Deep Six

“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 ma

“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 Fi

“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 Fi

Polevoi shook his head. “Not yet. Their knowledge of the i

“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 Fi

“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.”