Deep Six

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 Du

“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 una

“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 sca

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.