Deep Six

“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 co

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

Pitt looked up and gri

“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 cha

“Yes, sir, deep water. If I was ru

“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.