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"Just that, my dear Pitt. This man was more or less killed twice. Look at this." He pulled back Munk's shirt, exposing the nape of the neck. There was a large purplish bruise at the base of the skull. "The spinal cord just below the medulla oblongata has been crushed. Most likely by a blunt instrument of some kind."
"Then Woodson was right; Munk was murdered."
"Murdered, you say? Oh yes, of course, no doubt of it," Bailey said calmly, as though homicide were an everyday shipboard occurrence.
"Then it would seem the killer struck Munk from behind and then rammed his head against the alternator housing to make it look like an accident."
"That's a fair assumption."
Pitt laid a hand on Bailey's shoulder. "I'd appreciate it if you kept your discovery quiet for a while, Doc."
"Mum's the word; my lips are sealed and all that crap. Don't waste another thought on it. My report and testimony will be here when you need it."
Pitt smiled at the doctor and left the sick bay. He made his way aft to where the Sappho II sat dripping salt water on
the stern ramp, climbed up the hatch ladder, and dropped down inside. An instrument technician was checking the TV camera.
"How does it look?" Pitt asked.
"Nothing wrong with this baby," the technician replied.
"As soon as the structural crew checks out the hull, you can send her back down."
"The sooner, the better," Pitt said. He moved past the technician to the after end of the submersible. The gore from Munk's injuries had already been cleaned from the deck and the corner of the alternator housing.
Pitt's mind was whirling. Only one thought broke away and uncoiled. Not a thought really, rather an unreasoning certainty that something would point an accusing finger toward Munk's murderer. He figured it would take him an hour or more, but the fates were kind. He found what he knew he must find within the first ten minutes.
42
"Let me see if I understand you," Sandecker said, glaring across his desk. "One of the members of my salvage crew has been brutally murdered and you're asking me to sit idle and do nothing about it while the killer is allowed to roam loose?"
Warren Nicholson shifted uneasily in his chair and avoided Sandecker's blazing eyes. "I realize that it's difficult to accept."
"That's putting it mildly," Sandecker snorted. "Suppose he takes it in his head to kill again?"
"That's a calculated risk we have considered."
"We have considered?" Sandecker echoed. "It's simple for you to sit up there at CIA headquarters and say that. You're not down there, Nicholson, trapped in a submersible thousands of feet below the sea, wondering whether the man standing next to you is going to bash your brains out."
"I am certain it won't happen again," Nicholson said impassively.
"What makes you so sure?"
"Because professional Russian agents do not commit murder unless it is absolutely necessary."
"Russian agents-" Sandecker stared at Nicholson in startled and total disbelief. "What in God's name are you talking about?"
"Just that. Henry Munk was killed by an operative working for the Soviet Naval Intelligence Department."
"You can't be positive. There is no proof . . . ."
"Not one hundred per cent, no. It might have been someone else with a grudge against Munk. But the facts point to a Soviet-paid operative."
"But why Munk?" Sandecker asked. "He was an instrument specialist. What possible threat could he have been to a spy?"
"I suspect that Munk saw something he shouldn't have and had to be silenced," Nicholson said. "And that's only the half of it, in a manner of speaking. You see, Admiral, there happen to be not one, but two Russian agents who have infiltrated your salvage operation."
"I don't buy that."
