"And we can count on their paying an encore visit. When they come up dry on this search, they'll redouble their efforts for a second."

"Got any more brilliant escape tricks up your sleeve, Houdini?" asked Giordino.

"Yes," Pitt replied, sure as the devil. "As a matter of fact, I do."

THE SECOND ENGINEER MOVED ALONG a catwalk between the massive fuel tanks that towered two decks above him. He was running a routine maintenance check for any trace of leakage in the pipes that transferred the oil to the boilers that provided steam for the Leonin Andreyev's 27,000-horsepower turbines.

He whistled to himself, his only accompaniment coming from the hum of the turbo-generators beyond the forward bulkhead.

Every so often he wiped a rag around a pipe fitting or valve, nodding in satisfaction when it came away clean.

Suddenly he stopped and cocked an ear. The sound of metal striking against metal came from a narrow walkway leading off to his right. Curious, he walked slowly, quietly along the dimly lit access.

At the end, where the walkway turned and passed between the fuel tanks and the inner plates of the hull, he paused and peered into the gloom.

A figure in a steward's uniform appeared to be attaching something to the side of the fuel tank. The second engineer approached, stepping softly, until he was only ten feet away.

"What are you doing here?" he demanded.

The steward slowly turned and straightened. The engineer could see he was Oriental. The white uniform was soiled with grime, and a seaman's duffel bag lay open behind him on the walkway. The steward flashed a wine smile and made no effort to reply.

The engineer moved a few steps closer. "You're not supposed to be here. This area is off limits to the passenger service crew."

Still no answer.

Then the engineer noticed a strange misshapen lump pressed against the side of the fuel tank. Two strands of copper wire ran from it to a clock mechanism beside the duffel bag.

"A bomb!" he blurted in shock. "You're planting a damn bomb!"

He swung around and began running wildly down the walkway, shouting. He'd taken no more than five steps when the narrow steel confines echoed with a noise like twin handclaps in quick succession, and the hollow-point bullets from a silenced automatic tore into the back of his head.

The obligatory toasts were voiced and the glasses of iced vodka downed and quickly refilled. Pokofsky did the honors from the liquor cabinet in his cabin, avoining the cold, piercing gaze of the man seated on a leather sofa.

Geinar Ombrikov, chief of the KGB residency in Havana, was not in a congenial mood. "Your report won't sit well with my superiors," he said. "An agent lost under your command will be considered a clear case of negligence."

"This is a cruise ship," Pokofsky said, his face reddening in resentment. "She was designed and placed in service for the purpose of bringing in hard Western currency for the Soviet treasury. We are not a floating headquarters for the Committee for State Security."