Sahara (70 page)

“With pleasure, sir,” replied Brunone with obvious relish.

After Massarde was gagged and securely staked on the baked ground outside the administration building under the merciless Sahara sun, Pitt nodded to Giordino. “Convey my thanks to the men in the chopper and send them back to Colonel Hargrove.”

Upon receiving the message, the pilot of the chopper waved and dipped his craft toward the battlefield. Now they were alone with their own creative devices, relying on an enormous amount of bluff.

Giordino looked down at Massarde and then at Pitt with a curious glint in his eyes. “Why the gag?” he asked.

Pitt smiled. “If it was you roasting in the sun out there, how much would you offer Brunone and his men to escape?”

“A couple of million bucks or more,” answered Giordino, admiring Pitt’s finesse.

“Probably more.”

“Do you honestly believe he’s going to talk?”

Pitt shook his head. “No, Massarde will suffer the tortures of the damned and go to hell before revealing where he’s hidden his wealth.”

“But if he won’t tell you, who will?”

“His closest friend and confidant,” said Pitt, gesturing at Verenne.

“Damn you, I don’t know!” Verenne’s voice was a despairing shout.

“Oh I think you do, maybe not the exact location, but I think you could put us within spitting distance.”

The shift of his eyes, the fearful expression was evidence enough that Verenne knew the secret. “I wouldn’t tell you anything if I could.”

“Al, while I take advantage of Massarde’s fancy quarters and clean up, why don’t you escort our friend to an empty office and persuade him to sketch out a map to Massarde’s private money vault.”

“Sounds good to me,” Giordino said casually. “I haven’t drilled any teeth for nearly a week.”

59

Almost two hours later, after a shower and short nap, Pitt felt almost human again; the biting soreness from his wounds was almost bearable. He was seated at Massarde’s desk in a silk robe at least two sizes too small that he’d found in a closet containing enough clothes to open a men’s store. He was probing through the drawers of the desk, studying the Frenchman’s papers and files when Giordino walked through the door, pushing a white-faced Verenne in front of him.

“You two have a nice chat?” asked Pitt.

“Amazing what a great conversationalist he can be in the right company,” Giordino acknowledged.

Verenne looked around through wild unfocused eyes that seemed to have lost all contact with reality. He slowly moved his head from side to side as if he was clearing away a mist. He looked on the verge of a nervous breakdown.

Pitt studied Verenne curiously. “What did you do to him?” he inquired of Giordino. “There isn’t a mark on him.”

“Like I said, we had a nice chat. I spent the time describing in vivid detail how I was going to dismember him millimeter by millimeter.”

“That’s all?”

“He has a great imagination. I never had to lay a hand on him.”

“Did he pinpoint Massarde’s island cache?”

“You had the right idea about it being owned by the French, but it’s almost 5000 kilometers northeast of Tahiti and 2000 southwest of Mexico. Truly the backside of beyond.”

“I don’t know of a French island in the Pacific off Mexico.”

“In 1979, France assumed direct administration of an atoll named Clipperton Island after the English pirate John Clipperton, who used it as a lair in 1705. According to Verenne, its land mass is only about 5 square kilometers with a 21-meter promontory as its highest point.”

“Any habitants?”

Giordino shook his head. “Not unless you count a few wild pigs. Verenne says the only remnant of human activity is an abandoned lighthouse from the eighteenth century.”

“A lighthouse,” Pitt turned the word over slowly. “Only a slick, wily pirate like Massarde would think of hiding a treasure near a lighthouse on an uninhabited island in the middle of an ocean.”

“Verenne claims he doesn’t know the exact spot.”

“Whenever Mr. Massarde anchored his yacht off the island,” murmured Verenne, “he always took a boat ashore alone, and only at night so no one could observe his movements.”

Pitt looked at Giordino. “Think he’s telling the truth?”

“I am, I swear to God!” Verenne implored.

“Could be he’s just a natural-born storyteller,” said Giordino.

“I told the truth.” His voice came like the pleas of a child. “Oh God, I don’t want to be tortured. I can’t stand pain.”

Giordino stared at Verenne fox-like. “Or then again, he might be a naturally gifted actor.”

Verenne looked stricken. “What can I do to make you believe me?”

“I’ll be convinced when you inform on your boss. Supply his records, names, and dates of his victims, every filthy business deal he ever created, expose the guts of his entire rotten organization.”

“I do that and he’ll have me killed,” Verenne croaked in a frightened whisper.

“He’ll never touch you.”

“Oh yes he can. You don’t know the power he wields.”

“I think I have an idea.”

“He won’t hurt you half as much as I will,” said Giordino menacingly.

Verenne sank into a chair, stared at Giordino with a sweat-moistened face, with fear-widened eyes that carried the faintest flicker of hope as he turned and trained them on Pitt. These men had stripped his chief of all dignity, of all arrogance. If there was a chance of saving his life, he knew he had to choose.

“I’ll do as you ask,” he moaned softly.

“Let me hear it again,” Pitt demanded.

“All records and information on Massarde Enterprises, I will turn them over to you for investigation.”

“That includes unrecorded records on illegal and immoral activities as well.”

“I will supply what isn’t on paper or computerized.”

There was a brief silence. Pitt stared out the window at Massarde. Even at that distance he could see the white skin had turned a deep red. He rose stiffly from behind the desk and put a hand on Giordino’s shoulder.

“Al, he’s your project. Extract every shred of evidence out of him you can.”

Giordino put his arm around Verenne, who cringed. “We’ll have a real friendly rap session you and I.”

“Work on the names of the people Massarde victimized or murdered. Those first.”

“Any particular reason?” Giordino asked curiously.

“When the time is right for a voyage to Clipperton Island and a search proves successful, I’d like to set up an organization to use Massarde’s stashed wealth to pay back those he hurt and the surviving families of those he killed.”

“Mr. Massarde will never permit that,” Verenne muttered hoarsely.

“Speaking of our favorite villain,” said Pitt, “I think he’s baked in the oven long enough.”

The front of Massarde’s body looked like a shellfish after it had been broiled in a pot. Already he was in excruciating agony, his skin blistering. By the next morning it would begin to peel in huge strips. He stood there without support between Brunone and two impassive guards, motionless, his lips drawn back like a snarling dog, his reddened face contorted in rage and hate.

“You cannot do this to me and live,” he hissed. “Even if I’m killed, I have devised methods to make those responsible pay.”

“An avenging hit team,” said Pitt dryly. “How fore-sighted of you. After cooking in the sun, you must be tired and thirsty. Please take a chair. Al, bring Mr. Massarde a bottle of his special French mineral water.”

Massarde very slowly eased into a soft leather chair, his face suddenly taut from agony. Settled finally in a comfortable position, he took a deep breath. “You are fools if you think you can get away with this. Kazim has ambitious officers who will quickly step into his place, men who are as vicious and cunning as he was, and who will send a force to bury you in the desert before the next sun.”

He reached for the bottle of water held out to him by Giordino and swallowed its entire contents within seconds. Without being asked, Giordino handed him another.

Pitt couldn’t help but admire Massarde’s incomparable nerve. The man acted as if he was in complete control of his situation.

Massarde finished off the second bottle and then looked around his office for his personal secretary. “Where is Verenne?”

“Dead,” Pitt said tersely.

For the first time Massarde looked genuinely surprised. “You murdered him?”

Pitt shrugged indifferently. “He tried to stab Giordino here. Stupid of him to attack a man carrying a gun with a letter opener.”

“He did that?” Massarde asked warily.

“I can show you the body if you like.”

“Not at all like Verenne. He was a coward.”

Pitt exchanged glances with Giordino. Verenne had already been put to work and was under guard in an office two floors below.

“I’ve got a proposition for you,” said Pitt.

“What deal could you possibly make with me?” snarled Massarde.

“I’ve had a change of heart. If you promise to mend your crooked ways, I’ll let you walk from this room, board your helicopter, and leave Mali.”

“Is this some sort of joke?”

“Not at all. I’ve decided the sooner you’re out of my hair, the better.”

“Surely you can’t be serious,” said Brunone. “The man is a dangerous menace. He’ll strike back at his first opportunity.”

“Yes, the Scorpion. Is that what you’re called, Massarde?”

The Frenchman did not answer, but sat in sullen silence.

“Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” asked Giordino.

“There will be no argument,” Pitt said harshly. “I want this scum out of here, and I want him out now. Captain Brunone, escort Massarde to his helicopter and see that it lifts off with him on it.”

Massarde rose shakily to his feet; the sunburned skin was tightening and it was with only an agonized effort that he could stand straight. Despite the pain he smiled. His mind was churning again. “I will require several hours to pack my things and personal records.”

“You have exactly two minutes to get off the project.”

Massarde swore, bitterly and vilely. “Not like this, not without my clothes. My God, man, show some decency.”

“What do you know about decency?” Pitt said dispassionately. “Captain Brunone, get this son of a bitch out of here before I kill him myself.”

Brunone didn’t have to order his two men. He simply nodded and they hustled the wildly cursing Yves Massarde into the elevator. No word passed between the three men in the office as they stood at the window and watched the humiliated mogul roughly shoved aboard his luxury helicopter. The door was closed and the rotors began to thump the hot air. In less than four minutes it had disappeared over the desert to the north.

“He’s heading northeast,” observed Giordino.

“My guess is Libya,” said Brunone. “And then on to hidden exile before recovering his loot.”

“His final destination is of no consequence,” Pitt said, yawning.

“You should have killed him,” Brunone said, his voice sharp with disappointment.

“No need to bother. He won’t live out the week.”

“How can you say that?” asked an astonished Brunone. “You let him go free. Why? The man has the resilience and lives of a cat. He’s not about to die from sunburn.”

“No, but he
will die”
Pitt nodded at Giordino. “Did you make the switch okay?”

Giordino grinned back. “As smoothly as decanting wine.”

Brunone looked confused. “What are you talking about?”

“Tying Massarde down out in the sun,” explained Pitt, “I wanted to make him thirsty.”

“Thirsty? I don’t understand.”

“Al here, emptied the bottles of mineral water and refilled them with water contaminated by chemicals leaking from the underground storage vault.”

“It’s called poetic justice.” Giordino held up the empty bottles. “He drank almost 3 liters of the stuff.”

“As his internal organs disintegrate, his brain will be eaten away and he will go mad.” Pitt’s tone was ice cold, his face chiseled in stone.

“There is no hope for him?” a dazed Brunone asked.

Pitt shook his head. “Yves Massarde will die strapped to a bed, screaming to escape his torment. I only wish his victims could be there to see it.”

Part V

THE
TEXAS

60

June 10, 1996

Washington, D.C.

Two weeks after the siege of Fort Foureau, Admiral Sandecker was seated in a conference room at NUMA’s headquarters in Washington at the head of a long table. Dr. Chapman, Hiram Yaeger, and Rudi Gunn sat alongside, staring into a large TV monitor embedded in one wall.

The Admiral motioned impatiently at the blank screen. “When are they going to come on?”

Yaeger was holding a telephone to his ear while studying the monitor. “The satellite should be downlinking their signal from Mali any second.”

Almost before Yaeger finished speaking, a picture flickered and settled onto the screen. Pitt and Giordino sat together behind a desk piled with file folders and papers while facing into a camera. “Are you receiving us all right on your end?” asked Yaeger.

“Hello, Hiram,” answered Pitt. “Nice to see your face and hear your voice.”

“You’re looking good here. Everyone is anxious to talk to you.”

“Good morning, Dirk,” greeted Sandecker. “How are your injuries?”

“It’s afternoon here, Admiral. And I’m healing nicely, thank you.”

After Pitt exchanged friendly greetings with Rudi Gunn and Dr. Chapman, the Admiral launched the discussion. “We have good news,” he said enthusiastically. “A satellite survey of the South Atlantic, computer analyzed only an hour ago, shows the growth rate of the red tide as falling off. All of Yaeger’s projections indicate that the spread is slowly grinding to a halt.”

“And not a week too soon,” said Gunn. “We’ve already detected a 5 percent drop in the world’s total oxygen supply. It wouldn’t be long before we’d all begin to feel the effects.”

“All automobiles from every cooperating nation in the world were within twenty-four hours of being banned from the streets,” Yaeger lectured. “All aircraft grounded, all industrial factories shut down. The world was a hair away from coming to a standstill.”