07 Deep Six

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07 Deep Six, E-Book, alfabetycznie, !Autorzy porzadek, Clive Cussler, Eng
 
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DEEP SIXBY CLIVE CUSSLEROther Books BY CLIVE CUSSLERTHE MEDITERRANEAN CAPERICEBERGRAISE THE TITANIC!VIXEN03NIGHT PROBE!PACIFIC VORTEX!DEEP SIXSIMON AND SCHUSTER NEW YORKThis novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places andincinents are either the product of the author's imagination or are usedfictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons,living or dead, is entirely coincinental.COPYRIGHT @ 1984 BY CLIVE CUSSLER ENTERPRISES, INC.ALL RIGHTS RESERVED INCLUDING THE RIGHT OF REPRODUCTION IN WHOLE OR INPART IN ANY FORMPUBLISHED BY SIMON AND SCHUSTER A DIVISION OF SIMON & SCHUSTER, INC.SIMON & SCHUSTER BUILDING ROCKEFELLER CENTER 1230 AVENUE OF THE AMERICASNEW YORK, NEW YORK 10020SIMON AND SCHUSTER AND COLOPHON ARE REGISTERED TRADEMARKS OF SIMON &SCHUSTER, INC.DESIGNED BY EVE ME17MANUFACTURED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICATo Tubby's Bar & Grill in Alhambra, Rand's Roundup on WilshireBoulevard, The Black Knight in Costa Mesa, and Shanners' Bar in Denver.GONE BUT NOT FORGOTTENLIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING IN PUBLICATION DATACUSSLER, CLIVE.DEEP SIX.Ps3553.u75r>4 1984 813'.54 84-5291ISBN 0-671-50373-1July 15, 1966The Pacific OceanThe girl shaded the sun from her brown eyes and stared at a largepelican glining above the ship's after cargo boom.She admired the bird's soaring grace for a few minutes, then, growingbored, she rose to a sitting position, revealing evenly spaced red barsacross her tanned back, etched there by the slats of an ancient steamerchair.She looked around for signs of the deck crew, but they were nowhere insight, so she shyly shifted her breasts to a more comfortable positioninside the scoop-necked bra of her bikini.Her body was hot and sweaty from the humin tropical air. She moved herhand across her firm stomach and felt the sweat rising through the skin.She sat back in the chair again, soothed and relaxed, the throbbing beatof the old freighter's engines and the heavy warmth of the sun coaxingher into drowsidess.The fear that churned inside her when she came on board had faded.She no longer lay awake to the pounding of her heart, or searched thecrew's faces for expressions of suspicion, or waited for the captain togrimly inform her that she was under ship's arrest. She was slowlyclosing her mind to her crime and beginning to think about the future.She was relieved to find that guilt was a fleeting emotion after all.Out of the corner of her eye she caught the white jacket of the Orientalmess boy as he stepped from a companionway. He approachedapprehensively, his eyes staring down at the deck, as if he wasembarrassed to look at her nearly nude figure."Excuse me, Miss Wallace, he said. "Captain Masters respectfullyrequests you please dine with him and his officers tonight-if you arefeeling better, that is."Estelle Wallace was thankful her deepening tan covered her blush.She had feigned illness since embarking in San Francisco and had takenall her meals alone in her stateroom to avoid any conversation with theship's officers. She decided she couldn't remain a recluse forever.The time had come to practice living a lie."Tell Captain Masters I feel much better. I'll be delighted to dinewith him.""He'll be glad to hear that," the mess boy said with a broad smile thatrevealed a large gap in the middle of his upper teeth. "I'll see thecook fixes you something special."He turned and shuffled away with a gait that seemed to Estelle a trifletoo obsequious, even for an Asian.Secure in her decision, she inly stared up at the three-deck-highminship superstructure of the San Marino. The sky was remarkably blueabove the black smoke curling from the single stack, contrasting starklywith the flaking white paint on the bulkheads."A stout ship," the captain had boasted when he led her to a stateroom.He reassuringly ticked off her history and statistics, as if Estellewere a frightened passenger on her first canoe rine down the rapins.Built during 1943 to the standard Liberty ship design, the San Marinohad carried military supplies across the Atlantic to England, making theround-trip crossing sixteen times. On one occasion, when she hadstrayed from the convoy she was struck by a torpedo, but she refused tosink and made it under her own power to Liverpool.Since the war she had tramped the oceans of the world under the registryof Panamanian-one of thirty ships owned by the Manx Steamship Company ofNew York, plying in and out of backwater ports. Measuring 441 feet inlength overall, with a raked stern and cruiser stern, she ploddedthrough the Pacific swells at eleven knots. With only a few moreprofitable years left in her, the San Marino mould eventually end up asscrap.Rust streaked her steel skin. She looked as sordin as a Bowery hooker,but in the eyes of Estelle Wallace she was virgin and beautiful.Already Estelle's past was blurring. With each revolution of the wornengines, the gap winened between Estelle's drab life of selfdenial andan eagerly sought fantasy.The first step of Arta Casilighio's metamorphosis into Estelle Wallacewas when she discovered a lost passport wedged under the seat of aWilshire Boulevard bus during the Los Angeles evening rush hour.Without really knowing why, Arta slipped it into her purse and took ithome.Days later, she had still not returned the document to the bus driver ormailed it to the rightful owner. She studied the pages with theirforeign stamps for hours at a time. She was intrigued by the face inthe photo. Although more stylishly made up, it bore a startlingresemblance to her own. Both women were about the same age-less thaneight months separated their birthdays. The brown shade of their eyesmatched, and except for a difference in, hairstyles and a few shades oftint, they might have passed for sisters.She began to make herself up to look like Estelle Wallace, an alter egothat could escape, mentally at least, to the exotic places of the worldthat were denied timin, mousy Arta Casilighio.One evening after closing hours at the bank where she worked, she foundher eyes locked on the stacks of newly printed currency delivered thatafternoon from the Federal Reserve Bank in downtown Los Angeles.She had become so used to handling large sums of money during herfour-year tenure that she was immune to the mere sight-a lassitude thatafflicts all tellers sooner or later. Yet inexplicably, this time thepiles of green-printed tender beguiled her. Subconsciously she began topicture it as belonging to her.Arta went home that weekend and locked herself in her apartment tofortify her resolve and plan the crime she intended to commit,practicing every gesture, every motion until they came smoothly to herwithout hesitation. All Sunday night she lay awake until the alarm wentoff, bathed in cold sweat, but determined to see the act through.The cash shipment arrived every Monday by armored car and usuallytotaled from six to eight hundred thousand dollars. It was thenre-counted and held until distribution on Wednesday to the bank's branchoffices, scattered throughout the Los Angeles basin.She had decided the time to make her move was on Monday evening, whileshe was putting her money drawer in the vault.In the morning, after she showered and made up her face, Arta donned apair of panty hose. She wound a roll of two-sided sticky tape aroundher legs from min-calf to the top of her thighs, leaving the protectiveouter layer of the tape in place. This odd bit of handiwork was coveredwith a long skirt that came almost to her ankles, hining the tape withinches to spare.Next she took neatly trimmed packets of bond paper and slipped them intoa large pouch-style purse. Each displayed a crisp new five-dollar billon the outer sides and was bound with genuine blue and white FederalReserve Bank wrappers. To the casual eye they would appear authentic.Arta stood in front of a full-length mirror and repeated over and over,"Arta Casilighio no longer exists. You are now Estelle Wallace."The deception seemed to work. She felt her muscles relax, and herbreathing became slower, shallower. Then she took a deep breath, threwback her shoulders and left for work.In her anxiety to appear normal she inadvertently arrived at the bankten minutes early, an astounding event to all who knew her well, butthis was Monday morning and no one took notice. Once she settled behindher teller's counter every minute seemed an hour, every hour a lifetime.She felt strangely detached from the familiar surroundings, and yet anythought of forgetting the hazardous scheme was quickly suppressed.Mercifully, fear and panic remained dormant.When six o'clock finally rolled around, and one of the assistant vicepresidents closed and locked the massive front doors, she quicklybalanced her cash box and slipped quietly off to the ladies' room, wherein the privacy of a stall she unwound the tape's outer layer from aroundher legs and flushed it down the toilet. She then took the bogus moneypackets and fixed them to the tape, stamping her feet to make certainnone would drop off as she walked.Satisfied everything was ready, she came out and dawdled in the lobbyuntil the other tellers had placed their cash drawers in the vault andleft. Two minutes alone inside that great steel cubicle was all sheneeded and two minutes alone was what she got.Swiftly she pulled up the skirt and with precise movements exchanged thephony packets for those containing genuine bills.When she stepped out of the vault and smiled a good evening to the... [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
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