Deep Six

“We have a new development.”

“News of the President?”

“No, sir. I’ve just had a talk with Curtis Mayo of CNN News. He’s onto us.”

There was a taut pause. “What can we do?”

“Nothing,” said Fawcett somberly, “absolutely nothing.”

Sam Emmett left the FBI building in downtown Washington and drove over to CIA headquarters in Langley, Virginia. A summer shower passed overhead, moistening the forested grounds of the intelligence complex and leaving behind the sweet smell of dampened greenery.

Martin Brogan was standing outside his office when Emmett walked through the anteroom door. The tall ex-college professor offered an outstretched hand. “Thank you for taking time from your busy schedule to drive over.”

Emmett smiled as he took his hand. Brogan was one of the few men around the President he genuinely admired. “Not at all. I’m not a desk man. I jump at any excuse to get off my butt and move around.”

They entered Brogan’s office and sat down. “Coffee or a drink?” Brogan asked.

“Nothing, thanks.” Emmett opened his briefcase and laid a bound report on the CIA Director’s desk. “This spells out the Bureau’s findings until an hour ago on the President’s disappearance.”

Brogan handed him a similarly bound report. “Likewise from Central Intelligence. Damned little to add since our last meeting, I’m sorry to say.”

“You’re not alone. We’re miles from a breakthrough too.”

Brogan paused to light a ropelike Toscanini cigar. It seemed oddly out of place with his Brooks Brothers suit and vest. Together the men began reading. After nearly ten minutes of quiet, Brogan’s expression softened from deep concentration to curious interest, and he tapped a page of Emmett’s report.

“This section about a missing Soviet psychologist.”

“I thought that would interest you.”

“He and his entire United Nations staff vanished the same night as the Eagle’s hijacking?”

“Yes, to date none of them have turned up. Could be merely an intriguing coincidence, but I felt it shouldn’t be ignored.”

“The first thought that crossed my mind is that this”—Brogan glanced at the report again—”Lugovoy, Dr. Aleksei Lugovoy, may have been assigned by the KGB to use his psychological knowledge to pry national secrets from the abducted men.”

“A theory we can’t afford to dismiss.”

“The name,” Brogan said vacantly. “It strikes a chord.”

“You’ve heard it before?”

Suddenly Brogan’s brows raised and his eyes widened ever so slightly and he reached for his intercom. “Send up the latest file from the French Internal Security Agency.”

“You think you’ve got something?”

“A recorded conversation between President Antonov and his KGB chief Vladimir Polevoi. I believe Lugovoy was mentioned.”

“From French intelligence?” Emmett asked.

“Antonov was on a state visit. Our friendly rivals in Paris are quietly cooperative about passing along information they don’t consider sensitive to their national interests.”

In less than a minute, Brogan’s private secretary knocked on the door and gave him a transcription of the secret tape recording. He quickly consumed its contents.

“This is most encouraging,” he said. “Read between the lines and you can invent all sorts of Machiavellian schemes. According to Polevoi, the UN psychologist disappeared off the Staten Island ferry in New York and all contact was severed.”

“The KGB lost several sheep from their herd at one time?” Emmett asked in mild astonishment. “That’s a new twist. They must be getting sloppy.”

“Polevoi’s own statement.” Brogan held out the transcript papers. “See for yourself.”

Emmett read the typed print and reread it. When he looked up, a trace of triumph brightened his eyes. “So the Russians are behind the abduction.”

Brogan nodded in agreement. “From all appearances, but they can’t be in it alone. Not if they’re ignorant of Lugovoy’s whereabouts. Another source is working with them, someone here in the United States with the power to dictate the operation.”

“You?” Emmett asked wolfishly.

Brogan laughed. “No, and you?”

Emmett shook his head. “If the KGB, the CIA and the FBI are all kept in the dark, then who’s dealing the cards?”

“The person they refer to as the ‘old bitch’ and ‘Chinese whore.’ “

“No gentlemen these Communists.”

“The code word for their operation must be Huckleberry Fi

Emmett stretched out his legs, crossing them at the ankles, and sagged comfortably in his chair. “Huckleberry Fi

No one paid any attention to the two men seated comfortably in a pickup truck parked in a loading zone by the NUMA building. A cheap plastic removable sign adhered to the passenger’s door advertised GUS MOORE’S PLUMBING. Behind the cab in the truck’s bed, several lengths of copper pipe and an assortment of tools lay in casual disorder. The men’s coveralls were stained with dirt and grease, and neither had shaved in three or four days. The only odd thing about their appearance was their eyes. They never shifted from the entrance to NUMA’s headquarters.

The driver tensed and made a directional movement with a nod of his head. “I think this is him coming.”

The other man raised a pair of binoculars wrapped in a brown paper bag with the bottom torn out and gazed at a figure emerging from the revolving glass doors. Then he laid the glasses in his lap and examined a face in a large eleven-by-fourteen-inch glossy photograph.

“Confirmed.”

The driver checked a row of numbers on a small black transmitter. “Counting one hundred forty seconds from… now.” He punctuated his words by pushing a toggle switch to the “on” position.

“Okay,” his partner said. “Let’s get the hell away.”

Pitt reached the bottom of the broad stone steps as the plumber’s truck drove past in front of him. He stood a moment to let another car by and began walking through the parking lot. He was seventy yards from the Talbot-Lago when he turned at the honking of a horn.

Al Giordino drew up alongside in a Ford Bronco four-wheel drive. His curly black hair was shaggy and uncombed and a heavy growth covered his chin. He looked as if he hadn’t slept in a week.

“Sneaking home early?” he said.

“I was until you caught me,” Pitt replied, gri

“Lucky you, sitting around with nothing to do.”

“You wrap the Eagle salvage?” Pitt asked.

Giordino gave a tired nod. “Towed her up the river and pushed her into dry dock about three hours ago. You can smell her death stink a mile away.”

“At least you didn’t have to remove the bodies.”

“No, a Navy diving team was stuck with that ugly chore.”

“Take a week off. You’ve earned it.”

Giordino spread his Roman smile. “Thanks, boss. I needed that.” Then his expression turned solemn. “Anything new on the Pilottown?”

“We’re zeroing in—”

Pitt never finished the sentence. A thunderous explosion tore the air. A ball of flame erupted between the densely packed cars and jagged metal debris burst in all directions. A tire and wheel, the chrome spokes flashing in the sun, flew in a high arc and landed with a loud crunch in the middle of Giordino’s hood. Bouncing inches over Pitt’s head, it then rolled through a landscaped parkway before coming to rest in a cluster of rosebushes. The rumble from the blast echoed across the city for several seconds before it finally faded and died.

“God!” Giordino rasped in bewildered awe. “What was that?”

Pitt took off ru