Deep Six

13

Unlike actors in motion pictures, who take forever to wake up and answer a ringing telephone in bed, Ben Greenwald, Director of the Secret Service, came instantly alert and snatched the receiver before the second ring.

“Greenwald.”

“Greetings,” said the familiar voice of Oscar Lucas. “Sorry to wake you, but I knew you were anxious to hear the score of the soccer game.”

Greenwald tensed. Any Secret Service communication opening with the word “greetings” meant the beginning of an urgent, top-secret report on a critical or grave situation. The sentence that followed was meaningless; a caution in case the telephone line might not be secure — a real possibility, since the Kissinger State Department had allowed the Russians to build their new embassy on a rise overlooking the city, vastly increasing their telephone eavesdropping capacity.

“Okay,” Greenwald said, trying to sound conversational. “Who won?”

“You lost your bet.”

“Bet” was another key word indicating that the next statement was coming in coded double-talk.

“Jasper College, one,” Lucas continued, “Drinkwater Tech, nothing. Three of the Jasper players were sidelined for injuries.”

The dire news exploded in Greenwald’s ears. Jasper College was the code for a presidential abduction. The reference to the sidelined players meant the next three men in succession were taken too. It was a code that in Greenwald’s wildest dreams he never thought he would hear.

“There’s no mistake?” he asked, dreading the answer.

“None,” replied Lucas, his tone like the thin edge of broken glass.

“Who else in the office pool knows the score?”

“Only Blackowl, McGrath and myself.”

“Keep it that way.”

“To be on the safe side,” said Lucas, “I initiated an immediate assessment of the second-string players and future rookies.”

Greenwald instantly picked up on Lucas’s drift. The wives and children of the missing parties were being located and protected, along with the men next in line for the Presidency.

He took a deep breath and quickly arranged his thoughts. Speed was essential. Even now, if the Soviets were behind the President’s kidnapping to gain an edge for a pre-emptive nuclear strike, it was too late. On the other hand, with the top four men in American government effectively removed, it hinted at a plot to overthrow the government.

There was no time left to be shackled by security. “Amen,” said Greenwald, signaling Lucas that he was dropping the double-talk.

“Understood.”

A sudden terrifying thought swept Greenwald’s mind. “The bag man?” he asked nervously.

“Gone with the rest.”

Oh, dear God, Greenwald agonized to himself silently. Disaster was piling on top of disaster. “Bag man” was the irreverent nickname for the field-grade officer at the President’s side day and night who carried the briefcase containing codes called release messages that could unleash the nation’s 10,000 strategic nuclear warheads on preselected targets inside Soviet Russia. The consequences of the ultrasecret codes falling into alien hands were beyond any conceivable horror.

“Alert the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff,” he ordered. “Then send a detail to pick up the Secretaries of State and Defense, also the National Security Adviser, and rush them to the White House Situation Room.”

“Anyone on the presidential staff?”

“Okay, bring in Dan Fawcett. But for now let’s keep it a closed club. The fewer who know the ‘Man’ is missing until we can sort things out, the better.”

“In that case,” Lucas said, “it might be wise to hold the meeting someplace besides the Situation Room. The press constantly monitor the White House. They’d be on us like locusts if the heads of state suddenly converged there at this time of morning.”

“Sound thinking,” Greenwald replied. He paused a moment, then said, “Make it the Observatory.”

“The Vice President’s residence?”

“Press cars are almost never in evidence there.”

“I’ll have everyone on the premises as soon as possible.”

“Oscar?”

“Yes.”

“Very briefly, what happened?”

There was a slight hesitation and then Lucas said, “They all vanished from the presidential yacht.”

“I see,” said Greenwald heavily, but it was clear he didn’t.

Greenwald wasted no more time on talk. He hung up and hurriedly dressed. On the drive to the Observatory his stomach twisted into knots, a delayed reaction to the catastrophic news. His vision blurred and he fought off an overwhelming urge to vomit.

He drove in a mental haze through the deserted streets of the capital. Except for an occasional delivery truck, traffic was nearly nonexistent and most of the traffic signals were simply blinking on a cautious yellow.

Too late he saw a city streetsweeper make a sudden U-turn from the right-hand gutter. His windshield was abruptly filled with the bulky white-painted vehicle. In the cab the driver jumped sideways at the protesting scream of tires, his eyes wide in the glare of Greenwald’s headlights.

There was a metal-tearing crunch and the splash of flying glass. The hood bent double, flew up, and the steering wheel rammed into Greenwald’s chest, crushing his rib cage.

Greenwald sat pinned to the seat as the water from the mangled radiator hissed and steamed over the car’s engine. His eyes were open as though staring in vague indifference at the abstract cracks on the shattered windshield.

Oscar Lucas stood in front of the corner fireplace in the living room of the Vice President’s mansion and described the presidential kidnapping. Every few seconds he glanced nervously at his watch, wondering what was keeping Greenwald. The five men seated around the room listened to him in undisguised astonishment.

Secretary of Defense Jesse Simmons clamped his teeth on the stem of an unlit meerschaum pipe. He was dressed casually in a summer sportcoat and slacks, as was Dan Fawcett and National Security Adviser Alan Mercier. Army General Clayton Metcalf was in uniform, while Douglas Oates, the Secretary of State, sat fastidiously groomed in a dark suit and necktie.

Lucas came to the end of his briefing and waited for the barrage of questions he was certain would be fired. Instead, there was a prolonged hush. They just sat there, numb and immobile.

Oates was the first to break the stunned silence. “Good Lord!” he gasped. “How could such a thing happen? How could everyone on the yacht simply evaporate into thin air?”

“We don’t know,” Lucas answered helplessly. “I haven’t ordered an investigating team to the site yet for obvious security reasons. Ben Greenwald slammed a lid on the affair until you gentlemen could be informed. Outside this room, only three Secret Service personnel, including Greenwald, are privy to the facts.”

“There has to be a logical explanation,” said Mercier. The President’s adviser on national security rose to his feet and paced the room. “Twenty people were not whisked away by supernatural powers or aliens from outer space. If, and I make that a questionable if, the President and the others are indeed missing from the Eagle, it has to be a highly organized conspiracy.”

“I assure you, sir,” said Lucas, staring directly into Mercier’s eyes, “my deputy agent found the boat totally deserted.”

“You say the fog was thick,” Mercier continued.

“That’s how Agent Blackowl described it.”

“Could they have somehow penetrated your security network and driven away?”

Lucas shook his head. “Even if they managed to elude my security detail in the fog, their movement would have been detected by the sensitive alarm systems we installed around the estate.”

“That leaves the river,” observed Jesse Simmons. The Secretary of Defense was a taciturn man, given to telegramlike statements. A leathery tan face was evidence of his weekends as an avid water skier. “Suppose the Eagle was boarded from the water? Suppose they were forcibly removed to another boat?”

Oates gave Simmons a dubious stare. “You make it sound as if Blackbeard the Pirate was responsible.”

“Agents were patrolling the dock and riverbank,” Lucas explained. “No way passengers and crew could be subdued and carried off without a sound.”

“Maybe they were drugged,” suggested Dan Fawcett.

“A possibility,” admitted Lucas.

“Let’s look at this head-on,” said Oates. “Rather than speculate on how the abduction occurred, I think we must concentrate on the reason and the force responsible before we can plan a response.”

“I agree,” said Simmons. He turned to Metcalf. “General, any evidence the Russians are behind this as a time cushion to launch a first strike?”

“If that was the case,” answered Metcalf, “their strategic rocket forces would have taken us out an hour ago.”

“They still might.”

Metcalf gave a slight negative tilt to his head. “Nothing indicates they’re in a state of readiness. Our Kremlin intelligence sources report no signs of increased activity in or around the eighty underground command posts in Moscow, and our satellite surveillance shows no troop buildup along the Eastern bloc border. Also, President Antonov is on a state visit to Paris.”

“So much for World War Three,” said Mercier with a look of relief.

“We’re not out of shallow water yet,” Fawcett said. “The officer carrying the codes designating nuclear strike sites is also gone.”

“Not to worry on that score,” said Metcalf, smiling for the first time. “As soon as Lucas here alerted me to the situation, I ordered the alphabetical code words changed.”

“What’s to stop whoever has them from using the old code words to break the new ones?”

“For what purpose?”

“Blackmail, or maybe an insane attempt to hit the Russians first.”

“Can’t be done,” Metcalf replied simply. “There are too many built-in safeguards. Why hell, even the President couldn’t launch our nuclear arsenal on his own, in a fit of madness. The order to start a war has to be transmitted through Secretary of Defense Simmons and the Joint Chiefs. If any of us knew for certain the order was invalid, we could countermand it.”

“All right,” said Simmons, “we temporarily shelve a Soviet conspiracy or an act of war. What are we left with?”

“Damned little,” grunted Mercier.

Metcalf looked squarely at Oates. “As things stand, Mr. Secretary, you are the constitutionally designated successor.”

“He’s right,” said Simmons. “Until the President, Margolin, Larimer and Moran are found alive, you’re the acting President.”

For several seconds there was no sound in the library. Oates’s flamboyant and forceful facial exterior cracked ever so slightly, and he seemed to suddenly age five years. Then, just as suddenly, he regained control and his eyes took on a cold, visceral expression.

“The first thing we must do,” he said in a level tone, “is to act as though nothing has happened.”

Mercier tilted back and gazed unseeing at the high ceiling. “Granted we can’t hold a press conference and announce to the world we’ve misplaced the nation’s four ranking leaders. I don’t care to think about the repercussions when the word leaks out. But we can’t hide the facts from the press for more than a few hours.”

“And we have to consider the likelihood the people responsible for the kidnapping will give us an ultimatum or make a ransom demand through the news media,” Simmons added.

Metcalf looked doubtful. “My guess is that when contact is made it will come without a trumpet blast to Secretary Oates, and any demand will be for something besides money.”

“I can’t fault your thinking, General,” said Oates. “But our top priority is still to conceal the facts and stall for as long as it takes to find the President.”

Mercier had the look of an atheist buttonholed by a Hare Krishna at an airport. “Lincoln said it: ‘You can’t fool all the people all the time.’ It won’t be easy keeping the President and Vice President out of the public eye for more than a day, at most. And you can’t simply erase Larimer and Moran; they’re too highly visible around Washington. Then there is the Eagle’s crew to consider. What do you tell their families?”

“Jack Sutton!” Fawcett blurted as though he was having a revelation.

“Who?” Simmons demanded.

“The actor, the spitting image of the President who plays him in TV commercials and on comedy shows.”

Oates sat up. “I think I see your point. The resemblance is remarkable, but we’d never get away with it, not on a face-to-face basis. Sutton’s voice is a far from perfect imitation, and anyone who is in close daily contact with the President would see through the deception.”

“Yes, but from thirty feet his own wife couldn’t tell the difference.”

“Where is this leading?” Metcalf asked Fawcett.

The White House Chief of Staff took his cue. “Press Secretary Thompson can hand out a press release saying the President is taking a working vacation on his New Mexico farm to study congressional reaction to his Eastern aid program. The White House press corps will be kept on the sidelines — a situation that’s not uncommon when the President isn’t in the mood to answer questions. All they’d see from a roped-off distance would be him — in this case, Sutton the actor — entering the helicopter for the flight to Andrews Air Force Base for departure in Air Force One. They could follow on a later plane, of course, but be denied entry onto the farm itself.”

“Why not have a phony Vice President go with Sutton?” Mercier suggested.

“Both men can’t fly on the same plane,” Lucas reminded him.

“Okay, send him on a plane leaving at night,” Mercier persisted. “Not much news coverage is given to Margolin’s movements. No one would notice a stand-in.”

“Or care,” added Oates, alluding to the public apathy toward vice presidents.

“I can handle the details from the White House end,” offered Fawcett.

“Two down,” said Simmons. “Now what about Larimer and Moran?”

“This is an odd-numbered year,” Mercier said, warming up to the scheme. “Congress recesses for the entire month of August — only two days away. Our one slice of luck. Why not invent a mutual fishing trip or a junket to some out-of-the-way resort?”

Simmons shook his head. “Scratch the fishing trip.”

“Why?”

Simmons gave a tight smile. “Because it’s known all over Capitol Hill that Moran and Larimer relate like syrup and vinegar.”

“No matter. A fishing hole conference to discuss foreign relations sounds logical,” said Oates. “I’ll write up the memorandum from the State Department end.”

“What do you tell their office staffs?”

“This is Saturday; we’ve got two days’ grace to iron out the bugs.”

Simmons began making notes on a pad. “Four down. That leaves the Eagle’s crew.”

“I think I can come up with a convenient cover,” offered Metcalf. “I’ll work through the Coast Guard Commandant. The crew’s families can be told the yacht was ordered on an unscheduled cruise for a top-secret military meeting. No further details need be given.”

Oates stared around the room at his companions. “If there are no further questions—”

“Who else do we let in on the hoax?” queried Fawcett.

“A poor choice of words, Dan,” said Oates. “Let’s call it a ‘distraction.’ “

“It goes without saying,” said Metcalf, “that Emmett of the FBI will have to handle the domestic end of the investigation. And, of course, Brogan of CIA must be called in to check out the international conspiracy angle.”

“You’ve just touched on an ungodly thought, General,” said Simmons.

“Sir?”

“Suppose the President and the rest have already been spirited out of the country?”

Simmons’s speculation brought no immediate response. It was a grim possibility none of them had dared consider. With the President beyond reach of their vast internal resources, their investigative effectiveness would be cut by 80 percent.

“They could also be dead,” Oates said in a controlled voice. “But we’ll operate on the premise they’re alive and held somewhere in the United States.”

“Lucas and I will brief Emmett and Brogan,” Fawcett volunteered.

There was a knock on the door. A Secret Service agent entered, walked over to Lucas and spoke softly in his ear. Lucas’s eyebrows arched upward and he paled slightly. Then the agent retreated from the room, closing the door behind him.

Oates stared at Lucas questioningly. “A new development, Oscar?”

“Ben Greenwald,” Lucas answered vacantly. “He was killed thirty minutes ago. His car struck a city maintenance vehicle.”

Oates wasted no words of sympathy. “With the powers temporarily vested in me, I name you as the new Director of the Secret Service.”

Lucas visibly recoiled. “No, please, I don’t think I can—”

“Doesn’t make sense to select somebody else,” Oates interrupted him. “Like it or not, Oscar, you’re the only man who can be named for the job.”

“Somehow it doesn’t seem right to be promoted for losing the men I’m sworn to protect,” said Lucas dejectedly.

“Blame me,” said Fawcett. “I forced the yacht cruise on you before your people were fully prepared.”

“There’s no time for self-recrimination,” Oates said sharply. “We each have our jobs cut out for us. I suggest we get to work.”

“When should we meet again?” Simmons asked.

Oates looked at his watch. “Four hours from now,” he replied. “The White House Situation Room.”

“We’re flirting with exposure if everyone shows up at the same time,” said Fawcett.

“There’s an underground utility tunnel running from the basement of the Treasury building beneath the street to the White House,” Lucas explained. “Perhaps some of you gentlemen could enter unseen from that direction.”

“Good idea,” Metcalf agreed. “We can arrive at the Treasury building in unmarked government cars, cross under the street through the tunnel and take the elevator to the Situation Room.”

“That settles it then,” Oates said, rising from his chair. “If any of you ever dreamed of going on the stage, this is your big chance. And I don’t have to tell you, if the show’s a flop, we just may bring down the whole country along with the curtain.”

14

After the brisk air of Alaska, the hot, humid atmosphere of South Carolina felt like the inside of a sauna. Pitt made a phone call and then rented a car at the Charleston airport. He drove south on Highway 52 toward the city and took the turnoff for the sprawling naval base. About a mile after turning right on Spruill Avenue, he came to a large red brick building with an ancient rusting sign perched on the roof advertising the Alhambra Iron and Boiler Company.

He parked the car and walked under a high iron archway with the date 1861 suspended on a panel. The reception area took him by surprise. The furnishings were ultramodern. Chrome was everywhere. He felt as though he’d walked onto a photo layout from Architectural Digest.

A sweet young thing looked up, pursed an ever so small smile and said, “Can ah help you, sir?”

Pitt stared into the mossy green magnolia eyes and imagined her as a former homecoming queen. “I called from the airport and set an appointment with Mr. Hun-ley. My name is Pitt.”

The recognition was automatic and the smile didn’t alter so much as a millimeter. “Yes, he’s expecting you. Please come this way.”

She led him into an office decorated entirely in brown tones. Pitt was suddenly overwhelmed with the sensation of drowning in oatmeal. A rotund, smiling little man rose from behind an enormous kidney-shaped desk and extended his hand.

“Mr. Pitt. I’m Charlie Hunley.”

“Mr. Hunley,” Pitt said, shaking hands. “Thank you for seeing me.”

“Not at all. Your phone call ticked my curiosity. You’re the first person to ask about our boiler making capacity in, golly, must be forty years.”

“You’re out of the business?”

“Heavens, yes. Gave it up during the summer of fifty-one. End of an era, you might say. My great-granddaddy rolled armor plate for the Confederate ironclad fleet. After World War Two, my daddy figured the time had come for a change. He retooled the plant and started fabricating metal furniture. As things turned out, it was a shrewd decision.”

“Did you, by chance, save any of your old production records?” Pitt asked.

“Unlike you Yankees, who throw out everything,” Hunley said with a sly smile, “we Southern boys hold onto everything, including our women.”

Pitt laughed politely and didn’t bother asking how his California upbringing had qualified him as a Yankee.

“After your call,” Hunley continued, “I ran a search in our file storage room. You didn’t give me a date, but since we only supplied forty water-tube boilers with the specifications you mentioned for Liberty ships, I found the invoice listing the serial number in question in fifteen minutes. Unfortunately, I can’t tell you what you don’t already know.”

“Was the boiler shipped to the company that supplied the engines or direct to the shipyard for installation?”

Hunley picked up the yellowing paper from his desk and studied it for a moment. “It says here we shipped to the Georgia Shipbuilding Corporation in Savannah on June fourteenth, 1943.” Hunley picked up another piece of paper. “Here’s a report from one of our men who inspected the boilers after they were installed in the ship and connected to the engines. All that is mentioned of any interest is the name of the ship.”

“Yes, I have that,” said Pitt. “It was the Pilottown.”

A strange expression of puzzlement crossed Hun-ley’s face as he restudied the inspector’s report. “We must be talking about two different ships.”

Pitt looked at him. “Could there be a mistake?”

“Not unless you wrote down the wrong serial number.”

“I was careful,” Pitt replied firmly.

“Then I don’t know what to tell you,” said Hunley, passing the paper across the desk. “But according to the inspection report, boiler number 38874 went into a Liberty ship called the San Marino.”

15

Congresswoman Loren Smith was waiting on the concourse when Pitt’s flight from Charleston arrived at Washington’s National Airport. She waved to get his attention, and he smiled. The gesture was unnecessary. She was an easy woman to spot.

Loren stood tall, slightly over five foot eight. Her cinnamon hair was long but layered around the face, which accented her prominent cheekbones and deep violet eyes. She was dressed in a pink cotton-knit tunic-style dress with scoop neck and long sleeves that were rolled up. For an elegant touch, she wore a Chinese-patterned sash around her waist.

She possessed an air of breezy sophistication, yet underneath one could sense a tomboyish daring. A representative elected from the state of Colorado, Loren was serving her second term. She loved her job; it was her life. Feminine and softspoken, she could be an unleashed tiger on the floor of Congress when she tackled an issue. Her colleagues respected her for her shrewdness as well as her beauty. She was a private woman, shunning the parties and dinners unless they were politically necessary. Her only outside activity was an “on again, off again” affair with Pitt.

She approached him and kissed him lightly on the mouth. “Welcome home, voyager.”

He put his arm around her and they set off toward the baggage claim. “Thank you for meeting me.”

“I borrowed one of your cars. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Depends,” he said. “Which one?”

“My favorite, the blue Talbot-Lago.”

“The coupe with the Saoutchik coachwork? You have expensive taste. That’s a $200,000 car.”

“Oh, dear, I hope it doesn’t get dented in the parking lot.”

Pitt gave her a solemn look. “If it does, the sovereign state of Colorado will have a vacant seat in Congress.”

She clutched his arm and laughed. “You think more of your cars than you do your women.”

“Cars never nag and complain.”

“I can think of a few other things they never do,” she said with a girlish smile.

They threaded their way through the crowded terminal and waited at the baggage claim. Finally the conveyor belt hummed into motion and Pitt retrieved his two suitcases. They passed outside into a gray, sticky morning and found the blue 1948 Talbot-Lago sitting peacefully under the watchful eye of an airport security guard. Pitt relaxed in the passenger’s seat as Loren slipped behind the wheel. The rakish car was a right-hand drive, and it always struck Pitt odd to sit and stare out the left side of the windshield at the approaching traffic with nothing to do.

“Did you call Perlmutter?” he asked.

“About an hour before you landed,” she answered. “He was quite agreeable, for someone who was jolted out of a sound sleep. He said he’d go through his library for data on the ships you asked about.”

“If anyone knows ships, it’s St. Julien Perlmutter.”

“He sounds like a character over the phone.”

“An understatement. Wait till you meet him.”

Pitt watched the passing scenery for a few moments without speaking. He stared at the Potomac River as Loren drove north along the George Washington Memorial Parkway and cut over the Francis Scott Key Bridge to Georgetown.

Pitt was not fond of Georgetown; “Phonyville,” he called it. The drab brick town houses looked like they had all been popped from the same biscuit mold. Loren steered the Talbot onto N Street. Parked cars jammed the curbs, trash lay in the gutters, little of the sidewalk shrubbery was trimmed, and yet it was perhaps four blocks of the most overpriced real estate in the country. Tiny houses, Pitt mused, filled with gigantic egos generously coated with megadoses of forged veneer.

Loren squeezed into a vacant parking space and turned off the ignition. They locked the car and walked between two vine-encrusted homes to a carriage house in the rear. Before Pitt could lift a bronze knocker shaped like a ship’s anchor, the door was thrown open by a great monster of a man who mashed the scales at nearly four hundred pounds. His sky-blue eyes twinkled and his crimson face was mostly hidden under a thick forest of gray hair and beard. Except for his small tulip nose, he looked like Santa Claus gone to seed.

“Dirk,” he fairly boomed. “Where’ve you been hiding?”

St. Julien Perlmutter was dressed in purple silk pajamas under a red and gold paisley robe. He encompassed Pitt with his chunky arms and lifted him off the doorstep in a bear hug, without a hint of strain. Loren’s eyes widened in astonishment. She’d never met Perlmutter in person and wasn’t prepared.

“You kiss me, Julien,” said Pitt sternly, “and I’ll kick you in the crotch.”

Perlmutter gave a belly laugh and released Pitt’s 180 pounds. “Come in, come in. I’ve made breakfast. You must be starved after your travels.”

Pitt introduced Loren. Perlmutter kissed her hand with a Continental flourish and then led them into a huge combination living room, bedroom and study. Shelves supporting the weight of thousands of books sagged from floor to ceiling on every wall. There were books on tables, books on chairs. They were even stacked on a king-size water bed that rippled in an alcove.

Perlmutter possessed what was acknowledged by experts as the finest collection of historical ship literature ever assembled. At least twenty marine museums were constantly angling to have it donated to their libraries after a lifetime of excess calories sent him to a mortuary.

He motioned Pitt and Loren to sit at a hatch-cover table laid with an elegant silver and china service bearing the emblem of a French transatlantic steamship line.

“It’s all so lovely,” said Loren admiringly.

“From the famous French liner Normandie,” Perlmutter explained. “Found it all in a warehouse where it had been packed away since before the ship burned and rolled over in New York harbor.”

He served them a German breakfast, beginning with schnapps, thin-sliced Westphalian ham garnished with pickles and accompanied by pumpernickel bread. For a side dish he’d whipped up potato dumplings with a prune-butter filling.

“Tastes marvelous,” said Loren. “I love eating something besides eggs and bacon for a change.”

“I’m addicted to German cooking.” Perlmutter laughed, patting his ample stomach. “Lots more substance than that candy-ass French fare, which is nothing but an exotic way to prepare garbage.”

“Did you find any information on the San Marino and the Pilottown?” asked Pitt, turning the conversation to the subject on his mind.

“Yes, as a matter of fact, I did.” Perlmutter hefted his bulk from the table and soon returned with a large dusty volume on Liberty ships. He donned a pair of reading glasses and turned to a marked page.

“Here we are. The San Marino, launched by the Georgia Shipbuilding Corporation, July of 1943. Hull number 2356, classed as a cargo carrier. Sailed Atlantic convoys until the end of the war. Damaged by submarine torpedo from the U-573. Reached Liverpool under her own power and was repaired. Sold after the war to the Bristol Steamship Company of Bristol, England. Sold 1956 to the Manx Steamship Company of New York, Panamanian registry. Vanished with all hands, north Pacific, 1966.

“So that was the end of her.”

“Maybe, maybe not,” said Perlmutter. “There’s a postscript. I found a report in another reference source. About three years after the ship was posted missing, a Mr. Rodney Dewhurst, who was a marine insurance underwriter for the Lloyd’s office in Singapore, noticed a ship moored in the harbor that struck him as vaguely familiar. There was an unusual design to the cargo booms, one he’d seen on only one other Liberty-class ship. He managed to talk his way on board and after a brief search smelled a rat. Unfortunately, it was a holiday and it took him several hours to round up the harbor authorities and convince them to arrest the ship in port and hold it for an investigation. By the time they reached the dock, the vessel was long gone, steaming somewhere out to sea. A check of custom records showed her to be the Belle Chasse, Korean registry, owned by the Sosan Trading Company of Inchon, Korea. Her next destination was Seattle. Dewhurst cabled an alert to the Seattle Harbor Police, but the Belle Chasse never arrived.”

“Why was Dewhurst suspicious of her?” Pitt asked.

“He had inspected the San Marino before underwriting the insurance on her and was dead certain she and the Belle Chasse were one and the same.”

“Surely the Belle Chasse turned up in another port?” Loren asked.

Perlmutter shook his head. “She faded from the records until two years later, when she was reported scrapped in Pusan, Korea.” He paused and looked across the table. “Does any of this help you?”

Pitt took another swallow of the schnapps. “That’s the problem. I don’t know.” He went on to briefly relate the discovery of the Pilottown, but omitted any mention of the nerve gas cargo. He described finding the serial number on the ship’s boiler and running a check on it in Charleston.

“So the old Pilottown’s been tracked down at last.” Perlmutter sighed wistfully. “She wanders the sea no more.”

“But her discovery opened a new can of worms,” Pitt said. “Why was she carrying a boiler that was recorded by the manufacturer as installed in the San Marino? It doesn’t add up. Both ships were probably constructed on adjoining slipways and launched about the same time. The on-site inspector must have been confused. He simply wrote up the boiler as placed in the wrong hull.”

“I hate to spoil your black mood,” said Perlmutter, “but you may be wrong.”

“Isn’t there a connection between the two ships?”

Perlmutter gave Pitt a scholarly gaze over the tops of his glasses. “Yes, but not what you think.” He turned to the book again and began reading aloud. “The Liberty ship Bart Pulver, later the Rosthena and Pilottown, launched by Astoria Iron and Steel Company, Portland, Oregon, in November of 1942—”

“She was built on the West Coast?” Pitt interrupted in surprise.

“About twenty-five hundred miles from Savannah, as the crow flies,” Perlmutter replied indirectly, “and nine months earlier than the San Marino.” He turned to Loren. “Would you like some coffee, dear lady?”

Loren stood up. “You two keep talking. I’ll get it.”

“It’s espresso.”

“I know how to operate the machine.”

Perlmutter looked at Pitt and gave a jolly wink. “She’s a winner.”

Pitt nodded and continued. “It’s not logical a Charleston boiler-maker would ship across the country to Oregon with a Savannah shipyard only ninety miles away.”

“Not logical at all,” Perlmutter agreed.

“What else do you have on the Pilottown?”

Perlmutter read on. “Hull number 793, also classed as a cargo carrier. Sold after the war to the Kassandra Phosphate Company Limited of Athens. Greek registry. Ran aground with a cargo of phosphates off Jamaica, June of 1954. Refloated four months later. Sold 1962 to the Sosan Trading Company—”

“Inchon, Korea,” Pitt finished. “Our first connection.”

Loren returned with a tray of small cups and passed the espresso coffee around the table.

“This is indeed a treat,” said Perlmutter gallantly. “I’ve never been waited on by a member of Congress before.”

“I hope I didn’t make it too strong,” Loren said, testing the brew and making a face.

“A little mud on the bottom sharpens a woolly mind,” Perlmutter reassured her philosophically.

“Getting back to the Pilottown,” Pitt said. “What happened to her after 1962?”

“No other entry is shown until 1979, when she’s listed as sunk during a storm in the northern Pacific with all hands. After that she became something of a cause célèbre by reappearing on a number of occasions along the Alaskan coast.”

“Then she went missing in the same area of the sea as the San Marino,” said Pitt thoughtfully. “Another possible tie-in.”

“You’re grabbing at bubbles,” said Loren. “I can’t see where any of this is taking you.”

“I’m with her.” Perlmutter nodded. “There’s no concrete pattern.”

“I think there is,” Pitt said confidently. “What began as a cheap insurance fraud is unraveling into a cover-up of far greater proportions.”

“Why your interest in this?” Perlmutter asked, staring Pitt in the eyes.

Pitt’s gaze was distant. “I can’t tell you.”

“A classified government investigation maybe?”

“I’m on my own in this one, but it’s related to a ‘most secret’ project.”

Perlmutter gave in good-naturedly. “Okay, old friend, no more prying questions.” He helped himself to another dumpling. “If you suspect the ship buried under the volcano is the San Marino and not the Pilot-town, where do you go from here?”

“Inchon, Korea. The Sosan Trading Company might hold the key.”

“Don’t waste your time. The trading company is most certainly a false front, a name on a registry certificate. As is the case with most shipping companies, all trace of ownership ends at an obscure post office box. If I were you, I’d give it up as a lost cause.”

“You’d never make a football coach,” Pitt said with a laugh. “Your half-time locker-room speech would discourage your team into throwing away a twenty-point lead.”

“Another glass of schnapps, if you please?” said Perlmutter in a grumbling tone, holding out his glass as Pitt poured. “Tell you what I’ll do. Two of my corresponding friends on nautical research are Koreans. I’ll have them check out Sosan Trading for you.”

“And the Pusan shipyards for any records covering the scrapping of the Belle Chasse.”

“All right, I’ll throw that in too.”

“I’m grateful for your help.”

“No guarantees.”

“I don’t expect any.”

“What’s your next move?”

“Send out press releases.”

Loren looked up, puzzled. “Send what?”

“Press releases,” Pitt answered casually, “to announce the discovery of both the San Marino and the Pilottown and describe NUMA’s plans for inspecting the wrecks.”

“When did you dream up that foolish stunt?” Loren asked.

“About ten seconds ago.”

Perlmutter gave Pitt the stare of a psychiatrist about to commit a hopeless mental case. “I fail to see the purpose.”

“No one in the world is immune from curiosity,” Pitt exclaimed with a devious glint in his green eyes. “Somebody from the parent company that owned those ships will step from behind the shroud of corporate anonymity to check the story. And when they do, I’ll have their ass.”

16

When oates entered the White House Situation Room, the men seated around the conference table came to their feet. It was a sign of respect for the man who now shouldered the vast problems of the nation’s uncertain future. The responsibility for the far-reaching decisions of the next few days, and perhaps longer, would be his alone. There were some in the room who had mistrusted his cold aloofness, his cultivated holy image. They now cast off personal dislike and rallied to his side.

He took the chair at the head of the table. He motioned to the others to sit and turned to Sam Emmett, the gruff-spoken chief of the FBI, and Martin Brogan, the urbane, intellectual director of the CIA.

“Have you gentlemen been fully briefed?”

Emmett nodded toward Fawcett, seated at the table’s other end. “Dan has described the situation.”

“Either of you got anything on this?”

Brogan shook his head slowly. “Off the top of my head I can’t recall hearing any indications or rumors from our intelligence sources pointing to an operation of this magnitude. But that doesn’t mean we don’t have something that was misinterpreted.”

“I’m in pretty much the same boat as Martin,” said Emmett. “It’s beyond comprehension that a presidential abduction could slip through the Bureau’s fingers without even a vague clue.”

Oates’s next question was put to Brogan. “Do we have any intelligence that might lead us to suspect the Russians?”

“Soviet President Antonov doesn’t consider our President half the threat he did Reagan. He’d be risking a massive confrontation if it ever leaked to the American public his government was involved. You could compare it to striking a hornet’s nest with a stick. I can’t see what, if any, gains the Russians would net.”

“What’s your gut reaction, Sam?” Oates asked Emmett. “Could this be terrorist-inspired?”

“Too elaborate. This operation took an immense amount of planning and money. The ingenuity is incredible. It goes far beyond the capabilities of any terrorist organization.”

“Any theories?” asked Oates, addressing the table.

“I can think of at least four Arab leaders who might have a motive for blackmailing the U.S.,” said General Metcalf. “And Qaddafi of Libya heads the list.”

“They certainly have the financial resources,” said Defense Secretary Simmons.

“But hardly the sophistication,” Brogan added.

Alan Mercier, the National Security Adviser, motioned with his hand to speak. “In my estimation the conspiracy is of domestic origin rather than foreign.”

“What’s your reasoning?” Oates asked.

“Our land and space listening systems monitor every telephone and radio transmission around the world, and it’s no secret to everyone present that our new tenth-generation computers can break any code the Russians or our Allies devise. It stands to reason that an intricate operation of this size would require a flow of international message traffic leading up to the act and a report of success afterwards.” Mercier paused to make his point. “Our analysts have not intercepted a foreign communication that suggests the slightest connection with the disappearance.”

Simmons sucked noisily on his pipe. “I think Alan makes a good case.”

“Okay,” Oates said, “foreign blackmail rates a low score. So what are we looking at from the domestic angle?”

Dan Fawcett, who had previously been silent, spoke up. “It may sound farfetched, but we can’t eliminate a corporate plot to overthrow the government.”

Oates leaned back and straightened his shoulders. “Maybe not as farfetched as we think. The President went after the financial institutions and the multinational conglomerates with a vengeance. His tax programs took a hell of a bite out of their profits. They’re pumping money into the opposition party’s campaign coffers faster than their banks can print the checks.”

“I warned him about grandstanding on the issue of helping the poor by taxing the rich,” Fawcett said. “But he refused to listen. He alienated the nation’s businessmen, as well as the working middle class. Politicians just can’t seem to get it into their heads that a vast number of American families with a working wife are in a fifty-percent tax bracket.”

“The President has powerful enemies,” Mercier conceded. “However, it’s inconceivable to me that any corporate empire could steal away the President and congressional leaders without its leaking to a law-enforcement agency.”

“I agree,” Emmett said. “Too many people had to be in on it. Somebody would have gotten cold feet and spilled the scheme.”

“I think we’d better call a halt to speculation,” said Oates. “Let’s get back on the track. The first step is to launch a massive investigation while keeping up a business-as-usual front. Use whatever cover story you feel is plausible. If at all possible, don’t even let your key people in on this.”

“What about a central command post during the investigation?” Emmett asked.

“We’ll continue to gather here every eight hours to assess incoming evidence and coordinate efforts between your respective investigative agencies.”

Simmons pushed forward in his chair. “I have a problem. I’m scheduled to fly to Cairo this afternoon to confer with Egypt’s Minister of Defense.”

“By all means go,” Oates replied. “Keep up normal appearances. General Metcalf can cover for you at the Pentagon.”

Emmett shifted in his chair. “I’m supposed to speak before a law class at Princeton tomorrow morning.”

Oates pondered a moment. “Claim you have the flu and can’t make it.” He turned to Lucas. “Oscar, if you’ll forgive me for saying so, you’re the most expendable. Substitute for Sam. Certainly no one would suspect a presidential kidnapping if the new Director of the Secret Service can take time out to give a speech.”

Lucas nodded. “I’ll be there.”

“Good.” Oates looked around the table. “Everybody plan on being back here at two o’clock. Maybe we’ll know something by then.”

“I’ve already sent a crack lab team over to the yacht,” Emmett volunteered. “With luck they’ll turn up some solid leads.”

“Let’s pray they do.” Oates’s shoulders sagged and he appeared to stare through the tabletop. “My God,” he muttered quietly. “Is this any way to run a government?”

17

Blackowl stood on the dock and watched as a team of FBI agents swarmed over the Eagle. They were an efficient lot, he observed. Each man was a specialist in his particular field of scientific detection. They went about their job of scrutinizing the yacht from bilge to radio mast with a minimum of conversation.

A constant parade of them crossed the dock to vans parked along the shore, removing furniture, carpeting, anything that wasn’t screwed down and a considerable amount that was. Each item was carefully wrapped in a plastic covering and inventoried.

More agents arrived, expanding the search for a mile around the first President’s estate, examining every square inch of ground, the trees and shrubbery. In the water beside the yacht, divers scoured the muddy bottom.

The agent in charge noticed Blackowl rubbernecking beside the loading ramp and came over. “You got permission to be in the area?” he asked.

Blackowl showed his ID without answering.

“What brings the Secret Service to Mount Vernon on a weekend?”

“Practice mission,” Blackowl replied conversationally. “How about the FBI?”

“Same thing. The Director must have thought we were getting lazy, so he dreamed up a top-priority exercise.”

“Looking for anything in particular?” Blackowl asked, feigning indifferent interest.

“Whatever we can determine about the last people who were on board — identification through fingerprints, where they came from. You know.”

Before Blackowl could reply, Ed McGrath stepped onto the dock from the gravel path. His forehead was glistening in sweat and his face was flushed. Blackowl guessed he had been running.

“Excuse me, George,” he panted between intakes of breath. “You got a minute?”

“Sure.” Blackowl waved to the FBI agent. “Nice talking with you.”

“Same to you.”

As soon as they were out of earshot, Blackowl asked softly, “What’s going down, Ed?”

“The FBI guys found something you should see.”

“Where?”

“About a hundred and fifty yards upriver, hidden away in trees. I’ll show you.”

McGrath led him along a path that bordered the river. When it curved toward the outer estate buildings, they stayed in a straight line across a manicured lawn. Then they climbed a rail fence into the unkempt undergrowth on the other side. Working their way into a dense thicket, they suddenly came upon two FBI investigators who were hunkered down studying two large tanks connected to what looked like electrical generators.

“What in hell are these things?” Blackowl demanded without a greeting.

One of the men looked up. “They’re foggers.”

Blackowl stared, puzzled. Then his eyes widened.

“Foggers!” he blurted out. “Machines that make fog!”

“Yeah, that’s right. Fog generators. The Navy used to mount them on destroyers during World War Two for making smokescreens.”

“Christ!” Blackowl gasped. “So that’s how it was done!”

18

Official Washington turns into a ghost town over the weekends. The machinery of government grinds to a halt at five o’clock Friday evening and hibernates until Monday morning, when it fires to life again with the obstinacy of a cold engine. Once the cleaning crews have come and gone, the huge buildings are as dead as mausoleums. What is most surprising, the phone systems are shut down.

Only the tourists are out in force, crawling over the Mall, throwing Frisbees and swarming around the Capitol, climbing the endless staircases and staring slack-jawed at the underside of the dome.

Some were peering through the iron fence around the White House around noontime when the President came out, quick stepped across the lawn and gave a jaunty wave before entering a helicopter. He was followed by a small entourage of aides and Secret Service agents. Few of the elite press corps were present. Most were home watching baseball on TV or roaming a golf course.

Fawcett and Lucas stood on the South Portico and watched until the ungainly craft lifted over E Street and dissolved to a speck as it beat its way toward Andrews Air Force Base.

“That was fast work,” Fawcett said quietly. “You made the switch in less than five hours.”

“My Los Angeles office tracked down Sutton and crammed him into the cockpit of a Navy F-20 fighter forty minutes after they were alerted.”

“What about Margolin?”

“One of my agents is a reasonable facsimile. He’ll be on board an executive jet for New Mexico as soon as it’s dusk.”

“Can your people be trusted not to leak this charade?”

Lucas shot Fawcett a sharp look. “They’re trained to keep quiet. If there’s a leak it will come from the presidential staff.”

Fawcett smiled faintly. He knew he was on shaky footing. The looseness of the White House staff was open territory for the press corps. “They can’t spill what they didn’t know,” he said. “Only now will they be waking up to the fact that the man in the helicopter with them isn’t the President.”

“They’ll be well guarded at the farm,” Lucas said. “Once they arrive no one gets off the property, and I’ve seen to it all communications are monitored.”

“If a correspondent figures the game, Watergate will seem as tame as an Easter-egg hunt.”

“How are the wives taking it?”

“Cooperating a hundred percent,” Fawcett answered. “The First Lady and Mrs. Margolin have volunteered to stay shut up in their bedrooms claiming to have a virus.”

“What now?” Lucas asked. “What else can we do?”

“We wait,” Fawcett replied, his voice wooden. “We stick it out until we find the President.”

“Looks to me like you’re overloading the circuits,” said Don Miller, Emmett’s deputy director of the FBI.

Emmett didn’t look up at Miller’s negative remark.

Within minutes after he had returned to the Bureau’s headquarters at Pennsylvania Avenue and Tenth Street he set into motion an All Bureaus Alert, followed by a standby for Emergency Action of the Highest Priority to every office in the fifty states and all agents on assignments overseas. Next came orders to pull files, records and descriptions on every criminal or terrorist who specialized in abduction.

His cover story to the Bureau’s six thousand agents was that the Secret Service had come on evidence of a planned abduction attempt on Secretary of State Oates and other as yet unnamed officials on high government levels.

“It may be a heavy conspiracy,” Emmett said finally, his tone vague. “We can’t take the chance the Secret Service is wrong.”

“They’ve been wrong before,” Miller said.

“Not on this one.”

Miller gave Emmett a curious look. “You’ve given out damned little information to work with. Why the great secrecy?”

Emmett didn’t answer, so Miller dropped the subject. He passed three file folders across the desk. “Here’s the latest data on PLO kidnapping operations, the Mexican Zapata Brigade’s hostage activities, and one I’m in the dark about.”

Emmett gave him a cold stare. “Can you be more explicit?”

“I doubt if there’s a connection, but since they acted strange—”

“Who are you talking about?” Emmett demanded, picking up the file and opening the cover.

“A Soviet representative to the United Nations, name of Aleksei Lugovoy—”

“A prominent psychologist,” Emmett noted as he read.

“Yes, he and several of his staff members on the World Health Assembly have gone missing.”

Emmett looked up. “We’ve lost them?”

Miller nodded. “Our United Nations surveillance agents report that the Russians left the building Friday night—”

“This is only Saturday morning,” Emmett interrupted. “You’re talking a few hours ago. What’s so suspicious about that?”

“They went to great lengths to shake our shadows. The special agent in charge of the New York bureau checked it out and discovered none of the Russians returned to their apartments or hotels. Collectively they dropped from sight.”

“Anything on Lugovoy?”

“All indications are he’s straight. He appears to steer clear of the Soviet mission’s KGB agents.”

“And his staff?”

“None of them have been observed engaging in espionage activities either.”

Emmett looked thoughtful for several moments. Ordinarily he might have brushed the report aside or at most ordered a routine follow-up. But he had a nagging doubt. The disappearance of the President and Lugovoy on the same night could be a mere coincidence. “I’d like your opinion, Don,” he said at last.

“Hard to second-guess this one,” Miller replied. “They may all show up at the United Nations on Monday as though nothing had happened. On the other hand, I’d have to suggest that the squeaky clean image Lugovoy and his staff have projected may be a screen.”

“For what purpose?”

Miller shrugged. “I haven’t a clue.”

Emmett closed the file. “Have the New York bureau stay on this. I want priority-one updates whenever they’re available.”

“The more I think about it,” Miller said, “the more it intrigues me.”

“How so?”

“What vital secrets could a bunch of Soviet psychologists want to steal?”

19

Successful shipping line magnates travel through the glittering waters of the international jet set in grand fashion. From exotic yachts to private airliners, from magnificent villas to resplendent hotel suites, they roam the world in an unending pursuit of power and wealth.

Min Koryo Bougainville cared nothing for a freewheeling lifestyle. She spent her waking hours in her office and her nights in small but elegant quarters on the floor above. She was frugal in most matters, her only weakness being a fondness for Chinese antiques.

When she was twelve, her father sold her to a Frenchman who operated a small shipping line consisting of three tramp steamers that plied the coastal ports between Pusan and Hong Kong. The line prospered and Min Koryo bore Rene Bougainville three sons. Then the war came and the Japanese overran China and Korea. Rene was killed in a bombing raid and the three sons were lost somewhere in the South Pacific, after being forced into the Imperial Japanese Army. Only Min Koryo and one grandson, Lee Tong, survived.

After Japan surrendered, she raised and salvaged one of her husband’s ships which had been sunk in Pusan harbor. Slowly she built up the Bougainville fleet, buying old surplus cargo ships, never paying more than their scrap value. Profits were few and far between, but she hung on until Lee Tong finished his master’s degree at the University of Pennsylvania’s Wharton School of Business and began running the day-to-day operation. Then, almost magically, the Bougainville Maritime Lines grew into one of the world’s largest fleet of ships. When their armada totaled 138 cargo ships and tankers, Lee Tong moved the principal offices to New York. In a ritual going back thirty years, he sat dutifully near her bedside in the evening discussing the current dealings of their far-flung financial empire.

Lee Tong wore the misleading look of a jolly Oriental peasant. His round brown face split in a perpetual smile that seemed chiseled in ivory. If the Justice Department and half the federal law-enforcement agencies had wanted to close the book on a backlog of unsolved maritime crimes, they would have hung him from the nearest streetlight, but, oddly, none had a file on him. He skirted in the shadow of his grandmother; he was not even listed as a director or an employee of Bougainville Maritime. Yet it was he, the anonymous member of the family, who handled the dirty-tricks department and built the base of the company.

Too systematic to place his faith in hired hands, he preferred to direct the highly profitable illicit operations from the front rank. His act often ran on blood. Lee Tong was not above murder to achieve a profit. He was equally at home during a business luncheon at the “21” Club or at a waterfront throat cutting.

He sat a respectful distance from Min Koryo’s bedside, a long silver cigarette holder planted between his uneven teeth. She disliked his smoking habit, but he clung to it, not so much as a pleasure but as a small measure of independence.

“By tomorrow the FBI will know how the President disappeared,” said Min Koryo.

“I doubt it,” Lee Tong said confidently. “The chemical analysis people are good, but not that good. I say closer to three days. And then a week to find the ship.”

“Enough time so no loose threads can be traced to us?”

“Enough time, aunumi,” said Lee Tong, addressing her in the Korean term for mother. “Rest assured, all threads lead to the grave.”

Min Koryo nodded. The inference was crystal clear: The handpicked team of seven men who had aided Lee Tong in the abduction had been murdered by his own hand.

“Still no news from Washington?” she asked.

“Not a word. The White House is acting as though nothing happened. In fact, they’re using a double for the President.”

She looked at him. “How did you learn that?”

“The six o’clock news. The TV cameras showed the President boarding Air Force One for a flight to his farm in New Mexico.”

“And the others?”

“They appear to have stand-ins too.”

Min Koryo sipped at a cup of tea. “Seems odd that we must depend on Secretary of State Oates and the President’s Cabinet to provide a successful masquerade until Lugovoy is ready.”

“The only road open to them,” said Lee Tong. “They won’t dare make any kind of an announcement until they know what happened to the President.”

Min Koryo stared at the tea leaves in the bottom of her cup. “Still, I must believe we may have taken too large a bite.”

Lee Tong nodded at her meaning. “I understand, aunumi. The congressmen just happened to be fish in the same net.”

“But not Margolin. It was your scheme to misguide him onto the yacht.”

“True, but Aleksei Lugovoy has stated his experiments have proven successful eleven out of fifteen times. Not exactly a perfect ratio. If he fails with the President, he has an extra guinea pig to produce the required result.”

“You mean three guinea pigs.”

“If you include Larimer and Moran in the rank of succession, yes.”

“And if Lugovoy succeeds in each case?” asked Min Koryo.

“So much the better,” answered Lee Tong. “Our influence would reach further than we originally dared hope. But I sometimes wonder, aunumi, if the financial rewards are worth risking imprisonment and the loss of our business.”

“Do not forget, Grandson, the Americans killed my husband, your father and his two brothers during the war.”

“Revenge makes for a poor gambling game.”

“All the more reason to protect our interests and guard against double-dealing by the Russians. President Antonov will do everything in his power to keep from paying our fee.”

“Should they be stupid enough to betray us at this crucial stage, they’d lose the whole project.”

“They don’t think that way,” said Min Koryo gravely. “The Communist mind thrives on mistrust. Integrity is beyond their comprehension. They’re driven to take the devious path. And that, my grandson, is their Achilles’ heel.”

“What are you thinking?”

“We continue to play the role of their honest but gullible partner.” She paused, thinking.

“And when Lugovoy’s project is finished?” Lee Tong prompted her.

She looked up and a crafty smile cut across her aging face. Her eyes gleamed with a cunning look. “Then we’ll pull the rug from under them.”

20

All identification and wristwatches were taken from the Russians when the Bougainvilles’ men transferred them from the Staten Island ferry in mid-channel. They were blindfolded, and padded radio headsets were placed over their ears that emitted soothing chamber music. Minutes later they were airborne, lifted from the dark harbor waters by a jet-engined seaplane.

The flight seemed long and wearisome, terminating, at last on what Lugovoy judged by the smooth landing was a lake. After a drive of twenty minutes, the disoriented Russians were led across a metal walkway and into an elevator. Only when they stepped out of the elevator and were led across a carpeted corridor to their bedrooms were the blindfolds and the earphones removed.

Lugovoy was profoundly impressed by the facilities provided by the Bougainvilles. The electronics and laboratory equipment went far beyond any he’d seen in the Soviet Union. Every piece of the several hundred items he had requested was present and installed. Nor had any creature comforts for his staff been overlooked. They were assigned individual sleeping quarters with private bathrooms, while at the end of the central corridor stretched an elegant dining room that was serviced by an excellent Korean chef and two waiters.

Furnishings, including kitchen freezers and ovens, office fixtures and the data control room were tastefully color-coordinated, with walls and carpeting in cool blues and greens. The design and execution of every detail was as exotic as it was complex.

And yet the self-contained habitat also served as a luxurious prison. Lugovoy’s staff was not permitted to come and go. The elevator doors were closed at all times and there were no outer controls. He made a compartment-to-compartment search but detected no windows or visible crack of an exterior exit. No sounds filtered in from the outside.

Further investigation was cut short by the arrival of his subjects. They were semi-conscious from the effects of sedation and oblivious to their surroundings. All four had been prepared and laid inside separate cubicles called cocoons. The padded insides were seamless, with rounded corners, giving no reference point for the eye to dwell on. Dim illumination came by reflection from an indirect light, tinting the cocoon monochrome gray. Specially constructed walls shielded all sound and electrical current that could interfere with or enhance brain activity.

Lugovoy sat at a console with two of his assistants and studied the row of color video monitors that revealed the subjects lying in their cocoons. Most remained in a trancelike state of limbo. One, however, was raised to a near level of consciousness, vulnerable to suggestion and mentally disoriented. Drugs were injected that numbed his muscle control, effectively paralyzing any body movement. His head was covered by a plastic skull cap.

Lugovoy still found it difficult to grasp the power he held. He trembled inwardly at knowing he was embarking on one of the great experiments of the century. What he did in the next days could affect the world as radically as the development of atomic energy.

“Dr. Lugovoy?”

Lugovoy’s concentration was interrupted by the strange voice, and he turned, surprised, to see a stocky man with rugged Slavic features and shaggy black hair who seemingly stepped out of a wall.

“Who are you?” he blurted.

The stranger spoke very softly as though he didn’t wish to be overheard. “Suvorov, Paul Suvorov, foreign security.”

Lugovoy paled. “My God, you’re KGB? How did you get here?”

“Pure luck,” Suvorov muttered sarcastically. “You were assigned to my security section for observation from the day you set foot in New York. After your suspicious visit to the Bougainville Maritime offices, I took over your surveillance myself. I was present on the ferryboat when you were contacted by the men who brought you here. Because of the darkness I had no difficulty mingling with your staff and being included for the trip to wherever it is we are. Since our arrival I’ve kept to my room.”

“Do you have any idea what you’ve stuck your nose into?” Lugovoy said, his face flushing with anger.

“Not yet,” Suvorov said, unperturbed. “But it is my duty to find out.”

“This operation originates from the highest level. It is of no concern to the KGB.”

“I’ll be the judge—”

“You’ll be crap in Siberian frost,” Lugovoy hissed, “if you interfere with my work here.”

Suvorov appeared mildly amused at Lugovoy’s irritated tone. It slowly began to dawn on him that he might have overstepped his authority. “Perhaps I could be of help to you.”

“How?”

“You may have need of my special skills.”

“I don’t require the services of an assassin.”

“I was thinking more of escape.”

“There is no reason to escape.”

Suvorov was becoming increasingly annoyed. “You must try to understand my position.”

Lugovoy was in command now. “There are more important problems to occupy my mind than your bureaucratic interference.”

“Like what?” Suvorov swept his hand around the room. “Just what is going on here?”

Lugovoy stared at him consideringly for a long moment before yielding to vanity. “A mind-intervention project.”

Suvorov’s eyebrows rose. “Mind intervention?”

“Brain control if you prefer.”

Suvorov faced the video monitor and nodded at the image. “Is that the reason for the small helmet?”

“On the subject’s head?”

“The same.”

“A microelectronic integrated circuit module containing a hundred and ten probes, measuring internal body functions ranging from common pulse to hormone secretions. It also intercepts data flowing through the subject’s brain and transmits it to the computers here in this room. The brain’s talk, so to speak, is then translated into a comprehensible language.”

“I see no electrode terminals.”

“From a bygone era,” answered Lugovoy. “Everything we wish to record can be telemetered through the atmosphere. We no longer rely on the unnecessary bulk of wires and terminals.”

“You can actually understand what he’s thinking?” asked Suvorov incredulously.

Lugovoy nodded. “The brain speaks a language of its own, and what it says reveals the inner thoughts of its landlord. Night and day, the brain speaks incessantly, providing us with a vivid look into the working mind, how a man thinks and why. The impressions are subliminal, so lightning-quick that only a computer designed to operate in picoseconds can memorize and decipher them.”

“I had no idea brain science had evolved to such a high level.”

“After we establish and chart his brain rhythms,” Lugovoy continued, “we can forecast his intentions and physical movements. We can tell when he is about to say or do something in error. And most important, we can intervene in time to stop him. In less than the blink of an eye the computer can erase his mistaken intent and rephrase his thought.”

Suvorov was awed. “A religious capitalist would accuse you of breaching man’s soul.”

“Like you, I am a loyal member of the Communist Party, Comrade Suvorov. I do not believe in the salvation of souls. However, in this case we can’t tolerate a drastic conversion. There’ll be no disruption of his fundamental thought processes. No change in speech patterns or mannerisms.”

“A form of controlled brainwashing.”

“This is not a crude brainwashing,” Lugovoy replied indignantly. “Our sophistication goes far beyond anything the Chinese invented. They still believe in destroying a subject’s ego in order to re-educate him. Their experiments in drugs and hypnosis have met with little success. Hypnosis is too vague, too slippery to have lasting value. And drugs have proved dangerous by accidentally producing a sudden shift in personality and behavior. When I finish with the subject here, he will re-enter reality and return to his personal lifestyle as though he’d never left it. All I intend to do is alter his political perspective.”

“Who is the subject?”

“Don’t you know? Don’t you recognize him?”

Suvorov studied the video display. Gradually his eyes widened and he moved two steps closer to the screen, his face taut, his mouth working mechanically. “The President?” His voice was an unbelieving whisper. “Is that really the President of the United States?”

“In the flesh.”

“How… where…?”

“A gift from our hosts,” Lugovoy explained vaguely.

“He’ll suffer no side effects?” Suvorov asked in a haze.

“None.”

“Will he remember any of this?”

“He will recall only going to bed when he wakes up ten days from now.”

“You can do this thing, really do it?” Suvorov questioned with a security man’s persistence.

“Yes,” Lugovoy said with a confident gleam behind his eyes. “And much more.”

21

A mad flapping of wings broke the early morning stillness as two pheasants broke toward the sky. Soviet President Georgi Antonov snapped the over-and-under Purdey shotgun to his shoulder and pulled the two triggers in quick succession. The twin blasts echoed through the mist-dampened forest. One of the birds suddenly stopped flying and fell to the ground.

Vladimir Polevoi, head of the Committee for State Security, waited an instant until he was sure Antonov had missed the second pheasant before he brought it down with one shot.

Antonov fixed his KGB director with a hard-eyed stare. “Showing up your boss again, Vladimir?”

Polevoi read Antonov’s mock anger correctly. “Your shot was difficult, Comrade President. Mine was quite easy.”

“You should have joined the Foreign Ministry instead of the Secret Police,” Antonov said, laughing. “Your diplomacy ranks with Gromyko’s.” He paused and looked around the forest. “Where is our French host?”

“President L’Estrange is seventy meters to our left.” Polevoi’s statement was punctuated by a volley of gunshots somewhere out of sight beyond the undergrowth.

“Good,” grunted Antonov. “We can have a few minutes of conversation.” He held out the Purdey to Polevoi, who replaced the empty shells and clicked the safety switch.

Polevoi moved in close and spoke in a low tone. “I would caution about speaking too freely. French intelligence has listening probes everywhere.”

“Secrets seldom last long these days,” Antonov said with a sigh.

Polevoi cracked a knowing smile. “Yes, our operatives recorded the meeting between L’Estrange and his Finance Minister last night.”

“Any revelations I should know about?”

“Nothing of value. Most of their conversation centered on persuading you to accept the American President’s financial assistance program.”

“If they’re stupid enough to believe I would not take advantage of the President’s naive generosity, they’re also stupid enough to think I agreed to fly here to discuss it.”

“Rest assured, the French are completely unaware of the true nature of your visit.”

“Any late word from New York?”

“Only that Huckleberry Finn exceeded our projections.” Polevoi’s Russian tongue pronounced Huckleberry as Gulkleberry.

“And all goes well?”

“The trip is under way.”

“So the old bitch accomplished what we thought was impossible.”

“The mystery is how she managed it.”

Antonov stared at him. “We don’t know?”

“No, sir. She refused to take us into her confidence. Her son shielded her operation like the Kremlin wall. So far we haven’t been able to penetrate her security.”

“The Chinese whore,” Antonov snarled. “Who does she think she’s dealing with, empty-headed schoolboys?”

“I believe her ancestry is Korean,” said Polevoi.

“No difference.” Antonov stopped and sat down heavily on a fallen log. “Where is the experiment taking place?”

Polevoi shook his head. “We don’t know that either.”

“Have you no communication with Comrade Lugovoy?”

“He and his staff departed lower Manhattan Island on the Staten Island ferry late Friday night. They never stepped ashore at the landing. We lost all contact.”

“I want to know where they are,” Antonov said evenly. “I want to know the exact location of the experiment.”

“I have our best agents working on it.”

“We can’t allow her to keep us wandering in the dark, especially when there is one billion American dollars’ worth of our gold reserves at stake.”

Polevoi gave the Communist Party Chairman a crafty look. “Do you intend to pay her fee?”

“Does the Volga melt in January?” Antonov replied with a broad grin.

“She won’t be an easy prey to outfox.”

The sound of feet tramping through the underbrush could be heard. Antonov’s eyes flickered to the ground-keepers who were approaching with the downed pheasants and then back to Polevoi.

“Just find Lugovoy,” he said softly, “and the rest will take care of itself.”

Four miles away in a sound truck two men sat in front of a sophisticated microwave receiving set. Beside them two reel-to-reel tape decks were recording Antonov and Polevoi’s conversation in the woods.

The men were electronic surveillance specialists with the SDECE, France’s intelligence service. Both could interpret six languages, including Russian. In unison they lifted their earphones and exchanged curious looks.

“What in hell do you suppose that was all about?” said one.

The second man gave a Gallic shrug. “Who can say? Probably some kind of Russian double-talk.”

“I wonder if an analyst can make anything important out of it?”

“Important or not, we’ll never know.”

The first man paused, held an earphone to his ear for a few moments and then set it down again. “They’re talking with President L’Estrange now. That’s all we’re going to get.”

“Okay, let’s close down shop and get the recordings to Paris. I’ve got a date at six o’clock.”

22

The sun was two hours above the eastern edge of the city when Sandecker drove through a back gate of Washington’s National Airport. He stopped the car beside a seemingly deserted hangar standing in a weed-covered part of the field far beyond the airlines’ maintenance area. He walked to a side door whose weathered wood had long since shed its paint and pressed a small button opposite a large rusting padlock. After a few seconds the door silently swung open.

The cavernous interior was painted a glossy white, which brightly reflected the sun’s rays through huge skylights in the curved roof, and had the look of a transportation museum. The polished concrete floor held four long orderly rows of antique and classic automobiles. Most gleamed as elegantly as the day their coachmakers added the finishing touch. A few were in various stages of restoration. Sandecker lingered by a majestic 1921 Rolls-Royce Silver Ghost with coach-work by Park-Ward and a massive red 1925 Isotta-Fraschini with a torpedo body by Sala.

The two centerpieces were an old Ford trimotor aircraft known to aviation enthusiasts as the “tin goose” and an early-twentieth-century railroad Pullman car with the words MANHATTAN LIMITED painted in gilded letters on its steel side.

Sandecker made his way up a circular iron stairway to a glass-enclosed apartment that spanned the upper level across one end of the hangar. The living room was decorated in marine antiques. One wall was lined with shelves supporting delicately crafted ship models in glass cases.

He found Pitt standing in front of a stove studying a strange-looking mixture in a frying pan. Pitt wore a pair of khaki hiking shorts, tattered tennis shoes and a T-shirt with the words RAISE THE LUSITANIA across the front.

“You’re just in time to eat, Admiral.”

“What have you got there?” asked Sandecker, eyeing the mixture with suspicion.

“Nothing fancy. A spicy Mexican omelet.”

“I’ll settle for a cup of coffee and half a grapefruit.”

Pitt served as they sat down at a kitchen table and poured the coffee. Sandecker frowned and waved a newspaper in the air. “You made page two.”

“I hope I do as well in other papers.”

“What do you expect to prove?” Sandecker demanded. “Holding a press conference and claiming you found the San Marino, which you didn’t, and the Pilottown, which is supposed to be top secret. Have you lost your gray matter?”

Pitt paused between bites of the omelet. “I made no mention of the nerve agent.”

“Fortunately the Army quietly buried it yesterday.”

“No harm done. Now that the Pilottown is empty, she’s just another rusting shipwreck.”

“The President won’t see it that way. If he wasn’t in New Mexico, we’d both be picking our asses out of a White House carpet by now.”

Sandecker was interrupted by a buzzing noise. Pitt rose from the table and pushed a switch on a small panel.

“Somebody at the door?” inquired Sandecker.

Pitt nodded.

“This is a Florida grapefruit.” Sandecker grumbled, spitting out a seed.

“So?”

“I prefer Texas.”

“I’ll make a note,” said Pitt with a grin.

“Getting back to your cockamamie story,” Sandecker said, squeezing out the last drops of juice in a spoon, “I’d like to know your reasoning.”

Pitt told him.

“Why not let the Justice Department handle it?” Sandecker asked. “That’s what they’re paid for.”

Pitt’s eyes hardened and he pointed his fork menacingly. “Because the Justice people will never be called in to investigate. The government isn’t about to admit over three hundred deaths were caused by a stolen nerve agent that isn’t supposed to exist. Lawsuits and damaging publicity would go on for years. They want to whitewash the whole mess into oblivion. The Augustine Volcano eruption was timely. Later today the President’s press secretary will hand out a bogus cover-up blaming sulphuric gas clouds for the deaths.”

Sandecker looked at him sternly for a moment. Then he asked, “Who told you that?”

“I did,” came a feminine voice from the doorway.

Loren’s face was wrapped in a disarming smile. She had been out jogging and was dressed in brief red satin shorts with a matching tank top and headband. The Virginia humidity had brought out the sweat and she was still a little breathless. She dried her face with a small towel that was tucked in her waistband.

Pitt made the introductions. “Admiral James Sandecker, Congresswoman Loren Smith.”

“We’ve sat across from each other during Maritime Committee meetings,” said Loren, extending her hand.

Sandecker didn’t need clairvoyance to read Pitt and Loren’s relationship. “Now I see why you’ve always looked kindly on my NUMA budget proposals.”

If Loren felt any embarrassment at his insinuation, she didn’t show it. “Dirk is a very persuasive lobbyist,” she said sweetly.

“Like some coffee?” asked Pitt.

“No, thanks. I’m too thirsty for coffee.” She went over to the refrigerator and poured herself a glass of buttermilk.

“You know the subject of Press Secretary Thompson’s news release?” Sandecker prompted her.

Loren nodded. “My press aide and his wife are chummy with the Sonny Thompsons. They all had dinner together last night. Thompson mentioned that the White House was laying the Alaskan tragedy to rest, but that was all. He didn’t slip the details.”

Sandecker turned to Pitt. “If you persist in this vendetta, you’ll be stepping on a lot of toes.”

“I won’t give it up,” Pitt said gravely.

Sandecker looked at Loren. “And you, Congress-woman Smith?”

“Loren.”

“Loren,” he obliged. “May I ask what your interest is in this?”

She hesitated for a fraction of a second and then said, “Let’s just say congressional curiosity about a possible government scandal.”

“You haven’t told her the true purpose behind your Alaskan fishing expedition?” Sandecker asked Pitt.

“No.”

“I think you should tell her.”

“Do I have your official permission?”

The admiral nodded. “A friend in Congress will come in handy before your hunt is over.”

“And you, Admiral, where do you stand?” Pitt asked him.

Sandecker stared hard across the table at Pitt, examining every feature of the craggy face as though he were seeing it for the first time, wondering what manner of man would step far beyond normal bounds for no personal gain. He read only a fierce determination. It was an expression he had seen many times in the years he’d known Pitt.

“I’ll back you until the President orders your ass shot,” he said at last. “Then you’re on your own.”

Pitt held back an audible sigh of relief. It was going to be all right. Better than all right.

Min Koryo looked down at the newspaper on her desk. “What do you make of this?”

Lee Tong leaned over her shoulder and read the opening sentences of the article aloud. “ ‘It was announced yesterday by Dirk Pitt, Special Projects Director for NUMA, that two ships missing for over twenty years have been found. The San Marino and the Pilottown, both Liberty-class vessels built during World War Two, were discovered on the seafloor in the North Pacific off Alaska.’ “

“A bluff!” Min Koryo snapped. “Someone in Washington, probably from the Justice Department, had nothing better to do, so they sent up a trial balloon. They’re on a fishing expedition, nothing more.”

“I think you’re only half right, aunumi,” Lee Tong said thoughtfully. “I suspect that while NUMA was searching for the source behind the deaths in Alaskan waters, they stumbled on the ship containing the nerve agent.”

“And this press release is a scheme to ferret out the true owners of that ship,” Min Koryo added.

Lee Tong nodded. “The government is gambling we will make an inquiry that can be traced.”

Min Koryo sighed. “A pity the ship wasn’t sunk as planned.”

Lee Tong came around and sank into a chair in front of the desk. “Bad luck,” he said, thinking back. “After the explosives failed to detonate, the storm hit, and I was unable to reboard the ship.”

“You can’t be faulted for nature’s whims,” Min Koryo said impassively. “The true blame lies with the Russians. If they hadn’t backed out of their bargain to buy Nerve Agent S, there would have been no need to scuttle the ship.”

“They were afraid the agent was too unstable to transport across Siberia to their chemical warfare arsenal in the Urals.”

“What’s puzzling is how did NUMA tie the two ships together?”

“I can’t say, aunumi. We were careful to strip every piece of identification.”

“No matter,” Min Koryo said. “The fact remains, the article in the newspaper is a ploy. We must remain silent and do nothing to jeopardize our anonymity.”

“What about the man who made the announcement?” Lee Tong asked. “This Dirk Pitt?”

A long, cold, brooding look came over Min Koryo’s narrow face. “Investigate his motives and observe his movements. See where he fits in the picture. If he appears to be a danger to us, arrange his funeral.”

The gray of evening softened the harsh outlines of Los Angeles, and the lights came on, pimpling the sides of the buildings. The noise of the street traffic rose and seeped through the old-fashioned sash window. The tracks were warped and jammed under a dozen coats of paint. It hadn’t been opened in thirty years. Outside, an air conditioner rattled in its brackets.

The man sat in an aging wooden swivel chair and stared unseeing through the grime filming the glass. He stared through eyes that had seen the worst the city had to give. They were hard, stark eyes, still clear and undimmed after sixty years. He sat in shirtsleeves, the well-worn leather of a holster slung over his left shoulder. The butt of a.45 automatic protruded from it. He was large-boned and stocky. The muscles had softened over the years, but he could still lift a two-hundred-pound man off the sidewalk and imbed him in a brick wall.

The chair creaked as he swung around and leaned over a desk that was battle-scarred with uncountable cigarette burns. He picked up a folded newspaper and read the article on the ship discoveries for perhaps the tenth time. Pulling open a drawer, he searched out a dog-eared folder and stared at the cover for a long while. Long ago he had memorized every word on the papers inside. Along with the newspaper he slipped it inside a worn leather briefcase.

He rose and stepped over to a washbowl hung in one corner of the room and rinsed his face with cold water. Then he donned a coat and a battered fedora, turned off the light and left the office.

As he stood in the hallway waiting for the elevator, he was surrounded by the smells of the aging building. The mold and rot seemed stronger with each passing day. Thirty-five years at the same stand was a long time, he mused, too long.

His thoughts were interrupted by the clatter of the elevator door. An operator who looked to be in his seventies gave him a yellow-toothed grin. “Callin’ it quits for the night?” he asked.

“No, I’m taking the red-eye flight to Washington.”

“New case?”

“An old one.”

There were no more questions and they rode the rest of the way in silence. As he stepped into the lobby he nodded at the operator. “See you in a couple of days, Joe.”

Then he passed through the main door and melted into the night.

23

To most, his name was Hiram Yaeger. To a Select few he was known as Pinocchio because he could stick his nose into a vast number of computer networks and sift over their software. His playground was the tenth-floor communications and information network of NUMA.

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.”

Pitt gratefully left Yaeger at NUMA headquarters and drove across the river to the airport. He stopped the Talbot-Lago in front of his hangar door, slipped a small transmitter from his coat pocket and pressed a preset code. In sequence the security alarm systems closed down and the massive door lifted to a height of seven feet. He parked the car inside and reversed the process. Then wearily he climbed the stairway, entered the living room and turned on the lights.

A man was sitting in Pitt’s favorite reading chair, his hands folded on a briefcase that rested on his lap. There was a patient look about him, almost deadly, with only the tiniest hint of an indifferent smile. He wore an old-fashioned fedora hat and his custom-tailored coat, specially cut to conceal a lethal bulge, was unbuttoned just enough to reveal the butt of a.45 automatic.

For a moment they stared at each other, neither speaking, like fighters sizing up their opponents.

At last Pitt broke the silence. “I guess the appropriate thing to say is, Who the hell are you?”

The thin smile broadened into a set grin. “I’m a private investigator, Mr. Pitt. My name is Casio, Sal Casio.”

24

“You have any problem entering?”

“Your security system is good — not great, but good enough to discourage most burglars and juvenile vandals.”

“That mean I flunked the test?”

“Not entirely. I’d grade you a C-plus.”

Pitt moved very slowly to an antique oak icebox he’d rebuilt into a liquor cabinet and eased open the door. “Would you like a drink, Mr. Casio?”

“A shot of Jack Daniel’s on ice, thanks.”

“A lucky guess. I happen to have a bottle.”

“I peeked,” said Casio. “Oh, and by the way, I took the liberty of removing the clip from the gun.”

“Gun?” Pitt asked innocently.

“The.32-caliber Mauser automatic, serial number 922374, cleverly taped behind the half-gallon bottle of gin.”

Pitt gave Casio a long look indeed. “How long did it take?”

“To make a search?”

Pitt nodded silently as he opened the refrigerator door for the ice.

“About forty-five minutes.”

“And you found the other two guns I squirreled away.”

“Three actually.”

“You’re very thorough.”

“Nothing that is hidden in a house can’t be found. And some of us are more talented at probing than others. It’s simply a matter of technique.” There was nothing boastful in Casio’s tone. He spoke as though merely stating an accepted truth.

Pitt poured the drink and brought it into the living room on a tray. Casio took the glass with his right hand. Then suddenly Pitt dropped the tray, exposing a small vest-pocket.25-caliber automatic aimed at Casio’s forehead.

Casio’s only reaction was a thin smile. “Very good,” he said approvingly. “So there were a total of five.”

“Inside an empty milk carton,” Pitt explained.

“Nicely done, Mr. Pitt. A clever touch, waiting until my gun hand was holding a glass. That shows you were thinking. I’ll have to mark you up to a B-minus.”

Pitt clicked on the safety and lowered the gun. “If you came here to kill me, Mr. Casio, you could have blown me away when I stepped through the door. What’s on your mind?”

Casio nodded down at his briefcase. “May I?”

“Go ahead.”

He set the drink down, opened the case and pulled out a bulging cardboard folder that was held together with rubber bands. “A case I’ve worked on since 1966.”

“A long time. You must be a stubborn man.”

“I hate to let go of it,” Casio admitted. “It’s like walking away from a jigsaw puzzle before it’s completed, or putting down a good book. Sooner or later every investigator gets on a case that has him staring at the ceiling nights, the case he can never solve. This one has a personal tie, Mr. Pitt. It began twenty-three years ago when a girl, a bank teller by the name of Arta Casilighio, stole $128,000 from a bank in Los Angeles.”

“How can that concern me?”

“She was last seen boarding a ship called the San Marino.”

“Okay, so you read the press story about the shipwreck discovery.”

“Yes.”

“And you think this girl disappeared with the San Marino?”

“I’m certain of it.”

“Then your case is solved. The thief is dead and the money gone forever.”

“Not that simple,” said Casio, staring into his glass. “There’s no doubt Arta Casilighio is dead, but the money is not gone forever. Arta took freshly printed currency from the Federal Reserve Bank. All serial numbers were recorded, so it was an easy matter to account for the missing bills.” Casio paused to look over his glass into Pitt’s eyes. “Two years ago the missing money finally turned up.”

Sudden interest flared in Pitt’s eyes. He sat down in a chair facing Casio. “All of it?” he asked cautiously.

Casio nodded. “It appeared in dribbles and spurts. Five thousand in Frankfurt, a thousand in Cairo, all in foreign banks. None came to light in the United States, except one hundred-dollar bill.”

“Then Arta didn’t die on the San Marino.”

“She vanished with the ship all right. The FBI connected her to a stolen passport belonging to an Estelle Wallace. With that lead they were able to follow her as far as San Francisco. Then they lost her. I kept digging and finally ran down a drifter who sometimes drove a cab when he needed booze money. He remembered hauling her to the boarding ramp of the San Marino.”

“Can you trust the memory of a lush?”

Casio smiled confidently. “Arta gave him a crisp new hundred-dollar bill for the fare. He couldn’t make change so she told him to keep it. Believe me, it took little effort for him to recall the event.”

“If stolen Federal Reserve currency is in FBI jurisdiction, where do you fit in the picture? Why the dogged pursuit of a criminal whose trail is ice cold?”

“Before I shortened my name for business reasons, it was Casilighio. Arta was my daughter.”

There was an uncomfortable silence. From outside the windows overlooking the river came the rumble of a jetliner taking off. Pitt stood up and went into the kitchen, where he poured a cup of coffee from a cold pot and placed it in a microwave oven. “Care for another drink, Mr. Casio?”

Casio shook his head.

“So the bottom line is that you think there’s something queer about your daughter’s disappearance?”

“She and the ship never made port, but the money she stole turns up in a manner that suggests it’s being laundered a little at a time. Doesn’t that suggest a queer circumstance to you, Mr. Pitt?”

“I can’t deny you make a good case.” The microwave beeped and Pitt retrieved a steaming cup. “But I’m not sure what you want from me.”

“I have some questions.”

Pitt sat down, his interest going beyond mere curiosity. “Don’t expect detailed answers.”

“I understand.”

“Fire away.”

“Where did you find the San Marino? I mean in what part of the Pacific Ocean?”

“Near the southern coast of Alaska,” Pitt replied vaguely.

“A bit far off the track for a ship steaming from San Francisco to New Zealand, wouldn’t you say?”

“Way off the track,” Pitt agreed.

“As far as two thousand miles?”

“And then some.” Pitt took a swallow of coffee and made a face. It was strong enough to use as brick mortar. He looked up. “Before we continue it’s going to cost you.”

Casio gave him a reappraising eye. “Somehow you never struck me as the type who’d extend a greasy palm.”

“I’d like to have the names of the banks in Europe that passed the stolen money.”

“Any particular reason?” Casio asked, not bothering to conceal his puzzlement.

“None I can tell you about.”

“You’re not very cooperative.”

Pitt started to reply, but the phone on an end table rang loudly.

“Hello.”

“Dirk, this is Yaeger. You still awake.”

“Thank you for calling. How is Sally? Is she out of intensive care yet?”

“Can’t talk, huh?”

“Not too well.”

“But you can listen.”

“No problem.”

“Bad news. I’m not getting anywhere. I’d stand a better chance of throwing a deck of cards in the air and catching a straight flush.”

“Maybe I can knock down the odds. Hold on a minute.” Pitt turned to Casio. “About that list of banks.”

Casio slowly rose, poured himself another shot of Jack Daniel’s and stood with his back to Pitt.

“A trade-off, Mr. Pitt. The bank list for what you know about the San Marino.”

“Most of my information is government classified.”

“I don’t give a damn if it’s stenciled on the inside of the President’s jockey shorts. Either we deal or I pack up and hike.”

“How do you know I won’t lie?”

“My list could be phony.”

“Then we’ll just have to trust each.other,” said Pitt with a loose grin.

“The hell we will,” grunted Casio. “But neither of us has any choice.”

He took a sheet of paper from the folder and handed it to Pitt, who in turn read off the names over the phone to Yaeger.

“Now what?” Casio demanded.

“Now I tell you what happened to the San Marino. And by breakfast I may also be able to tell you who killed your daughter.”

25

Fifteen minutes after sunrise, the photoelectric controllers in all of Washington’s streetlights closed off their circuits. One by one, separated by no more than a few seconds, the yellow and red rays of the high-pressure sodium lamps faded and died, to wait through the daylight hours until fifteen minutes before sunset, when their light-sensitive controllers would boost them to life again.

Beneath the dimming glow of the streetlights, Sam Emmett could hear the vibration from the early-morning traffic as he walked hurriedly through the utility tunnel. There was no Marine Corps or Secret Service escort. He came alone, as did the others. The only person he’d met since leaving his car under the Treasury building was the White House guard stationed at the basement door. At the head of the hallway leading to the Situation Room, Emmett was greeted by Alan Mercier.

“You’re the last,” Mercier informed him.

Emmett checked his watch and noted he was five minutes early. “Everyone?” he questioned.

“Except for Simmons in Egypt and Lucas, who’s giving your speech at Princeton, they’re all present.”

As he entered, Oates motioned him to a chair beside his, while Dan Fawcett, General Metcalf, CIA chief Martin Brogan and Mercier gathered around the conference table.

“I’m sorry for moving the scheduled meeting up by four hours,” Oates began, “but Sam informed me that his investigators have determined how the kidnapping took place.” Without further explanation he nodded to the FBI Director.

Emmett passed out folders to each of the men at the table, then rose, moved to a blackboard and took a piece of chalk. Quickly and to precise scale he drew in the river, the grounds of Mount Vernon and the presidential yacht tied to the dock. Then he filled in the detail and labeled specific areas. The completed drawing had a realism about it that suggested a talent for architectural design.

Satisfied finally that each piece of the scene was in its correct place, he turned and faced his audience. “We’ll walk through the event chronologically,” he explained. “I’ll briefly summarize while you gentlemen study the details shown in the report. Some of what I’m about to describe is based on tact and hard evidence. Some is conjecture. We have to fill in the blanks as best we can.”

Emmett wrote in a time on the upper left corner of the blackboard.

“1825: The Eagle arrives at Mount Vernon, where the Secret Service has installed its security network and the surveillance begins.

“2015: The President and his guests sit down to dinner. In the same hour, officers and the crew began their meal in the mess-room. The only men on duty were the chef, one assistant and the dining-room steward. This fact is important because we feel that it was during dinner that the President, his party, and the ship’s crew were drugged.”

“Drugged or poisoned?” Oates said, looking up.

“Nothing so drastic as poison,” Emmett answered. “A mild drug that induced a gradual state of drowsiness was probably administered in their food by either the chef or the steward who served the table.”

“Sounds practical,” said Brogan. “It wouldn’t do to have bodies dropping all over the decks.”

Emmett paused to gather his thoughts. “The Secret Service agent whose post was on board the yacht the hour before midnight reported the President and Vice President Margolin were the last to retire. Time: 2310.”

“That’s too early for the President,” said Dan Fawcett. “I’ve seldom known him to be in bed before two in the morning.”

“0025: A light mist drifts in from the northeast. Followed at 0135 by a heavy fog caused by two Navy surplus fogging generators concealed in the trees one hundred and sixty yards upriver from the Eagle.”

“They could blanket the entire area?” Oates asked.

“Under the right atmospheric conditions — in this case, no wind — the units left on site by the kidnappers can cover two square acres.”

Fawcett looked lost. “My God, this operation must have taken an army.”

Emmett shook his head. “Our projections figure it took as few as seven and certainly no more than ten men.”

“Surely the Secret Service scouted the woods surrounding Mount Vernon before the President’s arrival,” said Fawcett. “How did they miss the foggers?”

“The units weren’t in place prior to 1700 the night of the abduction,” replied Emmett.

“How could the equipment operators see what they were doing in the dark?” Fawcett pressed. “Why weren’t their movements and the sound of the generators overheard?”

“Infrared night visual gear would answer your first question. And the noise made by the equipment was muffled by the mooing of cattle.”

Brogan gave a thoughtful twist of his head. “Who would have ever thought of that?”

“Somebody did,” said Emmett. “They left the tape recorder and an amplifier behind with the foggers.”

“It says here the only thing the security people noticed was an oily aroma to the fog.”

Emmett nodded. “The fogger heats a deodorized kerosene type of fuel to a high pressure and blows it out a nozzle in very fine droplets, producing the fog.”

“Let’s move on to the next event,” said Oates.

“0150: The small chase boat moors to the dock because of limited visibility. Three minutes later the Coast Guard cutter notifies agent George Blackowl at the Secret Service command post that a high-intensity signal is jamming their radar reception. They also apprised agent Blackowl that before their equipment went blind the only contact on their oscilloscope was a city sanitation tugboat and its trash barges that tied up to the bank to wait out the fog.”

Metcalf looked up. “Tied up how far away?”

“Two hundred yards upriver.”

“Then the tug was above the artificial fog.”

“A crucial point,” Emmett acknowledged, “which we’ll come to later.”

He turned to the blackboard and wrote in another time sequence. The room fell quiet. The men seated around the long table sat in rocklike stillness waiting for Emmett to reveal the final solution to the presidential abduction.

“0200: The agents moved to their new guard posts. Agent Lyle Brock took up station on board the Eagle after agent Karl Polaski relieved him on the pier entrance. What is most important is that during this time the Eagle was hidden from his sight. He later walked to the boarding gangway of the yacht and talked to someone he thought was Brock. Brock by now was either unconscious or dead. Polaski did not notice anything suspicious except that Brock appeared to have forgotten his next post.”

“Polaski couldn’t tell he was talking with a stranger?” questioned Oates.

“They conversed from at least ten feet away from each other in low tones so they wouldn’t disturb anyone on the yacht. When the 0300 post change came around, Brock simply melted into the fog. Agent Polaski states that he was never able to see more than a vague figure. It wasn’t until 0348 that agent Edward McGrath discovered that Brock was not at his scheduled post. McGrath then notified Blackowl, who met him on the Eagle four minutes later. The yacht was searched and found empty, except for Polaski who had moved on board to replace Brock.”

Emmett placed the chalk back in the tray and wiped his hands together. “The rest is cut and dried. Who was alerted and when… the results of a fruitless search on the river and around the grounds of Mount Vernon… the roadblocks that failed to produce the missing men… and so on.”

“What was the disposition of the tugboat and trash barges after the alert?” Metcalf questioned cannily.

“The barges were found moored to the riverbank,” Emmett answered him. “The tug was gone.”

“So much for facts,” said Oates. “The prize question is: How were almost twenty men spirited off the yacht under the noses of an army of Secret Service agents and passed undetected through the most advanced security alarm system that money can buy?”

“Your answer is, Mr. Secretary, they weren’t.”

Oates’s eyebrows raised. “How was it done?”

Emmett noticed a smug expression on Metcalf’s face. “I think the general has figured it out.”

“I wish someone would tell me,” said Fawcett.

Emmett took a deep breath before he spoke. “The yacht that agents Blackowl and McGrath found deserted is not the same yacht that carried the President and his party to Mount Vernon.”

“Son of a bitch!” gasped Mercier.

“That’s hard to swallow,” said Oates skeptically.

Emmett picked up the chalk again and began diagramming. “About fifteen minutes after the fogging generators began laying a dense cloud over the river and Mount Vernon, the abduction team transmitted on the Coast Guard’s radar frequency and knocked it out of commission. Upriver the sanitation tugboat — except in this instance it was not a river tug but a yacht identical in every detail to the Eagle—cast off from the barges, which we found to be empty, and slowly cruised downstream. Its radar, of course, was operating on a different frequency from the Coast Guard’s.”

Emmett drew in the path of the approaching yacht, “When it was fifty yards from the Mount Vernon pier and the stern of the Eagle, it shut down its engines and drifted with the current, which was running about one knot. Then the abductors—”

“What I’d like to know is how they got on board in the first place,” Mercier interrupted.

Emmett made a shrugging gesture with his hands. “We don’t know. Our best guess at the moment is that they killed the galley crew earlier in the day and took their places, using counterfeit Coast Guard identification and orders.”

“Please continue your findings,” Oates persisted.

“Then the abductors on the yacht,” Emmett repeated, “untied the mooring lines, allowing the Eagle to drift silently from the pier to make room for its double. Polaski heard nothing from his post near the bank, because any strange sounds were covered by the hum of the engine-room generators. Then, once the bogus yacht was tied to the pier its crew, probably no more than two men, rowed a small dinghy to the Eagle and escaped with the others downriver. One remained, however, to impersonate agent Brock. By the time Polaski conversed with Brock’s impersonator, the switch had already been made. At the next post change, the man calling himself Brock slipped off and joined the men operating the foggers. Together they drove off and swung on the highway toward Alexandria. We know that much by footprints and tire tracks.”

Everyone but Emmett focused his attention on the blackboard, as if trying to visualize the scene. The incredible timing, the ease with which presidential security was breached, the smoothness of the entire operation, staggered everyone.

“I can’t help but admire the execution,” General Metcalf said. “They must have taken a long time to plan this thing.”

“Our estimate is three years,” said Emmett.

“Where could they possibly have found an identical boat?” Fawcett muttered to no one in particular.

“My investigating team considered that. They traced the old boating records and found that the original builder constructed the Eagle and a sister ship named the Samantha at the same time. The last registered owner of the Samantha was a stockbroker in Baltimore. He sold it about three years ago to a guy named Dunn. That’s all he could tell us. It was an under-the-table cash transaction to beat a profit tax. He never saw Dunn or the yacht again. The Samantha was never registered or licensed under the new owner. They both dropped from sight.”

“Was it identical in every respect to the Eagle?” Brogan asked.

“A creative job of deception. Every stick of furniture, bulkhead decor, paint and equipment is a perfect match.”

Fawcett nervously tapped a pencil on the table. “How did you catch on?”

“Every time you enter and leave a room, you leave particles of your presence behind. Hair, dandruff, lint, fingerprints — they can all be detected. My lab people couldn’t find one tiny hint that the President or the others had ever been on board.”

Oates straightened in his chair. “The Bureau has done a magnificent job, Sam. We’re all grateful.”

Emmett gave a curt nod and sat down.

“The yacht transfer brings up a new angle,” Oates continued. “As gruesome as it sounds, we have to consider the possibility they were all assassinated.”

“We’ve got to find the yacht,” Mercier said grimly.

Emmett looked at him. “I’ve already ordered a surface and air search.”

“You won’t find it that way,” Metcalf interjected. “We’re dealing with damned smart people. They’re not about to leave it lying around where it can be found.”

Fawcett poised his pencil in midair. “Are you saying the yacht was destroyed?”

“That may well be the case,” Metcalf said, apprehension forming in his eyes. “If so, we have to be prepared to find corpses.”

Oates leaned on his elbows and rubbed his face with his hands and wished he was anyplace but in that room at that moment. “We’re going to have to spread our trust,” he said finally. “The best man I can think of for an underwater search is Jim Sandecker over at NUMA.”

“I concur,” said Fawcett. “His special project team has just wrapped up a ticklish job off Alaska, where they found the ship responsible for widespread contamination.”

“Will you brief him, Sam?” Oates asked Emmett.

“I’ll go directly from here to his office.”

“Well, I guess that’s it for now,’ Oates said, exhaustion creeping into his voice. “Good or bad, we have a lead. Only God knows what we’ll have after we find the Eagle.” He hesitated, staring up at the blackboard. Then he said, “I don’t envy the first man who steps inside.”

26

Every morning, including Saturdays and Sundays, Admiral Sandecker jogged the six miles from his Watergate apartment to the NUMA headquarters building. He had just stepped out of the bathroom shower adjoining his office when his secretary’s voice came over a speaker above the sink: “Admiral, Mr. Emmett is here to see you.”

Sandecker was vigorously toweling his hair and he was not sure he heard the name right. “Sam Emmett, as in FBI?”

“Yes, sir. He asked to see you immediately. He says it’s extremely urgent.”

Sandecker saw his face turn incredulous in the mirror. The esteemed Director of the FBI did not make office calls at eight in the morning. The Washington bureaucratic game had rules. Everyone from the President on down abided by them. Emmett’s unannounced visit could only mean a dire emergency.

“Send him right in.”

He barely had time to throw on a terry-cloth robe, his skin still dripping, when Emmett strode through the door.

“Jim, we’ve got a hell of a problem.” Emmett didn’t bother with a preliminary handshake. He quickly laid his briefcase on Sandecker’s desk, opened it and handed the admiral a folder. “Sit down and look this over, and then we’ll discuss it.”

Sandecker was not a man to be shoved and ordered around, but he could read the tension in Emmett’s eyes, and he did as he was asked without comment.

Sandecker studied the contents of the folder for nearly ten minutes without speaking. Emmett sat on the other side of the desk and looked for an expression of shock or anger. There was none. Sandecker remained enigmatic. At last he closed the folder and said simply, “How can I help?”

“Find the Eagle.”

“You think they sank her?”

“An air and surface search has turned up nothing.”

“All right, I’ll get my best people on it.” Sandecker made a movement toward his intercom. Emmett raised his hand in a negative gesture.

“I don’t have to describe the chaos if this leaks out.”

“I’ve never lied to my staff before.”

“You’ll have to keep them in the dark on this one.”

Sandecker gave a curt nod and spoke into the intercom. “Sylvia, please get Pitt on the phone.”

“Pitt?” Emmett inquired in an official tone.

“My special projects director. He’ll head up the search.”

“You’ll tell him only what’s necessary?” It was more an order than a request.

A yellow caution light glimmered in Sandecker’s eyes. “That will be at my discretion.”

Emmett started to say something but was interrupted by the intercom.

“Admiral?”

“Yes, Sylvia.”

“Mr. Pitt’s line is busy.”

“Keep trying until he answers,” Sandecker said gruffly. “Better yet, call the operator and cut in on his line. Tell her this is a government priority.”

“Will you be able to mount a full-scale search operation by evening?” asked Emmett.

Sandecker’s lips parted in an all-devouring grin. “If I know Pitt, he’ll have a crew scanning the depths of the Potomac River before lunch.”

Pitt was speaking to Hiram Yaeger when the operator broke in. He cut the conversation short and then dialed the admiral’s private line. After listening without doing any talking for several moments, he replaced the receiver in its cradle.

“Well,” asked Casio expectantly.

“The money was exchanged, never deposited,” Pitt said, looking miserably down at the floor. “That’s all. That’s all there is. No thread left to pick up.”

There was only a flicker of disappointment in Casio’s face. He’d been there before. He let out a long sigh and stared at his watch. He struck Pitt as a man drained of emotional display.

“I appreciate your help,” he said quietly. He snapped his briefcase shut and stood up. “I’d better go now. If I don’t lag, I can catch the next flight back to L.A.”

“I’m sorry I couldn’t provide an answer.”

Casio shook Pitt’s hand in a tight grip. “Nobody scores one hundred percent every time. Those responsible for the death of my daughter and your friend have made a mistake. Somewhere, sometime, they overlooked a detail. I’m glad to have you on my side, Mr. Pitt. It’s been a lonely job until now.”

Pitt was genuinely moved. “I’ll keep digging from my end.”

“I couldn’t ask for more.” Casio nodded and then walked down the stairs. Pitt watched him shuffle across the hangar floor, a proud, hardened old man, battling his own private windmill.

27

The President sat upright in a black leather-cushioned chrome chair, his body held firmly in place by nylon belts. His eyes stared off in the distance, unfocused and vacant. Wireless sensor scans were taped onto his chest and forehead, transmitting the physical signatures of eight different life functions to a computer network.

The operating room was small, no more than a hundred square feet, and crammed with electronic monitoring equipment. Lugovoy and four members of his surgical team were quietly and efficiently preparing for the delicate operation. Paul Suvorov stood in the only empty corner, looking uncomfortable in a green sterile gown. He watched as one of Lugovoy’s technicians, a woman, pressed a small needle into one side of the President’s neck and then the other.

“Odd place for an anesthetic,” Suvorov remarked.

“For the actual penetration we’ll use a local,” Lugovoy replied while staring at an image-intensified X ray on a video display. “However, a tiny dose of Amytal into the carotid arteries puts the left and right hemispheres of the brain in a drowsy state. This procedure is to eliminate any conscious memory of the operation.”

“Shouldn’t you shave his head?” Suvorov asked, gesturing toward the President’s hair, which protruded through an opening of a metal helmet encasing his skull.

“We must ignore normal surgical procedures,” Lugovoy patiently answered. “For obvious reasons, we cannot alter his appearance in any form.”

“Who will direct the operation?”

“Who do you think?”

“I’m asking you, comrade.”

“I will.”

Suvorov looked puzzled. “I’ve studied your file and the file of every member of the staff. I can almost repeat their contents by heart. Your field is psychology, most of the others are electronic technicians and one is a biochemist. None of you has surgical qualifications.”

“Because we don’t require them.” He dismissed Suvorov and scrutinized the TV display again. Then he nodded. “We can begin now. Set the laser in place.”

A technician pressed his face against the rubber eyepiece of a microscope attached to an argon laser. The machine tied into a computer and displayed a set of coordinates in orange numbers across the bottom of the microscope’s position fixer. When the numbers read only zeros the placement was exact.

The man at the laser nodded. “Position set.”

“Commence,” Lugovoy directed.

A wisp of smoke, so faint that only the laser operator could see it in the microscope, signaled the contact of the imperceptibly thin blue-green beam with the President’s skull.

It was a strange scene. Everyone stood with his back to the patient, watching the monitors. The images were magnified until the beam could be seen as a weblike filament strand. With a precision far above human dexterity, the computer guided the laser in cutting a minute hole one thirtieth of a millimeter in the bone, penetrating only to the membrane covering the brain and its fluid. Suvorov moved closer in rapt fascination.

“What happens next?” he asked hoarsely.

Lugovoy motioned him over to an electron microscope. “See for yourself.”

Suvorov peered through the twin lenses. “All I make out is a dark speck.”

“Adjust the focus to your eyes.”

Suvorov did so and the speck became a chip — an integrated circuit.

“A microminiaturized implant that can transplant and receive brain signals. We’re going to place it in his cerebral cortex, where the brain’s thought processes originate.”

“What does the implant use for an energy source?”

“The brain itself produces ten watts of electricity,” Lugovoy explained. “The President’s brainwaves can be telemetered to a control unit thousands of miles away, translated and any required commands returned. You might say it’s like changing TV channels with a remote control box.”

Suvorov stepped back from the microscope and stared at Lugovoy. “The possibilities are even more overwhelming than I thought,” he murmured. “We’ll be able to learn every secret of the United States government.”

“We’ll also be able to manipulate his days and nights for as long as he lives,” Lugovoy continued. “And through the computer, direct his personality so that neither he nor anyone close to him will notice.”

A technician stepped behind him. “We’re ready to position the implant.”

He nodded. “Proceed.”

A robotlike machine was moved in place of the laser. The incredibly diminutive implant was taken from under the microscope and exactingly fitted into the end of a single slim wire protruding from a mechanical arm. It was then aligned with the opening in the President’s skull.

“Beginning penetration… now,” droned the voice of the man seated at a console.

As with the viewer on the laser, he studied a series of numbers on a display screen. The entire procedure was preprogrammed. No human hand was lifted. Led by the computer, the robot delicately eased the wire through the protective membrane into the soft folds of the brain. After six minutes the display screen flashed, “MARK.”

Lugovoy’s eyes never left the color X-ray monitor. “Release and withdraw the probe.”

“Released and withdrawing,” a voice echoed.

After the wire was removed it was replaced with a miniature tubelike instrument containing a small plug with three hairs and their roots, removed from one of the Russian staff whose head growth closely resembled the President’s. The plug was then inserted into the tiny hole neatly cut by the laser beam. When the robot unit was pulled back, Lugovoy approached and studied the results with a large magnifying glass.

“What little scabbing that transpires should flake away in a few days,” he remarked. Satisfied, he straightened and viewed the computer-directed screens.

“The implant is operational,” announced his female assistant.

Lugovoy massaged his hands in a pleased gesture. “Good, we can begin the second penetration.”

“You’re going to place another implant?” Suvorov asked.

“No, inject a small amount of RNA into the hippocampus.”

“Could you enlighten me in layman terms?”

Lugovoy reached over the shoulder of the man sitting at the computer console and twisted a knob. The image of the President’s brain enlarged until it covered the entire screen of the X-ray monitor.

“There,” he said, tapping the glass screen. “The sea-horse-shaped ridge running under the horns of the lateral ventricles, a vital section of the brain’s limbic system. It’s called the hippocampus. It’s here where new memories are received and dispersed. By injecting RNA — ribonucleic acid, which transmits genetic instructions — from one subject, one who’s been programmed with certain thoughts, we can accomplish what we term a ‘memory transfer.’ “

Suvorov had been furiously storing what he saw and heard in his mind, but he was falling behind. He could not absorb it all. Now he stared down at the President, eyes uncertain.

“You can actually inject the memory of one man into another’s brain?”

“Exactly,” Lugovoy said nonchalantly. “What do you think happens in the mental hospitals where the KGB sends enemies of the state. Not all are reeducated to become good party lovers. Many are used for important psychological experiments. For example, the RNA we are about to administer into the President’s hippocampus comes from an artist who insisted on creating illustrations depicting our leaders in awkward and uncomplimentary poses… I can’t recall his name.”

“Belkaya?”

“Yes, Oskar Belkaya. A sociological misfit. His paintings were either masterpieces of modern art or nightmarish abstractions, depending on your taste. After your fellow state security agents arrested him at his studio, he was secretly taken to a remote sanitarium outside of Kiev. There he was placed in a cocoon, like the ones we have here, for two years. With new memory storage techniques, discovered through biochemistry, his memory was erased and indoctrinated with political concepts we wish the President to implement within his government.”

“But can’t you accomplish the same thing with the control implant?”

“The implant, with its computerized network, is extremely complex and liable to breakdown. The memory transfer acts as a backup system. Also, our experiments have shown that the control process operates more efficiently when the subject creates the thought himself, and the implant then commands a positive or negative response.”

“Very impressive,” Suvorov said earnestly. “And that’s the end of it?”

“Not entirely. As an added safety margin, one of my staff, a highly skilled hypnotist, will put the President in a trance and wipe out any subconscious sensations he might have absorbed while under our care. He’ll also be primed with a story of where he’s been for ten days in vivid detail.”

“As the Americans are fond of saying, you have all the bases covered.”

Lugovoy shook his head. “The human brain is a magical universe we will never fully understand. We may think we’ve finally harnessed its three and a half pounds of grayish-pink jelly, but its capricious nature is as unpredictable as the weather.”

“What you’re saying is that the President might not react the way you want him to.”

“It’s possible,” Lugovoy said seriously. “It’s also possible for his brain to break the bonds of reality, despite our control, and make him do something that will have terrible consequences for us all.”

28

Sandecker stopped his car in the parking lot of a small yacht marina forty miles below Washington. He climbed from under the wheel and stood looking out over the Potomac River. The sky sparkled in a clear blue as the dull green water rolled eastward toward Chesapeake Bay. He walked down a sagging stairway to a floating dock. Tied up at the end was a tired old clamming boat, its rusting tongs hanging from a deck boom like the claws of some freakish animal.

The hull was worn from years of hard use and most of the paint was gone. Her diesel engine chugged out little puffs of exhaust that leaped from the tip of the stack and dissolved into a soft breeze. Her name, barely discernible over the stern transom, read Hoki Jamoki.

Sandecker glanced at his watch. It showed twenty minutes to noon. He nodded in approval. Only three hours after he’d briefed Pitt, the search for the Eagle was on. He jumped on deck and greeted the two engineers connecting the sonar sensor to the recorder cable, then entered the wheelhouse. He found Pitt scrutinizing a large satellite photograph through a magnifying glass.

“Is this the best you can do?” Sandecker asked.

Pitt looked up and grinned humorously. “You mean the boat?”

“I do.”

“Not up to your spit and polish naval standards, but she’ll serve nicely.”

“None of our research vessels were available?”

“They were, but I chose this old tub for two reasons. One, she’s a damn good little workboat; and two, if somebody really snatched a government boat with a party of VIP’s on board and deep-sixed her, they’ll expect a major underwater search effort and will be watching for it. This way, we’ll be in and out before they’re wise.”

Sandecker had told him only that a boat belonging to the naval yard had been stolen from the pier at Mount Vernon and presumed sunk. Little else. “Who said anything about VIP’s being on board?”

“Army and Navy helicopters are as thick as locusts overhead, and you can walk across the river on the Coast Guard ships crowding the water. There’s more to this search project than you’ve let on, Admiral. A hell of a lot more.”

Sandecker didn’t reply. He could only admit to himself that Pitt was thinking four jumps ahead. His silence, he knew, only heightened Pitt’s suspicions. Sidestepping the issue, he asked, “You see something that caused you to begin looking this far below Mount Vernon?”

“Enough to save us four days and twenty-five miles,” Pitt answered. “I figured the boat would be spotted by one of our space cameras, but which one? Military spy satellites don’t orbit over Washington, and space weather pictures won’t enhance to pinpoint small detail.”

“Where did you get that one?” Sandecker asked, motioning toward the photograph.

“From a friend at the Department of Interior. One of their geological survey satellites flew 590 miles overhead and shot an infrared portrait of Chesapeake Bay and the adjoining rivers. Time: four-forty the morning of the boat’s disappearance. If you look through the glass at the blowup of this section of the Potomac, the only boat that can be seen downriver from Mount Vernon is cruising a mile below this dock.”

Sandecker peered at the tiny white dot on the photograph. The enhancement was incredibly sharp. He could detect every piece of gear on the decks and the figures of two people. He stared into Pitt’s eyes.

“No way of proving that’s the boat we’re after,” he said flatly.

“I didn’t fall off a pumpkin truck, Admiral. That’s the presidential yacht Eagle!”

“I won’t run you around the horn,” Sandecker spoke quietly, “but I can’t tell you any more than I already have.”

Pitt gave a noncommittal shrug and said nothing.

“So where do you think it is?”

Pitt’s green eyes deepened. He gave Sandecker a sly stare and picked up a pair of dividers. “I looked up the Eagle’s specifications. Her top speed was fourteen knots. Now, the space photo was taken at four-forty. Daylight was an hour and a half away. The crew who pirated the yacht couldn’t risk being seen, so they put her on the bottom under cover of darkness. Taking all that into consideration, she could have traveled only twenty-one miles before sunup.”

“That still takes in a lot of water.”

“I think we can slice it some.”

“By staying in the channel?”

“Yes, sir, deep water. If I was running the show, I’d sink her deep to prevent accidental discovery.”

“What’s the average depth of your search grid?”

“Thirty to forty feet.”

“Not enough.”

“True, but according to the depth soundings on the navigation charts, there are several holes that drop over a hundred.”

Sandecker paused and gazed out the wheelhouse window as Al Giordino marched along the dock carrying a pair of air tanks on his beefy shoulders. He turned back to Pitt and observed him thoughtfully.

“If you dive on it,” Sandecker said coldly, “you’re not to enter. Our job is strictly to discover and identify, nothing else.”

“What’s down there that we can’t see?”

“Don’t ask.”

Pitt smiled wryly. “Humor me. I’m fickle.”

“The hell you are,” grunted Sandecker. “What do you think is in the yacht?”

“Make that who.”

“Does it matter?” Sandecker asked guardedly. “It’s probably empty.”

“You’re jerking me around, Admiral. I’m sure of it. After we find the yacht, what then?”

“The FBI takes over.”

“So we do our little act and step aside.”

“That’s what the orders say.”

“I say screw them.”

“Them?”

“The powers who play petty secret games.”

“Believe me, this project isn’t petty.”

A hard look crossed Pitt’s face. “We’ll make that judgment when we find the yacht, won’t we?”

“Take my word for it,” said Sandecker, “you don’t want to see what might be inside the wreck.”

Almost as the words came out, Sandecker knew he’d waved a flag in front of a bull elephant. Once Pitt dropped beneath the river’s surface, the thin leash of command was broken.

29

Six hours later and twelve miles downriver, target number seventeen crept across the recording screen of the Klein High Resolution Sonar. It lay in 109 feet of water between Persimmon and Mathias points directly opposite Popes Creek and two miles above the Potomac River Bridge.

“Dimensions?” Pitt asked the sonor operator.

“Approximately thirty-six meters long by seven meters wide.”

“What kind of size are we looking for?” asked Giordino.

“The Eagle has an overall length of a hundred and ten feet with a twenty-foot beam,” Pitt replied.

“That matches,” Giordino said, mentally juggling meters to feet.

“I think we’ve got her,” Pitt said as he examined the configurations revealed by the sidescan sonar. “Let’s make another pass — this time about twenty meters to starboard — and throw out a buoy.”

Sandecker, who was standing outside on the after deck keeping an eye on the sensor cable, leaned into the wheelhouse. “Got something?”

Pitt nodded. “A prime contact.”

“Going to check it out?”

“After we drop a buoy, Al and I’ll go down for a look.”

Sandecker stared at the weathered deck and said nothing. Then he turned and walked back to the stern, where he helped Giordino hoist a fifty-pound lead weight attached to a bright orange buoy onto the Hoki Jamoki’s bulwark.

Pitt took the helm and brought the boat about. When the target began to raise on the depth sounder, he shouted, “Now!”

The buoy was thrown overboard as the boat slowed. One of the engineers moved to the bow and lowered the anchor. The Hoki Jamoki drifted to a stop with her stern pointed downstream.

“Too bad you didn’t include an underwater TV camera,” said Sandecker as he helped Pitt into his dive gear. “You could have saved yourself a trip.”

“A wasted effort,” Pitt said. “Visibility is measured in inches down there.”

“The current is running about two knots,” Sandecker judged.

“When we begin our ascent to the surface, it will carry us astern. Better throw out a hundred-yard lifeline on a floating buoy to pull us aboard.”

Giordino tightened his weight belt and flashed a jaunty grin. “Ready when you are.”

Sandecker gripped Pitt on the shoulder. “Mind what I said about entering the wreck.”

“I’ll try not to look too hard,” Pitt said flatly.

Before the admiral could reply, Pitt adjusted his face mask over his eyes and dropped backwards into the river.

The water closed over him and the sun diffused into a greenish orange blur. The current pulled at his body and he had to swim on a diagonal course against it until he found the buoy. He reached out and clutched the line and stared downward. Less than three feet away the white nylon braid faded into the opaque murk.

Using the line as a guide and a support, Pitt slipped into the depths of the Potomac. Tiny filaments of vegetation and fine particles of sediment swept past his face mask. He switched on his dive light, but the dim beam only added a few inches to his field of vision. He paused to work his jaws and equalize the growing pressure within his ear canals.

The density increased as he dove deeper. Then suddenly, as if he’d passed through a door, the water temperature dropped by ten degrees and visibility stretched to almost ten feet. The colder layer acted as a cushion pushing against the warm current above. The bottom appeared and Pitt discerned the shadowy outline of a boat off to his right. He turned and gestured to Giordino, who gave an affirmative nod of his head.

As though growing out of a fog, the superstructure of the Eagle slowly took on shape. She lay like a lifeless animal, alone in haunted silence and watery gloom.

Pitt swam around one side of the hull while Giordino kicked around the other. The yacht was sitting perfectly upright with no indication of list. Except for a thin coating of algae that was forming on her white paint, she looked as pristine as when she rode the surface.

They met at the stern, and Pitt wrote on his message board, “Any damage?”

Giordino wrote back, “None.”

Then they slowly worked their way over the decks, past the darkened windows of the staterooms and up to the bridge. There was nothing to suggest death or tragedy. They probed their lights through the bridge windows into the black interior, but all they saw was eerie desolation. Pitt noted that the engine-room telegraph read ALL STOP.

He hesitated for a brief moment and wrote a new message on his board: “I’m going in.”

Giordino’s eyes glistened under the face-mask lens and he scrawled back, “I’m with you.”

Out of habit they checked their air gauges. There was enough time left for another twelve minutes of diving. Pitt tried the door to the wheelhouse. His heart squeezed within his chest. Even with Giordino at his side, the apprehension was oppressive. The latch turned and he pushed the door open. Taking a deep breath, Pitt swam inside.

The brass gave off a dull gleam under the dive lights. Pitt was curious at the barren look about the room. Nothing was out of place. The floor was clean of any spilled debris. It reminded him of the Pilottown.

Seeing nothing of interest, they threaded their way down a stairway into the lounge area of the deckhouse. In the fluid darkness the large enclosure seemed to yawn into infinity. Everywhere was the same strange neatness. Giordino aimed his light upward. The overhead beams and mahogany paneling had a stark, naked appearance. Then Pitt realized what was wrong. The ceiling should have been littered with objects that float. Everything that might have drifted to the surface and washed ashore must have been removed.

Accompanied by the gurgle of their escaping air bubbles, they glided through the passageway separating the staterooms. The same neat look was everywhere; even the beds and mattresses had been stripped. Their lights darted amid the furniture securely bolted to the carpeted deck. Pitt checked the bathrooms as Giordino probed the closets. By the time they reached the crew’s quarters, they only had seven minutes of air left. Communicating briefly with hand signals, they divided up, Giordino searching the galley and storerooms while Pitt took the engine room.

He found the hatch cover over the engine room locked and bolted. Without a second of lost motion, he quickly removed his dive knife from its leg sheath and pried out the pins in the hinges. The hatch cover, released from its mountings and thrust upward by its buoyancy, sailed past him.

And so did a bloated corpse that burst through the open hatch like a jack-in-the-box.

30

PITT REELED BACKWARD into a bulkhead and watched numbly as an unearthly parade of floating debris and bodies erupted from the engine room. They drifted up to the ceiling, where they hung in grotesque postures like trapped balloons. Though the internal gases had begun to expand, the flesh had not yet started to decompose. Sightless eyes bulged beneath strands of hair that wavered from the disturbance in the water.

Pitt struggled to fight off the grip of shock and revulsion, hardening his mind for the repugnant job he could not leave undone. With creeping nausea merged with cold fear he snaked through the hatch into the engine room.

His eyes were met with a charnel house of death. Bedding, clothing from half-open suitcases, pillows and cushions, anything buoyant enough to float, mingled between a crush of bodies. The scene was a nightmare that could never be imagined or remotely duplicated by a Hollywood horror film.

Most of the corpses wore white Coast Guard uniforms that added to their ghostly appearance. Several had on ordinary work clothes. None showed signs of injury or wounds.

He spent two minutes, no more, in there, cringing when a lifeless hand brushed across his arm or a white expressionless face drifted inches in front of his face mask. He could have sworn they were all staring at him, begging for something that was not his to give. One was dressed differently from the others, in a knit sweater covered by a stylish raincoat. Pitt swiftly rifled through the dead man’s pockets.

Pitt had seen enough to be permanently etched in his mind for a lifetime. He hurriedly kicked up the ladder and out of the engine room. Once free of the morbid scene below, he hesitated to read his air gauge. The needle indicated a hundred pounds, an ample supply to reach the sun again if he didn’t linger. He found Giordino rummaging through a cavernous food locker and made an upward gesture with his thumb. Giordino nodded and led the way through a passageway to the outside deck.

A great wave of relief swept over Pitt as the yacht receded into the murk. There wasn’t time to search for the buoy line so they ascended with the bubbles that flowed from their air regulators’ exhaust valves. The water slowly transformed from an almost brown-black to a leaden green. At last they broke the surface and found themselves fifty yards downstream from the Hoki Jamoki.

Sandecker and the boat’s crew of engineers spotted them immediately and quickly began hauling on the lifeline. Sandecker cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted, “Hang on, we’ll pull you in.”

Pitt waved, thankful he could lie back and relax. He felt too drained to do anything but lazily float against the current and watch the trees lining the banks slip past. A few minutes later he and Giordino were lifted onto the deck of the old clamming boat.

“Is it the Eagle?” Sandecker asked, unable to mask his curiosity.

Pitt hesitated in answering until he’d removed his air tank. “Yes,” he said finally, “it’s the Eagle.”

Sandecker could not bring himself to ask the question that was gripping his mind. He sidestepped it. “Find anything you want to talk about?”

“The outside is undamaged. She’s sitting upright, her keel resting in about two feet of silt.”

“No sign of life?”

“Not from the exterior.”

It was obvious that Pitt wasn’t going to volunteer any information unless asked. His healthy tan seemed strangely paled.

“Could you see inside?” Sandecker demanded.

“Too dark to make out anything.”

“All right, dammit, let’s have it straight.”

“Now that you’ve asked so pleasantly,” Pitt said stonily, “there’s more dead bodies in the yacht than a cemetery. They were stacked in the engine room from deck to overhead. I counted twenty-one of them.”

“Christ!” Sandecker rasped, suddenly taken aback. “Could you recognize any of them?”

“Thirteen were crewmen. The rest looked to be civilians.”

“Eight civilians?” Sandecker seemed stunned.

“As near as I could judge by their clothing. They weren’t in any condition to interrogate.”

“Eight civilians,” Sandecker repeated. “And none of them looked remotely familiar to you?”

“I’m not sure their own mothers could identify them,” said Pitt. “Why? Was I supposed to know somebody?”

Sandecker shook his head. “I can’t say.”

Pitt couldn’t recall seeing the admiral so distraught. The iron armor had fallen away. The penetrating, intelligent eyes seemed stricken. Pitt watched for a reaction as he spoke.

“If I had to venture an opinion, I’d say someone’ snuffed the candle on half the Chinese embassy.”

“Chinese?” The eyes suddenly turned as sharp as ice picks. “What are you saying?”

“Seven of the eight civilians were from eastern Asia.”

“Could you be in error?” Sandecker asked, regaining a foothold. “With little or no visibility—”

“Visibility was ten feet. And, I’m well aware of the difference between the eye folds of a Caucasian and an Oriental.”

“Thank God,” Sandecker said, exhaling a deep breath.

“I’d be much obliged if you would inform me just what in hell you expected Al and me to find down there.”

Sandecker’s eyes softened. “I owe you an explanation,” he said, “but I can’t give you one. There are events occurring around us that we have no need to know.”

“I have my own project,” said Pitt, his voice turning cold. “I’m not interested in this one.”

“Yes, Julie Mendoza. I understand.”

Pitt pulled something from under the sleeve of his wet suit. “Here, I almost forgot. I took this from one of the bodies.”

“What is it?”

Pitt held up a soggy leather billfold. On the inside was a waterproof ID card with a man’s photograph. Opposite was a badge in the shape of a shield. “A Secret Service agent’s identification,” Pitt answered. “His name was Brock, Lyle Brock.”

Sandecker took the billfold without comment. He glanced at his watch. “I’ve got to contact Sam Emmett at FBI. This is his problem now.”

“You can’t drop it that easily, Admiral. We both know NUMA will be called on to raise the Eagle.”

“You’re right, of course,” Sandecker said wearily.

“You’re relieved of that project. You do what you have to do. I’ll have Giordino handle the salvage.” He turned and stepped into the wheelhouse to use the ship-to-shore phone.

Pitt stood looking for a long time at the dark forbidding water of the river, reliving the terrible scene below. A line from an old seaman’s poem ran through his head: “A ghostly ship, with a ghostly crew, with no place to go.”

Then as though closing a curtain, he turned his thoughts back to the Pilottown.

On the east bank of the river, concealed in a thicket of ash trees, a man dressed in Vietnam leaf camouflage fatigues pressed his eye to the viewfinder of a video camera. The warm sun and the heavy humidity caused sweat to trickle down his face. He ignored the discomfort and kept taping, zooming in the telephoto lens until Pitt’s upper body filled the miniature viewing screen. Then he panned along the entire length of the clamming boat, holding for a few seconds on each member of the crew.

A half-hour after the divers climbed out of the water, a small fleet of Coast Guard boats descended around the Hoki Jamoki. A derrick on one of the vessels lifted a large red-banded buoy with a flashing light over the side and dropped it beside the wreck of the Eagle.

When the battery of his recording unit died, the hidden cameraman neatly packed away his equipment and slipped into the approaching dusk.

31

Pitt was contemplating a menu when the maitre d’ of Positano Restaurant on Fairmont Avenue steered Loren to his table. She moved with an athletic grace, nodding and exchanging a few words with the Capitol crowd eating lunch amid the restaurant’s murals and wine racks.

Pitt looked up and their eyes met. She returned his appraising stare with an even smile. Then he rose and pulled back her chair.

“Damn, you look ugly today,” he said.

She laughed. “You continue to mystify me.”

“How so?”

“One minute you’re a gentleman, and the next a slob.”

“I was told women crave variety.”

Her eyes, clear and soft, were amused. “I do give you credit, though. You’re the only man I know who doesn’t kiss my fanny.”

Pitt’s face broke into his infectious grin. “That’s because I don’t need any political favors.”

She made a face and opened a menu. “I don’t have time to be made fun of. I have to get back to my office and respond to a ton of constituents’ mail. What looks good?”

“I thought I’d try the zuppa dipesce.”

“My scale said I was up a pound this morning. I think I’ll just have a salad.”

The waiter approached.

“A drink?” Pitt asked.

“You order.”

“Two Sazerac cocktails on the rocks, and please ask the bartender to pour rye instead of bourbon.”

“Very good, sir,” the waiter acknowledged.

Loren laid her napkin in her lap. “I’ve phoned for two days. Where’ve you been?”

“The admiral sent me on an emergency salvage job.”

“Was she pretty?” she asked, playing the age-old game.

“A coroner might think so. But drowned bodies never turned me on.”

“Sorry,” she said and went sober and quiet until the drinks were brought. They stirred the ice around the glasses and then sipped the reddish contents.

“One of my aides ran across something that might help you,” she said finally.

“What is it?”

She pulled several stapled sheets of typewritten paper from her attaché case and passed them to Pitt. Then she began explaining in a soft undertone.

“Not much meat, I’m afraid, but there’s an interesting report on the CIA’s phantom navy.”

“Didn’t know they had one,” Pitt said, scanning the pages.

“Since 1963 they have accumulated a small fleet of ships that few people inside the government know about. And the few who are aware of the fleet won’t admit it exists. Besides surveillance, its primary function is to carry out clandestine operations involving the transporting of men and supplies for the infiltration of agents or guerrillas into unfriendly countries. Originally it was put together to harass Castro after his takeover of Cuba. Several years later, when it became apparent that Castro was too strong to topple, their activities were curtailed, partly because the Cubans threatened to retaliate against American fishing vessels. From that time on the CIA navy expanded its sphere of operations from Central America to the fighting in Vietnam to Africa and the Middle East. Do you follow?”

“I’m with you, but I have no idea where it’s leading.”

“Just be patient,” she said. “Several years ago an attack cargo transport called the Hobson was a part of the Navy’s reserve mothball fleet at Philadelphia. She was decommissioned and sold to a commercial shipping company, a cover for the CIA. They spared no expense in rebuilding her to outwardly resemble a common cargo carrier, while her interior was filled with concealed armament, including a new missile system, highly sophisticated communications and listening gear, and a facility for launching fast patrol and landing boats through swinging bow doors.

“She was manned and ready on station during Iran’s disastrous invasion of Kuwait and Saudi Arabia in 1985. Flying the maritime flag of Panama, she secretly sank two Soviet spy ships in the Persian Gulf. The Russians could never prove who did it, because none of our Navy ships were within range. They still think the missiles that destroyed their ships came from the Saudi shore.”

“And you found out about all this?”

“I have my sources,” she informed him.

“Does the Hobson have anything to do with the Pilottown?”

“Indirectly,” Loren answered.

“Go on.”

“Three years ago, the Hobson vanished with all hands off the Pacific Coast of Mexico.”

“So?”

“So three months later the CIA found her again.”

“Sounds familiar,” Pitt mused.

“My thought too.” Loren nodded. “A replay of the San Marino and the Belle Chasse.”

“Where was the Hobson discovered?”

Before Loren could answer, the waiter set their plates on the table. The zuppa di pesce, an Italian bouillabaisse, looked sensational.

As soon as the waiter walked out of earshot he nodded to her. “Go on.”

“I don’t know how the CIA tracked the ship down, but they came on her sitting in a dry dock in Sydney, Australia, where she was undergoing a major face-lift.”

“They find who she was registered to?”

“She flew the Philippine flag under the registry of Samar Exporters. A bogus firm that was incorporated only a few weeks earlier in Manila. Her new name was Buras.”

“Buras,” Pitt echoed. “Must be the name of a person. How’s your salad?”

“The dressing is very tasty. And yours?”

“Excellent,” he answered. “An act of sheer stupidity on the part of the pirates to steal a ship belonging to the CIA.”

“A case of a mugger rolling a drunk and finding out the drunk was an undercover detective.”

“What happened next in Sydney?”

“Nothing. The CIA, working with the Australian branch of the British Secret Service, tried to apprehend the owners of the Buras but were never able to find them.”

“No leads, no witnesses?”

“The small Korean crew living on board had been recruited in Singapore. They knew little and could only give a description of the captain, who had vanished.”

Pitt took a swallow of water and examined a page of the report. “Not much of an ID. Korean, medium height, one hundred sixty-five pounds, black hair, gap in front teeth. That narrows it down to about five or ten million men,” he said sarcastically. “Well, at least now I don’t feel so bad. If the CIA can’t pin a make on whoever is sailing around the world hijacking ships, I sure as hell can’t.”

“Has St. Julien Perlmutter called you?”

Pitt shook his head. “Haven’t heard a word. Probably lost heart and deserted the cause.”

“I have to desert the cause too,” Loren said gently. “But only for a little while.”

Pitt looked at her sternly a moment, then relaxed and laughed. “How did a nice girl ever become a politician?”

She wrinkled her nose. “Chauvinist.”

“Seriously, where will you be?”

“A short fact-finding junket on a Russian cruise ship sailing the Caribbean.”

“Of course,” Pitt said. “I’d forgotten you chair the committee for merchant marine transport.”

Loren nodded and patted her mouth with her napkin. “The last cruise ship to fly the Stars and Stripes was taken out of service in 1984. To many people this is a national disgrace. The President feels strongly that we should be represented in ocean commerce as well as naval defense. He’s asking Congress for a budget outlay of ninety million dollars to restore the S.S. United States, which has been laid up at Norfolk for twenty years, and put her back in service to compete with the foreign cruise lines.”

“And you’re going to study the Russian method of lavishing their passengers with vodka and caviar?”

“That,” she said, looking suddenly official, “and the economics of their government-operated cruise ship.”

“When do you sail?”

“Day after tomorrow. I fly to Miami and board the Leonid Andreyev. I’ll be back in five days. What will you do?”

“The admiral has given me time off to pursue the Pilottown investigation.”

“Does any of this information help you?”

“Every bit helps,” he said, straining to focus on a thought that was a distant shadow on the horizon. Then he looked at her. “Have you heard anything through the congressional grapevine?”

“You mean gossip? Like who’s screwing who?”

“Something heavier. Rumors of a missing party high in government or a foreign diplomat.”

Loren shook her head. “No, nothing quite so sinister. The Capitol scene is pretty dull while Congress is in recess. Why? You know of a scandal brewing I don’t?”

“Just asking,” Pitt said noncommittally.

Her hand crept across the table and clasped his. “I have no idea where all this is taking you, but please be careful. Fu Manchu might get wise you’re on his scent and lay in ambush.”

Pitt turned and laughed. “I haven’t read Sax Rohmer since I was a kid. Fu Manchu, the yellow peril. What made you think of him?”

She gave a little shrug. “I don’t really know. A mental association with an old Peter Sellers movie, the Sosan Trading Company and the Korean crew of the Buras, I guess.”

A faraway look came over Pitt’s eyes and then they widened. The thought on the horizon crystallized. He hailed the waiter and paid the bill with a credit card.

“I’ve got to make a couple of phone calls,” he explained briefly. He kissed her lightly on the lips and hurried onto the crowded sidewalk.

32

Pitt quickly drove to the NUMA building and closed himself in his office. He assembled his priorities for several moments and dialed Los Angeles on his private phone line. On the fifth ring a girl answered who couldn’t pronounce her r’s.

“Casio and Associates Investigatahs.”

“I’d like to speak to Mr. Casio, please.”

“Who shall I say is calling?”

“My name is Pitt.”

“He’s with a client. Can you call back?”

“No!” Pitt growled menacingly. “I’m calling from Washington and it’s urgent.”

Suitably intimidated, the receptionist replied, “One moment.”

Casio came on the line almost immediately. “Mr. Pitt. Good to hear from you.”

“Sorry to interrupt your meeting,” said Pitt, “but I need a few answers.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“What do you know about the crew of the San Marino?”

“Not much. I ran a make on the officers, but nothing unusual turned up. They were all professional merchant mariners. The captain, as I recall, had a very respectable record.”

“No ties to any kind of organized crime?”

“Nothing that came to light in the computers of the National Crime Information Center.”

“How about the rest of the crew?”

“Not much there. Only a few had maritime union records.”

“Nationality?” Pitt asked.

“Nationality?” Casio repeated, thought a moment, then said, “A mixture. A few Greek, a few Americans, several Koreans.”

“Koreans?” Pitt came back, suddenly alert. “There were Koreans on board?”

“Yeah, that’s right. Now that you mention it, as I remember, a group of about ten signed on just before the San Marino sailed.”

“Would it be possible to trace the ships and companies they served prior to the San Marino?”

“You’re going back a long time, but the files should be available.”

“Could you throw in the history of the Pilottown’s crew as well?”

“Don’t see why not.”

“I’d appreciate it.”

“What are you after exactly?” Casio asked.

“Should be obvious to you.”

“A link between the crew and our unknown parent company, is that it?”

“Close enough.”

“You’re going back before the ship disappeared,” said Casio thoughtfully.

“The most practical way to take over a ship is by the crew.”

“I thought mutiny went out with the Bounty.”

“The modern term is hijacking.”

“You’ve got a good hunch going,” said Casio. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“Thank you, Mr. Casio.”

“We’ve danced enough to know each other. Call me Sal.”

“Okay, Sal, and make it Dirk.”

“I’ll do that,” Casio said seriously. “Goodbye.”

After he hung up, Pitt leaned back and put his feet on the desk. He felt good, optimistic that a vague instinct was about to pay off. Now he was about to try another long shot, one that was so crazy he almost felt foolish for pursuing it. He copied a number out of the National University Directory and called it.

“University of Pennsylvania, Department of Anthropology.”

“May I speak to Dr. Grace Perth?”

“Just a sec.”

“Thank you.”

Pitt waited for nearly two minutes before a motherly voice said, “Hello.”

“Dr. Perth?”

“Speaking.”

“My name is Dirk Pitt and I’m with the National Underwater and Marine Agency. Have you got a moment to answer a couple of academic questions for me?”

“What do you wish to know, Mr. Pitt?” Dr. Perth asked sweetly.

Pitt tried to picture her in his mind. His initial image was that of a prim, white-haired lady in a tweed suit. He erased it as a stereotype.

“If we take a male between the ages of thirty and forty, of medium height and weight, who was a native of Peking, China, and another male of the same description from Seoul, South Korea, how could we tell them apart?”

“You’re not doing a number on me, are you, Mr. Pitt?”

Pitt laughed. “No, Doctor, I’m quite serious,” he assured her.

“Hmmm, Chinese versus Korean,” she muttered while thinking. “By and large, people of Korean ancestry tend to be more classic, or extreme, Mongoloid. Chinese features, on the other hand, lean more generally to Asian. But I wouldn’t want to make my living guessing which was which, because the overlap is so great. It would be far simpler to judge them by their clothes or behavior, or the way they cut their hair — in short, their cultural characteristics.”

“I thought they might have certain racial features that could separate them, such as you find between Chinese and Japanese.”

“Well now, here the genetic spread is more obvious. If your Oriental male has a fairly dense beard growth, you’d have a rather strong indication that he’s Japanese. But in the case of China and Korea, you’re dealing with two racial groups that have intermixed for centuries, so much so that the individual variations would tend to blur out any distinction.”

“You make it sound hopeless.”

“Awfully difficult, maybe, but not hopeless,” Dr. Perth said. “A series of laboratory tests could raise your probability factor.”

“My interest is strictly from a visual view.”

“Are your subjects living?”

“No, drowning victims.”

“A pity. With the living individual there are little traits of facial expressions that are culturally acquired and can be detected by someone who has had a lot of experience with both races. A pretty good guess may be made on that basis alone.”

“No such luck.”

“Perhaps if you could define their facial characteristics to me.”

Pitt dreaded the thought, but he closed his eyes and began describing the lifeless heads he’d seen on the Eagle. At first the vision was vague, but soon it focused with clarity and he found himself dissecting each detail with the callous objectivity of a surgeon narrating a heart transplant into a tape recorder. At one point he suddenly broke off.

“Yes, Mr. Pitt, please go on,” said Dr. Perth.

“I just remembered something that escaped me,” Pitt said. “Two of the bodies did in fact have thick facial hair. One had a mustache while another sprouted a goatee.”

“Interesting.”

“So they weren’t Korean or Chinese?”

“Not necessarily.”

“What else could they be but Japanese?”

“You’re leaping before you look, Mr. Pitt,” she said, as if lecturing a student. “The features you’ve described to me suggest a heavy tendency toward the classic Mongoloid.”

“But the facial hair?”

“You must consider history. The Japanese have been invading and marauding Korea since the sixteenth century. And for thirty-five years, from 1910 until 1945, Korea was a colony of Japan, so there was a great blending of their particular genetic variations.”

Pitt hesitated before he put the next question to Dr. Perth. Then he chose his words carefully. “If you were to stick your neck out and give an opinion on the race of the men I’ve described, what would you say?”

Grace Perth came back with all flags flying. “Looking at it from a percentage factor, I’d say your test group’s ancestry was ten percent Japanese, thirty percent Chinese and sixty percent Korean.”

“Sounds like you’ve constructed the genetic makeup of your average Korean.”

“You read it anyway you wish to see it, Mr. Pitt. I’ve gone as far as I can go.”

“Thank you, Dr. Perth,” Pitt said, suddenly exultant. “Thank you very much.”

33

“So that’s Dirk Pitt,” Min Koryo said. She sat in her wheelchair peering over a breakfast tray at a large TV screen in her office wall.

Lee Tong sat beside her watching the videotape of the Hoki Jamoki anchored over the presidential yacht. “What puzzles me,” he said quietly, “is how he discovered the wreck so quickly. It’s as though he knew exactly where to search.”

Min Koryo set her chin in frail hands and bowed her graying head, eyes locked on the screen, the thin blue veins in her temples pulsing in concentration. Her face slowly tightened in anger. She looked like an Egyptian mummy whose skin had somehow bleached white and remained smooth.

“Pitt and NUMA.” She hissed in exasperation. “What are those wily bastards up to? First the San Marino and Pilottown publicity hoax, and now this.”

“It can only be coincidence,” Lee Tong suggested. “There is no direct link between the freighters and the yacht.”

“Better an informer.” Her voice cut like a whip. “We’ve been sold out.”

“Not a valid conclusion, aunumi,” said Lee Tong, amused at her sudden outburst. “Only you and I knew the facts. Everyone else is dead.”

“Nothing is ever immune to failure. Only fools think they’re perfect.”

Lee Tong was in no mood for his grandmother’s Oriental philosophy. “Do not concern yourself unnecessarily,” he said acidly. “A government investigating team would have eventually stumbled onto the yacht anyway. We could not make the President’s transfer in broad daylight without running the danger of being seen and stopped. And since the yacht wasn’t reported after sunrise, simple mathematics suggested that it was still somewhere on or below the river between Washington and Chesapeake Bay.”

“A conclusion Mr. Pitt apparently had no trouble arriving at.”

“It changes nothing,” said Lee Tong. “Time is still on our side. Once Lugovoy is satisfied at his results, all that remains for us is to oversee the gold shipment. After that, President Antonov can have the President. But we keep Margolin, Larimer and Moran for insurance and future bargaining power. Trust me, aunumi, the tricky part is past. The Bougainville corporate fortress is secure.”

“Maybe so, but the hounds are getting too close.”

“We’re matching ourselves against highly trained and intelligent people who possess the finest technology in the world. They may come within reach, but they’ll never fully grasp our involvement.”

Mollified somewhat, Min Koryo sighed and sipped at her ever present teacup. “Have you talked to Lugovoy in the past eight hours?”

“Yes. He claims he’s encountered no setbacks and can complete the project in five more days.”

“Five days,” she said pensively. “I think it is time we made the final arrangements with Antonov for payment. Has our ship arrived?”

“The Venice docked at Odessa two days ago.”

“Who is ship’s master?”

“Captain James Mangyai, a trusted employee of the company,” Lee Tong answered.

Min Koryo nodded approvingly. “And a good seaman. He hired on with me almost twenty years ago.”

“He has his orders to cast off and set sail the minute the last crate of gold is loaded aboard.”

“Good. Now we’ll see what kind of stalling tactics Antonov will try. To begin with, he’ll no doubt demand to hold up payment until Lugovoy’s experiment is a proven success. This we will not do. In the meantime, he’ll have an army of KGB agents combing the American countryside, looking for the President and our laboratory facilities.”

“No Russian or American will figure out where we have Lugovoy and his staff hidden,” Lee Tong said firmly.

“They found the yacht,” Min Koryo reminded him.

Before Lee Tong could reply, the video screen turned to snow as the tape played out. He set the control for rewind. “Do you wish to view it again?” he asked.

“Yes, I want to examine the diving crew more closely.”

When the recorder automatically switched off, Lee Tong pressed the “play” button and the picture returned to life.

Min Koryo watched it impassively for a minute and then said, “What is the latest status report on the wreck site?”

“A NUMA salvage crew is bringing up the bodies and preparing to raise the yacht.”

“Who is the man with the red beard talking with Pitt?”

Lee Tong enlarged the scene until both men filled the screen. “That’s Admiral James Sandecker, Director of NUMA.”

“Your man was not seen filming Pitt’s movements?”

“No, he’s one of the best in the business. An ex-FBI agent. He was contracted for the job through one of our subsidiary corporations and told that Pitt is suspected of selling NUMA equipment to outside sources.”

“What do we know about Pitt?”

“I have a complete dossier flying in from Washington. It should be here within the hour.”

Min Koryo’s mouth tightened as she moved closer to the TV. “How could he know so much? NUMA is an oceanographic agency. They don’t employ secret agents. Why is he coming after us?”

“It’ll pay us to find out.”

“Move in closer,” she ordered.

Lee Tong again enlarged the image, moving past Sandecker’s shoulder until it seemed as though Pitt was talking to the camera. Then he froze the picture.

Min Koryo placed a pair of square-lensed glasses over her narrow nose and stared at the weathered but handsome face that stared back. Her dark eyes flashed briefly. “Goodbye, Mr. Pitt.”

Then she reached over and pushed the “off’ switch, and the screen went black.

The smoke from Suvorov’s cigarette hung heavily in the air of the dining room as he and Lugovoy shared a bottle of 1966 Croft Vintage Port. Suvorov looked at the red liquid in his glass and scowled.

“All these Mongolians ever serve us is beer and wine. What I wouldn’t give for a bottle of good vodka.”

Lugovoy selected a cigar out of a box that was held by one of the Korean waiters. “You have no culture, Suvorov. This happens to be an excellent port.”

“American decadence has not rubbed off on me,” Suvorov said arrogantly.

“Call it what you will, but you rarely see Americans defecting to Russia because of our disciplined lifestyle,” Lugovoy retorted sarcastically.

“You’re beginning to talk like them, drink like them; next you’ll want to murder and rape in the streets like them. At least I know where my loyalties lie.”

Lugovoy studied the cigar thoughtfully. “So do I. What I accomplish here will have grave effects on our nation’s policy toward the United States. It is of far greater importance than your KGB’s petty theft of industrial secrets.”

Suvorov appeared too mellowed by the wine to respond angrily to the psychologist’s remarks. “Your actions will be reported to our superiors.”

“I’ve told you endlessly. This project is underwritten by President Antonov himself.”

“I don’t believe you.”

Lugovoy lit the cigar and blew a puff of smoke toward the ceiling. “Your opinion is irrelevant.”

“We must find a means to contact the outside.” Suvorov’s voice rose.

“You’re crazy,” Lugovoy said seriously. “I’m telling you, no! I’m ordering you not to interfere. Can’t you use your eyes, your brain? Look around you. All this was in preparation for years. Every detail has been carefully planned to carry out this operation. Without Madame Bougainville’s organization, none of this would have been possible.”

“We are her prisoners,” Suvorov protested.

“What’s the difference, so long as our government benefits?”

“We should be masters of the situation,” Suvorov insisted. “We must get the President out of here and into the hands of our own people so he can be interrogated. The secrets you can pry from his mind are beyond comprehension.”

Lugovoy shook his head in exasperation. He did not know what else to say. Trying to reason with a mind scored by patriotic fervor was like trying to teach calculus to a drunk. He knew that when it was all over Suvorov would write up a report depicting him as unreliable and a potential threat to Soviet security. Yet he laughed inwardly. If the experiment succeeded, President Antonov might be of a mood to name him Hero of the Soviet Union.

He stood up, stretched and yawned. “I think I’ll catch a few hours’ sleep. We’ll begin programming the President’s responses first thing in the morning.”

“What time is it now?” Suvorov inquired dully. “I’ve lost all track of day and night in this tomb.”

“Five minutes to midnight.”

Suvorov yawned and sprawled on a couch. “You go ahead to bed. I’m going to have another drink. A good Russian never leaves the room before the bottle is empty.”

“Good night,” said Lugovoy. He turned and entered the hallway.

Suvorov waved halfheartedly and pretended he was on the verge of dozing off. But he studied the second hand of his watch for three minutes. Then he rose swiftly, crossed the room and noiselessly made his way down the hallway to where it made a ninety-degree turn toward the sealed elevator. He stopped and pressed his body to the wall and glanced around the edge of the corner.

Lugovoy was standing there patiently smoking his cigar. In less than ten seconds the elevator door silently opened and Lugovoy stepped inside. The time was exactly twelve o’clock. Every twelve hours, Suvorov noted, the project’s psychologist escaped the laboratory, returning twenty to thirty minutes later.

He left and walked past the monitoring room. Two of the staff members were intently examining the President’s brain rhythms and life signs. One of them looked up at Suvorov and nodded, smiling slightly.

“Going smoothly?” Suvorov asked, making conversation.

“Like a prima ballerina’s debut,” answered the technician.

Suvorov entered and looked up at the TV monitors. “What’s happening with the others?” he inquired, nodding toward the images of Margolin, Larimer and Moran in their sealed cocoons.

“Sedated and fed heavy liquid concentrations of protein and carbohydrates intravenously.”

“Until it’s their time for programming,” Suvorov added.

“Can’t say. You’ll have to ask Dr. Lugovoy that question.”

Suvorov watched one of the screens as an attendant in a laboratory coat lifted a panel on Senator Larimer’s cocoon and inserted a hypodermic needle into one arm.

“What’s he doing?” Suvorov asked, pointing.

The technician looked up. “We have to administer a sedative every eight hours or the subject will regain consciousness.”

“I see,” said Suvorov quietly. Suddenly it all became clear in his mind as the details of his escape plan fell into place. He felt good, better than he had in days. To celebrate, he returned to the dining room and opened another bottle of port. Then he took a small notebook from his pocket and scribbled furiously on its pages.

34

Oscar Lucas parked his car in a VIP slot at the Walter Reed Army Medical School and hurried through a side entrance. He jogged around a maze of corridors, finally stopping at a double door guarded by a Marine sergeant whose face had a Mount Rushmore solemnity about it. The sergeant carefully screened his identification and directed him into the hospital wing where sensitive and highly secret autopsies were held. Lucas quickly found the door marked LABORATORY AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY and entered.

“I hope I haven’t kept you waiting,” he said.

“No, Oscar,” said Alan Mercier. “I only walked in a minute ago myself.”

Lucas nodded and looked around the glass-enclosed room. There were five men besides himself: General Metcalf, Sam Emmett, Martin Brogan, Mercier and a short chesty man with rimless glasses introduced as Colonel Thomas Thornburg, who carried the heavy title of Director of Comparative Forensics and Clinical Pathology.

“Now that everyone is here,” said Colonel Thornburg in a strange alto voice, “I can show you gentlemen our results.”

He went over to a large window and peered at a huge circular machine on the other side of the glass. It looked like a finned turbine attached by a shaft to a generator. Half of the turbine disappeared into the concrete floor. Inside its inner diameter was a cylindrical opening, while just outside lay a corpse on a translucent tray.

“A spatial analyzer probe, or SAP as it’s affectionately called by my staff of researchers who developed it. What it does essentially is explore the body electronically through enhanced X rays while revealing precise moving pictures of every millimeter of tissue and bone.”

“A kind of CAT scanner,” ventured Brogan.

“Their basic function is the same, yes,” answered Thornburg. “But that’s like comparing a propeller aircraft to a supersonic jet. The CAT scanner takes several seconds to display a single cross section of the body. The SAP will deliver twenty-five thousand in less time. The findings are then automatically fed into the computer, which analyzes the cause of death. I’ve oversimplified the process, of course, but that’s a nuts-and-bolts description.”

“I assume your data banks hold nutritional and metabolic disorders associated with all known poisons and infectious diseases?” Emmett asked. “The same information as our computer records at the Bureau?”

Thornburg nodded. “Except that our data are more extensive because we occasionally deal with living tissue.”

“In a pathology lab?” asked Lucas.

“We also examine the living. Quite often we receive field agents from our intelligence agencies — and from our allies too — who have been injected by a poisonous material or artificially infected by a contagious disease and are still alive. With SAP we can analyze the cause and come up with an antidote. We’ve saved a few, but most arrive too late.”

“You can do an entire analysis and determine a cause in a few seconds?” General Metcalf asked incredulously.

“Actually in microseconds,” Thornburg corrected him. “Instead of gutting the corpse and going through an elaborate series of tests, we can now do it in the wink of an eye with one elaborate piece of equipment, which, I might add, cost the taxpayer something in the neighborhood of thirty million dollars.”

“What did you find on the bodies from the river?”

As if cued, Thornburg smiled and patted the shoulder of a technician who was sitting at a massive panel of lights and buttons. “I’ll show you.”

All eyes instinctively turned to the naked body lying on the tray. Slowly it began moving toward the turbine and disappeared into the center cylinder. Then the turbine began to revolve at sixty revolutions a minute. The X-ray guns encircling the corpse fired in sequence as a battery of cameras received the images from a fluorescent screen, enhanced them and fed the results into the computer bank. Before any of the men in the lab control room turned around, the cause of the corpse’s demise flashed out in green letters across the center of a display screen. Most of the wording was in anatomical terminology, giving description of the internal organs, the amount of toxicity present and its chemical code. At the bottom were the words “Conium maculatum.”

“What in hell is Conium maculatum?” wondered Lucas out loud.

“A member of the parsley family,” said Thornburg, “more commonly known as hemlock.”

“Rather an old-fashioned means of execution,” Metcalf remarked.

“Yes, hemlock was very popular during classical times. Best remembered as the drink given to Socrates. Seldom used these days, but still easy to come by and quite lethal. A large enough dose will paralyze the respiratory organs.”

“How was it administered?” Sam Emmett inquired.

“According to SAP, the poison was ingested by this particular victim along with peppermint ice cream.”

“Death for dessert,” Mercier muttered philosophically.

“Of the Coast Guard crewmen we identified,” Thornburg continued, “eight took the hemlock with the ice cream, four with coffee, and one with a diet soft drink.”

“SAP could tell all that from bodies immersed in water for five days?” asked Lucas.

“Decay starts immediately at death,” explained Thornburg, “and travels outward from the intestines and other organs containing body bacteria. The process develops rapidly in the presence of air. But when the body is underwater, where the oxygen content is low, decay proceeds very slowly. The preservation factor that worked in our favor was the confinement of the bodies. A drowning victim, for example, will float to the surface after a few days as the decomposition gases begin to expand, thereby hastening decay from air exposure. The bodies you brought in, however, had been totally submerged until an hour before we began the autopsies.”

“The chef was a busy man,” noted Metcalf.

Lucas shook his head. “Not the chef, but the dining-room steward. He’s the only crewman unaccounted for.”

“An impostor,” said Brogan. “The real steward was probably murdered and his corpse hidden.”

“What about the others?” queried Emmett.

“The Asians?”

“Were they poisoned too?”

“Yes, but in a different manner. They were all shot.”

“Shot, poisoned, which is it?”

“They were killed by fragmenting darts loaded with a highly lethal venom that comes from the dorsal spines of the stonefish.”

“No amateurs, these guys,” commented Emmett.

Thornburg nodded in agreement. “The method was very professional, especially the means of penetration. I removed a similar dart two years ago from a Soviet agent brought in by Mr. Brogan’s people. As I recall, the poison was injected by a bio-inoculator.”

“I’m not familiar with it,” said Lucas.

“An electrically operated handgun,” said Brogan, giving Thornburg an icy stare. “Totally silent, used on occasion by our resident agents.”

“A little loose with your arsenal, aren’t you, Martin?” Mercier goaded him good-naturedly.

“The unit in question was probably stolen from the manufacturer,” Brogan said defensively.

“Has an ID been made on any of the Asian bodies?” Lucas asked.

“They have no records in FBI files,” admitted Emmett.

“Nor with the CIA and Interpol,” Brogan added. “None of the intelligence services of friendly Asian countries have anything on them either.”

Mercier stared idly at the corpse moving out from the interior of the spatial analyzer probe. “It appears, gentlemen, that every time we open a door we walk into an empty room.”

35

“What kind of monsters are we dealing with?” Douglas Oates growled after listening to General Metcalf’s report on the autopsies. His face wore a chalky pallor and his voice was cold with fury. “Twenty-one murders. And for what purpose? Where is the motive? Is the President dead or alive? If this is a grand extortion scheme, why haven’t we received a ransom demand?”

Metcalf, Dan Fawcett and Secretary of Defense Jesse Simmons sat in silence in front of Oates’s desk.

“We can’t sit on this thing much longer,” Oates continued. “Any minute now the news media will become suspicious and stampede into an investigation. Already they’re grousing because no presidential interviews have been granted. Press Secretary Thompson has run out of excuses.”

“Why not have the President face the press?” Fawcett suggested.

Oates looked dubious. “That actor — what’s his name — Sutton? He would never get away with it.”

“Not up close on a podium under a battery of lights, but in a setting under shadows at a distance of a hundred feet… Well, it might work.”

“You got something in mind?” Oates asked.

“We stage a photo opportunity to enhance the President’s image. It’s done all the time.”

“Like Carter playing softball and Reagan chopping wood,” said Oates thoughtfully. “I think I see a down-home scene on the President’s farm.”

“Complete with crowing roosters and bleating sheep,” allowed Fawcett.

“And Vice President Margolin? Our double for him can’t be faked in shadows at a hundred feet.”

“A few references by Sutton and a friendly wave by the double at a distance should suffice,” Fawcett answered, becoming more enthusiastic over his brainstorm.

Simmons gazed steadily at Fawcett. “How soon can you have everyone ready?”

“First thing in the morning. Dawn, as a matter of fact. Reporters are night owls. They hang around waiting for late news to break. They’re not at their best before sunup.”

Oates looked at Metcalf and Simmons. “Well, what do you think?”

“We’ve got to throw the reporters a bone before they become bored and start snooping,” answered Simmons. “I vote yes.”

Metcalf nodded. “The only stalling tactic we’ve got.”

Fawcett came to his feet and peered at his watch. “If I leave for Andrews Air Force Base now, I should arrive at the farm in four hours. Plenty of time to arrange the details with Thompson and make an announcement to the press corps.”

Fawcett’s hand froze on the doorknob as Oates’s voice cut across the room like a bayonet.

“Don’t bungle it, Dan. For God’s sake, don’t bungle it.”

36

Vladimir Polevoi caught up with Antonov as the Soviet leader strolled beneath the outer Kremlin wall with his bodyguards. They were moving past the burial area where heroes of the Soviet Union were interred. The weather was unusually warm and Antonov carried his coat over one arm.

“Taking advantage of the fine summer day?” Polevoi asked conversationally as he approached.

Antonov turned. He was young for a Russian head of state, sixty-two, and he walked with a brisk step. “Too pleasant to waste behind a desk,” he said with a curt nod.

They walked for a while in silence as Polevoi waited for a sign or a word that Antonov was ready to talk business. Antonov paused before the small structure marking Stalin’s gravesite.

“You know him?” he asked.

Polevoi shook his head. “I was too far down the party ladder for him to notice me.”

Antonov’s expression went stern and he muttered tensely. “You were fortunate.” Then he stepped on, dabbing a handkerchief at the perspiration forming on the back of his neck.

Polevoi could see his chief was in no mood for small talk, so he came to the point. “We may have a break on the Huckleberry Finn Project.”

“We could use one,” Antonov said grudgingly.

“One of our agents in New York who is in charge of security for our United Nations workers has turned up missing.”

“How does that concern Huckleberry Finn?”

“He disappeared while following Dr. Lugovoy.”

“Any possibility he defected?”

“I don’t think so.”

Antonov stopped in midstep and gave Polevoi a hard stare. “We’d have a disaster in the making if he went over to the Americans.”

“I personally vouch for Paul Suvorov,” said Polevoi firmly. “I’d stake my reputation on his loyalty.”

“The name is familiar.”

“He is the son of Viktor Suvorov, the agriculture specialist.”

Antonov seemed appeased. “Viktor is a dedicated party member.”

“So is his son,” said Polevoi. “If anything, he’s overzealous.”

“What do you think happened to him?”

“I suspect he somehow passed himself off as one of Lugovoy’s staff of psychologists and was taken along with them by Madame Bougainville’s men.”

“Then we have a security man on the inside.”

“An assumption. We have no proof.”

“Did he know anything?”

“He was aware of nothing,” Polevoi said unequivocally. “His involvement is purely coincidental.”

“A mistake to have Dr. Lugovoy watched.”

Polevoi took a deep breath. “The FBI keeps a tight collar on our United Nations delegates. If we had allowed Dr. Lugovoy and his team of psychologists to roam freely about New York without our security agents observing their actions, the Americans would have become suspicious.”

“So they watch us while we watch ours.”

“In the last seven months, three of our people have asked for political asylum. We can’t be too careful.”

Antonov threw up his hands in a vague gesture. “I accept your argument.”

“If Suvorov is indeed with Lugovoy, he will no doubt attempt to make contact and disclose the location of the laboratory facility.”

“Yes, but if Suvorov, in his ignorance, makes a stupid move, there is no predicting how that old bitch Bougainville will react.”

“She might raise the ante.”

“Or worse, sell the President and the others to the highest bidder.”

“I can’t see that,” said Polevoi thoughtfully. “Without Dr. Lugovoy, the project isn’t possible.”

Antonov made a thin smile. “Excuse my cautious nature, Comrade Polevoi, but I tend to look on the dark side. That way I’m seldom taken by surprise.”

“The completion of Lugovoy’s experiment is only three days away. We should be thinking of how to handle the payment.”

“What are your proposals?”

“Not to pay her, of course.”

“How?”

“There are any number of ways. Switching the gold bars after her representative has examined them. Substituting lead that is painted gold or bars of lesser purity.”

“And the old bitch would smell out every one of them.”

“Still, we must try.”

“How will it be transferred?” Antonov asked.

“One of Madame Bougainville’s ships is already docked at Odessa, waiting to load the gold on board.”

“Then we’ll do what she least expects.”

“Which is?” Polevoi asked expectantly.

“We hold up our end of the bargain,” said Antonov slowly.

“You mean pay?” Polevoi asked incredulously.

“Down to the last troy ounce.”

Polevoi was stunned. “I’m sorry, Comrade President, but it was my understanding—”

“I’ve changed my mind,” Antonov said sharply. “I have a better solution.”

Polevoi waited several moments in silence, but it was apparent Antonov wasn’t going to confide in him. He slowly dropped back, finally coming to a halt.

Surrounded by his entourage, Antonov kept walking, his mind rapidly altering course and dwelling on other matters of state concern.

Suvorov pressed the switch to his night-light and checked the time on his watch. It read 4:04. Not too bad, he thought. He had programmed his mind to awaken at four in the morning and he’d only missed by four minutes.

Unable to suppress a yawn, he quickly pulled on a shirt and pair of pants, not bothering with socks or shoes. Stepping into the bathroom, he splashed his face with cold water, then moved across the small bedroom and cracked the door.

The brightly lit corridor was empty. Except for two psychologists monitoring the subjects, everyone else was asleep. As he walked the carpet in his bare feet, he began measuring the interior dimensions of the facilities and jotting them down in the notebook. Between the four outer walls he arrived at 168 feet in length by 33 feet in width. The ceiling was nearly ten feet high.

He came to the door of the medical supply room and gently eased open the door. It was never locked, because Lugovoy saw no reason for anyone to steal anything. He stepped inside, closed the door and turned on the light. Moving swiftly, Suvorov found the small bottles containing sedative solutions. He set them in a row on the sink and sucked out their contents with a syringe, emptying the fluid down the drain. Then he refilled the bottles with water and neatly rearranged them on the shelf.

He returned unseen to his sleeping quarters and slipped into bed once again and stared at the ceiling.

He was pleased with himself. His moves had gone undetected with no sign of the slightest suspicion. Now all he had to do was wait for the right moment.

37

It was a shadowy dream. The kind he could never remember when he woke up. He was searching for someone in the bowels of a deserted ship. Dust and gloom obscured his vision. Like the dive on the Eagle: green river algae and russet silt.

His quarry drifted in front of him, blurred, always beyond reach. He hesitated and tried to focus through the gloom, but the form taunted him, beckoning him closer.

Then a high-pitched ringing sound went off in his ear and he floated out of the dream and groped for the telephone.

“Dirk?” came a cheery voice from a throat he wanted to throttle.

“Yes.”

“Got some news for you.”

“Huh?”

“You asleep? This is St. Julien.”

“Perlmutter?”

“Wake up. I found something.”

Then Pitt switched on the bed light and sat up. “Okay, I’m listening.”

“I’ve received a written report from my friends in Korea. They went through Korean shipyard records. Guess what? The Belle Chasse was never scrapped.”

Pitt threw back the covers and dropped his feet on the floor. “Go on.”

“Sorry I took so long getting back to you, but this is the most incredible maritime puzzle I’ve ever seen. For thirty years somebody has been playing musical chairs with ships like you wouldn’t believe.”

“Try me.”

“First, let me ask you a question,” said Perl mutter. “The name on the stern of the ship you found in Alaska?”

“The Pilottown?”

“Were the painted letters framed by welded beading?”

Pitt thought back. “As I recall it was faded paint. The raised edges must have been ground away.”

Perlmutter uttered a heavy sigh of relief over the phone. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

“Why?”

“Your suspicions are confirmed. The San Marino, the Belle Chasse and the Pilottown are indeed one and the same ship.”

“Damn!” Pitt said, suddenly excited. “How’d you make the link?”

“By discovering what happened to the genuine Pilottown,” said Perlmutter with a dramatic inflection. “My sources found no record of a Belle Chasse being scrapped in the shipyards of Pusan. So I played a hunch and asked them to check out any other yards along the coast. They turned up a lead in the port of Inchon. Shipyard foremen are interesting guys. They never forget a ship, especially one they’ve junked. They act hard-nosed about it, but deep down they’re sad to see a tired old vessel pulled into their dock for the last time. Anyway, one old retired foreman talked for hours about the good old days. A real gold mine of ship lore.”

“What did he say?” Pitt asked impatiently.

“He recalled in great detail when he was in charge of the crew who converted the San Marino from a cargo transport into an ore carrier renamed the Belle Chasse.”

“But the shipyard records?”

“Obviously falsified by the shipyard owners, who, by the way, happened to be our old friends the Sosan Trading Company. The foreman also remembered breaking up the original Pilottown. It looks like Sosan Trading, or the shady outfit behind it, hijacked the San Marino and its cargo and killed the crew. Then they modified the cargo holds to carry ore, documented it under a different name and sent it tramping around the seas.”

“Where does the Pilottown come in?” asked Pitt.

“She was a legitimate purchase by Sosan Trading. You may be interested to know the International Maritime Crime Center has her listed with ten suspected customs violations. A hell of a high number. It’s thought she smuggled everything from plutonium to Libya, rebel arms to Argentina, secret American technology to Russia, you name it. She sailed under a smart bunch of operators. The violations were never proven. On five occasions she was known to have left port with clandestine cargo but was never caught unloading it. When her hull and engines finally wore out, she was conveniently scrapped and all records destroyed.”

“But why claim her as sunk if it was really the San Marino, alias the Belle Chasse, they scuttled?”

“Because questions might be raised regarding the Belle Chasse’s pedigree. The Pilottown had solid documentation, so they claimed it was she that sank in 1979, along with a nonexistent cargo, and demanded a fat settlement from the insurance companies.”

Pitt glanced down at his toes and wiggled them. “Did the old foreman talk about other ship conversions for Sosan Trading?”

“He mentioned two, a tanker and a container ship,” Perlmutter answered. “But they were both refits and not conversions. Their new names were the Boothville and the Venice.”

“What were their former names?”

“According to my friend’s report, the foreman claimed that all previous identification had been removed.”

“Looks like somebody built themselves a fleet out of hijacked ships.”

“A cheap and dirty way of doing business.”

“Anything new on the parent company?” Pitt asked.

“Still a closed door,” Perlmutter replied. “The foreman did say, however, some big shot used to show up to inspect the ships when they were completed and ready to sail.”

Pitt stood up. “What else?”

“That’s about it.”

“There has to be something, a physical description, a name, something.”

“Wait a minute while I check through the report again.”

Pitt could hear the rustle of papers and Perlmutter mumbling to himself. “Okay, here it is. ‘The VIP always arrived in a big black limousine.’ No make mentioned. ‘He was tall for a Korean—’ “

“Korean?”

“That’s what it says,” replied Perlmutter. “ ‘And he spoke Korean with an American accent.’ “

The shadowed figure in Pitt’s dream moved a step closer. “St. Julien, you do good work.”

“Sorry I couldn’t take it all the way.”

“You bought us a first down.”

“Nail the bastard, Dirk.”

“I intend to.”

“If you need me, I’m more than willing.”

“Thank you, St. Julien.”

Pitt walked to the closet, threw on a brief kimono and knotted the sash. Then he padded into the kitchen, treated himself to a glass of guava juice laced with dark rum and dialed a number on the phone.

After several rings an indifferent voice answered: “Yeah?”

“Hiram, crank up your computer. I’ve got a new problem for you.”

38

The tension was like a twisting knot in the pit of Suvorov’s stomach. For most of the evening he had sat in the monitoring room making small talk with the two psychologists who manned the telemetry equipment, telling jokes and bringing them coffee from the kitchen. They failed to notice that Suvorov’s eyes seldom strayed from the digital clock on one wall.

Lugovoy entered the room at 11:20 P.M. and made his routine examination of the analogous data on the President. At 11:38 he turned to Suvorov. “Join me in a glass of port, Captain?”

“Not tonight,” Suvorov said, making a pained face. “I have a heavy case of indigestion. I’ll settle for a glass of milk later.”

“As you wish,” Lugovoy said agreeably. “See you at breakfast.”

Ten minutes after Lugovoy left, Suvorov noticed a small movement on one of the TV monitors. It was almost imperceptible at first, but then it was caught by one of the psychologists.

“What in hell!” he gasped.

“Something wrong?” asked the other.

“Senator Larimer — he’s waking up.”

“Can’t be.”

“I don’t see anything,” said Suvorov, moving closer.

“His alpha activity is a clear nine-to-ten-cycle-per-second set of waves that shouldn’t be there if he was in his programmed sleep stage.”

“Vice President Margolin’s waves are increasing too.”

“We’d better call Dr. Lugovoy—”

The words hardly escaped his mouth when Suvorov cut him down with a savage judo chop to the base of the skull. In almost the same gesture, Suvorov swung a crosscut with the palm of the other hand into the throat of the second psychologist, crushing the man’s windpipe.

Even before his victims hit the floor, Suvorov coldly gazed at the clock. The blinking red numbers displayed 11:49—eleven minutes before Lugovoy was scheduled to exit the laboratory in the elevator. Suvorov had practiced his movements many times, allowing no more than two minutes for unpredictable delays.

He stepped over the lifeless bodies and ran from the monitor room into the chamber containing the subjects in their soundproofed cocoons. He unlatched the top of the third one, threw back the cover and peered inside.

Senator Marcus Larimer stared back at him. “What is this place? Who the hell are you?” the senator mumbled.

“A friend,” answered Suvorov, lifting Larimer out of the cocoon and half carrying, half dragging him to a chair.

“What’s going on?”

“Be quiet and trust me.”

Suvorov took a syringe from his pocket and injected Larimer with a stimulant. He repeated the process with Vice President Margolin, who looked around dazedly and offered no resistance. They were naked, and Suvorov brusquely threw them blankets.

“Wrap yourselves in these,” he ordered.

Congressman Alan Moran had not yet awakened. Suvorov lifted him out of the cocoon and laid him on the floor. Then he turned and walked over to the unit enclosing the President. The American leader was still unconscious. The latch mechanism was different from the other cocoons, and Suvorov wasted precious seconds trying to pry open the cover. His fingers seemed to lose all feeling and he fought to control them. He began to sense the first prickle of fear.

His watch read 11:57. He was beyond his timetable; his two-minute reserve evaporated. Panic was replacing fear. He reached down and snatched a Colt Woodsman.22-caliber automatic from a holster strapped to his right calf. He screwed on a four-inch suppressor; and for a brief instant he was not himself, a man outside himself, a man whose only code of duty and unleashed emotion blinded his perception. He aimed the gun at the President’s forehead on the other side of the transparent cover.

Through the mist of his drugged mind, Margolin recognized what Suvorov was about to do. He staggered across the cocoon chamber and lurched into the Russian agent, grabbing for the gun. Suvorov just sidestepped and pushed him against the wall. Somehow Margolin remained on his feet. His vision was blurred and distorted, and a wave of sudden nausea threatened to gag him. He flung himself forward in another attempt to save the President’s life.

Suvorov smashed the barrel of the gun against Margolin’s temple and the Vice President dropped limply in a heap, blood streaming down the side of his face. For a moment Suvorov stood rooted. His well-rehearsed plan was cracking and crumbling apart. Time had run out.

His last fleeting hope lay in salvaging the pieces. He forgot the President, kicked Margolin out of the way and shoved Larimer through the door. Heaving the still unconscious Moran over his shoulder, he herded the uncomprehending senator down the corridor to the elevator. They stumbled around the final corner just as the concealed doors parted and Lugovoy was about to step inside.

“Stop right where you are, Doctor.”

Lugovoy whirled and stared dumbly. The Colt was held rocksteady in Suvorov’s hand. The eyes — of the KGB agent blazed with a contemptuous disdain.

“You fool!” Lugovoy blurted as the full realization of what was happening struck him. “You bloody fool!”

“Shut up!” Suvorov snapped. “And step back out of the way.”

“You don’t know what you’re doing.”

“I’m only doing my duty as a good Russian.”

“You’re ruining years of planning,” Lugovoy said angrily. “President Antonov will have you shot.”

“No more of your lies, Doctor. Your insane project has placed our government in extreme jeopardy. It is you who will be executed. It is you who is the traitor.”

“Wrong,” Lugovoy said in near shock. “Can’t you see the truth?”

“I see you working for the Koreans. Most likely the South Koreans who have bought you off.”

“For God’s sake, listen to me.”

“A good Communist has no God but the party,” said Suvorov, roughly elbowing Lugovoy aside and shoving the unprotesting Americans into the elevator. “I have no more time to argue.”

A wave of despair swept Lugovoy. “Please, you can’t do this,” he pleaded.

Suvorov did not reply. He turned and glared malevolently as the elevator doors closed and blocked him from view.

39

As the elevator rose, Suvorov reversed the gun and smashed out the overhead light with the butt. Moran moaned and went through the motions of coming to, rubbing his eyes and shaking his head to clear the fog. Larimer became sick and vomited in a corner, his breath coming in great croaking heaves.

The elevator eased to a smooth stop and the doors automatically opened to a smothering rush of warm air. The only light came from three dim yellow bulbs that hung suspended on a wire like ailing glowworms. The air was dank and heavy and smelled of diesel oil and rotting vegetation.

Two men stood about ten feet away, engaged in conversation, waiting for Lugovoy to make his scheduled progress report. They turned and peered questioningly into the darkened elevator. One of them held an attaché case. The only other detail Suvorov noted before he shot them each twice in the chest was the Oriental fold of their eyes.

He slung his free arm under Moran’s waist and hauled him across what seemed like a rusting iron floor. He kicked Larimer ahead of him as he would a remorseful dog that had run away from home. The senator reeled like a drunk, too sick to speak, too stunned to resist. Suvorov pushed the gun inside his belt and took Larimer’s arm, guiding him. The skin under his hand felt goose-fleshed and clammy. Suvorov hoped the old legislator’s heart wasn’t about to give out.

Suvorov cursed as he stumbled over a large chain. Then he stopped and peered down an enclosed ramp that stretched into the dark. He felt as if he were inside a sauna; his clothes were turning damp with sweat and his hair was plastered down his forehead and temples. He tripped and almost fell, regaining his balance just before he was about to sprawl on the cross slats of the ramp.

Moran’s dead weight was becoming increasingly burdensome, and Suvorov realized his strength was ebbing. He doubted whether he could lug the congressman another fifty yards.

At last they left the tunnel-like ramp and staggered out into the night. He looked up and was vastly relieved to see a diamond-clear sky carpeted with stars. Beneath his feet the ground felt like a graveled road and there were no lights to be seen anywhere. In the shadows off to his left he dimly recognized the outline of a car. Pulling Larimer into a ditch beside the road, he gratefully dropped Moran like a bag of sand and cautiously circled around, approaching the car from the rear.

He froze into immobility, rigid against the shadowless landscape, and listened. The engine was running and music was playing on the radio. The windows were tightly rolled up and Suvorov rightly assumed the air conditioner was on.

Silent as a cat, he crouched and moved in closer, keeping low and out of any reflection in the sideview mirror on the door. The inside was too dark to make out more than one vague form behind the wheel. If there were others, Suvorov’s only ally was the element of surprise.

The car was a stretch-bodied limousine, and to Suvorov it seemed as long as a city block. From the raised letters on the rear of the trunk, he identified it as a Cadillac. He’d never driven one and hoped he would have no trouble finding the right switches and controls.

His groping fingers found the door handle. He took a deep breath and tore open the door. The interior light flicked on and the man in the front seat twisted his head around, his mouth opening to shout. Suvorov shot him twice, the silver-tip hollow-point bullets tearing through the rib cage under the armpit.

Almost before the blood began to spurt, Suvorov jerked the driver’s body out of the car and rolled it away from the wheels. Then he roughly crowded Larimer and Moran into the back seat. Both men had lost their blankets, but they were too deeply gripped by shock to even notice or care. No longer the power brokers of Capitol Hill, they were as helpless as children lost in the forest.

Suvorov dropped the shift lever into drive and jammed the accelerator to the floor mat so fiercely, the rear tires spun and sprayed gravel for fifty yards before finally gaining traction. Only then did Suvorov’s fumbling hand find the headlight switch and pull it on. He sagged in relief at discovering the big car was hurtling down the precise middle of a rutted country road.

As he threw the heavy, softly sprung limousine over three miles of choppy washboard, he began to take stock of his surroundings. Cypress trees bordering the road had great tentacles of moss hanging from their limbs. This and the heavy atmosphere suggested they were somewhere in the Southern United States. He spotted a narrow paved crossroad ahead and slid to a stop in a swirling cloud of dust. On the corner stood a deserted building, more of a shack actually, with a decrepit sign illuminated by the headlights: GLOVER CULPEPPER, GAS & GROCERIES. Apparently Glover had packed up and moved on many years before.

The intersection had no marker, so he mentally flipped a coin and turned left. The cypress gave way to groves of pine and soon he began passing an occasional farmhouse. Traffic was scarce at this hour of morning. Only one car and a pickup truck passed him, both going in the opposite direction. He came to a wider road and spotted a bent sign on a leaning post designating it as State Highway 700. The number meant nothing to him, so he made another left turn and continued on.

Throughout the drive, Suvorov’s mind remained cold and rigidly alert. Larimer and Moran sat silently watchful, blindly putting their faith in the man at the wheel.

Suvorov relaxed and eased his foot from the gas pedal. No following headlights showed in the rearview mirror, and as long as he maintained the posted speed limit his chances of being stopped by a local sheriff were remote. He wondered what state he was in. Georgia, Alabama, Louisiana? It could be any one of a dozen. He watched for some clue as the roadside became more heavily populated; darkened buildings and houses squatted under increasing numbers of overhead floodlights.

After another half-hour he came to a bridge spanning a waterway called the Stono River. He’d never heard of it. From the high point of the bridge, the lights of a large city blinked in the distance. Off to his right the lights suddenly halted and the entire horizon went pure black. A seaport, he swiftly calculated. Then the headlights fell on a large black-and-white directional sign. The top line read CHARLESTON 5 MILES.

“Charleston!” Suvorov said aloud in a sudden burst of jubilation, sifting through his knowledge of American geography. “I’m in Charleston, South Carolina.”

Two miles farther he found an all-night drugstore with a public telephone. Keeping a wary eye on Larimer and Moran, he dialed the long-distance operator and made a collect call.

40

A lone cloud was drifting overhead, scattering a few drops of moisture when Pitt slipped the Talbot beside the passenger departure doors of Washington’s Dulles International Airport. The morning sun roasted the capital city, and the rain steamed and evaporated almost as soon as it struck the ground. He lifted Loren’s suitcase out of the car and passed it to a waiting porter.

Loren unwound her long legs from the cramped sports car, demurely keeping her knees together, and climbed out.

The porter stapled the luggage claim check to the flight ticket and Pitt handed it to her.

“I’ll park the car and baby-sit you until boarding time.”

“No need,” she said, standing close. “I’ve some pending legislation to scan. You head back to the office.”

He nodded at the briefcase clamped in her left hand. “Your crutch. You’d be lost without it.”

“I’ve noticed you never carry one.”

“Not the type.”

“Afraid you might be taken for a business executive?”

“This is Washington; you mean bureaucrat.”

“You are one, you know. The government pays your salary, same as me.”

Pitt laughed. “We all carry a curse.”

She set the briefcase on the ground and pressed her hands against his chest. “I’ll miss you.”

He circled his arms around her waist and gave a gentle squeeze. “Beware of dashing Russian officers, bugged staterooms and vodka hangovers.”

“I will,” she said, smiling. “You’ll be here when I return?”

“Your flight and arrival time are duly memorized.”

She tilted her head up and kissed him. He seemed to want to say something more, but finally he released her and stood back. She slowly entered the terminal through the automatic sliding glass doors. A few steps into the lobby she turned to wave, but the blue Talbot was pulling away.

On the President’s farm, thirty miles south of Raton, New Mexico, members of the White House press corps were spaced along a barbed-wire fence, their cameras trained on an adjoining field of alfalfa. It was seven in the morning, Mountain Daylight-Saving Time, and they were drinking black coffee and complaining about the early hour, the high-plains heat, the watery scrambled eggs and burned bacon catered by a highway truck stop, and any other discontents, real or imagined.

Presidential Press Secretary Jacob (Sonny) Thompson walked brightly through the dusty press camp prepping the bleary-eyed correspondents like a high school cheerleader and assuring them of great unrehearsed homespun pictures of the President working the soil.

The press secretary’s charm was artfully contrived — bright white teeth capped with precision, long sleek black hair, tinted gray at the temples, dark eyes with the tightened look of cosmetic surgery. No second chin. No visible sign of a potbelly. He moved and gestured with a bouncy enthusiasm that didn’t sit well with journalists, whose major physical activities consisted of pounding typewriters, punching word processors and lifting cigarettes.

The clothes didn’t hurt the image either. The tailored seersucker suit with the blue silk shirt and matching tie. Black Gucci moccasins coated lightly with New Mexico dust. A classy, breezy guy who was no dummy. He never showed anger, never let the correspondents’ needles slip under his fingernails. Bob Finkel of the Baltimore Sun slyly suggested that an undercover investigation revealed that Thompson had graduated with honors from the Joseph Goebbels School of Propaganda.

He stopped at the CNN television motor home. Curtis Mayo, the White House correspondent network newscaster, sagged in a director’s chair looking generally miserable.

“Got your crew set up, Curt?” Thompson asked jovially.

Mayo leaned back, pushed a baseball cap to the rear of a head forested with billowy silver hair and gazed up through orange-tinted glasses. “I don’t see anything worth capturing for posterity.”

Sarcasm ran off Thompson like rainwater down a spout. “In five minutes the President is going to step from his house, walk to the barn and start up a tractor.”

“Bravo,” Mayo grunted. “What does he do for an encore?”

Mayo’s voice had a resonance to it that made a symphonic kettledrum sound like a bongo: deep, booming, with every word enunciated with the sharpness of a bayonet.

“He is going to drive back and forth across the field with a mower and cut the grass.”

“That’s alfalfa, city slicker.”

“Whatever,” Thompson acknowledged with a good-natured shrug. “Anyway, I thought it would be a good chance to roll tape on him in the rural environment he loves best.”

Mayo leveled his gaze into Thompson’s eyes, searching for a flicker of deception. “What’s going down, Sonny?”

“Sorry?”

“Why the hide-and-seek? The President hasn’t put in an appearance for over a week.”

Thompson stared back, his nut-brown eyes unreadable. “He’s been extremely busy, catching up on his homework away from the pressures of Washington.”

Mayo wasn’t satisfied. “I’ve never known a President to go this long without facing the cameras.”

“Nothing devious about it,” said Thompson. “At the moment, he has nothing of national interest to say.”

“Has he been sick or something?”

“Far from it. He’s as fit as one of his champion bulls. You’ll see.”

Thompson saw through the verbal ambush and moved on along the fence, priming the other news people, slapping backs and shaking hands. Mayo watched him with interest for a few moments before he reluctantly rose out of the chair and assembled his crew.

Norm Mitchell, a loose, ambling scarecrow, set up his video camera on a tripod, aiming it toward the back porch of the President’s farmhouse, while the beefy sound man, whose name was Rocky Montrose, connected the recording equipment on a small folding table. Mayo stood with one booted foot on a strand of barbed wire, holding a microphone.

“Where do you want to stand for your commentary?” asked Mitchell.

“I’ll stay off camera,” answered Mayo. “How far do you make it to the house and barn?”

Mitchell sighted through a pocket range finder. “About a hundred and ten yards from here to the house. Maybe ninety to the barn.”

“How close can you bring him in?”

Mitchell leaned over the camera’s eyepiece and lengthened the zoom lens, using the rear screen door for a reference. “I can frame him with a couple of feet to spare.”

“I want a tight close-up.”

“That means a two-X converter to double the range.”

“Put it on.”

Mitchell gave him a questioning look. “I can’t promise you sharp detail. At that distance, we’ll be giving up resolution and depth of field.”

“No problem,” said Mayo. “We’re not going for air time.”

Montrose looked up from his audio gear. “Then you don’t need me.”

“Roll sound anyway and record my comments.”

Suddenly the battalion of news correspondents came alive as someone shouted, “Here he comes!”

Fifty cameras went into action as the screen door swung open and the President stepped onto the porch. He was dressed in cowboy boots and a cotton shirt tucked into a pair of faded Levi’s. Vice President Margolin followed him over the threshold, a large Stetson hat pulled low over his forehead. They paused for a minute in conversation, the President gesturing animatedly while Margolin appeared to listen thoughtfully.

“Go tight on the Vice President,” Mayo ordered.

“Have him,” Mitchell responded.

The sun was climbing toward the middle of the sky and the heat waves were rising over the reddish earth. The President’s farm swept away in all directions, mostly fields of hay and alfalfa, with a few pastures for his small herd of breeding cattle. The crops were a vivid green in contrast to the barren areas, and watered by huge circular sprinkling systems. Except for a string of cottonwoods bordering an irrigation ditch, the land unfolded in flat solitude.

How could a man who had spent most of his life in such desolation drive himself to influence billions of people? Mayo wondered. The more he saw of the strange egomania of politicians the more he came to despise them. He turned and spat at a colony of red ants, missing their tunnel entrance by only a few inches. Then he cleared his throat and began describing the scene into the microphone.

Margolin turned and went back into the house. The President, acting as though the press corps were still back in Washington, hiked to the barn without turning in their direction. The exhaust of a diesel engine was soon heard and he reappeared seated on a green John Deere tractor, Model 2640, that was hooked to a hay mower. There was a canopy and the President sat out in the open, a small transistor radio clipped to his belt and earphones clamped to his head. The correspondents began yelling questions at him, but it was obvious he couldn’t hear them above the rap of the exhaust and music from the local FM station.

He wrapped a red handkerchief over the lower part of his face, bandit style, to keep from breathing dust and exhaust fumes. Then he let down the mower’s sliding blades and started cutting the field, driving back and forth in long rows, working away from the people crowding the fence.

After about twenty minutes the correspondents slowly packed away their equipment and returned to the air-conditioned comfort of their trailers and motor homes.

“That’s it,” announced Mitchell. “No more tape, unless you want me to reload.”

“Forget it.” Mayo wrapped the cord around the microphone and handed it to Montrose. “Let’s get out of this heat and see what we’ve got.”

They tramped into the cool of the motor home. Mitchell removed the cassette holding the three-quarter-inch videotape from the camera, inserted it into the playback recorder and rewound it. When he was ready to roll from the beginning, Mayo pulled up a chair and parked himself less than two feet from the monitor.

“What are we looking for?” asked Montrose.

Mayo’s concentration didn’t waver from the images moving before his screen. “Would you say that’s the Vice President?”

“Of course,” said Mitchell. “Who else could it be?”

“You’re taking what you see for granted. Look closer.”

Mitchell leaned in. “The cowboy hat is covering his eyes, but the mouth and chin match. The build fits too. Looks like him to me.”

“Anything odd about his mannerisms?”

“The guy is standing there with his hands in his pockets,” said Montrose dumbly. “What are we supposed to read in that?”

“Nothing unusual about him at all?” Mayo persisted.

“Don’t notice a thing,” said Mitchell.

“All right, forget him,” said Mayo as Margolin turned and went back into the house. “Now look at the President.”

“If that ain’t him,” muttered Montrose acidly, “then he’s got an identical twin brother.”

Mayo brushed off the remark and sat quietly as the camera followed the President across the barnyard, revealing the slow, recognizable gait known to millions of television viewers. He disappeared into the dark of the barn, and two minutes later emerged on the tractor.

Mayo snapped erect. “Stop the tape!” he shouted.

Startled, Mitchell pressed a button on the recorder and the image froze.

“The hands!” Mayo said excitedly. “The hands on the steering wheel!”

“So he’s got ten fingers,” mumbled Mitchell, his expression sour. “So what?”

“The President wears only a wedding band. Look again. No ring on the middle finger of the left hand, but on the index finger you see a good-sized sparkler. And the pinkie on the right—”

“I see what you mean,” Montrose interrupted. “A flat blue stone in a silver setting, probably an amethyst.”

“Doesn’t the President usually sport a Timex watch with an Indian silver band inlaid with turquoise?” observed Mitchell, becoming swept along.

“I think you’re right,” Mayo recalled.

“The detail is fuzzy, but I’d say that’s one of those big Rolex chronometers on his wrist.”

Mayo pounded a fist on his knee. “That clinches it. The President is known never to buy or wear anything of foreign manufacture.”

“Hold on,” Montrose said slowly. “This is crazy. We’re talking about the President of the United States as if he wasn’t real.”

“Oh, he’s flesh and bone all right,” said Mayo, “but the body sitting on that tractor belongs to someone else.”

“If you’re right, you’ve got a live bomb in your hands,” said Montrose.

Mitchell’s enthusiasm began to dim. “We may be digging for clams in Kansas. Seems to me the evidence is damned shaky. You can’t go on the air, Curt, and claim some clown is impersonating the President unless you have documented proof.”

“Nobody knows that better than me,” Mayo admitted. “But I’m not about to let this story slip through my hands.”

“You’re launching a quiet investigation then?”

“I’d turn in my press card if I didn’t have the guts to see it through.” He looked at his watch. “If I leave now, I should be in Washington by noon.”

Montrose crouched in front of the TV screen. His face had the look of a child who found his tooth still in the glass of water the next morning. “It makes you wonder,” he said in a hurt tone, “how many times one of our Presidents used a double to fool the public.”

41

Vladimir Polevoi glanced up from his desk as his chief deputy and number-two man of the world’s largest intelligence-gathering organization, Sergei Ira-nov, walked purposefully into the room. “You look as if you’ve got a hot stake up your ass this morning, Sergei.”

“He’s escaped,” Iranov said tersely.

“Who are you talking about?”

“Paul Suvorov. He’s managed to break out of Bougainville’s hidden laboratory.”

Sudden anger flushed Polevoi’s face. “Damn, not now!”

“He called our New York covert action center from a public telephone in Charleston, South Carolina, and asked for instructions.”

Polevoi rose and furiously paced the carpet. “Why didn’t he call the FBI and ask them for instructions too? Better yet, he could have taken out an advertisement in USA Today.”

“Fortunately his superior immediately sent a coded message to us reporting the incident.”

“At least someone is thinking.”

“There’s more,” said Iranov. “Suvorov took Senator Larimer and Congressman Moran with him.”

Polevoi halted and spun around. “The idiot! He’s queered everything!”

“He is not entirely to blame.”

“How do you draw that conclusion?” Polevoi asked cynically.

“Suvorov is one of our five top agents in the United States. He is not a stupid man. He was not briefed on Lugovoy’s project and it’s logical to assume it was entirely beyond his comprehension. He undoubtedly treated it with great suspicion and acted accordingly.”

“In other words, he did what he was trained to do.”

“In my opinion, yes.”

Polevoi gave an indifferent shrug. “If only he’d concentrated on simply giving us the location of the laboratory. Then our people could have moved in and removed the Huckleberry Finn operation from Bougainville’s control.”

“As things are now, Madame Bougainville may be angry enough to cancel the experiment.”

“And lose a billion dollars in gold? I doubt that very much. She still has the President and Vice President in her greedy hands. Moran and Larimer are no great loss to her.”

“Nor to us,” Iranov stated. “The Bougainvilles were our smokescreen in case the American intelligence agencies scuttled Huckleberry Finn. Now, with two abducted congressmen in our hands, it might be considered an act of war, or at very least a grave crisis. It would be best if we simply eliminated Moran and Larimer.”

Polevoi shook his head. “Not yet. Their knowledge of the inner workings of the United States military establishment can be of incalculable benefit to us.”

“A hazardous game.”

“Not if we’re careful and quickly dispose of them when and if the net tightens.”

“Then our first priority is to keep them from discovery by the FBI.”

“Has Suvorov found a safe place to hide?”

“Not known,” Iranov answered. “He was only told by New York to report every hour until they reviewed the situation and received orders from us in Moscow.”

“Who heads our undercover operations in New York?”

“His name is Basil Kobylin.”

“Advise him of Suvorov’s predicament,” said Polevoi, “omitting, of course, any reference pertaining to Huckleberry Finn. His orders are to hide Suvorov and his captives in a secure place until we can plan their escape from U.S. soil.”

“Not an easy matter to arrange.” Iranov helped himself to a chair and sat down. “The Americans are searching under every rock for their missing heads of state. All airfields are closely watched, and our submarines can’t come within five hundred miles of their coastline without detection by their underwater warning line.”

“There is always Cuba.”

Iranov looked doubtful. “The waters are too closely guarded by the U.S. Navy and Coast Guard against drug traffic. I advise against any escape by boat in that direction.”

Polevoi gazed out the windows of his office overlooking Dzerzhinsky Square. The late-morning sun was fighting a losing battle to brighten the drab buildings of the city. A tight smile slowly crossed his lips.

“Can we get them safely to Miami?”

“Florida?”

“Yes.”

Iranov stared into space. “There is the danger of roadblocks, but I think that could be overcome.”

“Good,” said Polevoi, suddenly relaxing. “See to it.”

Less than three hours after the escape, Lee Tong Bougainville stepped out of the laboratory’s elevator and faced Lugovoy. It was a few minutes before three in the morning, but he looked as if he had never slept.

“My men are dead,” Lee Tong said without a trace of emotion. “I hold you responsible.”

“I didn’t know it would happen.” Lugovoy spoke in a quiet but steady voice.”

“How could you not know?”

“You assured me this facility was escape-proof. I didn’t think he would actually make an attempt.”

“Who is he?”

“Paul Suvorov, a KGB agent, who your men picked off the Staten Island ferry by mistake.”

“But you knew.”

“He didn’t make his presence known until after we arrived.”

“And yet you said nothing.”

“That’s true,” Lugovoy admitted. “I was afraid. When this experiment is finished I must return to Russia. Believe me, it doesn’t pay to antagonize our state security people.”

The built-in fear of the man behind you. Bougainville could see it in the eyes of every Russian he met. They feared foreigners, their neighbors, any man in uniform. They’d lived with it for so long it became an emotion as common as anger or happiness. He did not find it in himself to pity Lugovoy. Instead, he despised him for willingly living under such a depressing system.

“Did this Suvorov cause any damage to the experiment?”

“No,” Lugovoy answered. “The Vice President has a slight concussion, but he is back under sedation. The President was untouched.”

“Nothing delayed?”

“Everything is proceeding on schedule.”

“And you expect to finish in three more days?”

Lugovoy nodded.

“I’m moving your deadline up.”

Lugovoy acted as though he hadn’t heard correctly. Then the truth broke through to him. “Oh, God, no!” he gasped. “I need every minute. As it is, my staff and I are cramming into ten days what should take thirty. You’re eliminating all our safeguards. We must have more time for the President’s brain to stabilize.”

“That is President Antonov’s concern, not mine or my grandmother’s. We fulfilled our part of the bargain. By allowing a KGB man in here, you jeopardized the entire project.”

“I swear I had nothing to do with Suvorov’s breakout.”

“Your story,” Bougainville said coldly. “I choose to believe his presence was planned, likely on President Antonov’s orders. Certainly by now Suvorov has informed his superiors and every Soviet agent in the States is converging on us. We will have to move the facility.”

That was the final shattering blow. Lugovoy looked as if he was about to gag. “Impossible!” he howled like an injured dog. “Absolutely no way can we move the President and all this equipment to another site and still meet your ridiculous deadline.”

Bougainville glared at Lugovoy through narrow slits of eyes. When he spoke again, his voice was rock calm. “Not to worry, Doctor. No upheaval is necessary.”

42

When Pitt walked into his NUMA office, he found Hiram Yaeger asleep on the couch. With his sloppy clothes, long knotted hair and beard, the computer expert looked like a derelict wino. Pitt reached down and gently shook him by the shoulder. An eyelid slowly raised, then Yaeger stirred, grunted and pushed himself to a sitting position.

“Hard night?” Pitt inquired.

Yaeger scratched his head with both hands and yawned. “You have any Celestial Seasonings Red Zinger Tea?”

“Only yesterday’s warmed-over coffee.”

Yaeger clicked his lips sourly. “The caffeine will kill you.”

“Caffeine, pollution, booze, women — what’s the difference?”

“By the way, I got it.”

“Got what?”

“I nailed it, your cagey shipping company.”

“Jesus!” Pitt said, coming alive. “Where?”

“Right in our own backyard,” Yaeger said with a great grin. “New York.”

“How did you do it?”

“Your hunch about Korean involvement was the key, but not the answer. I attacked it from that angle, probing all the shipping and export lines that were based in Korea or sailed under their registry. There were over fifty of them, but none led to the trail of banks we checked earlier. With nowhere else to go, I let the computer fly on its own. My ego is shattered. It proved a better sleuth than I am. The kicker was in the name. Not Korean, but French.”

“French.”

“Based in the World Trade Center in lower Manhattan, their fleet of legitimate ships flies the flag of the Somali Republic. How does that grab you?”

“Go on.”

“A first-rate company, no rust-bucket operation, rated lily-white by Fortune, Forbes and Dun and Bradstreet. So damned pure that their annual report comes accompanied with harp music. Scratch the surface deep enough though, and you find more phony front men and dummy subsidiary companies than gays in San Francisco. Documentary ship fraud, bogus insurance claims, chartering phantom ships with nonexistent cargoes, substitution of worthless cargoes for ones of great value. And always beyond the jurisdiction of the private outfits and governments they screw.”

“What’s their name?”

“Bougainville Maritime,” answered Yaeger. “Ever heard of it?”

“Min Koryo Bougainville — the ‘Steel Lotus’?” said Pitt, impressed. “Who hasn’t? She’s right up there with the celebrity British and Greek shipping tycoons.”

“She is your Korean connection.”

“Your data are conclusive? No chance of error?”

“Solid stuff,” Yaeger replied adamantly. “Take my word for it. Everything triple-checks. Once I tuned in on Bougainville as the source, it became a simple chore of working backwards. It all came together; bank accounts, letters of credit — you wouldn’t believe how the banks turn their backs on these frauds. The old broad reminds me of one of those East Indian statues with twenty arms, sitting there with a holy look on her face while the hands are making obscene gestures.”

“You did it,” Pitt said enthusiastically. “You actually pinned Sosan Trading, the San Marino and Pilottown on the Bougainville shipping empire.”

“Like a stake through the heart.”

“How far back did you go?”

“I can give you the old girl’s biography almost to when she spit out the tit. A tough old bird. Started from scratch and a lot of guts after World War Two. Slowly added old tramp ships to her fleet, crewed by Koreans who were glad to work for a bowl of rice and pennies a day. With practically no overhead, she cut-rate her freight costs and built a thriving business. About twenty-five years ago, when her grandson joined the company, things really took off. A slippery customer, that one. Keeps in the background. Except for school records, his data file is almost blank. Min Koryo Bougainville built the foundation for maritime crime that spanned thirty nations. When her grandson — Lee Tong is his name — came along, he honed and smoothed the piracy and fraud part of the organization to a fine art. I had the whole mess printed out. There’s a hard copy on your desk.”

Pitt turned and for the first time noticed a five-inch-thick sheaf of computer printout paper on his desk. He sat down and briefly scanned the notched pages. The incredible reach of the Bougainvilles was mind-boggling. The only criminal activity they appeared to shy away from was prostitution.

After several minutes he looked up and nodded. “A super job, Hiram,” he said sincerely. “Thank you.”

Yeager nodded toward the printouts. “I wouldn’t let that out of my sight if I were you.”

“Any chance of us getting caught?”

“A foregone conclusion. Our illegal taps have been recorded on the bank’s computer log and printed out on a daily form. If a smart supervisor scans the list, he’ll wonder why an American oceanographic agency is snooping in his biggest depositor’s records. His next step would be to rig the computer’s communications line with a tracing device.”

“The bank would most certainly notify old Min Koryo,” said Pitt thoughtfully. Then he looked up. “Once they identify NUMA as the tap, can Bougainville’s own computer network probe ours to see what we’ve gleaned from their data banks?”

“Our network is as vulnerable as any other. They won’t learn much, though. Not since I removed the magnetic storage disks.”

“When do you think they’ll smoke us out?”

“I’d be surprised if they haven’t pegged us already.”

“Can you stay one jump ahead of them?”

Yaeger gave Pitt an inquiring stare. “What sneaky plan are you about to uncork?”

“Go back to your keyboard and screw them up but good. Re-enter the network and alter the data, foul up the Bougainville day-to-day operations, erase legitimate bank records, insert absurd instructions into their programs. Let them feel the heat from somebody else’ for a change.”

“But we’ll lose vital evidence for a federal investigation.”

“So what?” Pitt declared. “It was obtained illegally. It can’t be used anyway.”

“Now wait a minute. We can be stepping into big trouble.”

“Worse than that, we might get killed,” Pitt said with a faint smile.

An expression blossomed on Yaeger’s face, one that wasn’t there before. It was sudden misgiving. The game had ceased to be fun and was taking on darker dimensions. It had never dawned on him that the search could turn ugly and he might be murdered.

Pitt read the apprehension in Yaeger’s eyes. “You can quit now and take a vacation,” he said. “I wouldn’t blame you.”

Yaeger seemed to waver for a moment. Then he shook his head. “No, I’ll stick with it. These people should be put away.”

“Come down hard on them. Jam the works in all aspects of their shipping company — outside investments, subsidiary businesses, real estate dealings, everything they touch.”

“It’s my ass, but I’ll do it. Just keep the admiral out of my hair for a few more nights.”

“Keep a lookout for any information relating to a ship called the Eagle.”

“The presidential yacht?”

“Just a ship called the Eagle.”

“Anything else?”

Pitt nodded grimly. “I’ll see that security is increased around your computer processing center.”

“Mind if I stay here and use your couch. I’ve developed this sudden aversion to sleeping alone irt my apartment.”

“My office is yours.”

Yaeger stood up and stretched. Then he nodded at the data sheets again. “What are you going to do with it?”

Pitt stared down at the first breach ever in the Bougainville criminal structure. The pace of his personal investigation was gaining momentum, pieces falling into his hands to be fitted in the overall picture, jagged edges meshing together. The scope was far beyond anything he’d imagined in the beginning.

“You know,” he said pensively, “I don’t have the vaguest idea.”

43

When senator Larimer awoke in the tear seat of the limousine, the eastern sky was beginning to turn orange. He slapped at the mosquito whose buzzing had interrupted his sleep. Moran stirred in his corner of the seat, his squinting eyes unfocused, his mind still unaware of his surroundings. Suddenly a door was opened and a bundle of clothes was thrown in Larimer’s lap.

“Put these on,” Suvorov ordered brusquely.

“You never told me who you are,” Larimer said, his tongue moving in slow motion.

“My name is Paul.”

“No surname?”

“Just Paul.”

“You FBI?”

“No.”

“CIA?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Suvorov said. “Get dressed.”

“When will we arrive in Washington?”

“Soon,” Suvorov lied.

“Where did you get these clothes? How do you know they’ll fit?”

Suvorov was losing his patience with the inquisitive American. He shrugged off an impulse to crack the senator in the jaw with the gun.

“I stole them off a clothesline,” he said. “Beggars can’t be particular. At least they’re washed.”

“I can’t wear a stranger’s shirt and pants,” Larimer protested indignantly.

“If you wish to return to Washington in the nude, it is no concern of mine.”

Suvorov slammed the door, moved to the driver’s side of the car and edged behind the wheel. He drove out of a picturesque residential community called Plantation Estates and cut onto Highway 7. The early-morning traffic was starting to thicken as they crossed over the Ashley River bridge to Highway 26, where he turned north.

He was grateful that Larimer went silent. Moran was climbing from his semi-conscious state and mumbling incoherently. The headlights reflected off a green sign with white letters: AIRPORT NEXT RIGHT. He took the off ramp and came to the gate of the Charleston Municipal Airport. Across the main landing strip the brightening sky revealed a row of jet fighters belonging to the Air National Guard.

Following the directions given over the phone, he skirted the airport searching for a narrow cutoff. He found it and drove over a dirt road until he came to a pole holding a wind sock that hung limp in the dank atmosphere.

He stopped and got out, checked his watch and waited. Less than two minutes later the steady beat of a helicopter’s rotor could be heard approaching from behind a row of trees. The blinking navigation lights popped into view and a teardrop blue-and-white shape hovered for a few moments and then sat down beside the limousine.

The door behind the pilot’s seat swung outward and a man in white coveralls stepped to the ground and walked up to the limousine.

“You Suvorov?” he asked.

“I’m Paul Suvorov.”

“Okay, let’s get the baggage inside before we attract unwanted attention.”

Together they led Larimer and Moran into the passenger compartment of the copter and belted them in. Suvorov noted that the letters on the side of the fuselage read SUMTER AIRBORNE AMBULANCE.

“This thing going to the capital?” asked Larimer with a spark of his old haughtiness.

“Sir, it’ll take you anyplace you want,” said the pilot agreeably.

Suvorov eased into the empty co-pilot’s seat and buckled the harness. “I wasn’t told our destination,” he said.

“Russia, eventually,” the pilot said with a smile that was anything but humorous. “First thing is to find where you came from.”

“Came from?”

“My orders are to fly you around the back country until you identify the facility in which you and those two windbags in the back have spent the last eight days. When we accomplish that mission, I’m to fly you to another departure area.”

“All right,” said Suvorov. “I’ll do my best.”

The pilot didn’t offer his name and Suvorov knew better than to ask. The man was undoubtedly one of the estimated five thousand Soviet-paid “charges” stationed around the United States, experts in specialized occupations, all waiting for a call instructing them to surface, a call that might never come.

The helicopter rose fifty feet in the air and then banked off toward Charleston Bay. “Okay, which way?” asked the pilot.

“I can’t be sure. It was dark and I was lost.”

“Can you give me a landmark?”

“About five miles from Charleston; I crossed a river.”

“From what direction?”

“West, yes, the dawn was breaking ahead of me.”

“Must be Stono River.”

“Stono, that’s it.”

“Then you were traveling on State Highway 700.”

“I turned onto it about half an hour before the bridge.”

The sun had heaved itself above the horizon and was filtering through the blue summer haze that hung over Charleston. The helicopter climbed to nine hundred feet and flew southwestward until the highway unreeled beyond the cockpit windows. The pilot pointed downward and Suvorov nodded. They followed the outbound traffic as the South Carolina coastal plain spread beneath them. Here and there a few cultivated fields lay enclosed on all sides by forests of long-leafed pines. They passed over a farmer standing in a tobacco field who waved his hat at them.

“See anything familiar?” the pilot asked.

Suvorov shook his head helplessly. “The road I turned off of might be anywhere.”

“What direction were you facing when you met the highway?”

“I made a left turn so I must have been heading south.”

“This area is called Wadmalaw Island. I’ll start a circular search pattern. Let me know if you spot something.”

An hour slipped by, and then two. The scene below transformed into a maze of creeks and small rivers snaking through bottomland and swamps. One road looked the same as another from the air. Thin ribbons of reddish-brown dirt or potholed asphalt slicing through dense overgrowth like lines on the palm of a hand. Suvorov became more confused as time wore on, and the pilot lost his patience.

“We’ll have to knock off the search,” he said, “or I won’t have enough fuel to make Savannah.”

“Savannah is in the state of Georgia,” Suvorov said, as though reciting in a school class.

The pilot smiled. “Yeah, you got it.”

“Our departure point for the Soviet Union?”

“Only a fuel stop.” Then the pilot clammed up.

Suvorov saw it was impossible to draw any information out of the man, so he turned his attention back to the ground.

Suddenly he pointed excitedly over the instrument panel. “There!” he shouted above the engine’s roar. “The small intersection to the left.”

“Recognize it?”

“I think so. Drop lower. I want to read the sign on that shabby building sitting on the corner.”

The pilot obliged and lowered the helicopter until it hovered thirty feet over the bisecting roadways. “Is that what you want?” he asked. “ ‘Glover Culpepper— gas and groceries’?”

“We’re close,” said Suvorov. “Fly up the road that leads toward that river to the north.”

“The Intracoastal Waterway.”

“A canal?”

“A shallow canal that provides an almost continuous inshore water passage from the North Atlantic States to Florida and the Gulf of Mexico. Used mostly by small pleasure boats and tugs.”

The helicopter beat over the tops of trees, whipping leaves and bending branches with the wash from its rotor blades. Suddenly, at the edge of a wide marshy creek, the road ended. Suvorov stared through the windshield.

“The laboratory, it must be around here.”

“I don’t see anything,” the pilot said, banking the craft and studying the ground.

“Set us down!” Suvorov demanded nervously. “Over there, a hundred meters from the road in that glade.”

The pilot nodded and gently eased the helicopter’s landing skids into the soft grassy earth, sending up a swirl of dead and moldy leaves. He set the engine on idle with the blades slowly turning and opened the door. Suvorov leaped out and ran stumbling through the underbrush back to the road. After a few minutes of frantic searching he stopped at the bank of the creek and looked around in exasperation.

“What’s the problem?” asked the pilot as he approached.

“Not here,” Suvorov said dazedly. “A warehouse with an elevator that dropped down to a laboratory. It’s gone.”

“Buildings can’t vanish in six hours,” said the pilot. He was beginning to look bored. “You must be on the wrong road.”

“No, no, this has to be the right one.”

“I only see trees and swamp”—he hesitated and pointed—”and that decrepit old houseboat on the other side of the creek.”

“A boat!” Suvorov said as though having a revelation. “It must have been a boat.”

The pilot gazed down into the muddy water of the creek. “The bottom here is only three or four feet deep. Impossible to bring a vessel the size of a warehouse, requiring an elevator, in here from the waterway.”

Suvorov threw up his hands in bewilderment. “We must keep searching.”

“Sorry,” the pilot said firmly. “We haven’t the time or the fuel to continue. To keep our appointment we’ve got to leave now.”

He turned without waiting for a reply and walked back to the helicopter. Slowly Suvorov followed him, looking for all the world like a man deep in a trance.

As the helicopter lifted above the trees and swung toward Savannah, a gunnysack curtain in the window of the houseboat was pulled aside to reveal an old Chinaman peering through an expensive pair of Celestron 11 x 80 binoculars.

Satisfied he had read the aircraft’s identification number on the fuselage correctly, he laid down the glasses and dialed a number on a portable telephone scrambling unit and spoke in rapid Chinese.

44

“Got a minute, Dan?” Curtis Mayo asked as Dan Fawcett got out of his car in the private street beside the White House.

“You’ll have to catch me on the run,” Fawcett replied without looking in Mayo’s direction. “I’m late for a meeting.”

“Another heavy situation in the Situation Room?”

Fawcett sucked in his breath. Then, as calmly as his trembling fingers would permit, he locked the car door and picked up his attache case.

“Care to comment?” Mayo asked.

Fawcett marched off toward the security gate. “I shot an arrow in the air…”

“It fell to earth, I know not where,” Mayo finished, keeping step. “Longfellow. Want to see my arrow?”

“Not particularly.”

“This one is going to land on the six o’clock news.”

Fawcett slowed his pace. “Just what are you after?”

Mayo took a large tape cassette from his pocket and handed it to Fawcett. “You might like to view this before air time.”

“Why are you doing this?”

“Call it professional courtesy.”

“Now that’s news.”

Mayo smiled. “Like I said, view the tape.”

“Save me the trouble. What’s on it?”

“A folksy scene of the President playing farmer. Only it isn’t the President.”

Fawcett drew up and stared at Mayo. “You’re full of crap.”

“Can I quote you?”

“Don’t get cute,” Fawcett snapped. “I’m in no mood for a slanted interview.”

“Okay, straight question,” said Mayo. “Who is impersonating the President and Vice President in New Mexico?”

“Nobody.”

“I’ve got proof that says otherwise. Enough to use it as a news item. I release this and every muckraker between here and Seattle will crawl over the White House like an army of killer ants.”

“Do that and you’ll have a dozen eggs on your face when the President stands as close to you as I am and denies it.”

“Not if I find out what sort of mischief he’s been up to while a double played hide-and-seek down on the farm.”

“I won’t wish you luck, because the whole idea is outlandish.”

“Level with me, Dan. Something big is going down.”

“Trust me, Curt. Nothing off limits is happening. The President will be back in a couple of days. You can ask him yourself.”

“What about the sudden burst of secret Cabinet meetings at all hours?”

“No comment.”

“It’s true, isn’t it?”

“Who’s your source for that little gem?”

“Somebody who’s seen a lot of unmarked cars entering the sub-basement of the Treasury Department in the dead of night.”

“So the Treasury people are burning the midnight oil.”

“No lights go on in the building. My guess is they’re sneaking into the White House through the utility tunnel and congregating in the Situation Room.”

“Think what you like, but you’re dead wrong. That’s all I have to say on the subject.”

“I’m not going to drop it,” Mayo said defiantly.

“Suit yourself,” Fawcett replied indifferently. “It’s your funeral.”

Mayo dropped back and watched as Fawcett walked through the security gate. The presidential adviser had put up a good front, he thought, but that’s all it was, a front. Any doubts Mayo might have entertained about sinister maneuvers emanating behind the walls of the nation’s executive branch were swept away.

He was more determined than ever to damn well find out what was going on.

Fawcett slid the cassette into a videotape recorder and sat down in front of the TV screen. He ran the tape three times, examining every detail until he knew what Mayo had caught.

Wearily he picked up a phone and asked for a secure line to the State Department. After a few moments the voice of Doug Oates answered through the earpiece.

“Yes, Dan, what is it?”

“We have a new development.”

“News of the President?”

“No, sir. I’ve just had a talk with Curtis Mayo of CNN News. He’s onto us.”

There was a taut pause. “What can we do?”

“Nothing,” said Fawcett somberly, “absolutely nothing.”

Sam Emmett left the FBI building in downtown Washington and drove over to CIA headquarters in Langley, Virginia. A summer shower passed overhead, moistening the forested grounds of the intelligence complex and leaving behind the sweet smell of dampened greenery.

Martin Brogan was standing outside his office when Emmett walked through the anteroom door. The tall ex-college professor offered an outstretched hand. “Thank you for taking time from your busy schedule to drive over.”

Emmett smiled as he took his hand. Brogan was one of the few men around the President he genuinely admired. “Not at all. I’m not a desk man. I jump at any excuse to get off my butt and move around.”

They entered Brogan’s office and sat down. “Coffee or a drink?” Brogan asked.

“Nothing, thanks.” Emmett opened his briefcase and laid a bound report on the CIA Director’s desk. “This spells out the Bureau’s findings until an hour ago on the President’s disappearance.”

Brogan handed him a similarly bound report. “Likewise from Central Intelligence. Damned little to add since our last meeting, I’m sorry to say.”

“You’re not alone. We’re miles from a breakthrough too.”

Brogan paused to light a ropelike Toscanini cigar. It seemed oddly out of place with his Brooks Brothers suit and vest. Together the men began reading. After nearly ten minutes of quiet, Brogan’s expression softened from deep concentration to curious interest, and he tapped a page of Emmett’s report.

“This section about a missing Soviet psychologist.”

“I thought that would interest you.”

“He and his entire United Nations staff vanished the same night as the Eagle’s hijacking?”

“Yes, to date none of them have turned up. Could be merely an intriguing coincidence, but I felt it shouldn’t be ignored.”

“The first thought that crossed my mind is that this”—Brogan glanced at the report again—”Lugovoy, Dr. Aleksei Lugovoy, may have been assigned by the KGB to use his psychological knowledge to pry national secrets from the abducted men.”

“A theory we can’t afford to dismiss.”

“The name,” Brogan said vacantly. “It strikes a chord.”

“You’ve heard it before?”

Suddenly Brogan’s brows raised and his eyes widened ever so slightly and he reached for his intercom. “Send up the latest file from the French Internal Security Agency.”

“You think you’ve got something?”

“A recorded conversation between President Antonov and his KGB chief Vladimir Polevoi. I believe Lugovoy was mentioned.”

“From French intelligence?” Emmett asked.

“Antonov was on a state visit. Our friendly rivals in Paris are quietly cooperative about passing along information they don’t consider sensitive to their national interests.”

In less than a minute, Brogan’s private secretary knocked on the door and gave him a transcription of the secret tape recording. He quickly consumed its contents.

“This is most encouraging,” he said. “Read between the lines and you can invent all sorts of Machiavellian schemes. According to Polevoi, the UN psychologist disappeared off the Staten Island ferry in New York and all contact was severed.”

“The KGB lost several sheep from their herd at one time?” Emmett asked in mild astonishment. “That’s a new twist. They must be getting sloppy.”

“Polevoi’s own statement.” Brogan held out the transcript papers. “See for yourself.”

Emmett read the typed print and reread it. When he looked up, a trace of triumph brightened his eyes. “So the Russians are behind the abduction.”

Brogan nodded in agreement. “From all appearances, but they can’t be in it alone. Not if they’re ignorant of Lugovoy’s whereabouts. Another source is working with them, someone here in the United States with the power to dictate the operation.”

“You?” Emmett asked wolfishly.

Brogan laughed. “No, and you?”

Emmett shook his head. “If the KGB, the CIA and the FBI are all kept in the dark, then who’s dealing the cards?”

“The person they refer to as the ‘old bitch’ and ‘Chinese whore.’ “

“No gentlemen these Communists.”

“The code word for their operation must be Huckleberry Finn.”

Emmett stretched out his legs, crossing them at the ankles, and sagged comfortably in his chair. “Huckleberry Finn,” he repeated, enunciating every syllable. “Our counterpart in Moscow has a dark sense of humor. But what’s important, he’s unwittingly given us an eye to shove a sharp stick into.”

No one paid any attention to the two men seated comfortably in a pickup truck parked in a loading zone by the NUMA building. A cheap plastic removable sign adhered to the passenger’s door advertised GUS MOORE’S PLUMBING. Behind the cab in the truck’s bed, several lengths of copper pipe and an assortment of tools lay in casual disorder. The men’s coveralls were stained with dirt and grease, and neither had shaved in three or four days. The only odd thing about their appearance was their eyes. They never shifted from the entrance to NUMA’s headquarters.

The driver tensed and made a directional movement with a nod of his head. “I think this is him coming.”

The other man raised a pair of binoculars wrapped in a brown paper bag with the bottom torn out and gazed at a figure emerging from the revolving glass doors. Then he laid the glasses in his lap and examined a face in a large eleven-by-fourteen-inch glossy photograph.

“Confirmed.”

The driver checked a row of numbers on a small black transmitter. “Counting one hundred forty seconds from… now.” He punctuated his words by pushing a toggle switch to the “on” position.

“Okay,” his partner said. “Let’s get the hell away.”

Pitt reached the bottom of the broad stone steps as the plumber’s truck drove past in front of him. He stood a moment to let another car by and began walking through the parking lot. He was seventy yards from the Talbot-Lago when he turned at the honking of a horn.

Al Giordino drew up alongside in a Ford Bronco four-wheel drive. His curly black hair was shaggy and uncombed and a heavy growth covered his chin. He looked as if he hadn’t slept in a week.

“Sneaking home early?” he said.

“I was until you caught me,” Pitt replied, grinning.

“Lucky you, sitting around with nothing to do.”

“You wrap the Eagle salvage?” Pitt asked.

Giordino gave a tired nod. “Towed her up the river and pushed her into dry dock about three hours ago. You can smell her death stink a mile away.”

“At least you didn’t have to remove the bodies.”

“No, a Navy diving team was stuck with that ugly chore.”

“Take a week off. You’ve earned it.”

Giordino spread his Roman smile. “Thanks, boss. I needed that.” Then his expression turned solemn. “Anything new on the Pilottown?”

“We’re zeroing in—”

Pitt never finished the sentence. A thunderous explosion tore the air. A ball of flame erupted between the densely packed cars and jagged metal debris burst in all directions. A tire and wheel, the chrome spokes flashing in the sun, flew in a high arc and landed with a loud crunch in the middle of Giordino’s hood. Bouncing inches over Pitt’s head, it then rolled through a landscaped parkway before coming to rest in a cluster of rosebushes. The rumble from the blast echoed across the city for several seconds before it finally faded and died.

“God!” Giordino rasped in bewildered awe. “What was that?”

Pitt took off running, dodging between the tightly parked cars, until he slowed and halted in front of a scrambled mass of metal that smoldered and coughed up a cloud of dense black smoke. The asphalt underneath was gouged and melting from the heat, turning into a heavy sludge. The tangled wreck was nearly unrecognizable as a car.

Giordino ran up behind him. “Jesus, whose was it?”

“Mine,” said Pitt, his features twisted in bitterness as he stared at the remains of the once beautiful Talbot-Lago.