A stern medical-profession look grew on the doctor’s face. “You’re staying in this bed for the next four days. You can’t travel around with those fractured ribs, and we don’t know how serious your concussion is.”
“Sorry, Doc,” Giordino said, “but you’ve both been overruled.”
Pitt stared at him stonily. “Who’s to stop me?”
“Admiral Sandecker, for one. Secretary of State Doug Oates for another,” Giordino answered as de-tachedly as though he were reading aloud the stock market quotes for the day. “Orders came down for you to fly to Washington the minute you came around. We may be in big trouble. I have a hunch we dipped into the wrong cookie jar when we discovered Congressman Moran and Senator Larimer imprisoned on a Soviet vessel.”
“They can wait until I search the Chalmette for Loren.”
“My job. You go to the capital while I go to Miami and play customs inspector. It’s all been arranged.”
Pacified to a small degree, Pitt relaxed on the bed. “What about Moran?”
“He couldn’t wait to cut out,” Giordino said angrily. “He demanded the Navy drop everything and fly him home the minute he was brought ashore. I had a minor confrontation with him in the hospital corridor after his routine examination. Came within a millimeter of cramming his hook nose down his gullet. The bastard didn’t demonstrate the slightest concern about Loren, and he seemed downright delighted when I told him of Larimer’s death.”
“He has a talent for deserting those who help him,” Pitt said disgustedly.
An orderly rolled in a wheelchair and together with Giordino eased Pitt into it. A groan escaped his lips as a piercing pain ripped through his chest.
“You’re leaving against my express wishes,” said the doctor. “I want that understood. There is no guarantee you won’t have complications if you overtax yourself.”
“I release you from all responsibility, Doc,” Pitt said, smiling. “I won’t tell a soul I was your patient. Your medical reputation is secure.”
Giordino laid a pile of Navy-issue clothing and a small paper sack in Pitt’s lap. “Here’s some presentable clothes and the stuff from your pockets. You can dress on the plane to save time.”
Pitt opened the sack and fingered a vinyl pouch inside. Satisfied the contents were secure and dry, he looked up at Giordino and shook hands. “Good hunting, friend.”
Giordino patted him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry. I’ll find her. You go to Washington and give ‘em hell.”
No one could have suffered from a Rip Van Winkle syndrome and awakened more surprised than Alan Moran. He remembered going to sleep on the presidential yacht almost two weeks earlier, and his next conscious sensation was being dragged into a limousine somewhere in the river country of South Carolina. The imprisonment and escape from the burning Russian cruise ship seemed a distorted blur. Only when he returned to Washington and found both Congress and the Supreme Court evicted from their hallowed halls did he come back on track and retrieve his mantle of political power.
With the government in emotional and political shambles, he saw his chance to fulfill his deep, unfathomable ambition to become President. Not having the popular support to take the office by election, he was determined now to grab it by default. With Margolin missing, Larimer out of the way, and the President laid open for impeachment, there was little to stop him.
Moran held court in the middle of Jackson Square across Pennsylvania Avenue from the White House and answered questions fired by a battery of correspondents. He was the man of the hour and was enjoying every second of the attention.
“Can you tell us where you’ve been the last two weeks?” asked Ray Marsh of the New York Times.
“Be glad to,” Moran replied gracefully. “Senate Majority Leader Marcus Larimer and I went on a fishing holiday in the Caribbean, partly to try our luck at snagging a record marlin, mostly to discuss the issues facing our great nation.”
“Initial reports state that Senator Larimer died during the Leonid Andreyev tragedy.”
“I’m deeply saddened to say that is true,” Moran said, abruptly becoming solemn. “The senator and I were trolling only five or six miles away from the Russian cruise ship when we heard and observed an explosion that covered her in fire and smoke. We immediately ordered our skipper to change course for the disaster area. When we arrived, the Leonid Andreyev was ablaze from stem to stern. Hundreds of frightened passengers were tumbling into the sea, many with their clothes in flames.”
Moran paused for effect and then enunciated in a vivid descriptive tone. “I leaped into the water, followed by the senator, to help those who were badly injured or unable to swim. We struggled for what seemed like hours, keeping women and children afloat until we could lift them into our fishing boat. I lost track of Senator Larimer. When I looked for him, he was floating facedown, an apparent victim of a heart attack due to overexertion. You can quote me as saying he died a real hero.”
“How many people do you reckon you saved?” This from Joe Stark of the United Press.
“I lost count,” answered Moran, serenely pitching out the lies. “Our small vessel became dangerously overloaded with burned and half-drowned victims. So, rather than become the straw that might capsize it, so to speak, I remained in the water so one more pitiful creature could cheat death. Luckily for me, I was picked up by the Navy, which, I must add, performed magnificently.”
“Were you aware that Congresswoman Loren Smith was traveling on the Leonid Andreyev?” asked Marion Tournier of the Associated Press Radio Network.
“Not at the time,” replied Moran, changing back to his solemn demeanor again. “Regretfully, I’ve only just been informed that she’s reported as missing.”
Curtis Mayo signaled his cameramen and edged closer to Moran. “Congressman, what is your feeling regarding the President’s unprecedented closing of Congress?”
“Deeply mortified that such an arrogant deed could take place in our government. It’s obvious the President has taken leave of his senses. With one terrible blow, he has swept our nation from a democracy into a fascist state. I fully intend to see that he is removed from office — the sooner, the better.”
“How do you propose to do it?” Mayo pushed him. “Every time the members of the House convene to launch impeachment proceedings, the President sends in troops to disband them.”
“The story will be different this time,” Moran said confidently. “Tomorrow morning at ten o’clock, members of Congress will hold a joint session in Lisner Auditorium at George Washington University. And in order to meet without interference or disruption by the President’s unauthorized and immoral use of the military, we intend to confront force with force. I have conferred with my House and Senate colleagues from the neighboring states of Maryland and Virginia who have prevailed upon their governors to protect our constitutional right to assemble by providing troops from their National Guard units.”
“Will they have orders to shoot?” asked Mayo, smelling newsworthy blood.
“If attacked,” Moran replied coldly, “the answer is an absolute yes.”
“And so Civil War Two erupts,” said Oates wearily as he switched off the TV set and turned to face Emmett, Mercier and Brogan.
“Moran is as daft as the President,” Emmett said, shaking his head in disgust.
“I pity the American public for being forced to accept such miserable leadership material,” Mercier grumbled.
“How do you read the upcoming confrontation at Lisner Auditorium?” Oates asked Emmett.
“The special forces of Army and Marines patrolling Capitol Hill are highly trained professionals. They can be counted on to stand firm and not attempt anything stupid. The National Guard is the real danger. All it takes is one weekend warrior to panic and fire off a round. Then we’ll witness another Kent State bloodbath, except much worse. This time the Guard will have their fire returned by deadly marksmen.”
“The situation won’t be helped if a few congressmen fa
ll in the crossfire,” added Mercier.
“The President has to be isolated. The timetable must be moved up,” said Oates.
Mercier looked unsold. “That means cutting back Dr. Edgely’s evaluation of the President’s brain signals.”
“Preventing wholesale slaughter must take priority over a plan to mislead the Russians,” said Oates.
Brogan gazed at the ceiling thoughtfully. “I think we might steal our chicken and pluck it too.”
Oates smiled. “I hear the gears meshing in your head, Martin. What wild Machiavellian scheme has the CIA got up its sleeve now?”
“A way to give Edgely an advantage,” answered Brogan with a foxlike grin. “A little something borrowed from The Twilight Zone.”
61
A limousine was waiting at Andrews Air Force Base when Pitt slowly eased his way down the boarding stairs from a Navy passenger jet. Admiral Sandecker was sitting in the car, hidden by the tinted windows.
He opened the door and helped Pitt inside. “How was the flight?”
“Mercifully, it was smooth.”
“Do you have any luggage?”
“I’m wearing it,” said Pitt. He winced and clenched his teeth as he slipped into the seat beside the admiral.
“You in much pain?”
“A little stiff. They don’t tape cracked ribs like they did in the old days. Just let them heal on their own.”
“Sorry I insisted on your return in such haste, but things in Washington are boiling up a storm, and Doug Oates is hoping you possess information that might clear up a few entanglements.”
“I understand,” Pitt said. “Has there been any news of Loren?”
“Nothing, I’m afraid.”
“She’s alive,” said Pitt, staring out the window.
“I don’t doubt it,” Sandecker concurred. “Probably an oversight her name isn’t on the survivor list. Maybe she requested anonymity to avoid the press.”
“Loren had no reason to hide.”
“She’ll turn up,” Sandecker said. “Now, suppose you tell me how you managed to be present at the worst maritime tragedy in fifty years.”
Pitt marveled at how the admiral could twist a conversation in another direction with the abruptness of leaping from a sauna into the snow.
“In the brief time we had together on the Leonid Andreyev,” Pitt began, “Loren told me she was strolling on the deck on the first night of the cruise when the lights around the exterior of the ship went out, followed by the landing of a helicopter. Three passengers were taken off, two of them roughly handled. Loren thought she recognized one of them in the dim light as Alan Moran. Not certain whether her eyes were playing tricks, she called her aide Sally Lindemann over ship-to-shore phone and asked her to locate Moran’s whereabouts. Sally turned up false trails covered over by vague reports and no Moran. She also discovered he and Marcus Larimer were supposed to be together. She then related the negative results to Loren, who told her to contact me. But the call was cut off. The Russians had monitored her calls and learned she’d accidentally stumbled into the middle of a delicate operation.”
“So they made her a prisoner along with her congressional pals, who were on a one-way trip to Moscow.”
“Except that Loren was more risk than asset. She was to be conveniently lost overboard.”
“And after Lindemann contacted you?” Sandecker probed.
“Al Giordino and I drew up a plan and flew south, catching up with the ship in San Salvador and boarding there.”
“Over two hundred people died on the Leonid Andreyev. You’re lucky to be alive.”
“Yes,” Pitt said meditatively. “It was a near thing.”
He went quiet, his mind’s eye seeing only a face the face of the steward who stood in the lifeboat leering down at him with the look of a man who enjoyed his work: a murderer without a shred of remorse.
“In case you’re interested,” said Sandecker, breaking the spell, “we’re going direct to a meeting with Secretary Oates at the State Department.”
“Make a detour by the Washington Post,” Pitt said abruptly.
Sandecker gave him a negative look. “We can’t spare the time to buy a newspaper.”
“If Oates wants to hear what I’ve got, he’ll damn well have to wait.”
Sandecker made a sour expression and gave in. “Ten minutes is all you get. I’ll call Oates and say your plane was delayed.”
Pitt had met the Secretary of State previously, during the North American Treaty affair. The neatly trimmed hair was slate-colored, and the brown eyes moved with practiced ease as they read Pitt. Oates wore a five-hundred-dollar gray tailored suit and highly polished black custom shoes. There was a no-nonsense aggressiveness about him, and he moved well, almost like a track and field athlete.
“Mr. Pitt, how nice to see you again.”
“Good to see you, Mr. Secretary.”
Oates wrung Pitt’s hand, then turned to the other men in the conference room and went through the introductions. The inner sanctum had turned out. Brogan of the CIA, Emmett of the FBI, National Security’s Alan Mercier, whom Pitt also knew, and Dan Fawcett representing the White House. Admiral Sandecker remained at Pitt’s side, keeping a wary eye on his friend.
“Please sit down,” Oates said, waving them all to a chair.
Sam Emmett turned toward Pitt and regarded him with interest, noting the drawn lines in his face. “I’ve taken the liberty of pulling your packet, Mr. Pitt, and I must confess your service with the government reads like a novel.” He paused to scan the dossier. “Directly responsible for saving innumerable lives during the Vixen operation. Instrumental in obtaining the Canadian merger treaty. Heading the project to raise the Titanic, with subsequent discovery of a rare element for the Sicilian project. You have an uncanny knack for getting around.”
“I believe the word is ‘ubiquitous,’ “ Oates injected.
“You were in the Air Force before joining NUMA,” Emmett continued. “Rank of major. Excellent record in Vietnam.” He hesitated, a strange inquisitive look growing on his face. “I see here you received a commendation for destroying one of our own aircraft.”
“Perhaps I should explain that,” Sandecker said, “since I was on the aircraft Dirk shot down.”
“I realize we’re pressed for time, but I’d be interested to hear that tale,” said Oates.
Sandecker nodded agreeably. “My staff and I were flying on a twin turboprop transport from Saigon to a small coastal port north of Da Nang. Unknown to us, the field we were supposed to land on was overrun by North Vietnamese regulars. Our radio malfunctioned and my pilot was unable to receive the warning. Dirk was flying nearby, returning to his base from a bombing mission. The local commander directed him to intercept and alert us by whatever means available.” Sandecker looked over at Pitt and smiled. “I have to say he tried everything short of a neon sign. He played charades from his cockpit, fired several bursts from his guns across our nose, but nothing penetrated our thick skulls. When we were on our final landing approach, coming in from the sea toward the airstrip, in what has to be a rare exhibition of precision aerial marksmanship, he shot out both our engines, forcing my pilot to ditch our plane in the water only one mile from shore. Dirk then flew cover, strafing enemy boats putting out from the beach, until everyone was taken aboard a Navy patrol vessel. After learning that he saved me from certain imprisonment and possible death, we became good friends. Several years later, when President Ford asked me to launch NUMA, I persuaded Dirk to join me.”
Oates looked at Pitt through bemused eyes. “You lead an interesting life. I envy you.”
Before Pitt could reply, Alan Mercier said, “I’m sure Mr. Pitt is curious why we asked him here.”
“I’m well aware of the reason,” Pitt said.
He looked from man to man. They all looked like they hadn’t slept in a month. At last he addressed himself directly to Oates. “I know who was responsible for the theft and subsequent spill of Nerve Age
nt S into the Gulf of Alaska.” He spoke slowly and distinctly. “I know who committed nearly thirty murders while hijacking the presidential yacht and its passengers. I know the identities of those passengers and why they were abducted. And lastly, I know who sabotaged the Leonid Andreyev, killing two hundred men, women and children. There is no speculation or guesswork on my part. The facts and evidence are rock solid.”
The room took on an almost deathly stillness. No one made even the slightest attempt to speak. Pitt’s statement had stunned them to the soles of their feet. Emmett had a distraught expression on his face. Fawcett clasped his hands to conceal his nervousness. Oates appeared dazed.
Brogan was the first to question Pitt. “I must assume, Mr. Pitt, you’re alluding to the Russians?”
“No, sir, I am not.”
“No chance you’re mistaken?” asked Mercier.
“None.”
“If not the Russians,” asked Emmett in a cautious voice, “then who?”
“The head of the Bougainville Maritime empire, Min Koryo, and her grandson, Lee Tong.”
“I happen to know Lee Tong Bougainville personally,” said Emmett. “He is a respected business executive who donates heavily to political campaigns.”
“So does the Mafia and every charlatan who’s out to milk the government money machine,” said Pitt icily. He laid a photograph on the table. “I borrowed this from the morgue file of the Washington Post. Do you recognize this man, Mr. Emmett, the one coming through the door in the picture?”
Emmett picked up the photograph and examined it. “Lee Tong Bougainville,” he said. “Not a good likeness, but one of the few photos I’ve ever seen of him. He avoids publicity like herpes. You’re making a grave error, Mr. Pitt, in accusing him of any crime.”
“No error,” Pitt said firmly. “This man tried to kill me. I have reason to believe he is accountable for the explosion that burned and sank the Leonid Andreyev, and the kidnapping of Congresswoman Loren Smith.”
“Congresswoman Smith’s kidnapping is pure conjecture on your part.”
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