Sandecker hired him to collect and store every scrap of data ever written on the oceans, scientific or historical, fact or theory. Yaeger tackled the job with a fierce dedication, and within five years had accumulated a huge computer library of knowledge about the sea.
Yaeger worked erratic hours, sometimes coming in with the morning sun and working straight through until the following dawn. He seldom showed up for departmental meetings, but Sandecker left him alone because there was none better, and because Yaeger had an uncanny ability to pry out secret access codes to a great number of worldwide computer networks.
Always dressed in Levi’s jacket and pants, he wore his long blond hair in a bun. A scraggly beard combined with his probing eyes gave him the appearance of a desert prospector peering over the next hill for Eldorado.
He sat at a computer terminal stuck away in a far corner of NUMA’s electronic maze. Pitt stood off to one side watching with interest the green block letters on a display screen.
“That’s all we’re going to comb from the Maritime Administration’s mass storage system.”
“Nothing new there,” Pitt agreed.
“What now?”
“Can you tap the Coast Guard headquarters documents?”
Yaeger gave a wolfish grin. “Can Aunt Jemima make pancakes?”
He consulted a thick black notebook for a minute, found the insertion he was looking for and punched the number into a pushbutton telephone connected to a modem link. The Coast Guard computer system answered and accepted Yaeger’s access code, and the green block letters swept across the display: “PLEASE STATE YOUR REQUEST.”
Yaeger gave Pitt a questioning look.
“Ask for an abstract of title on the Pilottown,” Pitt ordered.
Yaeger nodded and sent the request into the terminal. The answer flashed back and Pitt studied it closely, noting all the transactions of the vessel from the time she was built, who owned it as long as it was a documented vessel flying the United States flag, and the mortgages against it. The probe was redundant. The Pilottown had been removed from documentation when it was sold to an alien, in this case the Kassandra Phosphate Company of Athens, Greece.
“Anything promising?” Yaeger inquired.
“Another dry hole,” Pitt grunted.
“How about Lloyd’s of London? They’ll have it in their register.”
“Okay, give it a shot.”
Yaeger logged out of the Coast Guard system, checked his book again and routed the terminal to the computer bank of the great maritime insurance company. The data printed out at 400 characters a second. This time the history of the Pilottown was revealed in greater detail. And yet little of it appeared useful. Then an item at the bottom of the display screen caught Pitt’s attention.
“I think we might have something.”
“Looks pretty much like the same stuff to me,” said Yaeger.
“The line after Sosan Trading Company.”
“Where they’re listed as operators? So what? That showed up before.”
“As owners, not operators. There’s a difference.”
“What does it prove?”
Pitt straightened, and his eyes took on a reflective look. “The reason owners register their vessel with what is called a ‘country of convenience’ is to save costly licenses, taxes and restrictive operating regulations. Another reason is they become lost to any kind of investigation. So they set up a dummy front and carry the company headquarters address as a post office box, in this case, Inchon, Korea. Now, if they contract with an operator to arrange cargoes and crews for the ship, the transfer of money from one to the other must take place. Banking facilities must be used. And banks keep records.”
“All right, but say I’m a parent outfit. Why let my shady shipping line be run by some sleazy second party if we leave traceable banking links? I fail to see the advantage.”
“An insurance scam,” Pitt answered. “The operator does the duty work while the owners collect. For example, take the case of a Greek tanker several years ago. A tramp called the Trikeri. It departed Surabaja, Indonesia, with its oil tanks filled to the brim. After reaching Capetown, South Africa, it slipped onto an offshore pipeline and removed all but a few thousand gallons. A week later it mysteriously sank off West Africa. An insurance claim was filed on the ship and a full cargo of oil. Investigators were dead certain the sinking was intentional, but they couldn’t prove it. The Trikeri’s operator took the heat and quietly went out of business. The registered owners collected the insurance payoff and then siphoned it off through a corporate maze to the power at the top.”
“This happen often?”
“More than anyone knows,” Pitt replied.
“You want to dig into the Sosan Trading Company’s bank account?”
Pitt knew better than to ask Yaeger if he could do it. He simply said, “Yes.”
Yaeger logged out of the Lloyd’s computer network and walked over to a file cabinet. He returned with a large bookkeeping ledger.
“Bank security codes,” he said without elaboration.
Yaeger set to work and homed in on Sosan Trading’s bank in two minutes. “Got it!” he exclaimed. “An obscure Inchon branch of a big bank headquartered in Seoul. Account was closed six years ago.”
“Are the statements still on file?”
Without answering, Yaeger stabbed the terminal’s keys and then sat back, arms folded, and eyed the printouts. The data blinked on with the account number and a request for the monthly statements desired. He looked up at Pitt expectantly.
“March through September 1976,” Pitt directed.
The bank’s computer system in Korea obliged.
“Most curious,” Yaeger said, digesting the data. “Only twelve transactions over a span of seven years. Sosan Trading must have cleared their overhead and payroll with cash.”
“Where did the deposits originate?” Pitt asked.
“Appears to be a bank in Bern, Switzerland.”
“One step closer.”
“Yes, but here it gets tricky,” said Yaeger. “Swiss bank security codes are more complex. And if this shipping outfit is as cagey as they appear, they probably juggle bank accounts like a vaudeville act.”
“I’ll get the coffee while you start digging.”
Yaeger looked pensively at Pitt for a moment. “You never give up, do you?”
“No.”
Yaeger was surprised at the sudden coldness in Pitt’s tone. He shrugged. “Okay, pal, but this isn’t going to be a walkover. It may take all night and turn up zilch. I’ll have to keep sending different number combinations until I strike the right codes.”
“You got something better to do?”
“No, but while you’re getting the coffee, I’d appreciate it if you scare up some donuts.”
The bank in Bern, Switzerland, proved discouraging. Any trail to Sosan Trading’s parent company ended there. They spot-checked six other Swiss banks, hoping they might get lucky, like a treasure hunter who finds the shipwreck chart he’s searching for hidden away in the wrong drawer of an archive. But they turned up nothing of value. Groping through the account records of every banking house in Europe presented a staggering problem. There were over six thousand of them.
“Looks pretty dismal,” said Yaeger after five hours of staring at the display screen.
“I agree,” said Pitt.
“Shall I keep punching away?”
“If you don’t mind.”
Yaeger raised his arms and stretched. “This is how I get my kicks. You look like you’ve had it, though. Why don’t you shove off and get some sleep? If I stumble on anything, I’ll give you a call.”