“Didn’t Congressman Moran explain what occurred on board the ship?” Pitt asked.
“He refuses to be questioned by us,” Mercier answered. “All we know is what he told the press.”
Emmett was becoming angry. He saw Pitt’s revelations as an indictment of FBI fumbling. He leaned across the table with fire in his eyes. “Do you honestly expect us to believe your ridiculous fairy tales?” he demanded in a cracking voice.
“I don’t much care what you believe,” Pitt replied, pinning the FBI director with his stare.
“Can you say how you collared the Bougainvilles?” asked Oates.
“My involvement stems from the death of a friend by Nerve Agent S. I began a hunt for the responsible parties, I admit, purely for revenge. As my investigations gradually centered on Bougainville Maritime, other avenues of their illicit organization suddenly unfolded.”
“And you can prove your accusations?”
“Of course,” Pitt answered. “Computer data describing their hijacking activities, drug business and smuggling operations is in a safe at NUMA.”
Brogan held up a hand. “Wait one moment. You stated the Bougainvilles were also behind the hijacking of the Eagle?”
“I did.”
“And you know who was abducted?”
“I do.”
“Not possible,” Brogan stated flatly.
“Shall I name names, gentlemen?” said Pitt. “Let’s begin with the President, then Vice President Margolin, Senator Larimer and House Speaker Moran. I was with Larimer when he died. Margolin is still alive and held somewhere by the Bougainvilles. Moran is now here in Washington, no doubt conspiring to become the next messiah. The President sits in the White House immune to the political disaster he’s causing, while his brain is wired to the apron strings of a Soviet psychologist whose name is Dr. Aleksei Lugovoy.”
If Oates and the others sat stunned before, they were absolutely petrified now. Brogan looked as if he’d just consumed a bottle of Tabasco sauce.
“You couldn’t know all that!” he gasped.
“Quite obviously, I do,” said Pitt calmly.
“My God, how?” demanded Oates.
“A few hours prior to the holocaust on the Leonid Andreyev, I killed a KGB agent by the name of Paul Suvorov. He was carrying a notebook, which I borrowed. The pages describe his movements after the President was abducted from the Eagle.”
Pitt took the tobacco pouch from under his shirt, opened it, and casually tossed the notebook on the table.
It lay there for several moments until Oates finally reached over and pulled it toward him slowly, as if it might bite his hand. Then he thumbed through the pages.
“That’s odd,” he said after a lapse. “The writing is in English. I would have expected some sort of Russian worded code.”
“Not so strange,” said Brogan. “A good operative will write in the language of the country he’s assigned to. What is unusual is that this Suvorov took notes at all. I can only assume he was keeping an eye on Lugovoy, and the mind-control project was too technical for him to commit to memory, so he recorded his observations.”
“Mr. Pitt,” Fawcett demanded. “Do you have enough evidence for the Justice Department to indict Min Koryo Bougainville?”
“Indict yes, convict no,” Pitt answered. “The government will never put an eighty-six-year-old woman as rich and powerful as Min Koryo behind bars. And if she thought her chances were on the down side, she’d skip the country and move her operations elsewhere.”
“Considering her crimes,” Fawcett mused, “extradition shouldn’t be too tough to negotiate.”
“Min Koryo has strong ties with the North Koreans,” said Pitt. “She goes there and you’ll never see her stand trial.”
Emmett considered that and said stonily, “I think we can take over at this point.” Then he turned to Sandecker as if dismissing Pitt. “Admiral, can you arrange to have Mr. Pitt available for further questioning, and supply us with the computer data he’s accumulated on the Bougainvilles?”
“You can bank on full cooperation from NUMA,” Sandecker said. Then he added caustically, “Always glad to help the FBI off a reef.”
“That’s settled,” said Oates, stepping in as referee. “Mr. Pitt, do you have any idea where they might be holding Vice President Margolin?”
“No, sir. I don’t think Suvorov did either. According to his notes, after he escaped from Lugovoy’s laboratory, he flew over the area in a helicopter but failed to pinpoint the location or building. The only reference he mentions is a river south of Charleston, South Carolina.”
Oates looked from Emmett to Brogan to Mercier. “Well, gentlemen, we have a starting point.”
“I think we owe a round of thanks to Mr. Pitt,” said Fawcett.
“Yes, indeed,” said Mercier. “You’ve been most helpful.”
Christ! Pitt thought to himself. They’re beginning to sound like the Chamber of Commerce expressing their gratitude to a street cleaner who followed a parade.
“That’s all there is?” he asked.
“For the moment,” replied Oates.
“What about Loren Smith and Vince Margolin?”
“We’ll see to their safety,” said Emmett coldly.
Pitt awkwardly struggled to his feet. Sandecker came over and took his arm. Then Pitt placed his hands on the table and leaned toward Emmett, his stare enough to wither cactus.
“You better,” he said with a voice like steel. “You damned well better.”
62
As the Chalmette steamed toward Florida, communications became hectic. Frantic inquiries flooded the ship’s radio room, and the Koreans found it impossible to comply. They finally gave up and supplied only the names of the survivors on board. All entreaties by the news media demanding detailed information on the Leonid Andreyev’s sinking went unanswered.
Friends and relatives of the passengers, frantic with anxiety, began collecting at the Russian cruise line offices. Here and there around the country flags were flown at half-mast. The tragedy was a subject of conversation in every home. Newspapers and television networks temporarily swept the President’s closing of Congress out of the limelight and devoted special editions and newscasts to covering the disaster.
The Navy began airlifting the people whom their rescue operation had pulled from the water, flying them to naval air stations and hospitals nearest their homes. These were the first to be interviewed, and their conflicting stories blamed the explosion on everything from a floating mine of World War Two, to a cargo of weapons and munitions being smuggled by the Russians into Central America.
The Soviet diplomatic missions across the United States reacted badly by accusing the U.S. Navy of carelessly launching a missile at the Leonid Andreyev: a charge that had good play in the Eastern bloc countries but was generally shrugged off elsewhere as a crude propaganda ploy.
The excitement rose to a crescendo over a human interest story not seen since the sinking of the Andrea Doria in 1956. The continued silence from the Chalmette infuriated the reporters and correspondents. There was a mad rush to charter boats, airplanes and helicopters to meet the ship as she neared the coast. Fueled by the Korean captain’s silence, speculation ran rampant as the tension built. Investigations into the cause were being demanded by every politician who could contrive an interview.
The Chalmette remained obstinate to the end. As she entered the main channel, she was surrounded by a wolf pack of buzzing aircraft and circling pleasure yachts and fishing boats crawling with reporters blasting questions through bullhorns. To their utter frustration, the Korean seamen simply waved and shouted back in their native tongue.
Slowly approaching the docking terminal at Dodge Island in the Port of Miami, the Chalmette was greeted by a massive crowd of over a hundred thousand people surging against a police cordon blocking the entrance to the pier. A hundred video and film cameras recorded the scene as the giant container ship’s mooring lines were dropped over rusting b
ollards, gangways were rolled against the hull, and the survivors stood at the railings, astounded at the turnout.
Some appeared overjoyed to see dry land once again, others displayed solemn grief for husbands or wives, sons or daughters, they would never see again. A great hush suddenly fell on the mass of spectators. It was later described by an anchorman on the evening TV news as “the silence one experiences at the lowering of a coffin into the ground.”
Unnoticed in the drama, a host of FBI agents dressed in the uniforms of immigration officials and customs inspectors swarmed aboard the ship, confirming the identities of the surviving passengers and crewmen of the Leonid Andreyev, interrogating each on the whereabouts of Congresswoman Smith, and searching every foot of the ship for any sign of her.
Al Giordino questioned the people whose faces he recalled seeing in the lifeboat. None of them could remember what happened to Loren or the Oriental steward after climbing aboard the Chalmette. One woman thought she saw them led away by the ship’s captain, but she couldn’t be sure. To many of those who had narrowly escaped death, their minds conveniently blanked out much of the catastrophe.
The captain and his crew claimed to know nothing. Photos of Loren provoked no recognition. Interpreters interrogated them in Korean, but their stories were the same. They never saw her. Six hours of in-depth search turned up nothing. At last the reporters were allowed to scramble on board. The crew were acknowledged heroes of the sea. The image harvested by Bougainville Maritime and their courageous employees, who braved a sea of blazing oil to save four hundred souls, was a public relations windfall, and Min Koryo made the most of it.
It was dark and raining when Giordino wearily made his way across the now emptied dock and entered the customs office of the terminal. He sat at a desk for a long time staring out into the rain-soaked murk, his dark eyes mere shadows on his face.
He turned and looked at the telephone as though it was the enemy. Hyping his courage by a drink of brandy from a half-pint bottle in his coat pocket and lighting a cigar he had stolen from Admiral Sandecker, he dialed a number and let it ring, almost hoping no one would answer. Then a voice came on.
Giordino moistened his lips with his tongue and said, “Forgive me, Dirk. We were too late. She was gone.”
The helicopter came in from the south and flashed on its landing lights. The pilot settled his craft into position, and then lowered it onto the roof of the World Trade Center in lower Manhattan. The side door dropped open and Lee Tong stepped out. He swiftly walked over to a privately guarded entrance and took an elevator down to his grandmother’s living quarters.
He bent down and kissed her lightly on the forehead. “How was your day, aunumi?”
“Disastrous,” she said tiredly. “Someone is sabotaging our bank records, shipping transactions, every piece of business that goes through a computer. What was once a study in efficient management procedures is now a mess.”
Lee Tong’s eyes narrowed. “Who can be doing it?”
“Every trail leads to NUMA.”
“Dirk Pitt.”
“He’s the prime suspect.”
“No more,” said Lee Tong reassuringly. “Pitt is dead.”
She looked up, her aged eyes questioning. “You know that for a fact?”
He nodded. “Pitt was on board the Leonid Andreyev. An opportune stroke of luck. I watched him die.”
“Your Caribbean mission was only half favorable. Moran lives.”
“Yes, but Pitt is out of our hair and the Leonid Andreyev evens the score for the Venice and the gold.”
Min Koryo suddenly lashed out at him. “That slimy scum Antonov tricked us out of one billion dollars in gold and cost us a good ship and crew, and you say the score is even?”
Lee Tong had never seen his grandmother so furious. “I’m enraged too, aunumi, but we’re hardly in a position to declare war on the Soviet Union.”
She leaned forward, her hands clasped so tightly around the armrests of her wheelchair, the knuckles showed through the delicate skin. “The Russians don’t know what it’s like to have terrorists striking at their throats. I want you to mount bombing attacks against their merchant fleet, especially their oil tankers.”
Lee Tong put his arm around her shoulder as he would a hurt child. “The Hebrew eye-for-an-eye proverb may satisfy the vindictive soul, but it never adds to the bank account. Do not blind yourself with anger.”
“What do you expect?” she snapped. “Antonov has the President and the gold where his Navy can salvage it. We allowed Lugovoy and his staff to leave with the President. Years of planning and millions of dollars wasted, and for what?”
“We have not lost our bargaining power,” said Lee Tong. “Vice President Margolin is still secure at the laboratory. And we have an unexpected bonus in Congresswoman Loren Smith.”
“You abducted her?” she asked in surprise.
“She was also on board the cruise ship. After the sinking, I arranged to have her flown off the Chalmette to the laboratory.”
“She might prove useful,” Min Koryo conceded.
“Don’t be disheartened, aunumi,” said Lee Tong. “We are still in the game. Antonov and his KGB bedfellow Polevoi badly underestimated the Americans’ pathological devotion to individual rights. Instructing the President to close Congress to increase his powers was a stupid blunder. He will be impeached and thrown out of Washington within the week.”
“Not so long as he has the backing of the Pentagon.”
Lee Tong inserted a cigarette in the long silver holder. “The Joint Chiefs are sitting on the fence. They can’t keep the House from meeting forever. Once they’ve voted for impeachment, the generals and admirals won’t waste any time in swinging their support to Congress and the new chief executive.”
“Which will be Alan Moran,” Min Koryo said, as if she had a bad taste in her mouth.
“Unless we release Vincent Margolin.”
“And cut our own throat. We’d be better off making him disappear for good or arrange to have his body found floating in the Potomac River.”
“Listen, aunumi,” said Lee Tong, his black eyes glinting. “We have two options. One, the laboratory is in perfect working order. Lugovoy’s data is still in the computer disks. His mind-control techniques are ours for the taking. We can hire other scientists to program Margolin’s brain. This time it will not be the Russians who control the White House, but Bougainville Maritime.”
“But if Moran is sworn in as President before the brain-control transfer is accomplished, Margolin will be of no use to us.”
“Option two,” said Lee Tong. “Strike a deal with Moran to eliminate Margolin and pave his way to the White House.”
“Can he be bought?”
“Moran is a shrewd manipulator. His political power base is mortared with underhanded financial dealings. Believe me, aunumi, Alan Moran will pay any price for the Presidency.”
Min Koryo looked at her grandson with great respect. He possessed an almost mystical grasp of the abstract. She smiled faintly. Nothing excited her merchant blood more than reversing a failure into a success. “Strike your bargain,” she said.
“I’m happy you agree.”
“You must move the laboratory facility to a safe place,” she said, her mind beginning to shift gears. “At least until we know where we stand. Government investigators will soon fit the pieces together and concentrate their search on the Eastern Seaboard.”
“My thoughts also,” said Lee Tong. “I took the liberty of ordering one of our tugs to move it out of South Carolina waters to our private receiving dock.”
Min Koryo nodded. “An excellent choice.”
“And a practical one,” he replied.
“How do we handle the congresswoman?” Min Koryo asked.
“If she talks to the press she might bring up a number of embarrassing questions for Moran to answer about his presence on board the Leonid Andreyev. He’d be smart to pay for her silence also.”
“Yes
, he lied himself into a hole on that one.”
“Or we can run her through the mind-control experiment and send her back to Washington. A servant in Congress could prove a great asset.”
“But if Moran included her in the deal?”
“Then we sink the laboratory along with Margolin and Loren Smith in a hundred fathoms of water.”
Unknown to Lee Tong and Min Koryo, their conversation was transmitted to the roof of a nearby apartment building where a secondary reception dish relayed the radio frequency signals to a voice-activated tape recorder in a dusty, vacant office several blocks away on Hudson Street.
The turn-of-the-century brick building was due to be demolished, and although most of the offices were empty, a few tenants were taking their sweet time about relocating.
Sal Casio had the tenth floor all to himself. He squatted in this particular site because the janitorial crew never bothered to step off the elevator, and the window had a direct line of sight to the secondary receiver. A cot, a sleeping bag and a small electric burner were all he needed to get by, and except for the receiver/recorder, his only other piece of furniture was an old faded and torn lobby chair that he’d salvaged out of a back-alley trash bin.
He turned the lock with his master key and entered, carrying a paper sack containing a corned beef sandwich and three bottles of Herman Joseph beer. The office was hot and stuffy, so he opened a window and stared at the lights across the river in New Jersey.
Casio performed the tedious job of surveillance automatically, welcoming the isolation that gave him a chance to let his mind run loose. He recalled the happy times of his marriage, the growing-up years with his daughter, and he began to feel mellowed. His long quest for retribution had finally threaded the needle and was drawing to a close. All that was left, he mused, was to write the Bougainville epilogue.
He looked down at the recorder while taking a bite out of the sandwich and noted the tape had rolled during his trip to the delicatessen. Morning would be soon enough to rewind and listen to it, he decided. Also, if he was playing back the recording when voices activated the system again, the previous conversation would be erased.
Deep Six dp-7 Page 35
