Part III
The Leonid Andreyev
45
August 7, 1989
Miami, Florida
Loren was greeted by Captain Yakov Pokofsky when she boarded the Leonid Andreyev. Pokofsky was a charming man with thick silver hair and eyes as round and black as caviar. Though he acted polite and diplomatic, Loren sensed he wasn’t actually thrilled at having an American politician snooping about his ship, asking questions about its management. After the usual niceties, the first officer led her to a celebrity suite filled with enough flowers for a state funeral. The Russians, she mused, knew how to accommodate a visiting VIP.
In the evening, when the last of the passengers had boarded and settled down in their staterooms, the crew cast off the mooring lines and the cruise ship steamed out of Biscayne Bay through the channel into the Atlantic. The lights of the hotels on Miami Beach glittered under a tropical breeze and slowly closed together in a thin glowing line as the Leonid Andreyev’s twin screws thrust her further from shore.
Loren stripped off her clothes and took a shower. When she stepped out and toweled, she struck an exaggerated model’s pose in front of a full-length mirror. The body was holding up quite well, considering thirty-seven years of use. Jogging and ballet classes four hours a week kept the centrifugal forces at bay. She pinched her tummy and sadly noted that slightly more than an inch of flesh protruded between her thumb and forefinger. The lavish food on the cruise ship wasn’t going to do her weight any good. She steeled her mind to lay off the alcohol and desserts.
She slipped on a mauve silk damask jacket over a black lace and taffeta skirt. Loosening the businesslike knot at the top of her head, she let her hair down so that it spilled over her shoulders. Satisfied with the effect, she felt in the mood for a stroll around the deck before dinner at the captain’s table.
The air was so warm she dispensed with a sweater. On the aft end of the sun deck she found a vacant deck chair and relaxed, raising her knees and clasping her hands around her calves. For the next half-hour she let her mind wander as she watched the half-moon’s reflection dash across the dark swells. Then the exterior deck lights abruptly went out from bow to stern.
Loren didn’t notice the helicopter until it was almost over the fantail of the ship. It had arrived at wavetop level, flying without navigation lights. Several crew members appeared from the shadows and quickly laid a roof over the boat-deck swimming pool. Then a ship’s officer signaled with a flashlight and the helicopter descended lightly onto the improvised landing pad.
Loren rose to her feet and stared over the railing. Her vantage point was one deck above and forty feet distant from the closed-over swimming pool. The area was dimly lit by the partial moon, enabling her to observe most of the action. She glanced around, looking for other passengers, but saw only five or six who were standing fifty feet further away.
Three men left the aircraft. Two of them, it appeared to Loren, were treated roughly. The ship’s officer placed the flashlight under his arm so he could have both hands free to brusquely shove one of the men into an open hatchway. For a brief instant the un-aimed beam caught and held on a paper-white face, eyes bulging in fear. Loren saw the facial details clearly. Her hands gripped the deck rail and her heart felt locked in ice.
Then the copter rose into the night and turned sharply back toward shore. The cover over the pool was quickly removed and the crew melted away. In a few seconds the ship’s lights came back on. Everything happened so fast, Loren wondered for a moment if she had actually witnessed the landing and takeoff.
But there was no mistaking the frightened creature she saw on the pool deck below. She was positive it was the Speaker of the House, Congressman Alan Moran.
On the bridge Captain Pokofsky peered at the radar-scope. He was of medium height and portly. A cigarette dangled from one corner of his mouth. He straightened and smoothed the jacket of his white dress uniform.
“At least they waited until we were beyond the twelve-mile limit,” he said in a guttural voice.
“Any sign they were followed?” asked the officer of the watch.
“No aerial contacts and no craft approaching by sea,” answered Pokofsky. “A smooth operation.”
“Like the others,” the watch officer said with a cocky smile.
Pokofsky did not return the smile. “I’m not fond of taking deliveries on short notice under moonlit skies.”
“This one must be a high priority.”
“Aren’t they all?” Pokofsky said caustically.
The watch officer decided to remain quiet. He’d served with Pokofsky long enough to recognize when the captain was in one of his moods.
Pokofsky checked the radar again and swept his eyes across the black sea ahead. “See that our guests are escorted to my cabin,” he ordered before turning and leaving the bridge.
Five minutes later the ship’s second officer knocked on the captain’s door, opened it and ushered in a man wearing a rumpled business suit.
“I’m Captain Pokofsky,” he said, rising from a leather reading chair.
“Paul Suvorov.”
“KGB or GRU?”[1]
“KGB.”
Pokofsky gestured toward a sofa. “Do you mind informing me of the purpose behind your unscheduled arrival?”
Suvorov gratefully sat down and took the measure of Pokofsky. He was uncomfortable with what he read. The captain was clearly a hardened seaman and not the type to be intimidated by state security credentials. Suvorov wisely chose to tread lightly.
“Not at all. I was instructed to smuggle two men out of the country.”
“Where are they now?”
“I took the liberty of having your first officer lock them in the brig.”
“Are they Soviet defectors?”
“No, they’re American.”
Pokofsky’s brows raised. “Are you saying you’ve kidnapped American citizens?”
“Yes,” said Suvorov with an icy calm. “Two of the most important leaders in the United States government.”
“I’m not sure I heard you correctly.”
“Their names do not matter. One is a congressman, the other a senator.”
Pokofsky’s eyes burned with sudden belligerence. “Do you have any idea of the jeopardy you’ve placed my ship in?”
“We’re in international waters,” Suvorov said placidly. “What can happen?”
“Wars have started for less,” Pokofsky said sharply. “If the Americans are alerted, international waters or not, they wouldn’t hesitate for one instant to send their Navy and Coast Guard to stop and board this vessel.”
Suvorov came to his feet and stared directly into Pokofsky’s eyes. “Your precious ship is in no danger, Captain.”
Pokofsky stared back. “What are you saying?”
“The ocean is a big dumping ground,” Suvorov said steadily. “If the situation requires, my friends in the brig will simply be committed to the deep.”
46
Talk around the captain’s table was dull and inane, as could be expected. Loren’s dining companions bored her with long-drawn-out descriptions of their previous travels. Pokofsky had heard such travelogues a thousand times before. He smiled politely and listened with feigned courtesy. When asked, he told how he had joined the Russian Navy at seventeen, worked up through the officers’ ranks until he commanded a troop transport, and after twenty years’ service transferred to the Soviet state-subsidized passenger line.
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 land
ing. 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 cranny of his ship? She’d stand a better chance of persuading him to give up vodka for Kentucky bourbon.
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 Lindemann. I’ll write out the number.”
“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 Lindemann.
“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 running through Sally’s mind.
“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, running the engine at low RPM’s until it cooled down. Then he climbed out, lined up one of the rotor blades and tied it to the tail boom.
His back and arms ached from the long hours in the air, and he did stretching exercises as he walked to a small office next to the landing pad. He unlocked the door and stepped inside.
A stranger sat in the tiny lobby area casually reading a newspaper. To the pilot he looked to be either Chinese or Japanese. The newspaper was lowered, revealing a shotgun with a pistol grip and twin sawed-off barrels that ended barely four inches in front of the shells.
“What do you want?” asked the pilot stupidly.
“Info
rmation?”
“You’re in the wrong place,” said the pilot, instinctively raising his hands. “We’re a helicopter ambulance service, not a library.”
“Very witty,” said the Oriental. “You also carry passengers.”
“Who told you that?”
“Paul Suvorov. One of your Russian friends.”
“Never heard of the guy.”
“How odd. He sat next to you in the co-pilot’s seat for most of yesterday.”
“What do you want?” the pilot repeated, the fear beginning to crawl up his spine.
The Oriental smiled wickedly. “You have ten seconds to tell me the precise destination where you flew Suvorov and two other men. If at the end of that time you feel stubborn, I shall blow away one of your knees. Ten seconds later you can bid goodbye to your sex life.” He enforced his request by releasing the safety on the shotgun. “Countdown begins… now.”
Three minutes later the Oriental stepped from the building and locked the door. Then he walked to a car parked nearby, climbed behind the wheel and drove toward a sandy road leading to Charleston.
The car was barely out of sight when a torrent of orange flame gushed through the thin roof of the pilot’s office and spiraled into the white overcast sky.
Pitt spent the day dodging reporters and police detectives. He hid in a quiet pub called the Devil’s Fork on Rhode Island Avenue and sat in a cushiony leather seat in a quiet corner staring pensively at a half-eaten Monte Cristo sandwich and a third Manhattan, a drink he seldom ordered.
A pert blond waitress in a micro-skirt and mesh stockings stopped by his table. “You’re the most pitiful person in the place,” she said with a motherly smile. “Lose your best girl or your wife?”
“Worse,” said Pitt sadly. “My car.”
She laid a look on him reserved for Martians and weirdos, shrugged and continued her rounds of the other tables.
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