin and swaying in pain.

Pitt clenched his teeth together until his jaws ached, damming back any outcry from the agony. He dug his knees into the soft sand and swayed back and forth. Discovered hunched over an unconscious girl holding his hands tightly between his legs could result in embarrassing questions. Fortunately, except for a circle of beachboys and hotel guests who were seated around a small fire about two hundred feet away, the beach was vacant.

Four minutes passed; four minutes during which the grinding torment finally faded to a dull, throbbing ache. It was then he noticed something gleaming in Summer's hand, something glasslike reflected by the flames of the flickering tiki torches. He crawled over to the girl, crouched over her quiet form, and gently pulled a hypodermic syringe from between her loosely clasped fingers.

Pitt was at a loss. In the faint light Summer looked no more than twenty-five, gentle and sweet. Holding the syringe, he wondered what it held as he dropped the liquid-filled glass tube carefully into his breast pocket.

He leaned over, awkwardly heaved the girl over his shoulder, and rose shakily to his feet. It had suddenly occurred to him that she probably had a couple of friends lurking about in the shadows; he wasn't about to wait for the posse to block the pass. His hotel was a good three blocks away, so he balanced his load, steadied himself, and began limping stiffly across the sand.

His one hope of getting past the roving crowds of tourists who wandered the sidewalks at night was to skirt through the heavy foliage of the gardens. He certainly didn't want to meet cruising policemen or a do-gooder vacationer who might conjure up the notion of playing Herbert Hero and rescuing little Eva from the villainous Simon LaPitt.

Along the sidewalks it would have been an easy walk of five minutes, but it took Pitt twenty by way of the backyard jungle. He paused in the shadows, catching his breath and waited for a group of drunken party goers to stagger out of view. He savored the delicate fragrance that whispered about Summer's body. This time he recognized it as plumeria, not an uncommon scent in the Hawaiian Islands, but it was the first time Pitt had sensed its presence on a woman.

His hotel was just across the street now, the lights behind the lobby door beckoning with womblike safety. At the first lull in traffic, Pitt covered the distance on the run, his face strained from the ache in his groin and his lungs tortured from the physical effort of carrying a deadweight over a four-hundred-yard obstacle course in the dark. He threaded his way quickly around the parked cars at the curb, edged up to the doorway of the building, and cast a wary eye in the lobby.

His luck deserted him momentarily. A cleaning woman was vacuuming the carpet outside the elevators, a huge dark-skinned behemoth of a Hawaiian woman with an I'll-scream-for-a-cop-look. He moved around the corner and trotted down the ramp leading to the underground garage. Except for a sprinkling of cars stationed throughout the dim, concrete interior, the garage was empty. He found an open elevator, entered, and pushed the panel button and then leaned against the heavy teak railing that ran along the clos-etlike walls.

Pitt was a damp mass of sweat now; the exertion and the humidity of the night had combined to push him within a hairline of total exhaustion. As he stood there, stooped under Summer's weight, he managed to catch his breath. The elevator hummed monotonously and cooperated by not opening on any other floor than the one Pitt had selected.

The panel light blinked 10. Pitt's luck stuck by him —the hall was clear in both directions. Groping clumsily in his pants pocket for several frustrating seconds, he finally managed to extract a key and shove it into the lock of a carved rosewood door marked 1010.

A plushly decorated suite was a luxury Pitt could hardly afford on his salary, but he justified its existence under the excuse that it was his first vacation in three years.

He entered the bedroom and dumped Summer unceremoniously on the bed. Another time, staring down at a woman who was so delicate and smooth, he would have felt desire. Not tonight. Mentally, emotionally, and physically, Pitt had had it. The day began and ended as one grueling endurance run. Pitt left Summer blissfully unconscious and entered the bathroom where he undressed and took a shower.

Nothing made sense. Why would a perfect stranger want to kill him? His only beneficiary was his little white-haired mother, and unless she'd given up charity teas and hooked rugs, and had taken up with the Mafia, she'd have no motive. Besides, he grinned to himself at the sheer fantasy of it all, what proof did he have that the hypodermic syringe held poison?

A drug? That was a semicredible possibility. But again, why? He knew no military codes he could think of, no nuclear bomb secrets, no classified missile locations, no top secret plans for the destruction of the world. His thoughts wandered back to Summer's magnificent beauty. Then he finally forced his mind back to the reality of the moment, closing the tap and stepping out of the shower stall. He slipped a robe over his broad shoulders and, returning to the bedroom, placed a damp washcloth over the girl's forehead, noting with a tinge of sadistic pleasure that she would wear a healthy-looking bruise on her jaw in the morning.

He shook Summer roughly by both shoulders. Slowly, reluctantly, not wanting to part with the contentment of oblivion, and murmuring incoherently in a soft voice, her big gray eyes crept open. Awaking in a strange place would have startled most women. Not Summer. She was tough. Pitt could almost see the circuits of her mind burst into sudden operation. Her eyes darted about the room, first to Pitt, then to the door, to the balcony, and back to Pitt again. She stared at him casually, but a little too casually to be genuine. Then she raised her hand and ligfrtiy touched her jaw, wincing at the contact.

“You hit me?” It was more a question than a statement.

“Yes.” He grinned. "And now that I have you on home ground, I think I'll rape you

At last her eyes came wide. “ You wouldn't dare.”

“How do you know I haven't already?”

She almost fell for it; her hand began moving down across her lower stomach and then suddenly stopped.

“You're not that perverted.”

“Who said I was?”

She looked at Pitt in a very peculiar way. “I was told . . .” She stopped herself and avoided his eyes.

“You should be more careful,” Pitt said reproachfully. “Believing nasty old rumors and running up and down Waikiki Beach jabbing hypodermic needles into defenseless men can get you into a heap of trouble.”

She stared at him for a few seconds, her lips moving as if she were about to reply, but uncertainty slowly welled in those fantastic gray eyes. 1 don't know what you mean."

“No matter.” Pitt turned his back on her and reached for a telephone. “I'll let the police figure your game. That's what honest citizens like me pay them for.”

“A mistake.” Her voice suddenly turned hard and cold. “I'll scream rape and with these marks on my face, who will they believe, you or me?”

Pitt picked up the telephone and began punching the numbered buttons. “There's not the slightest doubt that they'd believe you. That is, until Adrian Hunter testifies in my defense. She probably has a few marks of her own.” Pitt turned his attention to the phone. The voice that answered on the other end of the line surrendered after the fifth hello and hung up. At the dial tone, Pitt said: “Hello, I'd like to report an assault ...”

That was as far as he got Summer leaped off the bed and pushed the receiver down. “Please, you don't understand.” Her voice was low and desperate.

“That's the understatement of the evening,” Pitt said angrily. He grabbed her by the shoulders, squeezing hard and staring unblinking, only a few inches from her widening pupils. “Kick a man in the balls and jam a hypodermic needle into his back and then act like little Miss Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm when you screw up. Just what in hell is your game?”

She started to struggle, then relaxed almost immediately. “You gangster” Her voice was a savage whisper.

The obsolete expression caught Pitt off guard. Slowly he released his hold and stepped back. “That's me, one of big Al Capone's torpedoes, fresh off the boat from Chicago.”

“I wish to heaven I'd...” She broke off and crossed her arms and massaged the reddening skin on her shoulders. “You are a devil.”

Pitt felt no hate in return, only a touch of remorse as he noted the angry masses of red welts where his fingers had dug into her flesh.

There was a long pause before she spoke. “I'll tell you what you wish to know.” Despite the subtle change in tone, there was nothing soft in the coldness in her eyes. “But first, could you help me to the bathroom. I feel... I think I'm going to be sick.”

Pitt extended his hand and grabbed her wrist, feeling her muscles tighten under his grip. Suddenly she braced one foot against the railing of the bed and threw every ounce of her slender body into a shoulder block to Pitt's stomach. She caught him off balance; he fell backward over a chair, crashing to the floor and taking the bedstand lamp with him. Pitt had hardly collided with the shag carpet when Summer jerked open the sliding door and vanished out onto the balcony.

Pitt made no effort to rise, but leaned back and relaxed into a more comfortable position on the floor. Ten seconds passed. He could hold it back no longer; he began to laugh. “Next time you exit a man's tenth-floor   apartment,   you'd   best   carry   a   parachute.”

She slowly stepped back into the bedroom, her lovely face livid with rage. “There is an evil word for you.”

“I can think of at least a dozen,” he said, smiling politely.

She moved to the other side of the room, putting as much space as the room allowed between them, and lowered herself into a chair, her eyes exploring his. “If I answer your questions, what then?”

“Nothing,” Pitt said quietly. “When you tell a story I can swallow without gagging, you're free to leave.”

“I don't believe you.”

“My dear girl, I'm not the Boston Strangler or Jack the Ripper, and I assure you, I'm not in the habit of abducting innocent virgins from Waikiki Beach.”

“Please,” she implored softly, “It was not my intent to harm you. I must work for my government just as you must work for yours. You have information I was ordered to obtain. The content of the syringe was an ordinary solution of scopolamine.”

“Truth serum?”

“Yes. Your reputation with women made you a prime suspect”

“You're not making sense.”

“The United States Navy, or at least its intelligence section, has reason to believe one of Miss Hunter's lovers has been trying to gain classified information concerning her father's fleet operations. I was ordered to investigate your involvement with her. That's all there is to it.”

That wasn't all there was to it. There was no doubt in Pitt's mind that she was lying. He also knew that she was trying to buy time. The only classified information that Adrian Hunter possessed was how the Navy's up-and-coming crop of future admirals rated on her personal lovemaking scale.

As Pitt rose from the floor and moved in front of her, she saw the brutal gleam in his eyes and she visibly tensed. Confused and angry, Pitt found himself sensing a strong degree of compassion toward the girl. He gazed at the red hair tousled over one eye, and the long slender hands reclining loosely on an inviting lap.

“I'm sorry it turned out this way,” he said. “Damned sorry.” He felt a little foolish. “Too bad you ruined a good thing. You're not with Naval Intelligence, dear heart. You're not even a bona fide American. Hell, nobody's used the term gangster in this country since the 1930s. You also failed your secret agent test. No professional would have bought that phony telephone call to the police, but you did. Anyway, the Navy isn't in the habit of allowing their female operators to run loose among villain types minus a backup crew armed to the teeth within screaming distance. You don't carry a purse, and your dress is too tight to hide a transmitter to warn the watchdogs when the going gets nasty.” The shock treatment was working too well. Her face drained of all color and she truly looked sick.

He went on. “And, in case you think I might be as pure and virginal as you are, you're sadly mistaken. I checked you over from hair to painted toenails when I carried you here from the beach. The only thing you've got on under that dress is a tiny holster for the syringe, taped to the inside of your left thigh.”

Summer's eyes were glazed with revulsion. Pitt couldn't remember when a woman had looked at him like that. She turned and stared at the bathroom as if she were making up her mind to throw up in the sink or on the shag carpet. The sink won. She rose unsteadily from the chair and reeled into the bathroom, slamming the door.

He soon heard the sound of water gushing as the commode was flushed; then the faucet on the sink was turned on. Pitt walked over to the balcony and gazed at the twinkling lights of Honolulu in the distance, while far below, the ocean breakers droned against the beach. He lingered at the balcony perhaps a little too long.