The truth began to register then. None of the salvage crew had actually witnessed Drummer slaving over a pump or offering to carry his share of the load. It registered that he'd always been off on his own, showing up only to complain of his frustration at not overcoming the obstacles that supposedly prevented his survey tour of the ship. They stared at Drummer as though he was some alien from another world, waiting for, expecting the indignant words of denial.

    There was to be no denial, no shocked plea of innocence, only a flicker of annoyance that vanished as quickly as it had come. Drummer's transformation was nothing short of astounding. The sad droop to the eyes had disappeared; they suddenly took on a glinting sharpness. Gone too was the lazy curl from the corners of his lips and the slouched, indifferent posture of his body. The indolent facade was gone and, in its place, was a straight-shouldered, almost aristocratic-looking man.

    "Permit me to say, Pitt," Drummer said in a precise tone, "your powers of observation would do a first-class espionage agent proud. However, you haven't uncovered anything that really changes the situation."

    "Fancy that," Pitt said. "Our former colleague has suddenly lost his Jubilation T Cornpone accent."

    "I mastered it rather skillfully, don't you think?"

    "That's not all you mastered, Drummer. Somewhere in your budding career you learned how to win secrets and murder friends."

    "A necessity of the trade," Drummer said. He had eased away from the salvage crew until he was standing beside Prevlov.

    "Tell me, which one are you, Silver or Gold?"

    "Not that it matters any longer," Drummer shrugged "I'm Gold."

    "Then your brother is Silver."

    Drummer's smug expression hardened. "You know this?" he said slowly.

    "After I had you pegged, I turned over my evidence, meager as it was, to the FBI. I have to hand it to Prevlov and his comrades at Soviet Naval Intelligence. They laid a phony history on you that was as American as apple pie, or should I say Georgia peach pie, and seemingly as genuine as the Confederate flag. But the bureau finally broke through the false documents certifying your impeccable security clearance and tracked you all the way back to the old homestead in Halifax, Nova Scotia, where you and your brother were born . . . within ten minutes of each other I might add."

    "My God!" Spencer muttered. "Twins."

    "Yes, but nonidentical. They don't even look like brothers."

    "So it became a simple case of one twin leading to the other," Spencer said.

    "Hardly simple," Pitt replied. "They're a smart pair, Drummer and his brother. You can't take that away from them. That was my prime mistake, attempting to draw a parallel between two men who should have had the same likes and dislikes, who shared the same quarters or who palled around together. But Silver and Gold played opposite roles to the core. Drummer was equally chummy to everyone and lived alone. I was at a dead end. The FBI was trying to trace Drummer's brother while rechecking the security clearances of every member of the salvage crew, but nobody could make a definite connection. Then a break in the form of near-tragedy burst on the scene and pinned the tail on the donkey."

    "The Deep Fathom accident," Gunn said, staring at Drummer through cold, unblinking eyes. "But Drummer had no relation with the submersible. He was on the crew of the Sappho II. "

    "He had a very real relation. You see, his brother was on the Deep Fathom. "

    "How did you guess that?" Drummer asked.

    "Twins have a curious bond. They think and feel things as one. You may have masqueraded as two totally unrelated persons, Drummer, but the two of you were too close for one of you not to come unglued when the other was on the brink of death. You felt your brother's agony, just as surely as if you were trapped down there in the abyss with him."

    "Of course," Gunn said. "We were all on edge at the time, but Drummer was damn-near hysterical."

    "Again it became a process of elimination among three men; this time Chavez, Kiel, and Merker. Chavez is obviously of Mexican descent and you can't fake that. Kiel is eight years too young; you can't fake  that either. That left Sam Merker."

    "Damn!" Spencer muttered. "How could we have been taken in for so long?"

    "Not hard to imagine when you consider that we were up against the best team the Russians could field." A smile tugged at Pitt's lips. "Incidentally, Spencer, you previously stated that there were ten of us here. You miscounted there are eleven. You neglected to include Jack the Ripper there." He turned to the guard who was still standing in front of Dana, still clutching the knife in his hand as if it had grown there. "Why don't you drop your stupid disguise, Merker, and join the party."

    The guard slowly removed his cap and unwound the muffler that covered the lower half of his face.

    "He's the dirty bastard that knifed Woodson," Giordino hissed.

    "Sorry about that," Merker said calmly. "Woodson's first mistake was in recognizing me. He might have lived if he had let it go at that. His second mistake, and a very fatal one, was attacking me."

    "Woodson was your friend."

    "The business of espionage makes no allowances for friends."

    "Merker," Sandecker said. "Merker and Drummer. Silver and Gold. I trusted you both, and yet you sold NUMA down the river. For two years you sold us. And for what? A few lousy dollars."

    "I wouldn't say a few, Admiral." Merker eased the knife back into its sheath. "More than enough to support my brother and me in fashionable style for a long time to come."

    "Hey, where did he come from?" Gunn asked. "Merker is supposed to be in Doc Bailey's sick bay on board the Capricorn. "

    "He stowed away on Sturgis's helicopter," Pitt said, patting his bleeding head with a damp handkerchief.

    "Can't be!" Sturgis blurted out. "You were there, Pitt, when I opened the cargo hatch. Except for Mrs. Seagram, the copter was empty."

    "Merker was there all right. After he gave Doc Bailey the slip, he kept away from his own cabin and made for brother Drummer's quarters, where he borrowed a fresh change of clothing, including a pair of cowboy boots. Then he sneaked onto the helicopter, threw out the emergency life raft, and hid under its cover. Unfortunately for Dana, she happened along in search of her make-up kit. When she knelt down to retrieve it, her eye caught Merker's boots protruding from under the life raft cover. Not about to let her screw up his escape, he popped her on the head with a hammer he'd found lying around somewhere, wrapped her in a tarpaulin, and crawled back into his hiding space."

    "That means he was still in the cargo compartment when we uncovered Mrs. Seagram."

    "No. By then he was gone. If you recall, after you switched open the cargo door, we waited for a few moments, listening for any movement inside. There was none because Merker had already crept into the control cabin under the cover of the noise from the door-actuator motors. Then when you and I played Keystone Kops and entered the cargo compartment, he dropped down the cockpit ladder outside and walked peacefully into the night."

    "But why throw the hammer into the rotor blades?" Sturgis persisted. "What was the purpose?"