Deep Six

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

“Too elaborate. This operation took an immense amount of pla

“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 co

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 ru

“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 co

“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.