Deep Six

He described the Leonid Andreyev as a 14,000-ton vessel, built in Finland, with a capacity of 478 passengers with two crew members for every three of them. The modern white-hulled liner had indoor and outdoor swimming pools, five cocktail bars, two nightclubs, ten shops featuring Russian merchandise and liquor, a movie and stage theater, and a well-stocked library. She cruised from Miami on ten-day sailings during the summer months to several resort islands in the West Indies.

During a lull in the conversation, Loren casually mentioned the helicopter landing. Captain Pokofsky lit a cigarette with a wooden match and waved out the flame.

“You Americans and your affluence,” he said easily.

“Two wealthy Texans missed the boat in Miami and hired a helicopter to fly them to the Andreyev. Very few of my countrymen can afford such luxury.”

“Not many of mine can either,” Loren assured him. The captain was not only congenial and charming, she thought, he was an accomplished liar as well. She dropped the subject and nibbled on her salad.

Before dessert, Loren excused herself and went to her suite on the sun deck. She kicked off her shoes, removed and hung up her skirt and jacket, and sprawled on the soft king-size bed. She ran the picture of Alan Moran’s terrified face through her mind, telling herself it must have been someone who resembled the congressman, and perhaps the beam of the flashlight outlined similar features. Reason dictated that it was merely a trick of imagination.

Then Pitt’s inquiry at the restaurant returned to her. He’d asked if she had heard any rumors of a missing party high in government. Now her gut instinct said she was right.

She laid out a ship’s directory and deck diagram on the bed and flattened out the creases. To look for Moran in a floating city with 230 staterooms, quarters for a crew of over 300, cargo holds and engine room, all spread over eleven decks nearly 500 feet in length was a lost cause. She also had to consider that she was a representative of the American government on Russian property. Obtain permission from Captain Pokofsky to search every nook and cra

She decided the logical move would be to establish Alan Moran’s whereabouts. If he was at home in Washington watching TV, she could forget the whole madness and get a good night’s sleep. She put her dress back on and went to the communications room.

Thankfully it wasn’t crowded and she didn’t have to wait in line.

A pretty Russian girl in a trim uniform asked Loren where she wished to call.

“Washington, D.C.,” she replied. “Person to person to a Ms. Sally Lindema

“If you will please wait in booth five, I’ll arrange your satellite transmission,” the communications girl said in near flawless English.

Loren sat patiently, hoping her secretary was at home. She was. A sleepy voice answered the operator and acknowledged her name was Sally Lindema

“That you, boss?” Sally asked when Loren was put through. “I bet you’re dancing up a storm under Caribbean stars with some handsome playboy. Am I right?”

“You’re not even close.”

“I should have known this was a business call.”

“Sally, I need you to contact someone.”

“One sec.” There was a pause. When Sally’s voice came on again, it glowed with efficiency. “I’ve got a pad and pencil. Who do I contact and what do I say?”

“The congressman who opposed and shot down my Rocky Mountain water project.”

“You mean old prune-face Mo—”

“He’s the one,” Loren cut her off. “I want you to talk to him, face to face if possible. Start with his home. If he’s out, ask his wife where he can be reached. If she balks, tell her it’s a matter of congressional urgency. Say whatever it takes but get to him.”

“When I find him, then what?”

“Nothing,” said Loren. “Say it was a mistake.”

There were a few seconds’ silence. Then Sally said carefully, “You drunk, boss?”

Loren laughed, knowing the puzzlement that must be ru

“Dead sober.”

“Can this wait until morning?”

“I have to know his location as quickly as possible.”

“My alarm clock reads after midnight,” Sally protested.

“Now!” Loren said sharply. “Call me the second you see his face and hear his voice.”

She hung up and walked back toward her suite. The moon was directly overhead and she lingered a few minutes on deck, wishing Pitt were standing there beside her.

Loren had just finished putting on her morning face when she heard a knock at the door.

“Who’s there?”

“Steward.”

She went to the door and opened it. Her cabin steward raised his hand in a casual salute. He peered selfconsciously at the cleavage revealed by her loosely knotted dressing gown.

“An emergency call for you from the mainland, Congresswoman Smith,” he said in a heavy Slavic accent. “They’re holding it for you in the communications room.”

She thanked him and hurriedly dressed. A new girl directed her to a booth and the waiting call. Sally’s voice came through the earpiece as if she were in the next booth.

“Good morning, boss,” she said tiredly.

“Any luck?”

“Moran’s wife said he went fishing with Senator Marcus Larimer,” Sally snapped out before Loren thought to stop her. “She claimed they went to a place called Goose Lake, a private reserve for the good ole boys a few miles below the Quantico Marine Corps reservation. So I hopped in my car and drove down. After bluffing my way past an outdoorsy type guarding the gate, I checked every cottage, boathouse and dock. No congressman, no senator. Then back to the capital. I called and woke up three of Moran’s aides. Don’t ever look for favors from his office. They backed up the fishing story. As a double-check, I tried a couple of Larimer’s staff too. Same bull. In fact, nobody has seen either of them in over a week. Sorry I failed you, boss, but it looks like a smoke screen to me.”

Loren felt a cold chill run through her. The second man she saw manhandled from the helicopter, could he have been Marcus Larimer?

“Shall I stay on the hunt?” asked Sally.

“Yes, please,” Loren answered.

“Do my best,” Sally declared. “Oh, I almost forgot. Have you heard the latest news?”

“How could I at ten in the morning on a boat in the middle of the ocean?”

“Concerns your friend Dirk Pitt.”

“Something happen to Dirk?” Loren asked anxiously.

“Persons unknown blew up his car. Lucky for him he wasn’t inside at the tune. Close, though. Walking toward it when he stopped to talk to a friend. According to District police, another couple of minutes and they’d have swept him up with a broom.”

Everything caught up and jammed behind Loren’s eyes. It was all happening too fast for her to accept. The mad events splashed behind her eyes in a complexity of color, like scraps making up a backwoods bed quilt. The seams were pulling apart in all directions. She grasped the only thread that seemed to hold.

“Sal, listen carefully. Call Dirk and tell him I need—” Suddenly a shrill buzzing sound flooded her eardrum. “Can you hear me, Sal?”

The only reply to Loren’s question was the interference. She swung around to complain to the communications girl, but she was gone. Instead, there were two stewards, or rather two wrestlers in stewards’ uniforms, and the first officer. He opened the door to her booth and bowed curtly.

“Will you please come with me, Congresswoman Smith. The captain would like to talk to you.”

47

The pilot set the helicopter on the ground at a small airport on the Isle of Palms near Charleston. He went through the standard shutdown procedure, ru