After he came out of the bathroom, he was motioned by the guard into an office. The man who sat at a desk was small, thin, fastidiously attired in a business suit, suave, cool and completely satanic. He turned from a computer monitor and studied Pitt, his deep-set eyes gray and unreadable. Pitt found the man slimy and repellant.
"I am John Merchant, chief of security for this mine," he said with a distinctive Australian accent. "May I see some identification, please?"
Silently, Pitt handed over his NUMA ID and waited.
"Dirk Pitt." Merchant rolled the name on his tongue and repeated it. "Dirk Pitt. Aren't you the chap who found an immense cache of Inca treasure in the Sonoran Desert a few years ago?"
"I was only one member of the team."
"Why have you come to Kunghit?"
"Better you ask the pilot. He's the one who landed the plane on your precious mining property. I'm only a passenger along for the ride."
"Malcolm Stokes is an inspector with the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. He's also a member of the Criminal Investigation Directorate." Merchant gestured toward his computer. "I have an entire data file on him. It's you who are in question."
"You're very thorough," said Pitt. "Taking into account your close contacts in the Canadian government, you probably already know I'm here to study the effects of chemical pollution on the local kelp and fish populations. Would you care to see my documents?"
"I already have copies."
Pitt was tempted to believe Merchant, but he knew Posey well enough to trust his confidence. He decided Merchant was lying. It was an old Gestapo ploy, to make the victim think the accuser knew all there was to know. "Then why bother to inquire?"
"To find if you are in the habit of inaccurate statements."
"Am I under suspicion for some hideous crime?" asked Pitt.
"My job is to apprehend smugglers of illicit diamonds before they traffic their stones to European and Middle Eastern clearinghouses. Because you came here uninvited, I have to consider your motives."
Pitt observed the reflection of the guard in the windows of a glass cabinet. He was standing slightly behind Pitt, to his right, automatic weapon held across his chest. "Since you know who I am and claim to have bona fide documentation for my purpose for coming to the Queen Charlotte Islands, you cannot seriously believe that I'm a diamond smuggler." Pitt rose to his feet. "I've enjoyed the conversation, but I see no reason to hang around."
"I regret that you must be detained temporarily," Merchant said, brisk and businesslike.
"You have no authority."
"Because you are a trespasser on private property under false pretenses, I have every right to make a citizen's arrest."
Not good, Pitt thought. If Merchant dug deeper and connected him to the Dorsett sisters and the Polar Queen, then no lies, no matter how creative, could explain his presence here. "What about Stokes? Since you claim you know he's a Mountie, why not turn me over to him?"
"I prefer turning you over to his superiors," Merchant said almost cheerfully, "but not before I can investigate this matter more thoroughly."
Pitt didn't doubt now that he would not be allowed off the mining property alive. "Is Stokes free to leave?"
"The minute he finishes his unnecessary repairs to the aircraft. I enjoy observing his primitive attempts at surveillance."
"It goes without saying that he'll report my seizure."
"A foregone conclusion," said Merchant dryly.
Outside the hangar came the popping sound of an aircraft engine firing up. Stokes was being forced to take off without his passenger. If he was going to act, Pitt figured that he had less than thirty seconds. He noted an ashtray on the desk with several cigarette butts and assumed Merchant smoked. He threw up his hands in a gesture of defeat.
"If I'm to be detained against my wishes, do you mind if I have a cigarette?"
"Not at all," said Merchant, pushing the ashtray across the desk. "I may even join you."
Pitt had stopped smoking years before, but he made a slow movement as if to reach in the open breast pocket of his shirt. He doubled up his right hand into a fist and clasped it with his left. Then in a lightning move, pulling with one arm and pushing with the other for extra strength, he jammed his right elbow into the security guard's stomach. There came an explosive gasp of agony as the guard doubled over.
Merchant's reaction time was admirable. He pulled a small nine-millimeter automatic from a belt holster and unsnapped the safety in one well-practiced motion. But before the muzzle of the gun could clear the desktop, he found himself staring down the barrel of the guard's automatic rifle, now cradled in Pitt's steady hands, lined up on Merchant's nose. The security chief felt as though he were staring through a tunnel with no light at the other end.