Deep Six

He sat there, a strange expression of wickedness spreading across his face, his lips drawn back in cold anticipation of a triumph yet to come.

“I do not need Congress,” he said cryptically. “They will have no voice in my policies.”

During the short walk from the Cabinet Room to the South Portico, Douglas Oates made up his mind to submit his resignation as Secretary of State. The President’s rude act of freezing him out of the negotiations with Antonov was an insult he refused to forgive. There was no turning back as the decision was reached and cemented. He smelled catastrophe in the air, and he wanted no part of it.

He was standing on the steps awaiting his official car when Brogan and Emmett approached.

“Can we have a word with you, Doug?” Emmett asked.

“I’m not in a mood for conversation,” Oates grumbled.

“This is critical,” Brogan said. “Please hear us out.”

His car was not yet in sight on the drive, so Oates shrugged wearily. “I’m listening.”

Brogan looked around him and then said softly, “Sam and I think the President is being manipulated.”

Oates shot him a sarcastic stare. “Manipulated, hell. He’s fallen off his track, and I for one refuse to be a party to his madness. There’s more to the sinking of the Eagle than he let on, and he never did explain the whereabouts of Margolin, Larimer and Moran. I’m sorry, gentlemen; you two can be the first to know. As soon as I get back to the State Department, I’m clearing out my desk and calling a press conference to a

“We suspected what was on your mind,” Emmett said. “That’s why we wanted to catch you before you went off the deep end.”

“What exactly are you trying to tell me?”

Emmett looked at Brogan for help and then shrugged. “The idea is difficult to put across, but Martin and I believe the President is under some sort of… well… mind control.”

Oates wasn’t sure he heard right. But logic told him the directors of the CIA and FBI were not men to make light of a serious allegation.

“Controlled by whom?”

“We think the Russians,” answered Brogan. “But we haven’t accumulated all the evidence yet.”

“We realize this sounds like science fiction,” Emmett explained, “but it appears very real.”

“My God, was the President under this influence as you suggest, when he flew to Mauritania for his talks with Antonov?”

Brogan and Emmett exchanged knowing looks. Then Brogan said, “There isn’t a plane in flight anywhere in the world the Agency doesn’t know about. I’ll stake my job that our data will show no trace of an aircraft flying on a course from Maryland to Mauritania and return.”

Oates’s eyes widened. “The meeting with Antonov…”

Emmett shook his head slowly. “It never happened.”

“Then everything — the disarmament, the agricultural trade agreements — was a lie,” said Oates, his voice cracking slightly.

“A fact which is heightened by his vague denial of the Eagle murders,” added Brogan.

“Why did he conceive such a crazy nightmare?” Oates asked dazedly.

“It really doesn’t matter why he came up with it,” said Emmett. “The programs probably were not even his idea. What matters is how his behavior is guided. Who is motivating his thought patterns, and from where?”

“Can we find out?”

“Yes,” said Emmett. “That’s why we wanted to catch you before you cut bait.”

“What can I do?”

“Stay,” Brogan replied. “The President is not fit for office. With Margolin, Moran and Larimer still missing, you remain the next man in line.”

“The President must be held in check until we can finish our investigation,” said Emmett. “With you at the helm, we keep a measure of control in the event he must be removed from office.”

Oates straightened and took a deep breath. “Lord, this is begi

“In the end,” Brogan said grimly, “it may well come to that.”

52

Lugovoy turned from his notes and stared at his staff neurologist, who sat at the console monitoring the telemetric signals.

“Condition?”

“Subject has entered a relaxed state. Brain rhythms indicate normal sleep patterns.” The neurologist looked up and smiled. “He doesn’t know it, but he’s snoring.”

“I imagine his wife knows it.”

“My guess is she sleeps in another bedroom. They haven’t had sex since he returned.”

“Body functions?”

“All reading normal.”

Lugovoy yawned and read the time. “Twelve minutes after one A.M.”

“You should get some sleep, Doctor. The President’s internal clock wakes him between six and six-fifteen every morning.”

“This is not an easy project,” Lugovoy groused. “The President requires two hours’ less sleep than I do. I detest early risers.” He paused and sca

“Be interesting to see what the President of the United States dreams about.”

“We’ll get a rough idea as soon as his brain cell activity goes from coordinated thought patterns to disjointed abstractions.”

“Are you into dream interpretations, Doctor?”

“I leave that to the Freudians,” Lugovoy replied. “I am one of the few who believe dreams are meaningless. It’s merely a situation where the brain, freed from the discipline of daytime thinking, goes on holiday. Like a city dog who lives in an apartment and is unleashed in the country, ru

“There are many who would disagree.”

“Dreams are not my specialty, so I ca

“You’re referring to the absence of smell and taste?”

Lugovoy nodded. “Sounds are also seldom recorded. The same with touch and pain. Dreams are primarily visual sensations. So my own opinion, backed up by little personal research, is that a dream about a one-eyed goat who spits fire is simply that: a dream about a one-eyed goat who spits fire.”

“Dream theory is the cornerstone of all psychoanalytic behavior. With your esteemed reputation, you’d shatter quite a few established icons with your goat opinion. Think how many of our psychiatrist comrades would be out of a job if it became known that dreams are meaningless.”

“Uncontrolled dreams are quickly forgotten,” Lugovoy continued. “But the demands and instructions we transmit to the President’s brain cells while he is asleep will not be received as dreams. They are injected thoughts that can be recalled and acted upon by outside stimuli.”

“When should I begin programming his implant unit?”

“Transmit the instructions shortly before he wakes up, and repeat them when he sits down at his desk.” Lugovoy yawned again. “I’m going to bed. Ring my room if there is a sudden change.”

The neurologist nodded. “Rest well.”

Lugovoy stared briefly at the monitoring system before he left the room. “I wonder what his mind is envisioning?”

The neurologist waved casually at the data printer. “It should be there.”

“No matter,” said Lugovoy. “It can wait till morning.” Then he turned and walked to his room.

His curiosity needled, the neurologist picked up the top printout sheet containing the President’s interpreted brainwaves and glanced at the wording.

“Green hills of summer,” he muttered to himself as he read. “A city between two rivers with many Byzantine-style churches topped by hundreds of cupolas. One called St. Sophia. A river barge filled with sugar beets. The Catacombs of St. Anthony. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he was dreaming about the city of Kiev.”