Deep Six dp-7

by Clive Cussler

  “Frankly speaking, Mr. President,” said General Metcalf in a stern voice, “your grand design will change nothing. As soon as their economy has recovered, the Kremlin leaders will return to their old belligerent ways. They’re not about to give up the military expansion and political strategies of seventy years out of gratitude for American generosity.”

  “The general is right,” Brogan said. “Our latest satellite surveillance photos show that even as we sit here the Russians are installing a string of their latest SS-Thirty multiple-warhead missiles along the northeast coast of Siberia, and each warhead is targeted at a city in the U.S.”

  “They will be dismantled,” the President said, his tone set in concrete. “As long as we are aware of their existence, Antonov cannot sidestep his commitment.”

  Oates was mad and he didn’t care who knew it. “All this talk is a waste of time.” He almost spat the words at the President. “None of your giveaway schemes can be put into motion without congressional approval. And that, sir, isn’t damned likely.”

  “The Secretary is quite correct,” said Fawcett. “Congress still has to appropriate the money, and considering their present mood against Soviet troop incursions along the Iranian and Turkish borders, passage of your programs will most certainly die and be buried in committee.”

  The men around the table felt uneasy, all of them realizing that the President’s administration would never function from a granite base of cohesion again.

  Differences would arise that had been held in check before. From now on, reverence for teamwork was gone and the line holding personal likes and dislikes broken. Respect for the President and his office had melted away. They saw only a man like themselves, with more faults than they cared to acknowledge. The realization laid a cloud upon the room and they looked to see if the President recognized it too.

  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 announce my resignation. Then I’m taking the next plane out of Washington.”

  “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 beginning to sound like a conspiracy to assassinate the President.”

  “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 scanned the polysomnography screen that monitored the President’s physiological parameters accompanying his sleep. “It appears he’s dreaming.”

  “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, running in no particular direction, enjoying the new and different smells.”

  “There are many who would disagree.”

  “Dreams are not my specialty, so I cannot argue from a purely scientific base. However, I put it to you that if they do have a message, why are most of the senses usually missing?”

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

  He stood beside a pathway on a hill overlooking a wide river, gazing at the ship traffic and holding an artist’s brush. On the tree-covered slope below him he could see a large stone pedestal beneath a figure draped in robes and holding a tall cross as though it were a staff. An easel with a canvas stood slightly off to his right. The painting was nearly finished. The landscape before his eyes was perfectly mirrored in the exacting brush strokes, down to the stippled leaves in the trees. The only difference, if one looked close enough, was the stone monument.

  Instead of a long flowing beard of some forgotten saint, the head was an exact likeness of Soviet President Georgi Antonov.

  Suddenly the scene changed. Now he found himself being dragged out of a small cottage by four men. The cottage walls were carved with Gothic designs and it was painted a garish blue. The faces of his abductors were indistinct, yet he could smell their unwashed sweat. They were pulling him toward a car. He experienced no fear but rather blind rage and lashed out with his feet. His assailants began beating him, but the pain felt distant as though the agony belonged to someone else.

  In the doorway of the cottage he could see the figure of a young woman. Her blond hair was raised in a knot atop her head and she wore a full blouse and a peasant skirt. Her arms were upraised and she seemed to be pleading, but he could not make out the words.

  Then he was thrown on the rear floor of the car and the door slammed shut.

  53

  The purser looked at the two tourists weaving up the boarding ramp in frank amusement. They were an outlandish pair. The female was dressed in a loose-fitting, ankle-length sundress, and to the Russian purser’s creative eye, she could have passed for a rain-bowed sack of Ukrainian potatoes. He couldn’t quite make out her face because it was partially obscured by a wide-brimmed straw hat, tied around the chin by a silk scarf, but he imagined if it was revealed it would break his watch crystal.

  The man who appeared to be her husband was drunk. He reeled onto the deck smelling of cheap bourbon, and laughed constantly. Dressed in a loud flowered shirt and white duck pants, he leered at his ugly wife and whispered gibberish in her ear. He noticed the purser and raised his arm in a comical salute.

  “Hi-ho, Captain,” he said with a slack grin.

  “I am not the captain. My name is Peter Kolodno. I am the purser. How can I help you?”

  “I’m Charlie Gruber and this is my wife, Zelda. We bought tickets here in San Salvador.”

  He handed a packet to the purser, who studied them carefully for a few moments.

  “Welcome aboard the Leonid Andreyev,” said the purser officially. “I regret that we do not have our usual hospitality festivities to greet new passengers, but you’ve joined us rather late in the cruise.”

  “We were sailing on a windjammer when the dumb helmsman ran us onto a reef,” the man called Gruber babbled. “My little woman and I near drowned. Couldn’t see going back home to Sioux Falls early. So we’re finishing our vacation on your boat. Besides, my wife turns on to Greeks.”

  “This is a Russian ship,” the purser explained patiently.

  “No kidding?”

  “Yes, sir, the Leonid Andreyev’s home port is Sevastopol.”

  “You don’t say. Where is that?”

  “The Black Sea,” the purser said, maintaining an air of politeness.

  “Sounds polluted.”

  The purser was at a loss as to how America ever became a superpower with citizens such as these. He checked his passenger list and then nodded. “Your cabin is number thirty-four, on the Gorki deck. I’ll have a steward show you the way.”

  “You’re all right, pal,” Gruber said, shaking his hand.

  As the steward led the Grubers to their cabin, the purser looked down at his palm. Charlie Gruber had tipped him a twenty-five-cent piece.

  As soon as the steward deposited their luggage and closed the door, Giordino threw off his wig and rubbed the lip gloss from his mouth. “God, Zelda Gruber! How am I ever going to live this one down?”

  “I still say you should have taped a couple of grapefruit to your chest,” Pitt said, laughing.

  “I prefer the flat look. That way I don’t stand out.”

  “Probably a good thing. There’s not enough room in here for the four of us.”

  Giordino waved his arms around the small confines of the windowless cabin. “Talk about a discount excursion. I’ve been in bigger phone booths. Feel the vibration? We must be next to the engine.”

  “I requested the cheap accommodations so we could be on a lower deck,” Pitt explained. “We’re less visible down here, and closer to the working areas of the ship.”

  “You think Loren might be locked up somewhere below?”

  “If she saw something or someone she wasn’t supposed to, the Russians wouldn’t keep her where she might contact other passengers.”

  “On the other hand, this could be a false alarm.”

  “We’ll soon know,” Pitt said.

  “How shall we work it?” Giordino asked.

  “I’ll wander the crew’s quarters. You check the passenger list in the purser’s office for Loren’s cabin. Then see if she’s in it.”

  Giordino grinned impishly. “What shall I wear?”

  “Go as yourself. Zelda we’ll keep in reserve.”

  A minute after eight P.M. the Leonid Andreyev eased away from the dock. The engines beat softly as the bow came around. The sandy arms of San Salvador’s harbor slid past as the ship entered the sea and sailed into a fiery sunset.

  The lights flashed on and sparkled across the water like fireworks as the ship came alive with laughter and the music of two different orchestras. Passengers changed from shorts and slacks to suits and gowns, and lingered in the main dining room or perched in one of the several cocktail lounges.

  Al Giordino, dressed in a formal tux, strutted along the corridor outside the penthouse suites as though he owned them. Stopping at a door, he looked around. A steward was approaching behind him with a tray.

  Giordino stepped across to an opposite door marked MASSAGE ROOM an
d knocked.

  “The masseuse goes off duty at six o’clock, sir,” said the steward.

  Giordino smiled. “I thought I’d make an appointment for tomorrow.”

  “I’ll be glad to take care of that for you, sir. What time would be convenient?”

  “How about noon?”

  “I’ll see to it,” said the steward, his arm beginning to sag under the weight of the tray. “Your name and cabin?”

  “O’Callaghan, cabin twenty-two, the Tolstoy deck,” Giordino said. “Thank you. I appreciate it.”

  Then he turned and walked back to the passenger lift. He pushed the “down” button so it would ring and then glanced along the corridor. The steward balanced the tray and knocked lightly on a door two suites beyond Loren’s. Giordino couldn’t see who responded, but he heard a woman’s voice invite the steward inside.

  Without wasting a second, Giordino rushed to Loren’s suite, crudely forced in the door with a well-aimed kick near the lock and entered. The rooms were dark and he switched on the lights. Everything was pin neat and luxurious with no hint of an occupant.

  He didn’t find Loren’s clothes in the closet. He didn’t find any luggage or evidence that she had ever been there. He combed every square foot carefully and slowly, room by room. He peered under the furniture and behind the drapes. He ran his hands over the carpets and under chair cushions. He even checked the bathtub and shower for pubic hairs.

  Nothing.

  But not quite nothing. A woman’s presence lingers in a room after she leaves it. Giordino sniffed the air. A very slight whiff of perfume caught his nostrils. He couldn’t have distinguished Chanel No. 5 from bath cologne, but this aroma had the delicate fragrance of a flower. He tried to identify it, yet it hung just beyond his reach.

  He rubbed soap on the wooden splinter that broke off when he kicked in the door and pressed it into place. A poor glue job, he thought, but enough to hold for a few openings in case the suite was checked again by the crew before the ship docked back in Miami.