Deep Six

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 ma

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 pla

“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.