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Pitt forced back a laugh. “So that, at least, explains the transfer. Hunter wants to keep an eye on me.”
“You made the mistake of reading the capsule’s message. This alone takes you from the ranks of innocent bystander, and classifies you as top secret material. Also, the 101st Fleet wants to borrow our new long-range FXH helicopter. None of the Navy’s pilots are checked out on it. You are. And, if an unfriendly nation got it in their heads to try and locate and salvage Uncle Sam’s newest and most advanced nuclear sub before we do - it’s first come, first serve in international waters - you’re a sitting duck for their undercover agents to kidnap in order to discover the Starbuck’s position.”
“It’s nice to be known and loved,” Pitt said. “But you forget; I’m not the only one who knows the Starbuck’s final resting place
“Yes, but you’re the easiest to come by. Hunter and his staff are safely confined to Pearl Harbor, working around-the-clock in an attempt to clear up the puzzle.” The admiral paused, stuck a massive cigar in his face, lit it, and puffed meditatively. “Knowing you like I do, my boy, an enemy agent wouldn’t have to use muscle. They’d simply send their most seductive Mata Hari to the nearest bar and let you pick her up.”
Sandecker noticed the sudden look of pain that gripped Pitt’s face but he went on.
“I might add, for your own information, that the 101st Fleet is one of the finest undercover salvage operations in the world.”
“Undercover?”
“Talking to you is like floundering on a reef,” Sandecker said with forbearance. “Admiral Hunter and his men have raised a British bomber from the water only ten miles from the Cuban shore right under the nose of Castro. Then they salvaged the New Century off Libya, the Southwind in the Black Sea, the Tari Maru within sight of the lights of China. In each case the ships were all salvaged by the 101st before the nations whose waters the vessels sank in, knew the score. Don’t underestimate Hunter and his gang of underwater scrap mongers. They’re second to none.”
“The Starbuck,” Pitt said, “why all the cloak and dagger?”
“For one thing, Dupree’s final position is an impossibility. The only way the Starbuck could possibly be where his message said it lay, was for the ship to fly. A feat marine architects haven’t as yet accomplished. Not with ten thousand tons of steel, at any rate.”
Pitt looked steadily at Sandecker. “It’s got to be out there. Underwater detection systems are far more advanced now. It doesn’t figure that the Starbuck remains lost, or that a massive search turned up absolutely nothing.”
Sandecker held up his empty glass and stared at it “As long as there are seas, ships, and men, there will be strange unsolved mysteries. The Starbuck is only one.”
Pitt stood under the shower nozzle; the steaming hot water opening his pores. After finishing under a heavy spray of cold water, he stepped out, toweled, and shaved the stubble from the night before, taking his time. He hadn’t the slightest intention of arriving at Hunter’s headquarters on time. Mustn’t spoil the old bastard my first day on the job, he thought, grinning in the mirror.
He decided on a white suit with a pink shirt. As he went through the intricacy of tying his tie, it occurred to him that it might not be a bad idea to carry a little protection. Summer had failed, but nevertheless, Pitt began to see the odds of his living to a ripe old age fade with each passing hour. He wasn’t about to compete in hand-to-hand combat with highly trained, professional intelligence agents.
The Mauser, Model 712 Schnell Fueur Pistole Serial Number 47405, could only be described as a positively bloodthirsty firearm. It was a unique handgun due to its ability to fire one shot at a time or, automatically, like a machine gun. It was the perfect weapon to induce terror into any poor unfortunate who found himself gazing helplessly into its muzzle.
Pitt casually tossed the gun onto the bed and reached into the suitcase again, retrieving a wooden shoulder holster. The narrow end had a metal railing that slid on a notch in the broomstick-styled grip, converting the gun into a carbine for long-distance targets; it also served as a grasp when firing on full automatic. Pitt then inserted the gun into the holster and, along with a fifty-shot clip, wrapped the ugly killing machine in a beach towel.
Before the elevator reached the lobby, it obediently halted at every other floor to take on new passengers until it could hold no more. Pitt wondered to himself what thoughts his fellow riders might entertain if they’d had any inkling of what he carried under the towel. After the throng bumped shoulders as they spilled into the lobby, Pitt remained and punched the panel button marked B and rode down to the basement parking area. He unlocked the AC Cobra, shoved the Mauser into a narrow space behind the driver’s seat, and climbed in behind the wheel.
He eased the car up the exit ramp and joined the traffic flow of Kalakaua Avenue, aiming its blunt snout toward the northern end of the city. The palm trees lining the street leaned their arched trunks over the block-long rows of contemporary-designed shops and offices, while the sidewalks snaked in a dense-moving column of tourists dressed in brightly colored shirts and dresses. The sun was strong and the savage glare bounced off the asphalt, causing Pitt to squint before he groped over the narrow dashboard for his sunglasses.
He was already over an hour late for his meeting with Hunter, but there was something he had to do, some small hunch in the back of his brain that begged for a chance to be heard. He didn’t quite know what he expected to find as the tires crunched the red volcanic pebbles that lined the driveway, but he had driven two miles out of his way and there was no reason not to see it through. He parked the car and walked past a small, neatly carved sign that read: BERNICE PAUAHI BISHOP MUSEUM OF POLYNESIAN ETHNOLOGY AND NATURAL HISTORY.
The main hall, with its balconies circling the upper levels, was crowded with neatly spaced exhibits of outrigger canoes, stuffed fish and birds, replicas of primitive grass huts, and strange, ugly carvings of ancient Hawaiian gods. Pitt spotted a tall, white-haired, proudly erect man arranging a collection of shells in a glass case. George Papaaloa had the true Hawaiian look, the wide brown face, the jutting chin, large lips, misty brown eyes, and a graceful way of effortlessly moving his body. He looked up and, recognizing Pitt, he waved.
“Ah, Dirk. Your visit makes my day one of joy. Come into my office where we can sit down.”
Pitt followed him into a neat Spartan office. The furniture was ancient, but refinished in a varnished sheen, and the books lining the walls were free of dust. Papaaloa sat down behind the desk and motioned Pitt toward a Victorian settee.
Tell me, my friend, have you discovered King Kamehameha’s final resting place?”
Pitt leaned back. “I spent the better part of last week diving along the Kona Coast and found nothing that resembled a burial cave.”
“Our legends say he was placed in a cavern beneath the water. Maybe it was one of the rivers.”
“You know better than I, George, that during the dry season your rivers are nothing more than dry gulches.”
Papaaloa shrugged. “Perhaps it is best that his burial place is never found and that his remains lie in peace.”
“No one wants to disturb your king. There is no treasure involved. Kamehameha the Great would be a great archaeological find. Nothing more. And, instead of some damp old cave, his bones would rest in a fine new tomb in Honolulu, revered by all.”
Papaaloa’s eyes looked sad. “I wonder if our great king would appreciate being gawked at by you haoles”
“I think he could tolerate we mainland haoles if he knew that eighty percent of his kingdom was now populated by Orientals.”
