“Surely the Belle Chasse turned up in another port?” Loren asked.
Perlmutter shook his head. “She faded from the records until two years later, when she was reported scrapped in Pusan, Korea.” He paused and looked across the table. “Does any of this help you?”
Pitt took another swallow of the schnapps. “That’s the problem. I don’t know.” He went on to briefly relate the discovery of the Pilottown, but omitted any mention of the nerve gas cargo. He described finding the serial number on the ship’s boiler and running a check on it in Charleston.
“So the old Pilottown’s been tracked down at last.” Perlmutter sighed wistfully. “She wanders the sea no more.”
“But her discovery opened a new can of worms,” Pitt said. “Why was she carrying a boiler that was recorded by the manufacturer as installed in the San Marino? It doesn’t add up. Both ships were probably constructed on adjoining slipways and launched about the same time. The on-site inspector must have been confused. He simply wrote up the boiler as placed in the wrong hull.”
“I hate to spoil your black mood,” said Perlmutter, “but you may be wrong.”
“Isn’t there a connection between the two ships?”
Perlmutter gave Pitt a scholarly gaze over the tops of his glasses. “Yes, but not what you think.” He turned to the book again and began reading aloud. “The Liberty ship Bart Pulver, later the Rosthena and Pilottown, launched by Astoria Iron and Steel Company, Portland, Oregon, in November of 1942—”
“She was built on the West Coast?” Pitt interrupted in surprise.
“About twenty-five hundred miles from Savannah, as the crow flies,” Perlmutter replied indirectly, “and nine months earlier than the San Marino.” He turned to Loren. “Would you like some coffee, dear lady?”
Loren stood up. “You two keep talking. I’ll get it.”
“It’s espresso.”
“I know how to operate the machine.”
Perlmutter looked at Pitt and gave a jolly wink. “She’s a winner.”
Pitt nodded and continued. “It’s not logical a Charleston boiler-maker would ship across the country to Oregon with a Savannah shipyard only ninety miles away.”
“Not logical at all,” Perlmutter agreed.
“What else do you have on the Pilottown?”
Perlmutter read on. “Hull number 793, also classed as a cargo carrier. Sold after the war to the Kassandra Phosphate Company Limited of Athens. Greek registry. Ran aground with a cargo of phosphates off Jamaica, June of 1954. Refloated four months later. Sold 1962 to the Sosan Trading Company—”
“Inchon, Korea,” Pitt finished. “Our first connection.”
Loren returned with a tray of small cups and passed the espresso coffee around the table.
“This is indeed a treat,” said Perlmutter gallantly. “I’ve never been waited on by a member of Congress before.”
“I hope I didn’t make it too strong,” Loren said, testing the brew and making a face.
“A little mud on the bottom sharpens a woolly mind,” Perlmutter reassured her philosophically.
“Getting back to the Pilottown,” Pitt said. “What happened to her after 1962?”
“No other entry is shown until 1979, when she’s listed as sunk during a storm in the northern Pacific with all hands. After that she became something of a cause célèbre by reappearing on a number of occasions along the Alaskan coast.”
“Then she went missing in the same area of the sea as the San Marino,” said Pitt thoughtfully. “Another possible tie-in.”
“You’re grabbing at bubbles,” said Loren. “I can’t see where any of this is taking you.”
“I’m with her.” Perlmutter nodded. “There’s no concrete pattern.”
“I think there is,” Pitt said confidently. “What began as a cheap insurance fraud is unraveling into a cover-up of far greater proportions.”
“Why your interest in this?” Perlmutter asked, staring Pitt in the eyes.
Pitt’s gaze was distant. “I can’t tell you.”
“A classified government investigation maybe?”
“I’m on my own in this one, but it’s related to a ‘most secret’ project.”
Perlmutter gave in good-naturedly. “Okay, old friend, no more prying questions.” He helped himself to another dumpling. “If you suspect the ship buried under the volcano is the San Marino and not the Pilot-town, where do you go from here?”
“Inchon, Korea. The Sosan Trading Company might hold the key.”
“Don’t waste your time. The trading company is most certainly a false front, a name on a registry certificate. As is the case with most shipping companies, all trace of ownership ends at an obscure post office box. If I were you, I’d give it up as a lost cause.”
“You’d never make a football coach,” Pitt said with a laugh. “Your half-time locker-room speech would discourage your team into throwing away a twenty-point lead.”
“Another glass of schnapps, if you please?” said Perlmutter in a grumbling tone, holding out his glass as Pitt poured. “Tell you what I’ll do. Two of my corresponding friends on nautical research are Koreans. I’ll have them check out Sosan Trading for you.”
“And the Pusan shipyards for any records covering the scrapping of the Belle Chasse.”
“All right, I’ll throw that in too.”
“I’m grateful for your help.”
“No guarantees.”
“I don’t expect any.”
“What’s your next move?”
“Send out press releases.”
Loren looked up, puzzled. “Send what?”
“Press releases,” Pitt answered casually, “to announce the discovery of both the San Marino and the Pilottown and describe NUMA’s plans for inspecting the wrecks.”
“When did you dream up that foolish stunt?” Loren asked.
“About ten seconds ago.”
Perlmutter gave Pitt the stare of a psychiatrist about to commit a hopeless mental case. “I fail to see the purpose.”
“No one in the world is immune from curiosity,” Pitt exclaimed with a devious glint in his green eyes. “Somebody from the parent company that owned those ships will step from behind the shroud of corporate anonymity to check the story. And when they do, I’ll have their ass.”
16
When oates entered the White House Situation Room, the men seated around the conference table came to their feet. It was a sign of respect for the man who now shouldered the vast problems of the nation’s uncertain future. The responsibility for the far-reaching decisions of the next few days, and perhaps longer, would be his alone. There were some in the room who had mistrusted his cold aloofness, his cultivated holy image. They now cast off personal dislike and rallied to his side.
He took the chair at the head of the table. He motioned to the others to sit and turned to Sam Emmett, the gruff-spoken chief of the FBI, and Martin Brogan, the urbane, intellectual director of the CIA.
“Have you gentlemen been fully briefed?”
Emmett nodded toward Fawcett, seated at the table’s other end. “Dan has described the situation.”
“Either of you got anything on this?”
Brogan shook his head slowly. “Off the top of my head I can’t recall hearing any indications or rumors from our intelligence sources pointing to an operation of this magnitude. But that doesn’t mean we don’t have something that was misinterpreted.”
“I’m in pretty much the same boat as Martin,” said Emmett. “It’s beyond comprehension that a presidential abduction could slip through the Bureau’s fingers without even a vague clue.”
Oates’s next question was put to Brogan. “Do we have any intelligence that might lead us to suspect the Russians?”
“Soviet President Antonov doesn’t consider our President half the threat he did Reagan. He’d be risking a massive confrontation if it ever leaked to the American public his government was involved. You could compare it to striking a hornet’s
nest with a stick. I can’t see what, if any, gains the Russians would net.”
“What’s your gut reaction, Sam?” Oates asked Emmett. “Could this be terrorist-inspired?”
“Too elaborate. This operation took an immense amount of planning and money. The ingenuity is incredible. It goes far beyond the capabilities of any terrorist organization.”
“Any theories?” asked Oates, addressing the table.
“I can think of at least four Arab leaders who might have a motive for blackmailing the U.S.,” said General Metcalf. “And Qaddafi of Libya heads the list.”
“They certainly have the financial resources,” said Defense Secretary Simmons.
“But hardly the sophistication,” Brogan added.
Alan Mercier, the National Security Adviser, motioned with his hand to speak. “In my estimation the conspiracy is of domestic origin rather than foreign.”
“What’s your reasoning?” Oates asked.
“Our land and space listening systems monitor every telephone and radio transmission around the world, and it’s no secret to everyone present that our new tenth-generation computers can break any code the Russians or our Allies devise. It stands to reason that an intricate operation of this size would require a flow of international message traffic leading up to the act and a report of success afterwards.” Mercier paused to make his point. “Our analysts have not intercepted a foreign communication that suggests the slightest connection with the disappearance.”
Simmons sucked noisily on his pipe. “I think Alan makes a good case.”
“Okay,” Oates said, “foreign blackmail rates a low score. So what are we looking at from the domestic angle?”
Dan Fawcett, who had previously been silent, spoke up. “It may sound farfetched, but we can’t eliminate a corporate plot to overthrow the government.”
Oates leaned back and straightened his shoulders. “Maybe not as farfetched as we think. The President went after the financial institutions and the multinational conglomerates with a vengeance. His tax programs took a hell of a bite out of their profits. They’re pumping money into the opposition party’s campaign coffers faster than their banks can print the checks.”
“I warned him about grandstanding on the issue of helping the poor by taxing the rich,” Fawcett said. “But he refused to listen. He alienated the nation’s businessmen, as well as the working middle class. Politicians just can’t seem to get it into their heads that a vast number of American families with a working wife are in a fifty-percent tax bracket.”
“The President has powerful enemies,” Mercier conceded. “However, it’s inconceivable to me that any corporate empire could steal away the President and congressional leaders without its leaking to a law-enforcement agency.”
“I agree,” Emmett said. “Too many people had to be in on it. Somebody would have gotten cold feet and spilled the scheme.”
“I think we’d better call a halt to speculation,” said Oates. “Let’s get back on the track. The first step is to launch a massive investigation while keeping up a business-as-usual front. Use whatever cover story you feel is plausible. If at all possible, don’t even let your key people in on this.”
“What about a central command post during the investigation?” Emmett asked.
“We’ll continue to gather here every eight hours to assess incoming evidence and coordinate efforts between your respective investigative agencies.”
Simmons pushed forward in his chair. “I have a problem. I’m scheduled to fly to Cairo this afternoon to confer with Egypt’s Minister of Defense.”
“By all means go,” Oates replied. “Keep up normal appearances. General Metcalf can cover for you at the Pentagon.”
Emmett shifted in his chair. “I’m supposed to speak before a law class at Princeton tomorrow morning.”
Oates pondered a moment. “Claim you have the flu and can’t make it.” He turned to Lucas. “Oscar, if you’ll forgive me for saying so, you’re the most expendable. Substitute for Sam. Certainly no one would suspect a presidential kidnapping if the new Director of the Secret Service can take time out to give a speech.”
Lucas nodded. “I’ll be there.”
“Good.” Oates looked around the table. “Everybody plan on being back here at two o’clock. Maybe we’ll know something by then.”
“I’ve already sent a crack lab team over to the yacht,” Emmett volunteered. “With luck they’ll turn up some solid leads.”
“Let’s pray they do.” Oates’s shoulders sagged and he appeared to stare through the tabletop. “My God,” he muttered quietly. “Is this any way to run a government?”
17
Blackowl stood on the dock and watched as a team of FBI agents swarmed over the Eagle. They were an efficient lot, he observed. Each man was a specialist in his particular field of scientific detection. They went about their job of scrutinizing the yacht from bilge to radio mast with a minimum of conversation.
A constant parade of them crossed the dock to vans parked along the shore, removing furniture, carpeting, anything that wasn’t screwed down and a considerable amount that was. Each item was carefully wrapped in a plastic covering and inventoried.
More agents arrived, expanding the search for a mile around the first President’s estate, examining every square inch of ground, the trees and shrubbery. In the water beside the yacht, divers scoured the muddy bottom.
The agent in charge noticed Blackowl rubbernecking beside the loading ramp and came over. “You got permission to be in the area?” he asked.
Blackowl showed his ID without answering.
“What brings the Secret Service to Mount Vernon on a weekend?”
“Practice mission,” Blackowl replied conversationally. “How about the FBI?”
“Same thing. The Director must have thought we were getting lazy, so he dreamed up a top-priority exercise.”
“Looking for anything in particular?” Blackowl asked, feigning indifferent interest.
“Whatever we can determine about the last people who were on board — identification through fingerprints, where they came from. You know.”
Before Blackowl could reply, Ed McGrath stepped onto the dock from the gravel path. His forehead was glistening in sweat and his face was flushed. Blackowl guessed he had been running.
“Excuse me, George,” he panted between intakes of breath. “You got a minute?”
“Sure.” Blackowl waved to the FBI agent. “Nice talking with you.”
“Same to you.”
As soon as they were out of earshot, Blackowl asked softly, “What’s going down, Ed?”
“The FBI guys found something you should see.”
“Where?”
“About a hundred and fifty yards upriver, hidden away in trees. I’ll show you.”
McGrath led him along a path that bordered the river. When it curved toward the outer estate buildings, they stayed in a straight line across a manicured lawn. Then they climbed a rail fence into the unkempt undergrowth on the other side. Working their way into a dense thicket, they suddenly came upon two FBI investigators who were hunkered down studying two large tanks connected to what looked like electrical generators.
“What in hell are these things?” Blackowl demanded without a greeting.
One of the men looked up. “They’re foggers.”
Blackowl stared, puzzled. Then his eyes widened.
“Foggers!” he blurted out. “Machines that make fog!”
“Yeah, that’s right. Fog generators. The Navy used to mount them on destroyers during World War Two for making smokescreens.”
“Christ!” Blackowl gasped. “So that’s how it was done!”
18
Official Washington turns into a ghost town over the weekends. The machinery of government grinds to a halt at five o’clock Friday evening and hibernates until Monday morning, when it fires to life again with the obstinacy of a cold engine. Once the cleaning crews have come and gone, the huge buildings are as
dead as mausoleums. What is most surprising, the phone systems are shut down.
Only the tourists are out in force, crawling over the Mall, throwing Frisbees and swarming around the Capitol, climbing the endless staircases and staring slack-jawed at the underside of the dome.
Some were peering through the iron fence around the White House around noontime when the President came out, quick stepped across the lawn and gave a jaunty wave before entering a helicopter. He was followed by a small entourage of aides and Secret Service agents. Few of the elite press corps were present. Most were home watching baseball on TV or roaming a golf course.
Fawcett and Lucas stood on the South Portico and watched until the ungainly craft lifted over E Street and dissolved to a speck as it beat its way toward Andrews Air Force Base.
“That was fast work,” Fawcett said quietly. “You made the switch in less than five hours.”
“My Los Angeles office tracked down Sutton and crammed him into the cockpit of a Navy F-20 fighter forty minutes after they were alerted.”
“What about Margolin?”
“One of my agents is a reasonable facsimile. He’ll be on board an executive jet for New Mexico as soon as it’s dusk.”
“Can your people be trusted not to leak this charade?”
Lucas shot Fawcett a sharp look. “They’re trained to keep quiet. If there’s a leak it will come from the presidential staff.”
Fawcett smiled faintly. He knew he was on shaky footing. The looseness of the White House staff was open territory for the press corps. “They can’t spill what they didn’t know,” he said. “Only now will they be waking up to the fact that the man in the helicopter with them isn’t the President.”
“They’ll be well guarded at the farm,” Lucas said. “Once they arrive no one gets off the property, and I’ve seen to it all communications are monitored.”
“If a correspondent figures the game, Watergate will seem as tame as an Easter-egg hunt.”
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