Trojan Odyssey by Clive Cussler

one hundred and seventy-five pounds. Morton had been personally lured away by Specter, whose philosophy was to surround himself with men who were smarter than he was. Behind Morton’s back, his associates referred to the tall man as “the stick.” Distinguished, with graying temples below a thick mass of neatly brushed blond hair, he stood straight as a light post while a six-man team of attendants exited the aircraft’s main hatch, followed by four security men in blue jumpsuits who stationed themselves at strategic locations along the dock.
    Several minutes passed before Specter stepped off the plane. In contrast to Morton he might have reached a height of five feet five inches if he had stood up straight, but settled inside a grossly overweight body, standing rigid was an impossibility. As he walked—actually, more of a waddle—he looked like a pregnant bullfrog in search of a swamp. His enormous belly stretched a trademark white tailored suit far beyond its double-threaded limits. His head was swathed in a white silk turban whose lower sash covered his chin and mouth. There was no way to read the face, even the eyes were covered by the impenetrable lenses of heavily coated dark sunglasses. The men and women who were closely associated with Specter could never fathom how he was able to see through them, never knowing that the lenses were like a one-way mirror. The wearer could see perfectly from his side while his eyes remained impenetrable.
    Morton stepped forward and formally bowed. “Welcome to the Ocean Wanderer, sir.”
    There was no shaking of hands. Specter tilted his head back and stared up at the magnificent structure. Though he had taken a personal interest in its design from conception to construction, he had yet to see it fully completed and moored in the sea.
    â€œThe appearance exceeds my most optimistic expectations,” Specter said in a soft melodious voice with the barest hint of an American southern accent that did not fit his appearance. When Morton first met Specter he expected him to speak in high-pitched, scratchy sounds.
    â€œI’m sure you will be more than pleased with the interior as well,” said Morton in a patronizing tone. “If you will please follow me, I will give you the grand tour before escorting you to the royal penthouse suite.”
    Specter merely nodded in reply, and began trundling across the deck to the hotel with his retinue bringing up the rear.
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    I N THE COMMUNICATIONS room across a wide hallway from the executive offices, an operator was monitoring and relaying the satellite calls that were coming in from Specter’s main headquarters at his company-built city in Laguna, Brazil, and offices around the world. A light blinked on his console and he answered the call.
    â€œ Ocean Wanderer, how may I direct your call?”
    â€œThis is Heidi Lisherness from the NUMA Hurricane Center in Key West. May I speak to the director of your resort?”
    â€œI’m sorry, but he is busy escorting the owner and founder of Ocean Wanderer on a private tour of the hotel.”
    â€œThis is extremely urgent. Let me talk to his assistant.”
    â€œEveryone in the executive office is on the tour also.”
    â€œThen will you please,” Heidi pleaded, “please, inform them that a Category Five hurricane is headed in the direction of the Ocean Wanderer. It is traveling at incredible speed and could strike the hotel as soon as dawn tomorrow. You must, I repeat, you must begin evacuating your hotel. I will give you frequent updates and will stand by at this number for any questions your director may have.”
    The operator dutifully jotted down the Hurricane Center’s number and then answered several other calls that came in while he was talking with Heidi. Not taking the warning seriously, he waited until he was relieved two hours later before he tracked down Morton and relayed the message.
    Morton stared at the