Deep Six – Dirk Pitt 07

By Clive Cussler

Other Books BY CLIVE CUSSLER

THE MEDITERRANEAN CAPER

ICEBERG

RAISE THE TITANIC!

VIXEN03

NIGHT PROBE!

PACIFIC VORTEX!

DEEP SIX

SIMON AND SCHUSTER NEW YORK

This novel is a work of fiction.  Names, characters, places and

incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used

fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons,

living or dead, is entirely coincinental.

COPYRIGHT @ 1984 BY CLIVE CUSSLER ENTERPRISES, INC.

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED INCLUDING THE RIGHT OF REPRODUCTION IN WHOLE OR IN

PART IN ANY FORM

PUBLISHED BY SIMON AND SCHUSTER A DIVISION OF SIMON & SCHUSTER, INC.

SIMON & SCHUSTERBUILDINGROCKEFELLERCENTER 1230 AVENUE OF THE AMERICAS

NEW YORK, NEW YORK10020

SIMON AND SCHUSTER AND COLOPHON ARE REGISTERED TRADEMARKS OF SIMON &

SCHUSTER, INC.

DESIGNED BY EVE ME17

MANUFACTURED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

To Tubby's Bar & Grill in Alhambra, Rand's Roundup on Wilshire

Boulevard, The Black Knight in Costa Mesa, and Shanners' Bar in Denver.

GONE BUT NOT FORGOTTEN

LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING IN PUBLICATION DATA

CUSSLER, CLIVE.

DEEP SIX.

Ps3553.u75r>4 1984 813'.54 84-5291

ISBN 0-671-50373-1

July 15, 1966

The Pacific Ocean

The girl shaded the sun from her brown eyes and stared at a large

pelican gliding above the ship's after cargo boom.

She admired the bird's soaring grace for a few minutes, then, growing

bored, she rose to a sitting position, revealing evenly spaced red bars

across her tanned back, etched there by the slats of an ancient steamer

chair.

She looked around for signs of the deck crew, but they were nowhere in

sight, so she shyly shifted her breasts to a more comfortable position

inside the scoop-necked bra of her bikini.

Her body was hot and sweaty from the humin tropical air.  She moved her

hand across her firm stomach and felt the sweat rising through the skin.

She sat back in the chair again, soothed and relaxed, the throbbing beat

of the old freighter's engines and the heavy warmth of the sun coaxing

her into drowsiness.

The fear that churned inside her when she came on board had faded.

She no longer lay awake to the pounding of her heart, or searched the

crew's faces for expressions of suspicion, or waited for the captain to

grimly inform her that she was under ship's arrest.  She was slowly

closing her mind to her crime and beginning to think about the future.

She was relieved to find that guilt was a fleeting emotion after all.

Out of the corner of her eye she caught the white jacket of the Oriental

mess boy as he stepped from a companionway.  He approached

apprehensively, his eyes staring down at the deck, as if he was

embarrassed to look at her nearly nude figure.

"Excuse me, Miss Wallace, he said.  "Captain Masters respectfully

requests you please dine with him and his officers tonight-if you are

feeling better, that is."

Estelle Wallace was thankful her deepening tan covered her blush.

She had feigned illness since embarking in San Francisco and had taken

all her meals alone in her stateroom to avoid any conversation with the

ship's officers.  She decided she couldn't remain a recluse forever.

The time had come to practice living a lie.

"Tell Captain Masters I feel much better.  I'll be delighted to dine

with him."

"He'll be glad to hear that," the mess boy said with a broad smile that

revealed a large gap in the middle of his upper teeth.  "I'll see the

cook fixes you something special."

He turned and shuffled away with a gait that seemed to Estelle a trifle

too obsequious, even for an Asian.

Secure in her decision, she inly stared up at the three-deck-high

minship superstructure of the San Marino.  The sky was remarkably blue

above the black smoke curling from the single stack, contrasting starkly

with the flaking white paint on the bulkheads.

"A stout ship," the captain had boasted when he led her to a stateroom.

He reassuringly ticked off her history and statistics, as if Estelle

were a frightened passenger on her first canoe rine down the rapins.

Built during 1943 to the standard Liberty ship design, the San Marino

had carried military supplies across the Atlantic to England, making the

round-trip crossing sixteen times.  On one occasion, when she had

strayed from the convoy she was struck by a torpedo, but she refused to

sink and made it under her own power to Liverpool.

Since the war she had tramped the oceans of the world under the registry

of Panamanian-one of thirty ships owned by the Manx Steamship Company of

New York, plying in and out of backwater ports.  Measuring 441 feet in

length overall, with a raked stern and cruiser stern, she plodded

through the Pacific swells at eleven knots.  With only a few more

profitable years left in her, the San Marino mould eventually end up as

scrap.

Rust streaked her steel skin.  She looked as sordid as a Bowery hooker,

but in the eyes of Estelle Wallace she was virgin and beautiful.

Already Estelle's past was blurring.  With each revolution of the worn

engines, the gap widened between Estelle's drab life of self denial and

an eagerly sought fantasy.

The first step of Arta Casilighio's metamorphosis into Estelle Wallace

was when she discovered a lost passport wedged under the seat of a

Wilshire Boulevard

bus during the Los Angeles evening rush hour.

Without really knowing why, Arta slipped it into her purse and took it

home.

Days later, she had still not returned the document to the bus driver or

mailed it to the rightful owner.  She studied the pages with their

foreign stamps for hours at a time.  She was intrigued by the face in

the photo.  Although more stylishly made up, it bore a startling

resemblance to her own.  Both women were about the same age-less than

eight months separated their birthdays.  The brown shade of their eyes

matched, and except for a difference in, hairstyles and a few shades of

tint, they might have passed for sisters.

She began to make herself up to look like Estelle Wallace, an alter ego

that could escape, mentally at least, to the exotic places of the world

that were denied timid, mousy Arta Casilighio.

One evening after closing hours at the bank where she worked, she found

her eyes locked on the stacks of newly printed currency delivered that

afternoon from the Federal Reserve Bank in downtown Los Angeles.

She had become so used to handling large sums of money during her

four-year tenure that she was immune to the mere sight-a lassitude that

afflicts all tellers sooner or later.  Yet inexplicably, this time the

piles of green-printed tender beguiled her.  Subconsciously she began to

picture it as belonging to her.

Arta went home that weekend and locked herself in her apartment to

fortify her resolve and plan the crime she intended to commit,

practicing every gesture, every motion until they came smoothly to her

without hesitation.  All Sunday night she lay awake until the alarm went

off, bathed in cold sweat, but determined to see the act through.

The cash shipment arrived every Monday by armored car and usually

totaled from six to eight hundred thousand dollars.  It was then

re-counted and held until distribution on Wednesday to the bank's branch

offices, scattered throughout the Los Angeles basin.

She had decided the time to make her move was on Monday evening, while

she was putting her money drawer in the vault.

In the morning, after she showered and made up her face, Arta donned a

pair of panty hose.  She wound a roll of two-sided sticky tape around

her legs from min-calf to the top of her thighs, leaving the protective

outer layer of the tape in place.  This odd bit of handiwork was covered

with a long skirt that came almost to her ankles, hiding the tape with

inches to spare.

Next she took neatly trimmed packets of bond paper and slipped them into

a large pouch-style purse.  Each displayed a crisp new five-dollar bill

on the outer sides and was bound with genuine blue and white Federal

Reserve Bank wrappers.  To the casual eye they would appear authentic.

Arta stood in front of a full-length mirror and repeated over and over,

"Arta Casilighio no longer exists.  You are now Estelle Wallace."

The deception seemed to work.  She felt her muscles relax, and her

breathing became slower, shallower.  Then she took a deep breath, threw

back her shoulders and left for work.

In her anxiety to appear normal she inadvertently arrived at the bank

ten minutes early, an astounding event to all who knew her well, but

this was Monday morning and no one took notice.  Once she settled behind

her teller's counter every minute seemed an hour, every hour a lifetime.

She felt strangely detached from the familiar surroundings, and yet any

thought of forgetting the hazardous scheme was quickly suppressed.

Mercifully, fear and panic remained dormant.

When six o'clock finally rolled around, and one of the assistant vice

presidents closed and locked the massive front doors, she quickly

balanced her cash box and slipped quietly off to the ladies' room, where

in the privacy of a stall she unwound the tape's outer layer from around

her legs and flushed it down the toilet.  She then took the bogus money

packets and fixed them to the tape, stamping her feet to make certain

none would drop off as she walked.

Satisfied everything was ready, she came out and dawdled in the lobby

until the other tellers had placed their cash drawers in the vault and

left.  Two minutes alone inside that great steel cubicle was all she

needed and two minutes alone was what she got.

Swiftly she pulled up the skirt and with precise movements exchanged the

phony packets for those containing genuine bills.

When she stepped out of the vault and smiled a good evening to the

assistant vice President as he nodded her out a side door, she couldn't

believe she'd actually gotten away with it.

Seconds after entering her apartment, she shed the skirt, stripped the

money packets from her legs and counted them.  The tally came to

$51,000.

Not nearly enough.

Disappointment burned within her.  She would need at least twice that

sum to leave the country and maintain a minimal level of comfort while

increasing the lion's share through investments.

The ease of the operation had made her heady.  did she dare make another

foray into the vault?   she wondered.  The Federal Reserve Bank money

was already counted and wouldn't be distributed to the branch banks

until Wednesday.  Tomorrow was Tuesday.  She still had another chance to

strike again before the loss was discovered.

Why not?

The thought of ripping off the same bank twice in two days excited her.

Perhaps Arta Casilighio lacked the guts for it, but Estelle Wallace

required no coaxing at all.

That evening she bought a large old-fashioned suitcase at a secondhand

store and made a false bottom in it.  She packed the money along with

her clothes and took a cab to the Los AngelesInternationalAirport,

where she stored the suitcase overnight in a locker and purchased a

ticket to San Francisco on an early-evening Tuesday flight.

Wrapping her unused Monday night ticket in a newspaper, she dropped it

in a trash receptacle.  With nothing remaining to be done, she went home

and slept like a rock.

The second robbery went as smoothly as the first.  Three hours after

leaving the Beverly-Wilshire Bank for the last time, she was re-counting

the money in a San Francisco hotel.  The combined total came to

$128,000.  Not a staggering prize by inflationary standards, but more

than ample for her needs.

The next step was relatively simple.  She checked through the newspapers

for ship departures and found the San Marino, a cargo freighter bound

for Auckland, New Zealand, at six-thirty the following morning.

An hour before sailing time, she mounted the gangplank.  The captain

claimed he seldom took passengers, but kindly consented to take her on

board for a mutually agreed fare-which Estelle suspected went into his

wallet instead of the steamship company's coffers.

Estelle stepped across the threshold of the officers' dining saloon and

paused uncertainly for a moment, facing the appraising stares of six men

sitting in the room.

Her coppery-tinted hair fell past her shoulders and nearly matched her

tan.  She wore a long, sleek pink T-shirt dress that clung in all the

right places.  A white bone bracelet was her only accessory.  To the

officers rising to their feet the simple elegance of her appearance

created a sensation.

Captain Irwin Masters, a tall man with graying hair, came over and took

her arm.  "Miss Wallace," he said, smiling warmly.  "It's good to see

you looking fit."

"I think the worst is over," she said.

"I don't mind admitting, I was beginning to worry.  Not leaving your

cabin for five days made me fear the worst.  With no doctor on board, we

would have been in a fix if you needed medical treatment."

"Thank you," she said softly.

He looked at her in mild surprise.  "Thank me, for what?"

"For your concern."  She gave his arm a gentle squeeze.  "It's been a

long time since anyone worried about me."

He nodded and winked.  "That's what ship captains are for."

Then he turned to the other officers.  "Gentlemen, may I present Miss

Estelle Wallace, who is gracing us with her lovely presence until we

dock in Auckland."

The introductions were made.  She was amused by the fact that most of

the men were numbered.  The first officer, the second officer-even a

fourth.  They all shook her hand as if it were made of delicate

china-all except the engineering officer, a short ox-shouldered man with

a Slavic accent.  He stiffly bent over and kissed the tips of her

fingers.

The first officer motioned at the mess boy,_who was standing behind a

small mahogany bar.  "Miss Wallace, what's your pleasure?"

"Would it be possible to have a daiquiri?   I'm in the mood for

something sweet."

"Absolutely," the first officer replied.  "The San Marino may not be a

luxurious cruise liner, but we do run the finest cocktail bar in this

latitude of the Pacific."

"Be honest," the captain admonished good-naturedly.  "You neglected to

mention we're probably the only ship in this latitude."

"A mere detail."  The first officer shrugged.  "Lee, one of your famous

daiquiris for the young lady."

Estelle watched with interest as the mess boy expertly squeezed the lime

and poured the ingredients.  Every movement came with a flourish.  The

frothy drink tasted good, and she had to fight a desire to down it all

at once.

"Lee," she said, "you're a marvel."

"He is that," said Masters.  "We were lucky to sign him on."

Estelle took another sip of her drink.  "You seem to have a number of

Orientals in your crew."

"Replacements," Masters explained.  "Ten of the crew jumped ship after

we docked in San Francisco.  Fortunately, Lee and nine of his fellow

Koreans arrived from the maritime hiring hall before sailing time."

"All damned queer, if you ask me," the second officer grunted.

Masters shrugged.  "Crew members jumping ship in port has been going on

since Cro-Magnon man built the first raft.  Nothing queer about it."

The second officer shook his head doubtfully.  "One or two maybe, but

not ten!   The San Marino is a tight ship, and the captain here is a

fair skipper.  There was no reason for a mass exodus."

"The way of the sea."  Masters sighed.  "The Koreans are clean,

hardworking seamen.  I wouldn't trade them for half the cargo in our

holds."

"That's a pretty stiff price," muttered the engineering officer.

"Is it improper," Estelle ventured, to ask what cargo you're carrying?"

"Not at all," the very young fourth officer offered eagerly.  "In San

Francisco our holds were loaded with-"

"Titanium ingots," Captain Masters cut in.

"Eight million dollars worth," added the first officer, eyeing the

fourth sternly.

"Once again, please," Estelle said, handing her empty glass to the mess

boy.  She turned back to Masters.  "I've heard of titanium, but I have

no idea what it's used for."

"When properly processed in pure form, titanium becomes stronger and

lighter than steel, an asset that puts it in great demand by builders of

jet aircraft engines.  It's also widely used in the manufacture of

paints, rayon and plastics.  I suspect you even have traces of it in

your cosmetics."

The cook, an anemic-looking Oriental with a sparkling white apron leaned

through a side door and nodded at Lee, who in turn tapped a glass with a

mixing spoon.

"Dinner ready to be served," he said in his heavily accented English,

while flashing his gap-toothed smile.

it was a fabulous meal, one Estelle promised herself never to forget. To

be surrounded by six handsomely uniformed and attentive men was all

that her female vanity could endure in one evening.

After a demitasse, Captain Masters excused himself and headed for the

bridge.  One by one, the other officers drifted off to their duties, and

Estelle took a tour of the deck with the engineering officer.  He

entertained her with tales of sea superstitions, eerie monsters of the

deep and funny titbits of scuttlebutt about the crew that made her

laugh.

At last they reached the door of her stateroom, and he gallantly kissed

her hand again.  She accepted when he asked her to join him for

breakfast in the morning.

She entered the tiny cabin, clicked the lock on the door and switched on

the overhead light.  Then she closed the curtain tightly over the single

porthole, pulled the suitcase from under the bed and opened it.

The top tray contained her cosmetics and carelessly jumbled underthings,

and she removed it.  Next came several neatly folded blouses and skirts.

These she also removed and set aside to later steam out the wrinkles in

the shower.  Gently inserting a nail file around the edges of the false

bottom of the suitcase, she pried it up.

Then she sat back and sighed with relief.  The money was still there,

stacked and bound in the Federal Reserve Bank wrappers.

She had hardly spent any of it.

She stood up and slipped her dress over her head-daringly, she wore

nothing beneath-and collapsed across the bed, hands behind her head.

She closed her eyes and tried to picture the shocked expressions on her

supervisors' faces when they discovered the money and reliable little

Arta Casilighio missing at the same time.  -She had fooled them all! She

felt a strange, almost sexual, thrill at knowing the FBI would post her

on their list of most wanted criminals.  The investigators would

question all her friends and neighbors, search all her old haunts, check

a thousand and one banks for sudden large deposits of consecutively

numbered bills-but they would come up dry.

Arta, alias Estelle, was not where they'd expect her to be.

She opened her eyes and stared at the now familiar walls of her

stateroom. Oddly the room began to slip away from her. Objects were

focusing and unfocusing into a blurry montage. Her blander signaled a

trip to the bathroom, but her body refused to obey any command to move.

Every muscle seemed frozen.  Then the door opened and Lee the mess boy

entered with another Oriental crewman.

Lee wasn't smiling.

This can't be happening, she told herself.  The mess steward wouldn't

dare intrude on her privacy while she was lying naked on the bed.

it had to be a crazy dream brought on by the lavish food and drink, a

nightmare stoked by the fires of indigestion.

She felt detached from her body, as if she were watching the eerie scene

from one corner of the stateroom. Lee gently carried her through the

doorway, down the passageway and onto the deck.

Several of the Korean crewmen were there, their oval faces illuminated

by bright overhead floodlights. They were hoisting large bundles and

dropping them over the ship's railing. Abruptly, one of the bundles

stared at her. It was the ashen face of the young fourth officer, eyes

wine in a mixture of disbelief and terror. Then he too disappeared over

the side.

Lee was leaning over her, doing something to her feet.  She could feel

nothing, only a lethargic numbness.  He appeared to be attaching a

length of rusty chain to her ankles.

Why would he do that?   she wondered vaguely. She watched indifferently

as she was lifted into the air. Then she was released and floated

through the darkness.

Something struck her a great blow, knocking the breath from her lungs. A

cool, yielding force closed over her. A relentless pressure enveloped

her body and dragged her downward, squeezing her internal organs in a

giant vise.

Her eardrums exploded, and in that instant of tearing pain, total

clarity flooded her mind and she knew it was no dream. Her mouth opened

to emit a hysterical scream.

No sound came. The increasing water density soon crushed her chest

cavity, Her lifeless body drifted into the waiting arms of the abyss ten

thousand feet below.

July 25, 1989

Cook Inlet, Alaska BLACK CLOUDS ROLLED MENACINGLY over the sea from

Kodiak Island and turned the deep blue-green surface to lead. The

orange glow of the sun was snuffed out like a candle flame. Unlike most

storms that swept in from the Gulf of Alaska creating fifty- or

hundred-mile-an-hour winds, this one bred a mild breeze. The rain began

to fall, sparingly at first, then building to a deluge that beat the

water white.

On the bridge wing of the Coast Guard cutter Catawba, Lieutenant

Commander Amos Dover peered through a pair of binoculars, eyes straining

to penetrate the downpour. It was like staring into a shimmering stage

curtain. Visibility died at four hundred meters. The rain felt cold

against his face and colder yet as it trickled past the upturned collar

of his foul-weather jacket and down his neck. Finally he spat a

waterlogged cigarette over the railing and stepped into the dry warmth

of the wheelhouse.

"Radar!"  he called out gruffly.

"Contact six hundred fifty meters dead ahead and closing," the radar

operator replied without lifting his eyes from the tiny images on the

scope.

Dover unbuttoned his jacket and wiped the moisture from his neck with a

handkerchief.  Trouble was the last thing he expected during moderate

weather.

Seldom did one of the fishing fleet or private pleasure craft go missing

in midsummer. Winter was the season when the gulf turned nasty and

unforgiving.  Chilled Arctic air meeting warmer air rising from the

Alaska Current detonated incredible winds and towering seas that crushed

hulls and iced deck structures until a boat grew top-heavy, rolled over

and sank like a brick.

A distress call had been received by a vessel calling herself the Arnie

Marie. One quick SOS followed by a Loran position and the words ". . .

think all dying."

Repeated calls requesting further information were sent out, but the

radio onboard the Arnie Marie remained silent.

An air search was out of the question until the weather cleared.

Every ship within a hundred miles changed course and steamed full speed

in response to the emergency signals. Because of her greater speed,

Dover reckoned the Catawba would be the first to reach the stricken

vessel.  Her big diesels had already pushed her past a coastal freighter

and a halibut long-liner gulf boat, leaving them rocking in her wake.

Dover was a great bear of a man who had pain his dues in sea rescue.

He'd spent twelve years in northern waters, stubbornly throwing his

shoulder against every sadistic whim the Arctic had thrown him.  He was

tough and wind-worn, slow and shambling in his physical movements, but

he possessed a calculatorlike mind that never failed to awe his crew. In

less time than it had taken to program the ship's computers, he had

figured the wind factor and current drift, arriving at a position where

he knew the ship, wreckage or any survivors should be found-and he'd hit

it right on the nose.

The hum of the engines below his feet seemed to take on a feverish

pitch.  Like an unleashed hound, the Catawba seemed to pick up the scent

of her quarry.  Anticipation gripped all hands.

Ignoring the rain, they lined the decks and bridge wings.

"Four hundred meters," the radar operator sang out.

Then a seaman clutching the bow staff began pointing vigorously into the

rain.

Dover leaned out the wheelhouse door and shouted through a bullhorn. "Is

she afloat?"

"Buoyant as a rubber duck in a bathtub," the seaman bellowed back

through cupped hands.

Dover nodded to the lieutenant on watch.  "Slow engines."

"Engines one third," the watch lieutenant acknowledged as he moved a

series of levers on the ship's automated console.

The Arnie Marie slowly emerged through the precipitation.

They expected to find her half awash, in a sinking condition.

But she sat proud in the water, drifting in the light swells without a

hint of distress.  There was a silence about her that seemed unnatural,

almost ghostly.  Her decks were deserted, and Dover's hail over the

bullhorn went unanswered.

"A crabber by the look of her," Dover muttered to no one in particular.

"Steel hull, about a hundred and ten feet.  Probably out of a shipyard

in New Orleans."

The radio operator leaned out of the communications room and motioned to

Dover.  "From the Board of Register, sir.  The Arnie Marie's owner and

skipper is Carl Keating- Home port is Kodiak."

Again Dover hailed the strangely quiet crab boat, this time andressing

Keating by name.  There was still no response.

The Catawba slowly circled and hove to a hundred meters away, then

stopped her engines and drifted alongside.

The steel-cage crab pots were neatly stacked on the deserted deck, and a

wisp of exhaust smoke puffed from the funnel, suggesting that her diesel

engines were inling in neutral.  No human movement could be detected

through the ports or the windows of the wheelhouse.

The boarding party consisted of two officers, Ensign Pat Murphy and

Lieutenant Marty Lawrence.  Without the usual small talk they donned

their exposure suits, which would protect them from the frigin waters if

they accinentally fell into the sea.  They had lost count of the times

they had conducted routine examinations of foreign fishing vessels that

strayed inside the Alaskan 200-mile fishing limit, yet there was nothing

routine about this investigation.  No flesh-and-blood crew lined the

rails to greet them.  They climbed into a small rubber Zodiac propelled

by an outboard motor and cast off.

Darkness was only a few hours away.  The rain had eased to a drizzle but

the wind had increased, and the sea was rising.  An eerie quiet gripped

the Catawba.  No one spoke; it was as though they were afraid to, at

least until the spell produced by the unknown was broken.

They watched as Murphy and Lawrence tied their tiny craft to the crab

boat, hoisted themselves to the deck and disappeared through a doorway

into the main cabin.

Several Minutes dragged by.  Occasionally one of the searchers would

appear on the deck only to vanish again down a hatchway.

The only sound in the Catawba's wheelhouse came from the static over the

ship's open radiophone loudspeaker, turned up to high volume and tuned

to an emergency frequency.

Suddenly, with such unexpected abruptness that even Dover twitched in

surprise, Murphy's voice loudly reverberated inside the wheelhouse.

"Catawba, this is Arnie Marie."

"Go ahead, Arnie Marie," Dover answered into a microphone.

"They're all dead."

The words were so cold, so terse, nobody absorbed them at first.

"Repeat."

"No sign of a pulse in any of them.  Even the cat bought it."

What the boarding party found was a ship of the dead.  Skipper Keating I

s body rested on the deck, his head leaning against a bulkhead beneath

the radio.  Scattered throughout the boat in the galley, the messroom

and the sleeping quarters were the corpses of the Arnie Marie's crew.

Their facial expressions were frozen in twisted agony and their limbs

contorted in grotesque positions, as though they had violently thrashed

away their final moments of life.  Their skin had turned an odd black

color, and they had gushed blood from every orifice.  The ship's Siamese

cat lay beside a thick wool blanket it had shredded in its death throes.

Dover's face reflected puzzlement rather than shock at Murphy's

description.  "Can you determine a cause?"  he asked.

"Not even a good guess," Murphy came back.  "No indication of struggle.

No marks on the bodies, yet they bled like slaughtered pigs.

Looks like whatever killed them struck everyone at the same time."

"Stand by."

Dover turned and surveyed the faces around him until he spotted the

ship's surgeon, Lieutenant Commander Isaac Thayer.

Doc Thayer was the most popular man aboard the ship.  An oldtimer in the

Coast Guard service, he had long ago given up the plush offices and high

income of shore medicine for the rigors of sea rescue.

"What do you make of it, Doc?"  Dover asked.

Thayer shrugged and smiled.  "Looks as though I better make a house

call."

Dover paced the bridge impatiently while Doc Thayer entered a second

Zodiac and motored across the gap divining the two vessels.

Dover ordered the helmsman to position the Catawba to take the crab boat

in tow.  He was concentrating on the maneuver and didn't notice the

radio operator standing at his elbow.

"A signal just in, sir, from a bush pilot airlifting supplies to a team

of scientists on Augustine island."

"Not now," Dover said brusquely.

"It's urgent, Captain," the radio operator persisted.

"Okay, read the guts of it."

"'Scientific party all dead." Then something unintelligible and what

sounds like 'Save me."' Dover stared at him blankly.  "That's all?"

"Yes, sir.  I tried to raise him again, but there was no reply."

Dover didn't have to study a chart to know Augustine was an uninhabited

volcanic island only thirty miles northeast of his present position.  A

sudden, sickening realization coursed through his mind.

He snatched the microphone and shouted into the mouthpiece.

"Murphy!   You there?"

Nothing.

"Murphy .  . . Lawrence .  . . do you'read me?"

Again no answer.

He looked through the bridge window and saw Doe Thayer climb over the

rail of the Arnie Marie.  Dover could move fast for a man of his

mountainous proportions.  He snatched a bullhorn and ran outside.

"Doc!   Come back, get off that boat!"  his amplified voice boomed over

the water.

He was too late.  Thayer had already ducked into a hatchway and was

gone.

The men on the bridge stared at their captain, incomprehension written

in their eyes.  His facial muscles tensed and there was a look of

desperation about him as he rushed back into the wheelhouse and clutched

the microphone.

"Doc, this is Dover, can you hear me?"

Two minutes passed, two endless minutes while Dover tried to raise his

men on the Arnie Marie.  Even the earsplitting scream of the Catawba's

siren failed to draw a response.

At last Thayer's voice came over the bridge with a strange icy calm.

"I regret to report that Ensign Murphy and Lieutenant Lawrence are dead.

I can find no life signs.  Whatever the cause it will strike me before I

can escape.  You must quarantine this boat.  Do you understand, Amos?"

Dover found it impossible to grasp that he was suddenly about to lose

his old friend.  "Do not understand, but will comply."

"Good.  I'll describe the symptoms as they come.  Beginning to feel

light-headed already.  Pulse increasing to one fifty.  May have

contracted the cause by skin absorption.  Pulse one seventy."

Thayer paused.  His next words came haltingly.

"Growing nausea.  Legs..... can no longer .  . . support.  Intense

burning sensation..... in sinus region.  Internal organs feel like

they're exploding."

As one, everybody on the bridge of the Catawba leaned closer to the

speaker, unable to comprehend that a man they all knew and respected was

dying a short distance away.

"Pulse .  . . over two hundred.  Pain .  . . excruciating.

Blackness closing vision."  There was an audible moan.  "Tell .  . .

tell my wife The speaker went silent.

You could smell the shock, see it in the winened eyes of the crew

standing in stricken horror.

Dover stared numbly at the tomb named the Arnie Marie, his hands

clenched in helplessness and despair.

"What's happening?"  he murmured tonelessly.  "What in God's name is

killing everyone?"

"I SAY HANG THE BASTARD,

"Oscar, mind your language in front of the girls."

"They've heard worse.  It's insane.  The scum murders four kins and some

cretin of a judge throws the case out of court because the defendant was

too stoned on drugs to understand his rights.

God, can you believe it?"

Carolyn Lucas poured her husband's first cup of coffee for the day and

whisked their two young daughters off to the school bus stop.  He

gestured menacinily at the TV as if it were the fault of the anchorman

announcing the news that the killer roamed free.

Oscar Lucas had a way of talking with his hands that bore little

resemblance to sign language for the deaf.  He sat stoop-shouldered at

the breakfast table, a position that camouflaged his lanky six foot

frame.  His head was as bald as an egg except for a few graying strands

around the temples, and his bushy brows hovered over a pair of oak-brown

eyes.  Not one to join the Washington, D.C blue pinstripe brigade, he

was dressed in slacks and sportcoat.

In his early forties, Lucas might have passed for a dentist or

bookkeeper instead of the special agent in charge of the Presidential

Protection Division of the Secret Service.  During his twenty years as

an agent he had fooled many people with his nice neighbor-next-door

appearance, from the Presidents whose lives he guarded to the potential

assassins he'd stonewalled before they had an opportunity to act.  On

the job he came off aggressive and solemn, yet at home he was usually

full of mischief and humor except, of course, when he was influenced by

the eight A.m. news.

Lucas took a final sip of coffee and rose from the table.  He held open

his coat-he was left-handed-and adjusted the high-rine hip holster

holding a Smith and Wesson .357 Magnum Model 19 revolver with a two-inch

barrel.  The standard issue gun was provided by the Service when he had

finished training and started out as a rookie agent in the Denver field

office investigating counterfeiters and forgers.  He had drawn it only

twice in the line of duty, but had yet to pull the trigger outside a

firing range.

Carolyn was unloading the dishwasher when he came up behind her, pulled

away a cascade of blond hair and pecked her on the neck.  "I'm off."

"Don't forget tonight is the pool party across the street at the

Hardings'."

"I should be home in time.  The boss isn't scheduled to leave the White

House today."

She looked up at him and smiled.  "You see that he doesn't."

"I'll inform the President first thing that my wife frowns on me working

late."

She laughed and leaned her head briefly on his shoulder.  "Six o'clock."

"You win," he said in mock weariness and stepped out the back door.

Lucas backed his leased government car, a plush Buick sedan, into the

street and headed downtown.  Before reaching the end of the block he

called the Secret Service central command office over his car radio.

"Crown, this is Lucas.  I'm en route to the White House."

"Have a nice trip," a metallic voice replied.

Already he began to sweat.  He turned on the air conditioner.

The summer heat in the nation's capital never seemed to slacken.

The huminity was in the nineties and the flags along Embassy Row on

Massachusetts Avenue

hung limp and lifeless in the muggy air.

He slowed and stopped at the checkpoint gate on

West Executive Avenue

and paused for a few moments while a uniformed guard of the Service

nodded and passed him through.  Lucas parked the car and entered the

west executive entrance on the lower level of the White House.

At the SS command post, code-named W-16, he stopped to chat with the men

monitoring an array of electronic communication equipment.

Then he took the stairs to his office on the second floor of the East

Wing.

The first thing he did each morning, after settling behind his desk was

to check the President's schedule, along with advance reports by the

agents in charge of planning security.

Lucas studied the folder containing future presidential "movements" a

second time, consternation growing across his face.

There had been an unexpected andition-a big one.  He flung down the

folder in irritation, swung around in his swivel chair and stared at the

wall.

Most Presidents were creatures of habit, ran tight schedules and riginly

adhered to them.  Clocks could be set by Nixon's comings and goings,

Reagan and Carter seldom deviated from fixed plans.

Not the new man in the Oval Office.  He looked upon the Secret Service

detail as a nuisance, and what was worse, he was unpredictable as hell.

To Lucas and his deputy agents it was a twenty-four-hour game trying to

keep one step ahead of the "Man," guessing where he might suddenly

decide to go and when, and what visitors he might invite without

providing time for proper security measures.  it was a game Lucas often

lost.

In less than a minute he was down the stairs and in the West Wing

confronting the second most powerful man in the executive branch, Chief

of Staff Daniel Fawcett.

"Good morning, Oscar," Fawcett said, smiling benignly.  "I thought you'd

come charging in about now."

"There appears to be a new excursion in the schedule," Lucas said, his

tone businesslike.

"Sorry about that.  But a big vote is coming up on aid to the Eastern

bloc countries and the President wants to work his charms on Senator

Larimer and Speaker of the House Moran to swing their support for his

program."

"So he's taking them for a boat rine."

"Why not?   Every President since Herbert Hoover has used the

presidential yacht for high-level conferences."

"I'm not arguing the reason," Lucas replied firmly.  "I'm protesting the

timing."

Fawcett gave him an innocent look.  "What's wrong with Frinay evening?"

"You know damn well what's wrong.  That's only two days away."

" so?

"For a cruise down the Potomac with an overnight layover at Mount Vernon

my advance team needs five days to plan security.

A complete system of communications and alarms has to be installed on

the grounds.  The boat must be swept for explosives and listening

devices, the shores checked out-and the Coast Guard requires lead time

to provide a cutter on the river as an escort.  We can't do a decent job

in two days."

Fawcett was a feisty, eager indivinual with a sharp nose, a square red

face and intense eyes; he always looked like a demolition expert eyeing

a deserted building.

"Don't you think you're making this into an overkill, Oscar?

Assassinations take place on crowded streets, or in theaters.  Who ever

heard of a head of state being attacked on a boat?"

"It can happen anywhere, anytime," Lucas said with an uncompromising

look.  "Have you forgotten the guy we stopped who was attempting to

hijack a plane he intended to crash into Air Force One?

The fact is, most assassination attempts take place when the President

is away from his customary haunts."

"The President is firm on the date," Fawcett said.  "As long as you work

for the President you'll do as you're ordered, same as me.

If he wants to row a dinghy alone to Miami, that's his choice."

Fawcett had struck the wrong nerve.  Lucas' face turned rigin and he

moved until he was standing toe to toe with the White House Chief of

Staff.

"First off, by order of Congress, I don't work for the President.

I work for the Treasury Department.  So he can't tell me to bug off and

go his own way.  My duty is to provide him with the best security with

the least inconvenience to his private life.  When he takes the elevator

to his living quarters upstairs, my men and I remain below.

But from the time he steps out on the first floor until he goes back up

again, his ass belongs to the Secret Service."

Fawcett was perceptive about the personalities of the men who worked

around the President.  He realized he'd overstepped with Lucas and was

wise enough to call off the war.  He knew Lucas was dedicated to his job

and loyal beyond any question to the man in the Oval Office.

But there was no way they could be close friends-professional associates

perhaps, reserved, but watchful of each other.  Since they were not

rivals for power, they would never be enemies.

"No need to get upset, Oscar.  I stand reprimanded.  I'll inform the

President of your concern.  But I doubt if he'll change his mind."

Lucas sighed.  "We'll do our best with the time left.  But he must be

made to understand that it's imperative for him to cooperate with his

security people."

"What can I say?   You know better than I do that all politicians think

they're immortal.  To them power is more than an aphrodisiac-it's a drug

high and alcoholic haze combined.  Nothing excites them or inflates

their ego like a mob of people cheering and clamoring to shake their

hand.  That's why they're all vulnerable to a killer standing in the

right place at the right time."

"Tell me about it," said Lucas.  "I've baby-sat four Presidents."

"And you haven't lost a one," Fawcett anded.

"I came close twice with Ford, once with Reagan."

"You can't predict behavior patterns accurately."

"Maybe not.  But after all these years in the protection racket you

develop a gut reaction.  That's why I feel uneasy about this boat

cruise."

Fawcett stiffened.  "You think someone is out to kill him?"

"Someone is always out to kill him.  We investigate twenty possible

crazies a day and carry an active caseload of two thousand persons we

consider dangerous or capable of assassination."

Fawcett put his hand on Lucas' shoulder.  "Don't worry, Oscar.

Frinay's excursion won't be given to the press until the last minute.  I

promise you that much."

"I appreciate that, Dan."

"Besides, what can happen out on the Potomac?"

"Maybe nothing.  Maybe the unexpected," Lucas answered, a strange

vacancy in his voice.  "It's the unexpected that gives me nightmares."

Megan Blair, the President's secretary, noticed Dan Fawcett standing in

the doorway of her cubbyhole office and nodded at him over her

typewriter.  "Hi, Dan.  I didn't see you."

"How's the Chief this morning?"  he asked, his daily ritual of testing

the water before entering the Oval Office.

"Tired," she answered.  "The reception honoring the movie industry ran

past one A.M."

Megan was a handsome woman in her early forties, with a bright

small-town friendliness.  She wore her black hair cropped short and was

ten pounds on the skinny side.  She was a dynamo who loved her job and

her boss like nothing else in her life.  She arrived early, left late

and worked weekends.  Unmarried, with only two casual affairs behind

her, she relished her independent single life.  Fawcett was always

amazed that she could carry on a conversation and type at the same time.

"I'll tread lightly, and keep his appointments to a minimum so he can

take it easy."

"You're too late.  He's already in conference with Admiral Sandecker."

"Who?"

"Admiral James Sandecker.  Director of the National Underwater and

Marine Agency."

A look of annoyance crossed Fawcett's face.  He took his role as the

guardian of the President's time seriously and resented any intrusion on

his territory.  Any penetration of his protective ring was a threat to

his power base.  How in hell had Sandecker sneaked around him?   he

wondered.

Megan read his mood.  "The President sent for the admiral," she

explained.  "I think he's expecting you to sit in on the meeting."

Pacified to a small degree, Fawcett nodded and walked into the Oval

Office.  The President was seated on a sofa studying several papers

strewn on a large coffee table.  A short, thin man with red hair and a

matching Vandyke heard sat across from him.

The President looked up.  "Dan, I'm glad you're here.  You know Admiral

Sandecker?"

"Yes."

Sandecker rose and shook his hand.  The admiral's grip was firm and

brief.  He nodded wordlessly to Fawcett, curtly acknowledging his

presence.  It was not rudeness on Sandecker's part.  He came across as a

man who played straight ball, encasing himself in a cold, tensile shell,

bowing to no one.  He was hated and envied in Washington, but

universally respected because he never chose sides and always delivered

what was asked of him.

The President motioned Fawcett to the sofa, patting a cushion next to

him.  "Sit down, Dan.  I've asked the admiral to brief me on a crisis

that's developed in the waters off Alaska."

"I haven't heard of it."

"I'm not surprised," said the President.  "The report only came to my

attention an hour ago."  He paused and pointed the tip of a pencil at an

area circled in red on a large nautical chart.  "Here, a hundred and

eighty miles southwest of Anchorage in the Cook Inlet region, an

undetermined poison is killing everything in the sea."

"Sounds like you're talking oil spill?"

"Far worse, replied Sandecker, leaning back on the couch.

"What we have here is an unknown agent that causes death in humans and

sea life less than one minute after contact."

"How is that possible?"

"Most poisonous compounds gain access to the body by ingestion or

inhalation," Sandecker explained.  "The stuff we're dealing with kills

by skin absorption."

"It must be highly concentrated in a small area to be so potent."

"If you call a thousand square miles of open water small."

The President looked puzzled.  "I can't imagine a substance with such

awesome potency."

Fawcett looked at the admiral.  "What kind of statistics are we facing?"

"A Coast Guard cutter found a Kodiak fishing boat drifting with the crew

dead.  Two investigators and a doctor were sent onboard and died too.  A

team of geophysicists on an island thirty miles away were found dead by

a bush pilot flying in supplies.  He died while sending out a distress

signal.  A few hours later a Japanese fishing trawler reported seeing a

school of nearly a hundred gray whales suddenly turn belly up.  The

trawler then disappeared.

No trace was found.  Crab beds, seal colonies-wiped out.  That's only

the beginning.  There may be many more fatalities that we don't have

word on yet."

"If the spread continues unchecked, what's the worst we can expect?"

"The virtual extinction of all marine life in the Gulf of Alaska.

And if it enters the Japan Current and is carried south, it could poison

every man, fish, animal and bird it touched along the West Coast as far

south as Mexico.  The human death toll could conceivably reach into the

hundreds of thousands.  Fishermen, swimmers, anyone who walked along a

contaminated shoreline, anybody who ate contaminated fish-it's like a

chain reaction.  I don't even want to think what might happen if it

evaporates into the atmosphere and falls with the rain over the inland

states!"

Fawcett found it almost impossible to grasp the enormity of it.

"Christ, what in hell is it?"

"Too early to tell," Sandecker replied.  "The Environmental Protection

Agency has a computerized mass data storage and retrieval system that

contains detailed information on two hundred relevant characteristics of

some eleven hundred chemical compounds.

Within a few seconds they can determine the effects a hazardous

substance can have when spilled, its trade name, formula, major

producers, mode of transportation and threat to the environment.

The Alaskan contamination doesn't fit any of the data in their computer

files."

"Surely they must have some idea?"

"No, sir.  They don't.  There is one slim possibility-but without

autopsy reports it's strictly conjecture."

"I'd like to hear it," the President said.

Sandecker took a deep breath.  "The three worst poisonous substances

known to man are plutonium, Dioxin and a chemical warfare system.  The

first two don't fit the pattern.  The third-at least in my mind-is a

prune suspect."

The President stared at Sandecker, realization and shock on his face.

"Nerve Agent S?"  he said slowly.

Sandecker nodded silently.

"That's why the EPA wouldn't have a handle on it," the President mused.

"The formula is ultrasecret."

Fawcett turned to the President.  "I'm afraid I'm not familiar.. ."

"Nerve Agent S was an ungodly compound the scientists at the Rocky

Mountain Arsenal developed about twenty years ago," the President

explained.  "I've read the report on the tests.  It could kill within a

few seconds of touching the skin.  It seemed the ineal answer to an

enemy wearing gas masks or protective gear.  It clung to everything it

touched.  But its properties were too unstable-as dangerous to the

troops dispersing it as to those on the receiving end.  The Army gave up

on it and buried it in the Nevada desert."

"I fail to see a connection between Nevada and Alaska," Fawcett said.

"During shipment by railroad from the arsenal outside Denver," Sandecker

enlightened him, "a boxcar containing nearly a thousand gallons of Nerve

Agent S vanished.  It is still missing and unaccounted for."

"If the spill is indeed this nerve agent, once it's found, what is the

process for eliminating it?"

Sandecker shrugged.  "Unfortunately, the present state of the art in

containment and cleanup technology and the physical-chemical

characteristics of Nerve Agent S are such that once it enters the water

very little can be done to ameliorate the penetration.  Our only hope is

to cut off the source before it releases enough poison to turn the ocean

into a cesspool devoin of all life."

"Any lead on where it originates?"  asked the President.

"in all probability a ship sunk between Kodiak Island and the Alaskan

mainland," replied Sandecker.  "Our next step is to backtrace the

currents and draw up a search grin."

The President leaned over the coffee table and studied the red circle on

the chart for a few moments.  Then he gave Sandecker an appraising

stare.  "As director of NUMA, Admiral, you'll have the dirty job of

neutralizing this thing.  You have my authority to tap any agency or

department of the government with the necessary expertise-the National

Science Board, the Army and Coast Guard, the EPA, whoever."

He paused thoughtfully, then asked, "Exactly how potent is Nerve Agent S

in seawater?"

Sandecker looked tired, his face drawn.  "One teaspoon will kill every

living organism in four million gallons of seawater."

"Then we better find it," said the President, a touch of desperation in

his voice.  "And damned quick!"

DEEP BENEATH THE MURKY WATERS of the James River, off the shoreline of

Newport News, Virginia, a pair of divers struggled against the current

as they burrowed their way through the muck packed against the rotting

hull of the shipwreck.

There was no sense of direction in the black dimensionless liquin.

Visibility was measured in inches as they grimly clutched the pipe of an

airlift that sucked up the thick ooze and spit it onto a barge seventy

feet above in the sunlight.  They labored almost by Braille, their only

illumination coming from the feeble glimmer of underwater lights mounted

on the edge of the crater they'd slowly excavated over the past several

days.  All they could see clearly were particles suspended in the water

that drifted past their face masks like windswept rain.

It was hard for them to believe there was a world above, sky and clouds

and trees bending in a summer breeze.  In the nightmare of swirling mud

and perpetual darkness it hardly seemed possible that five hundred yards

away people and cars moved on the sidewalks and streets of the small

city.

There are some people who say you can't sweat underwater, but you can.

The divers could feel the sweat forcing its way through the pores of

their skin against the protective constriction of their dry suits.

They were beginning to experience the creeping grasp of weariness, yet

they had only been on the bottom for eight minutes.

Inch by inch they worked their way into a gaping hole on the starboard

bow of the hulk.  The planking that framed the cavernlike opening was

shattered and twisted as though a giant fist had rammed into the ship.

They began to uncover artifacts: a shoe, the hinge from an old chest,

brass calipers, tools, even a piece of cloth.

It was an eerie sensation to touch man-made objects that no one had seen

in 127 years.

One of the men paused to check their air gauges.  He calculated they

could work another ten minutes and still have a safe supply of

breathable air to reach the surface.

They turned off the valve on the airlift, stopping the suction, while

they waited for the river current to carry away the cloud of disturbed

silt.  Except for the exhaust of their breathing regulators, it became

very still.  A little more of the wreck became visible.  The deck

timbers were crushed and broken inward.  Coils of rope trailed into the

murklike mud-encrusted snakes.  The interior of the hull seemed bleak

and forbinding.  They could almost sense the restless ghosts of the men

who had gone down with the ship.

Suddenly they heard a strange humming-not the sound made by the outboard

motor of a small boat, but heavier, like the distant drone of an

aircraft engine.  There was no way of telling its direction.  They

listened for a few moments as the sound grew louder, magnified by the

density of the water.  It was a surface sound and did not concern them,

so they reactivated the airlift and turned back to their work.

No more than a minute later the end of the suction pipe struck something

hard.  Quickly they closed off the air valve again and excitedly brushed

away the mud with their hands.  Soon they realized they were touching,

not wood, but an object that was harder, much harder, and covered with

rust.

To the, support crew on the barge over the wreck site time seemed to

have reversed itself.  They stood spellbound as an ancient PBY Catalina

flying boat made a sweeping bank from the west, lined up on the river

and kissed the water with the ungainly finesse of an inebriated goose.

The sun glinted on the aquamarine paint covering the aluminum bull, and

the letters NUMA grew larger as the lumbering seaplane taxied toward the

barge.  The engines shut down; the co-pilot emerged from a side hatch

and threw a mooring line to one of the men on the barge.

Then a woman appeared and jumped lightly onto the battered wooden deck.

She was slim, her elegant body covered by a narrow falling tan

overshirt, worn long and loose, held low on the hip by a thin sash, over

tapering pants in green cotton.  She wore moccasin style boater shoes on

her feet. In her min-forties, she was about five foot seven; her hair

was the color of aspen gold and her skin a copper tan.  Her face was

handsome, with high cheekbones, the face of a woman who fits no mold but

her own.

She picked her way around a maze of cables and salvage equipment and

stopped when she found herself surrounded by a gallery of male stares

registering speculation mixed with undisguised fascination.  She raised

her sunglasses and stared back through plumbrown eyes.

"Which one of you is Dirk Pitt?"  she demanded without preamble.

A rugged indivinual, shorter than she was, but with shoulders twice the

winth of his waist stepped forward and pointed into the river.

"You'll find him down there."

She turned and her eyes followed the protruding finger.  A large orange

buoy swayed in the rippling current, its cable angling into the dirty

green depths.  About thirty feet beyond, she could see the diver's

bubbles boil to the surface.

"How soon before he comes up?"

"Another five minutes."

"I see," she said, pondering a moment.  Then she asked, "Is Albert

Giordino with him?"

"He's standing here talking to you."

Clad only in shabby sneakers, cutoff jeans and torn T-shirt, Giordino's

tacky outfit was matched by his black, curly windblown hair and a

two-week heard.  He definitely did not fit her picture of NUMA's deputy

director of special projects.

She seemed ;more amused than taken aback.  "My name is Julie Mendoza,

Environmental Protection Agency.  I have an urgent matter to discuss

with the two of you, but perhaps I should wait until Mr.  Pitt

surfaces."

Giordino shrugged.  "Suit yourself."  He broke into a friendly smile.

"We don't stock much in the way of creature comforts but we do have cold

beer."

"Love one, thank you."

Giordino pulled a can of Coors from an ice bucket and handed it to her.

"What's an EPA man-ah-woman doing flying around in a NUMA plane?"

"A suggestion of Admiral Sandecker."

Mendoza didn't offer more, so Giordino didn't press.

"What project is this?"  Mendoza asked.

"The Cumberland."

"A Civil War ship, wasn't she?"

"Yes, historically very significant.  She was a Union frigate sunk in

1862 by the Confederate ironclad Merrimack-or the Virginia, as she was

known to the South."

"As I recall, she went down before the Merrimack fought the Monitor,

making her the first ship ever destroyed by one that was armored."

"You know your history," said Giordino, properly impressed.

"And NUMA is going to raise her?"

Giordino shook his head.  "Too costly.  We're only after the ram."

"Ram?"

"A hell of a battle," Giordino explained.  "The crew of the Cumberland

fought until the water came in their gun barrels, even though their

cannon shot bounced off the Confederate's casemate like golf balls off a

Brink's truck.  In the end the Merrinwck rammed the Cumberland, sending

her to the bottom, flag still flying.  But as the Merrimack backed away,

her wedge-shaped ram caught inside the frigate and broke off.  We're

looking for that ram."

"What possible value can an old hunk of iron have?"

"Maybe it doesn't put dollar signs in the eyes of people like treasure

from a Spanish galleon, but historically it's priceless, a piece of

America's naval heritage."

Mendoza was about to ask another question, but her attention was

diverted by two black rubber-helmeted heads that broke water beside the

barge.  The divers swam over, climbed a rusty lander and shrugged off

their heavy gear.  Water streamed from their dry suits, gleaming in the

sunlight.

The taller of the two pulled off his hood and ran his hands through a

thick mane of ebony hair.  His face was darkly tanned and the eyes were

the most vivin green Mendoza had ever seen.

He had the look of a man who smiled easily and often, who challenged

life and accepted the wins and losses with equal indifference.  When he

stood at his full height he was three inches over six feet, and the

ruber suit strained at the seams.  Mendoza knew without asking that this

was Dirk Pitt.

He waved at the barge crew's approach.  "We found it," he said with a

wine grin.

Giordino slapped him on the back delightedly.  "Nice going, pal."

Everyone began asking the divers a barrage of questions, which they

answered between swallows of beer.  Finally Giordino remembered Mendoza

and motioned her forward.

"This is Julie Mendoza of the EPA.  She wants to have a chat with us."

Dirk Pitt extended his hand, giving her an appraising stare.

"Julie."

"Mr.  Pitt."

"If you'll give me a minute to unsuit and dry off-"

"I'm afraid we're running late," she interrupted.  "We can talk in the

air.  Admiral Sandecker thought the plane would be faster than a

helicopter."

"You've lost me."

"I can't take the time to explain.  We have to leave immediately.

All I can say is that you've been ordered to a new project."

There was a huskiness in her voice that intrigued Pitt, not masculine

exactly, but a voice that would be at home in a Harold Robbins novel.

"Why the mad rush?"  he asked.

"Not here or now," she said, glancing around at the salvage crew tuned

in to the conversation.

He turned to Giordino.  "What do you think, Al?"

Giordino faked a bemused look.  "Hard to say.  The lady looks pretty

determined.  On the other hand, I've found a home here on the barge.  I

kind of hate to leave."

Mendoza flushed in anger, realizing the men were toying with her.

"Please, minutes count."

"Mind telling us where we're going?"

"Langley Air Force Base, where a military jet is waiting to take us to

Kodiak, Alaska."

She might as well have told them they were going to the moon.

Pitt looked into her eyes, searching for something he wasn't sure he'd

find.  All he could read was her dead seriousness.

"I think, to be on the safe side, I'd better contact the admiral and

confirm."

"You can do that on the way to Langley," she said, her tone unyielding.

"I've seen to your personal affairs.  Your clothes and whatever else you

might need for a two-week operation have already been packed and loaded

onboard."  She paused and stared him squarely in the eye.  "So much for

small talk, Mr.  Pitt.  While we stand here, people are dying.  You

couldn't know that.  But take my word for it.  If you're half the man

you're reported to be, you'll stop screwing around and get on the

plane-now!"

"You really go for the jugular, don't you, lady?"

"If I have to."

There was an icy silence.  Pitt took a deep breath, then blew it out. He

faced Giordino.

"I hear Alaska is beautiful this time of year."

Giordino managed a faraway look.  "Some great saloons in Skagway we

should check out."

Pitt gestured to the other diver, who was peeling off his dry suit.

"She's all yours, Charlie.  Go ahead and bring up the Merrimack's ram

and get it over to the conservation lab."

"I'll see to it."

Pitt nodded, and then along with Giordino walked toward the Catalina,

talking between themselves as if Julie Mendoza no longer existed.

"I hope she packed my fishing gear," said Giordino with a straight

voice.  "The salmon should be running."

"I've a mind to rine a caribou," Pitt carried on.  "Heard tell they can

outrun a dog sled."

As Mendoza followed them, the words of Admiral Sandecker came back to

haunt her: "I don't envy you rining herd on those two devils, Pitt in

particular.  He could con a great white shark into becoming a

vegetarian.  So keep a sharp eye and your legs crossed."

JAMES SANDECKER WAS considered a prime catch by the feminine circles of

Washington society.  A dedicated bachelor whose only mistress was his

work, he seldom entered into a relationship with the opposite sex that

lasted more than a few weeks.  Sentiment and romance, the qualities

women thrive on, were beyond him.  In another life he might have been a

hermit-or, some suggested, Ebenezer Scrooge.

In his late fifties and an exercise andict, he still cut a trim figure.

He was short and muscular, and his red hair and heard had yet to show a

trace of gray.  He possessed an aloofness and coarse personality that

appealed to women.  Many cast out lures, but few ever put a hook in him.

Bonnie Cowan, an attorney for one of the city's most respected law

firms, considered herself fortunate to have wrangled a dinner date with

him.  "You look pensive tonight, Jim," she said.

He did not look directly at her.  His gaze drifted over the other diners

seated amin the quiet decor of the Company Inkwell restaurant.

"I was wondering how many people would dine out if there were no

seafood."

She gave him a puzzled stare, then laughed.  "After dealing with dull

legal minds all day, I'll confess it's like inhaling mountain air to be

with someone who wanders in aimless circles."

His stare returned over the table's candle and into her eyes.

Bonnie Cowan was thirty-five years old, and unusually attractive. She

had learned long ago that beauty was an asset in her career and never

tried to disguise it.  Her hair was fine, silken and fell below her

shoulders.  Her breasts were small but nicely proportioned, as were the

legs that were amply displayed by a short skirt.  She was also highly

intelligent and could hold her own in any courtroom.

Sandecker felt remiss at his inattentiveness.

"That's a damned pretty dress," he said, making a feeble attempt at

looking attentive.

"Yes, I think the red material goes well with my blond hair."

"A nice match," he came back vaguely.

"You're hopeless, Jim Sandecker," she said, shaking her head.

"You'd say the same thing if I were sitting here naked."

"Hmmmm?"

For your information, the dress is brown, and so is my hair."

He shook his head as if to clear the cobwebs.  "I'm sorry, but I warned

you I'd be poor company."

"Your mind is seemly something, a thousand miles away."

He reached across the table almost shyly and held her hand.

"For the rest of the evening, I'll focus my thoughts entirely on you. I

promise."

"Women are suckers for little boys who need mothering.  And you are the

most pathetic little boy I've ever seen."

"Mind your language, woman.  Admirals do not take kindly to being

referred to as pathetic little boys."

"All right, John Paul Jones, then how about a bite for a starving

deckhand?"

"Anything to prevent a mutiny," he said, smiling for the first time that

evening.

He recklessly ordered champagne and the most expensive seafood

delicacies on the menu, as though it might be his last opportunity.  He

asked Bonnie about the cases she was involved with and masked his lack

of interest as she relayed the latest gossip about the Supreme Court and

legal maneuverings of Congress.

They finished the entree and were attacking the pears poached in red

wine when a man with the build of a Denver Bronco linebacker entered the

foyer, stared around and, recognizing Sandecker, made his way over to

the table.

He flashed a smile at Bonnie.  "My apologies, ma'am, for the intrusion."

Then he spoke softly into Sandecker's ear.

The admiral nodded and looked sadly across the table.  "Please forgive

me, but I must go."

"Government business?"

He nodded silently.

"Oh, well," she said resignedly.  "At least I had you all to myself

until dessert."

He came over and gave her a brotherly kiss on the cheek.  "We'll do it

again."

Then he pain the bill, asked the maitre d' to call Bonnie a cab and

left the restaurant.

The admiral's car rolled to a stop at the special tunnel entrance to the

Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts.  The door was opened by a

sober-faced man wearing a formal black suit.

"If you will please follow me, sir."

"Secret Service?"

"Yes, sir."

Sandecker asked no more questions.  He stepped out of the car and

trailed the agent down a carpeted corridor to an elevator.

When the doors parted, he was led along the tier level behind the box

seats of the opera house to a small meeting room.

Daniel Fawcett, his expression the consistency of marble, simply waved

an offhand greeting.

"Sorry to break up your date, Admiral."

"The message emphasized 'urgent."' "I've just received another report

from Kodiak.  The situation has worsened."

"Does the President know?"

"Not yet," answered Fawcett.  "Best to wait until the intermission.  If

he suddenly left his box during the second act of Rigoletto, it might

fuel too many suspicious minds."

A Kennedy Center staff member entered the room carrying a tray of

coffee.  Sandecker helped himself while Fawcett inly paced the floor.

The admiral fought off an overwhelming desire to light a cigar.

After a wait of eight minutes, the President appeared.  The audience

applause at the end of the act was heard in the brief interval between

the opening and closing of the door.  He was dressed in black evening

wear with a blue handkerchief nattily tucked in the breast pocket of his

jacket.

"I wish I could say it was good seeing you again, Admiral, but every

time we meet we're up to our butts in a crisis."

"Seems that way," Sandecker answered.

The President turned to Fawcett.  "What's the bad news, Dan?"

"The captain of an auto ferry disregarded Coast Guard orders and took

his ship on its normal run from Seward on the mainland to Kodiak.

The ferry was found a few hours ago grounded on Marmot Island. All the

passengers and crew were dead."

"Christ!"  the President blurted.  "What was the body count?"

"Three hundred and twelve."

"That tears it," said Sandecker.  "All hell will break loose when the

news media get the scent."

"Nothing we can do," Fawcett said helplessly.  "Word is already coming

over the wire services."

The President sank into a chair.  He seemed a tall man on the TV

screens.  He carried himself like a tall man but he was only two inches

over Sandecker.  His hairline was recessed and graying, and his narrow

face wore a set and solemn expression, a look rarely revealed to the

public.  He enjoyed tremendous popularity, helped immensely by a warm

personality and an infectious smile that could melt the most hostile

audience.  His successful negotiations to merge Canada and the United

States into one nation, had served to establish an image that was immune

to partisan criticism.

"We can't delay another minute," he said.  "The entire Gulf of Alaska

has got to be quarantined and everyone within twenty miles of the coast

evacuated."

"I must disagree," Sandecker said quietly.

"I'd like to hear why-"

"As far as we know the contamination has kept to open waters.

No trace has shown up on the mainland.  Evacuation of the population

would mean a time-consuming and massive operation.  Alaskans are a tough

breed, especially the fishermen who live in the region.  I doubt if

they'd willingly leave under any circumstances, least of all when

ordered to by the federal government."

"A hardfieaded lot."

"Yes, but not stupid.  The fishermen's associations have all agreed to

restrict their vessels to port, and the canneries have begun burying all

catches brought in during the past ten days."

"They'll need economic assistance."

"I expect so."

"What do you'recommend?"

"The Coast Guard lacks the men and ships to patrol the entire gulf.  The

Navy will have to back them up."

"That," mused the President, "Presents a problem.  Throwing more men and

ships in there increases the threat of a higher death toll."

"Not necessarily", said Sandecker.  "The crew of the Coast Guard cutter

that made the first discovery of the contamination, received no ill

effects, because the fishing boat had drifted out of the death area."

"What about the boarding crew, the doctor?   They died."

"The contamination had already covered the decks, the railings, almost

anything they touched on the exterior of the vessel.  In the case of the

ferry, its entire center section was open to accommodate automobiles.

The passengers and crew had no protection.

Modern naval ships are constructed to be buttoned up in case of

radioactivity from nuclear attack.  They can patrol the contaminated

currents with a very small, acceptable degree of risk."

The President nodded his consent.  "Okay) I'll order an assist from the

Navy Department, but I'm not sold on dropping an evacuation plan.

Stubborn Alaskans or not, there are still women and children to

consider."

"My other suggestion, Mr.  President, or request if you will, is a delay

of forty-eight hours before you initiate the operation.  That might give

my response team time to find the source."

The President fell silent.  He stared at Sandecker with deepening

interest.  "Who are the people in charge?"

"The on-scene coordinator and chairman of the Regional Emergency

Response Team is Dr.  Julie Mendoza, a senior biochemical engineer for

the EPA."

"I'm not familiar with the name."

"She's recognized as the best in the country on assessment and control

of hazardous contamination in water," Sandecker said without hesitation.

"The underwater search for the shipwreck we believe contains the nerve

agent will be headed by my special projects director, Dirk Pitt."

The President's eyes winened.  "I know Mr.  Pitt.  He proved most

helpful on the Canadian affair a few months ago.

You mean, saved your ass, Sandecker thought, before he continued.

"We have nearly two hundred other pollution experts who have been called

in to assist.  Every expert in private industry has been tapped to

provide the experience and technical data for a successful cleanup."

The President glanced at his watch.  "I've got to cut this short," he

said.  "They won't start the third act without me.  Anyway, you've got

forty-eight hours, Admiral.  Then I order an evacuation and declare the

area a national disaster."

Fawcett accompanied the President back to his box.  He seated himself

slightly to the rear but close enough so they could converse in low

tones while feigning interest in the performance on stage.

"Do you wish to cancel the cruise with Moran and Larimer?"

The President imperceptibly shook his head.  "No.  My economic recovery

package for the Soviet satellite countries has top priority over any

other business."

"I strongly advise against it.  You're waging a hopeless battle for a

lost cause."

"So you've informed me at least five times in the past week."  The

President held a program over his face to conceal a yawn.  "How do the

votes stack up?"

"A wave of nonpartisan, conservative support is gaining ground against

you.  We'll need fifteen votes in the House and five, maybe six, to pass

the measure in the Senate."

"We've faced bigger odds."

"Yes," Fawcett muttered sadly.  "But if we're defeated this time your

administration may never see a second term."

THE DAWN WAS CREEPING OUT OF THE EAST as a low, dark line began to rise

above the horizon.  Through the windows of the helicopter the black blur

took on a symmetrical cone-shaped feature and soon became a mountain

peak, surrounded by the sea.  There was a three-quarter moon behind it.

The light altered from ivory to indigo blue and then to an orange

radiance as the sun rose, and the slopes could be seen mantled in snow.

Pitt glanced over at Giordino.  He was asleep-a state he could slip in

and out of like an old sweater.  He had slept from the time they left

Anchorage.  Five minutes after transferring to the helicopter, he

promptly drifted off again.

Pitt turned to Mendoza.  She sat perched behind the pilot.  The look on

her face was that of a little girl eager to see a parade.  Her gaze was

fixed on the mountain.  In the early light it seemed to Pitt her face

had softened.  Her expression was not so businesslike and the ease of

her mouth held a tenderness that was not there before.

"Augustine Volcano," she said, unaware that Pitts attention was focused

on her and not out the window.  "Named by Captain Cook in 1778.

You wouldn't know to look at it but Augustine is the most active volcano

in Alaska, having erupted six times in the last century." Pitt

regretfully turned away and stared below.  The island seemed devoin of

any human habitation.  Long swirling flows of lava rock spilled down the

mountain's sides until they met the sea.  A small cloud drifted about

the summit.

"Very picturesque," he said, yawning.  "Might have possibilities as a

ski resort."

"Don't bet on it."  She laughed.  "That cloud you see over the peak is

steam.  Augustine is a constant performer.  The last eruption in 1987

surpassed Mount St.  Helens in Washington.  The fall of ash and pumice

was measured as far away as Athens."

Pitt had to ask, "What's its status now?"

"Recent data confirm the heat around the summit is increasing, probably

forecasting an impending explosion."

"Naturally, you can't say when."

"Naturally."  She shrugged.  "Volcanoes are unpredictable.

Sometimes they become violent without the slightest warning; sometimes

they take months to build up to a spectacular climax that never happens.

They sputter, rumble a little and then go dormant.

Those earth scientists I told you about who died from the nerve

agent-they were on the island to study the impending activity."

"Where are we settling down?"

"About ten miles off the shore," she replied, "On the Coast Guard cutter

Catawba."The Catawba," he repeated as if reminiscing.

"Yes, you know of her?"

"Set a copter on her flight pad myself a few years ago."

"Where was that?"

"North Atlantic, near Iceland."  He was gazing beyond the island now. He

sighed and massaged his temples.  "A good friend and I were hunting for

a ship imbedded in an iceberg."

"did you find it?"

He nodded.  "A burned-out hulk.  Barely beat the Russians to it.

Later we crashed in the surf on the Icelandic coast.  My friend was

killed."

She could see his mind was reliving the events.  The expression on his

face took on a faraway sadness.  She changed the subject.

"We'll have to say goodbye-temporarily, I mean-when we land."

He shook off the past and stared at her.  "You're leaving us?"

"You and Al will be staying on the Catawba to search for the nerve

agent's location.  I'm going to the island where the local response team

has set up a data base."

"And part of my job is to send water samples from the ship to your lab?"

"Yes, by measuring trace levels of the contamination we Can direct you

toward the surface."

"Like following breadcrumbs."

"That's one way of putting it."

"After we find it, what then?"

"Once your salvage team brings up the drums containing the nerve agent,

the Army will dispose of it by deep well injection, on an island near

the Arctic Circle."

"How deep is the well?"

"Four thousand feet."

"All neat and tiny."  The open-for-business look returned to her eyes.

"It happens to be the most efficient method open to us."

"You're optimistic."

She looked at him questioningly.  "What do you mean?"

"The salvage.  It could take months."

"We can't even afford weeks," she came back almost vehemently.

"You're treading in my territory now," Pitt said as if lecturing.

"Divers can't risk working in water where one drop on their skin will

kill them.  The only reasonably safe way is to use submersibles-a damned

slow and tedious process.  And submersibles require highly trained

crews, with specially constructed vessels as work platforms."

"I've already explained," she said impatiently, "presidential authority

gives us carte blanche on any equipment we need."

"That's the easy part," Pitt continued.  "Despite your water sample

directions, finding a shipwreck is like looking for a coin in the middle

of a football field in the dark with a candle.  Then if we get lucky and

make contact, we may find the hull broken in sections and the cargo

scattered, or the drums too corroded to move.

Murphy's Law can hit us from every angle.  No deep-sea recovery

operation is ever cut and dried."

Mendoza's face reddened.  "I'd like to point out-"

"Don't bother," Pitt cut her off.  "I'm the wrong guy for a gung-ho

speech.  I've heard them all before.  You won't get a chorus of the

Notre Dame fight song from me.  And save your breath for the I countless

lives hang in the balance' routine.  I'm aware of it.  I don't have to

be reminded every five minutes."

She looked at him, annoyed with him for his arrogant charm, feeling that

he was testing her somehow.  "Have you ever seen someone who came in

contact with Nerve Agent S?"

"No."

"It's not a pretty sight.  They literally drown in their own blood as

their internal membranes burst.  Every body orifice bleeds like a river.

Then the corpse turns black."

"You're very descriptive."

"It's all a game to you," she lashed out.  "it's not a game to me."

He didn't reply.  He simply nodded downward at the Catawba looming

through the pilot's windshield.  "We're landing."

The pilot noted that the ship had turned bow-on to the wind from the

fluttered ensign on the halyards.  He eased the helicopter over the

stern, hovered a few moments and set down on the pad.

The rotor blades had hardly swung to a stop when two figures dressed

from head to toe in astronaut-looking suits approached while unfolding a

circular plastic tube about five feet in diameter that looked like a

huge umbilical cord.  They secured it around the exit door and gave

three knocks.  Pitt undin the latches and swung the door inward.  The

men outside passed him cloth hoods with see-through lenses and gloves.

"Best put them on," commanded a muffled voice.

Pitt prodded Giordino awake and handed him a hood and pair of gloves.

"What in hell are these?"  Giordino mumbled, emerging from the cobwebs.

"Welcome gifts from the sanitation department."

Two more crewmen appeared in the plastic tunnel and took their gear.

Giordino, still half asleep, stumbled from the helicopter.

Pitt hesitated and stared into Mendoza's eyes.

"What's my reward if I find your poison in forty-eight hours?"

"What do you want it to be?"

"Are you as hard as you pretend?"

"Harder, Mr.  Pitt, much harder."

"Then you decide."

He gave her a rakish smile and was gone.

THE CARS THAT MADE up the presidential motorcade were lined in a row

beside the South Portico of the White House.  As soon as the Secret

Service detail was in position, Oscar Lucas spoke into a tiny microphone

whose wire looped around the watch on his wrist and ran up the sleeve of

his coat.

"Tell the Boss, we're ready."

Three minutes later the President, accompanied by Fawcett, walked

briskly down the steps and entered the presidential limousine.  Lucas

joined them and the cars moved out through the southwest gate.

The President relaxed into the leather of the rear seat and inly stared

out the window at the passing buildings.  Fawcett sat with an open

attache' case on his lap and made a series of notes inside the top

folder.  After a few minutes of silence, he sighed, snapped the case

shut and set it on the floor.

"There it is, arguments from both sides of the fence, statistics, CIA

projections, and the latest reports from your economic council on

Communist bloc debts.  Everything you should need to sell Larimer and

Moran on your way of thinking."

"The American public doesn't think much of my plan, does it?" the

President asked quietly.

"To be perfectly honest, no, sir," Fawcett replied.  "The general

feeling is to let the Reds stew in their own problems.  Most Americans

are cheering the fact that the Soviets and their satellites are facing

starvation and financial ruin.  They consider it proof positive that the

Marxist system is a pathetic joke."

"It won't be a joke if the Kremlin leaders, backs against an economic

wall, strike out in desperation and march through Europe."

"Your opposition in Congress feel the risk is offset by the very real

threat of starvation, which will undermine Russia's capacity to maintain

its military machine.  And there are those who are banking on the

eroding morale of the Russian people to crystallize in active resistance

toward the ruling party."

The President shook his head.  "The Kremlin is fanatical about its

military buildup.  They'll never slack off in spite of their economic

dilemma.  And the people will never rise up or stage mass

demonstrations.  The party's collar is too tight."

"The bottom line," said Fawcett, "is that both Larimer and Moran are

dead set against taking the burden off Moscow."

The President's face twisted in disgust.  "Larimer is a drunk and Moran

is tainted with corruption."

"Still, there is no getting around the fact you have to sell them on

your philosophy."

"I can't deny their opinions," the President admitted.  "But I am

convinced that if the United States saves the Eastern bloc nations from

almost total disintegration, they will turn away from the Soviet Union

and join with the West."

"There are many who see that as wishful thinking, Mr.  President."

"The French and Germans see it my way."

"Sure, and why not?   They're playing both ends of the field, relying on

our NATO forces for security while expanding economic ties with the

East."

"You're forgetting the many grass-roots American voters who are behind

my aid plan too," said the President, his chin thrust forward at his

words.  "Even they realize its potential for defusing the threat of

nuclear holocaust and pulling down the iron Curtain for good."

Fawcett knew it was senseless to try to sway the President when he was

in a crusading mood and passionately convinced he was right.  There was

a kind of virtue in killing your enemies with kindness, a truly

civilized tactical move to ease the conscience of reasonable people, but

Fawcett remained pessimistic.  He turned inward to his thoughts and

remained silent as the limousine turned Off M Street into the Washington

Naval Yard and rolled to a stop on one of the long docks.

A dark-skinned man with the stony facial features of an American Indian

approached as Lucas stepped from the car.

"Evening, George."

"Hello, Oscar.  How's the golf game?"

"Sad shape," answered Lucas.  "I haven't played in almost two weeks."

As Lucas spoke he looked into the piercing dark eyes of George Blackowl,

the acting supervisor and advance agent for the President's movement.

Blackowl was about Lucas' height, five years younger and carried about

ten pounds of excess weight.  A habitual gum chewer-his jaws worked

constantly-he was half Sioux and was constantly kinded about his

ancestors' role at the Little Big Horn.

"Safe to board?"  asked Lucas.

"The boat has been swept for explosives and listening devices.

The frogmen finished checking the hull about ten minutes ago, and the

outboard chase boat is manned and ready to follow."

Lucas nodded.  "A hundred-and-ten-foot Coast Guard cutter will be

standing by when you'reach Mount Vernon."

"Then I guess we're ready for the Boss."

Lucas paused for nearly a minute while he scanned the surrounding dock

area.  Detecting nothing suspicious, he opened the door for the

President.  Then the agents formed a security diamond around him.

Blackowl walked ahead of the point man, who was directly in front of the

President.  Lucas, because he was lefthanded and required ease of

movement in case he had to draw his gun, walked the left point and

slightly to the rear.  Fawcett tailed several yards behind and out of

the way.

At the boarding ramp Lucas and Blackowl stood aside to let the others

pass.

"Okay, George, he's all yours."

"Lucky you," Blackowl said, smiling.  "You get the weekend off."

"First time this month."

"Heading home from here?"

"Not yet.  I have to run by the office and clear my desk first.

There were a few hitches during the last trip to Los Angeles.  I want to

review the planning."

They turned in unison as another government limousine pulled up to the

dock.  Senator Marcus Larimer climbed out and strode toward the

presidential yacht followed by an aid who dutifully carried an overnight

bag.

Larimer wore a brown suit with a vest; he always wore a brown suit with

a vest.  It had been suggested by one of his fellow legislators that he

was born in one.  His hair was sandy colored and styled in the dry look.

He was big and rough-cut, with the look of a hod carrier trying to crash

a celebrity benefit.

He simply nodded to Blackowl and threw Lucas the standard politician's

greeting: "Nice to see you, Oscar."

"You're looking healthy, Senator."

"Nothing a bottle of scotch won't cure," Larimer replied with a booming

laugh.  Then he swept up the ramp and disappeared into the main salon.

"Have fun," Lucas said sarcastically to Blackowl.  "I don't envy you

this trip."

A few minutes later, while driving through the naval-yard gate onto M

Street, Lucas passed a compact Chevrolet carrying Congressman Alan Moran

going in the opposite direction.  Lucas didn't like the Speaker of the

House.  Not nearly as flamboyant as his predecessor, Moran was a Horatio

Alger type who had succeeded not so much from intelligence or perception

as from stowing away in the congressional power circles and supplying

more favors than he begged.  Once accused of masterminding an

oil-leasing scheme on government lands, he had greased his way out of

the impending scandal by calling in his political IOU's.

He looked neither right nor left as he drove by.  His mind, Lucas

deduced, was grinding on ways to pick the President's influential

pocket.

Not quite an hour later, as the crew of the presidential yacht were

preparing to cast off, Vice President Margolin came aboard with a

garment bag draped over one shoulder.  He hesitated a moment and then

spied the President, seated alone in a deck chair near the stern,

watching the sun begin to set over the city.  A steward appeared and

relieved Margolin of the garment bag.

The President looked up and stared as though not fully recognizing him.

"Vince?"

"Sorry I'm late," Margolin apologized.  "But one of my aides misplaced

your invitation and I only discovered it an hour ago."

"I wasn't sure you could make it," the President murmured obscurely.

'Perfect timing.  Beth is visiting our son at Stanford and won't be home

until Tuesday, and I had nothing on my schedule that couldn't be shoved

ahead."

The President stood up, forcing a friendly smile.  "Senator Larimer and

Congressman Moran are on board too.  They're in the dining salon."  He

tilted his head in their direction.  "Why don't you say hello and rustle

up a drink."

"A drink I could use."

Margolin bumped into Fawcett in the doorway and they exchanged a few

words.

The President's face was a study in anger.  As much as he and Margolin

differed in style and appearance-the Vice President's was tall and

nicely proportioned, not a bit of fat on his body, with a handsome face,

bright blue eyes and a warm, outgoing personality-they differed even

more in their politics.

The President maintained a high level of personal popularity by his

inspirational speeches.  An inealist and a visionary, he was almost

totally occupied with creating programs that would be of global benefit

ten to fifty years in the future.  Unfortunately, for the most part they

were programs that did not fit in with the selfish realities of domestic

politics.

Margolin, on the other hand, kept a low profile with the public and news

media, aiming his energies more toward domestic issues.

His stand on the President's Communist bloc aid program was that the

money would be better spent at home.

The Vice President was a born politician.  He had the Constitution in

his blood.  He had come up the hard way-through the ranks, beginning

with his state legislature, then governor and later the Senate.  Once

entrenched in his office in the Russell Building, he surrounded himself

with a powerhouse staff of advisers who possessed a flair for strategic

compromise and innovative political concepts.  While it was the

President who proposed legislation, it was Margolin who orchestrated its

passage through the maze of committees into law and policy, all too

often making the White House staff appear like fumbling amateurs, a

situation that did not sit well with the President and caused

considerable internal backstabbing.

Margolin might have been the people's choice for the Presidency, but he

was not the party's.  Here his integrity and image as a "shaker and

doer" worked against him.  He too often refused to fall in line on

partisan issues if he believed in a better path; he was a maverick who

followed his own conscience.

The President watched Margolin disappear into the main salon, irritation

and jealousy burning within him.

"What is Vince doing here?"  Fawcett asked him nervously.

"Damned if I know," snapped the President.  "He said he was invited."

Fawcett looked stricken.  "Christ, somebody on the staff must have

screwed up."

"Too late now.  I can't tell him he's not wanted and to please leave."

Fawcett was still confused.  "I don't understand."

"Neither do I, but we're stuck with him."

"He could blow it."

"I don't think so.  Regardless of what we think about Vince, he's never

made a statement that tarnished my image.  That's more than a lot of

Presidents could say about their VP'S."

Fawcett resigned himself to the situation.  "There aren't enough

staterooms to go around.  I'll give up mine and stay on shore."

"I appreciate that, Dan."

"I can stay on the boat until tonight and then bunk at a nearby motel."

"Perhaps, under the circumstances," the President said slowly, "it would

be best if you'remained behind.  With Vince along, I don't want our

guests to think we're ganging up on them."

"I'll leave the documents supporting your position in your stateroom,

Mr.  President."

"Thank you.  I'll study them before dinner."  Then the President paused.

"By the way, any word on the Alaskan situation?"

"Only that the search for the nerve agent is under way."

The President's eyes reflected a disturbed look.  He nodded and shook

Fawcett's hand.  "See you tomorrow."

Later Fawcett stood on the dock among the irritated Secret Service

agents of the Vice President's detail.  As he watched the aging white

yacht cut into the Anacostia River before turning south toward the

Potomac, a knot began to tighten in the pit of his stomach.

There had been no written invitations!

None of it made any sense.

Lucas was putting on his coat, about to leave his office, when the phone

linked to the command post buzzed.

'Lucas."

"This is 'Love Boat,"' replied George Blackowl, giving the code name of

the movement in progress.

The call was unexpected and like a father with a daughter on a date

Lucas immediately feared the worst.  "Go ahead," he said tersely.

"We have a situation.  This is no emergency, I repeat, no emergency. But

something's come up that isn't in the movement."

Lucas expelled a sigh of relief.  "I'm listening."

"'Shakespeare' is on the boat," said Blackowl, giving the code name for

the Vice President.

"He's where?"  Lucas gasped.

"Margolin showed up out of nowhere and came onboard as we were casting

off.  Dan Fawcett gave him his stateroom and went ashore.  When I

queried the President about the last-minute switch in passengers, he

told me to let it rine.  But I smell a screw-up."

"Where's Rhinemann?"

"Right here with me on the yacht."

"Put him on."

There was a pause and then Hank Rhinemann, the supervisor in charge of

the Vice President's security detail, came on.  "Oscar, we've got an

unscheduled movement."

"Understood.  How did you lose him?"

"He came charging out of his office and said he had to attend an urgent

meeting with the President on the yacht.  He didn't tell me it was an

overnight affair."

"He kept it from you?"

"'Shakespeare' is tight-mouthed as hell.  I should have known when I saw

the garment bag.  I'm sorry as hell, Oscar."

A wave of frustration swept Lucas.  God, he thought, the leaders of the

world's leading superpowers were like kins when it came to their own

security.

"It's happened," said Lucas sharply.  "So we'll make the best of it.

Where is your detail?"

"Standing on the dock," answered Rhinemann.

"Send them down to Mount VerDon and back up Blackowl's people.  I want

that yacht cordoned off tighter than a bass drum."

"Will do."

"At the slightest hint of trouble, call me.  I'm spending the night at

the command post."

"You got a line on something?"  Rhinemann asked.

"Nothing tangible," Lucas replied, his voice so hollow it seemed to come

from a distant source.  "But knowing that the President and the next

three men in line for his office are all in the same place at the same

time scares the hell out of me."

"WE'VE TURNED AGAINST THE CURRENT."  Pitts voice was quiet, almost

casual, as he stared at the color vineo screen on the Klein hydroscan

sonar that read the seafloor.  "Increase speed about two knots."

Dressed in bleached Levi's, Irish knit turtleneck sweater and brown

tennis shoes, his brushed hair lain back under a NUMA baseball cap, he

looked cool and comfortable with a bored, indifferent air about him.

The wheel moved slowly under the helmsman's hands and the Catawba lazily

shoved aside the three-foot swells as she swept back and forth over the

sea like a lawn mower.  Trailing behind the stern like a tin can tied to

the tail of a dog, the sidescan sonar's sensor pinged the depths,

sending a signal to the vineo display, which translated it into a

detailed image of the bottom.

They took up the search for the nerve agent source in the southern end

of Cook Inlet and discovered that the resinual traces rose as they

worked westward into Kamishak Bay.  Water samples were taken every

half-hour and ferried by helicopter to the chemical lab on Augustine

Island.  Amos Dover philosophically compared the project to a children's

game of finding hidden candy with an unseen voice giving "warmer" or

"colder" clues.

As the day wore on, the nervous tension that had been building up on the

Catawba grew unbearable.  The crew was unable to go on deck for a breath

of air.  Only the EPA chemists were allowed outside the exterior

bulkheads, and they were protected by airtight encapsulating suits.

"Anything yet?"  Dover asked, peering over Pitts shoulder at the

high-resolution screen.

"Nothing man-made," Pitt answered.  "Bottom terrain is rugged, broken,

mostly lava rock."

"Good clear picture."

Pitt nodded.  "Yes, the detail is quite sharp."

"What's that dark smudge?"

"A school of fish.  Maybe a pack of seals."

Dover turned and stared through the bridge windows at the volcanic peak

on Augustine Island, now only a few miles away.  "Better make a strike

soon.  We're coming close to shore."

"Lab to ship," Mendoza's feminine voice broke over the bridge speaker.

Dover picked up the communications phone.  "Go ahead, lab."

"Steer zero-seven-zero degrees.  Trace elements appear to be in higher

concentrations in that direction."

Dover gave the nearby island an apprehensive eye.  "If we hold that

course for twenty minutes we'll park on your doorstep for supper."

"Come in as far as you can and take samples," Mendoza answered.

"My indications are that you're practically on top of it."

Dover hung up without further discussion and called out, "What's the

depth?"

The watch officer tapped a dial on the instrument console.  "One hundred

forty feet and rising."

"How far can you see on that thing?"  Dover asked Pitt.

"We read the seabed six hundred meters on either side of our hug."

"Then we're cutting a swath nearly two thirds of a mile wine."

"Close enough," Pitt admitted.

"We should have detected the ship by now," Dover said irritably.

"Maybe we missed it."

"No need to get uptight," Pitt said.  He paused, leaned over the

computer keyboard and fine-tuned the image.  "Nothing in this world is

more elusive than a shipwreck that isn't ready to be found.

Deducing the murderer in an Agatha Christie novel is kindergarten stuff

compared to finding a lost derelict under hundreds of square miles of

water.  Sometimes you get lucky early.  Most of the time you don't."

"Very poetic," Dover said dryly

Pitt stared at the overhead bulkhead for a long and considering moment.

"What's the visibility under the water surface?"

"The water turns crystal fifty yards from shore.  On the flood tine I've

seen a hundred feet or better."

"I'd like to borrow your copter and take aerial photos of this area."

"Why bother?"  Dover said curtly.  "Semper Paratus, Always Ready, is not

the Coast Guard's motto for laughs."  He motioned through a doorway. "We

have charts showing three thousand miles of Alaskan coastline in color

and incredible detail, courtesy of satellite reconnaissance."

Pitt nodded for Giordino to take his place in front of the hydroscan as

he rose and followed the Catawba's skipper into a small compartment

stacked with cabinets containing nautical charts.

Dover checked the label inserts, pulled open a drawer and rummaged

inside.  Finally he extracted a large chart marked "Satellite Survey

Number 2430A, South Shore of Augustine Island."  Then he lain it on a

table and spread it out.

"Is this what you have in mind?"

Pitt leaned over and studied the bird's-eye view of the sea off the

volcanic island's coast.  "Perfect.  Got a magnifying glass?"

"In the shelf under the table."

Pitt found the thick, square lens and peered through it at the tiny

shadows on the photo survey.  Dover left and returned shortly with two

mugs of coffee.

"Your chances are nil of spotting an anomaly in that geological

nightmare on the seafloor.  A ship could stay lost forever in there."

"I'm not looking at the seafloor."

Dover heard Pitts words an right, but the meaning didn't register.

Vague curiosity reflected in his eyes, but before he could ask the

obvious question the speaker above the doorway crackled.

"Skipper, we've got breakers ahead."  The watch officer's voice was

tense.  "The Fathometer reads thirty feet of water under the hull-and

rising damned fast."

"All stop!"  Dover ordered.  A pause, then: "No, reverse engines until

speed is zero."

"Tell him to have the sonar sensor pulled in before it drags bottom,"

Pitt said offhandedly.  "Then I suggest we drop anchor."

Dover gave Pitt a strange look, but issued the command.  The deck

trembled beneath their feet as the twin screws reversed direction.

After a few moments the vibration ceased.

"Speed zero," the watch officer notified them from the bridge.

"Anchor away."

Dover acknowledged, then sat on a stool, cupped his hands around the

coffee mug and looked directly at Pitt.

"Okay, what do you see?"

"I have the ship we're looking for," Pitt said, speaking slowly and

distinctly.  "There are no other possibilities.  You were mistaken in

one respect, Dover, but correct in another.  Mother Nature seldom makes

rock formations that run in a perfectly straight line for several

hundred feet.  Consequently, the outline of a ship can be detected

against an irregular background.  You were right, though, in saying our

chances were nil of finding it on the seafloor."

"Get to the point," Dover said impatiently.

"The target is on shore."

"You mean grounded in the shallows?"

"I mean on shore, as in high and dry."

"You can't be serious?"

Pitt ignored the question and handed Dover the magnifying glass.

"See for yourself."  He took a pencil and circled a section of cliffs

above the tineline.

Dover bent over and put his eye to the glass.  "All I see is rock."

"Look closer.  The projection from the lower part of the slope into the

sea."

Dover's expression turned incredulous.  "Oh, Jesus, it's the stern of a

ship!"

"You can make out the fantail and the top half of the rudder."

"Yes, yes, and a piece of the after deckhouse."  Dover's frustration was

suddenly washed away by the mounting excitement of the discovery.

"Incredible.  She's buried bow-on into the shore, as though she were

covered by an avalanche.  judging from the cruiser stern and the

balanced rudder, I'd say she's an old Liberty ship."  He looked up, a

deepening interest in his eyes.  "I wonder if she might be the

Pilottown?"

"Sounds vaguely familiar."

"One of the most stubborn mysteries of the northern seas.  The Pilottown

tramped back and forth between Tokyo and the West Coast until ten years

ago, when her crew reported her sinking in aston.  A search was launched

and no trace of the ship was found.

Two years later an Eskimo stumbled on the Pilottown caught in the ice

about ninety miles above Nome.  He went aboard but found the ship

deserted, no sign of the crew or cargo.  A month later, when he returned

with his tribe to remove whatever they could find of value, it was gone

again.  Nearly two years passed, and she was reported drifting below the

Bering Strait.  The Coast Guard was sent out but couldn't locate her.

The Pilottown wasn't sighted again for eight months.  She was boarded by

the crew of a fishing trawler.  They found her in reasonably good shape.

Then she disappeared for the last time."

"I seem to recall reading something Pitt paused.  "Ah, yes, the Magic

Ship."' "That's what the news media dubbed her," Dover acknowledged.

"They described her disappearing act as a 'now you see it, now you don't

routine."

"They'll have a field day when it gets out she was drifting around for

years with a cargo of nerve agent S."

"No way of predicting the horror if the hull had been crushed in an ice

pack or shattered on a rocky shore, creating an instant spill," Dover

anded.

"We've got to get in her cargo holds," said Pitt.  "Contact Mendoza,

give her the position of the wreck and tell her to airlift a team of

chemists to the site.  We'll approach from the water."

Dover nodded.  "I'll see to the launch."

"Throw in acetylene equipment in case we have to cut our way inside."

Dover bent over the chart table and stared solemnly at the center of the

marked circle.  "I never thought for a minute I'd stand on the deck of

the Magic Ship."

"You're right," said Pitt, staring into his coffee mug, "the Pilottown

is about to give her last performance."

THE SEA HAD BEEN CALM, but by the time the Catawba's launch was a

quarter-mile from the lonely, forbinding coast, a twenty-knot wind

kicked up the water.  The spray, tainted by the nerve agent, struck the

cabin windows with the fury of driven sand.  Yet where the derelict lay

beached, the water looked reasonably peaceful, protected as it was by

jagged pinnacles of rock that rose up a hundred yards offshore like

solitary chimneys from burned-out houses.

Far above the turbulent waters Augustine Volcano seemed calm and serene

in the late afternoon sun.  It was one of the most beautifully

sculptured mountains in the Pacific, rivaling the classic contour of

Mount Fuji in Japan.

The powerful launch surfed for an instant on a whitecapped swell before

diving over the crest.  Pitt braced his feet, gripped a railing with

both hands while his eyes studied the shore.

The wreck was heeled over at a twenty-degree angle and her stern section

blanketed in brown rust.  The rudder was canted in the full starboard

position and two barnacle-encrusted blades of the propeller protruded

from the black sand.  The letters of her name and borne port were too

obscured to read.

Pitt, Giordino, Dover, the two EPA scientists and one of the Catawba's

junior officers all were garbed in white encapsulating suits to protect

them from the plumes of deadly spray.  They communicated by tiny

transmitters inside their protective headgear.

Attached to their waist belts were intricate filter systems designed to

refine clean, breathable air.

The sea around them was carpeted with dead fish of every species.

A pair of whales rolled lifelessly back and forth with the tine, united

in rotting decay with porpoises, sea lions and spotted seals.

Birds by the thousands floated amin the morbin debris.  Nothing that had

lived in the area had escaped.

Dover expertly threaded the launch between the threatening offshore

barrier of projecting rock, the remnant of an ancient coastline.  He

slowed, waiting for a momentary lull in the surf, bining his time while

carefully eyeing the depth.  Then as a wave slammed onto the shore and

its backwash spilled against the next one coming in, he aimed the bow at

the small spit of sand formed around the base of the wreck and pushed

the throttle forward.  Like a horse bracing for the next hurdle at the

Grand National, the launch rose up on the wave crest and rode it through

the swirling foam until the keel dropped and scraped onto the spit.

"A neat bit of handiwork," Pitt complimented him.

"All in the timing," Dover said, a grin visible behind his helmet's face

mask.  "Of course, it helps if you land at low tine."

They tilted back their heads and stared up at the wreck towering above

them.  The faded name on the stern could be deciphered now.  It read

Pilottown.

"Almost a pity," Dover said reverently, "to write finish to an enigma."

"The sooner the better," Pitt said, his tone grim as he considered the

mass death inside.

Within five minutes the equipment was unloaded, the launch securely

moored to the Pilottown's rudder, and the men laboriously climbing the

steep slope on the port side of the stern.  Pitt took the lead, followed

by Giordino and the rest as Dover brought up the rear.

The incline was not made up of Solid rock but rather a combination of

cinder ash and mud with the consistency of loose gravel.

Their boots struggled to find a foothold, but mostly they slin back two

steps for every three they gained.  The dust from the ash rose and clung

to their suits, coating them a dark gray.  Soon the sweat was seeping

through their pores and the increasingly heavy rasp of their breathing

became more audible over the earphones inside their helmets.

Pitt called a halt at a narrow ledge, not four feet wine and just long

enough to hold all six men.  Wearily Giordino sank to a sitting position

and readjusted the straps that held the acetylene tank to his back. When

he could finally pant a coherent sentence, he said, "How in hell did

this old rust bucket jam herself in here?"

"She probably drifted into what was a shelving inlet before 1987,"

replied Pitt.  "According to Mendoza, that was the year the volcano last

erupted.  The explosion gases must have melted the ice around the

mantle, forming millions of gallons of water.  The mudflow, along with

the cloud of ash, poured down the mountain until it met the sea and

buried the ship."

"Funny the stern wasn't spotted before now."

"Not so remarkable," Pitt answered.  "So little is showing it was next

to impossible to detect from the air, and beyond a mile from shore it

blends into the rugged shoreline and becomes nearly invisible.

Erosion caused by recent storms is the only reason she's uncovered now."

Dover stood up, pressing his weight against the steep embankment to

maintain his balance.  He unraveled a thin knotted nylon rope from his

waist and unfolded a small grappling hook tied to the end.

He looked down at Pitt.  "If you'll support my legs, I think I can heave

the hook over the ship's railing."

Pitt grasped his left leg as Giordino edged over and held the right. The

burly Coast Guardsman leaned back over the lip of the ledge, swung the

hook in a winening arc and let it fly.

it sailed over the stern rails and caught.

The rest of the ascent took only a few minutes.  Pulling themselves

upward, hand over hand, they soon climbed onto the deck.

Heavy layers of rust mingled with ash flaked away beneath their feet.

What little they could see of the Pilottown looked a dirty, ugly mess.

"No sign of Mendoza," said Dover.

"Nearest flat ground to land a copter is a thousand yards away," Pitt

replied.  "She and her team will have to hike in."

Giordino walked over to the railing beside the corroded shaft of the

jackstaff and stared at the water below.  "The poison must be seeping

through the hull during high tine."

"Probably stored in the after hold," said Dover.

"The cargo hatches are buried under tons of this lava crap," Giordino

said in disgust.  "We'll need a fleet of bulldozers to get through."

"You familiar with Liberty ships?"  Pitt asked Dover.

"Should be.  I've inspected enough of them over the years, looking for

illegal cargo."  He knelt down and began tracing a ship's outline in the

rust.  "Inside the aft deckhouse we should find a hatch to an escape

trunk that leads to the runnel holding the screw shaft.  At the bottom

is a small recess.  We might be able to cut our way into the hold from

there."

They all stood silent when Dover finished.  They should all have felt a

sense of accomplishment at having found the source of the nerve agent.

But instead they experienced apprehension-a reaction, Pitt supposed,

that stemmed from a letdown after the excitement of the search.  Then

also there was a hidden dread of what they might actually find behind

the steel bulkheads of the Pilottown.

"Maybe .  . . maybe we better wait for the lab people," one of the

chemists stammered.

"They can catch up," Pitt said pleasantly, but with cold eyes.

Giordino silently took a prybar from the toolpack strapped on Pitts back

and attacked the steel door to the after deckhouse.  To his surprise it

creaked and moved.  He put his muscle to it, the protesting hinges

surrendered and the door sprung open.  The interior was completely

empty, no fittings, no gear, not even a scrap of trash.

"Looks as though the movers have been here," observed Pitt.

"Odd it was never in use," Dover mused.

"The escape trunk?"

"This way."  Dover led them through another compartment that was also

barren.  He stopped at a round hatch in the center of the deck.

Giordino moved forward, pried open the cover and stepped back. Dover

aimed a flashlight down the yawning tunnel, the beam stabbing the

darkness.

"So much for that idea," he said dejectedly.  "The tunnel recess is

blocked with debris."

"What's on the next deck below?"

"The steering gear compartment."  Dover paused, his mind working.

Then he thought aloud.  "Just forward of the steering gear there's an

after steering room.  A holdover from the war years.  It's possible,

barely possible, it might have an access hatch to the hold."

They went aft then and returned to the first compartment.  It felt

strange to them to walk the decks of a ghost ship, wondering what

happened to the crew that abandoned her.  They found the hatchway and

climbed down the lander to the steering gear compartment and made their

way around the old, still oily machinery to the forward bulkhead.

Dover scanned the steel plates with his flashlight.  Suddenly the

wavering beam stopped.

"Son of a bitch!"  he grunted.  "The hatch is here, but it's been welded

shut."

"You're certain we're in the right spot?"  Pitt asked.

"Absolutely," Dover answered.  He rapped his gloved fist against the

bulkhead.  "On the other side is cargo hold number five-the most likely

storage of the poison."

"What about the other holds?"  asked one of the EPA men.

"Too far forward to leak into the sea."

"Okay, then let's do it," Pitt said impatiently.

Quickly they assembled the cutting torch and connected the

oxygen-acetylene bottles.  The flame from the tip of the torch hissed as

Giordino adjusted the gas mixture.  Blue flame shot out and assaulted

the steel plate, turning it red, then a bright orangewhite.

A narrow gap appeared and lengthened, crackling and melting under the

intense heat.

As Giordino was cutting an opening large enough to crawl through, Julie

Mendoza and her lab people appeared, packing nearly five hundred pounds

of chemical analysis instruments.

"You found it," she stated straight from the shoulder.

"We can't be sure yet," Pitt cautioned.

"But our test samples show the water around this area reeks with Nerve

Agent S," she protested.

"Disappointment comes easy," said Pitt.  "I never count my chickens till

the check clears the bank."

Further conversation broke off as Giordino stood back and snuffed out

the cutting torch.  He handed it to Dover and picked up his trusty

prybar.

"Stand back," he ordered.  "This thing is red hot and it's damned

heavy."

He hooked one end of the bar into the jagged, glowing seam and shoved.

Grudgingly, the steel plate twisted away from the bulkhead and crashed

to the deck with a heavy clang and spray of molten metal.

A hush fell over the dark compartment as Pitt took a flashlight and

leaned carefully through the opening, staying clear of the superheated

edges.  He probed the beam into the bowels of the darkened cargo hold,

sweeping it around in a 180-degree arc.

It seemed a long time before he straightened and faced the bizarrely

clad, faceless figures pressing against him.

"Well?"  Mendoza demanded anxiously.

Pitt answered with one word: "Eureka!"

Four THOUSAND MILEs and five hours ahead in a different time zone, the

Soviet representative to the World Health Assembly worked late at his

desk.  There was nothing elaborate about his office in the Secretariat

building of the United Nations; the furnishings were cheap and Spartan.

Instead of the usual photographs of Russian leaders, living and dead,

the only piece of wall decor was a small amateurish watercolor of a

house in the country.

The light blinked and a soft chime emitted from his private phone line.

He stared at it suspiciously for a long moment before picking up the

receiver.

"This is Lugovoy."

"Who?"

"Aleksei Lugovoy."

"Is Willie dere?"  asked a voice, heavy with the New York City accent

that always grated on Lugovoy's ears.

"There is no Willie here," Lugovoy said brusquely.  "You must have the

wrong number."  Then he abruptly hung up.

Lugovoy's face was expressionless, but a faint pallor was there that was

missing before.  He flexed his fists, inhaled deeply and eyed the phone,

waiting.

The light blinked and the phone chimed again.

"Lugovoy."

"Youse sure Willie aid't dere?"

"Willie aid't here!"  be replied, mimicking the caller's accent.

He slammed the receiver onto the cradle.

Lugovoy sat shock-still for almost thirty seconds, hands tightly clasped

together on the desk, head lowered, eyes staring into space.

Nervously, he rubbed a hand over his bald head and adjusted the

horn-rimmed glasses on his nose.  Still lost in thought, he rose,

dutifully turned out the lights and walked from the office.

He exited the elevator into the main lobby and strode past the

stained-glass panel by Mare Chagall symbolizing man's struggle for

peace.  He ignored it, as he always had.

There were no cabs at the stand in front of the building, so he hailed

one on First Avenue.  He gave the driver his destination and sat stiffly

in the back seat, too tense to relax.

Lugovoy was not worried that he might be followed.  He was a respected

psychologist, admired for his work in mental health among the

underdeveloped countries.  His papers on thought processes and mind

control in no espionage work and held no direct ties with the undercover

people of the KGB.  He was discreetly told by a friend with the embassy

in Washington that the FBI had given him a low priority and only

performed an occasional, almost perfunctory observation.

Lugovoy was not in the United States to steal secrets.  His purpose went

far beyond anything the American counterspy investigators ever dreamed.

The phone call meant the plan that was conceived seven years earlier had

been put into motion.

The cab pulled to a stop at West and Liberty streets in front of the

Vista International Hotel.  Lugovoy pain the driver and walked through

the ornate lobby into the concourse outside.  He paused and stared up at

the awesome towers of the World Trade Center.

Lugovoy often wondered what he was doing here in this land of glass

buildings, uncountable automobiles, people always rushing, restaurants

and grocery stores in every block.  It was not his kind of world.

He showed his identification to a guard standing by a private express

elevator in the south tower and took it to the one hundredth floor.  The

doors parted and he entered the open lobby of the Bougainville Maritime

Lines, Inc whose offices covered the entire floor.  His shoes sank into

a thick white carpet.  The walls were paneled in a gleaming hand-rubbed

rosewood, and the room was richly decorated in Oriental antiques.  Curio

cases containing exquisite ceramic horses stood in the corners, and rare

examples of Japanese-designed textiles hung from the ceiling.

An attractive woman with large dark eyes, a delicate oval Asian face and

smooth amber skin smiled as he approached.  "May I help you, sir?"

"My name is Lugovoy."

"Yes, Mr.  Lugovoy," she said, pronouncing his name correctly.

"Madame Bougainville is expecting you."

She spoke softly into an intercom and a tall raven-haired woman with

Eurasian features appeared in a high-arched doorway.

"If you will please follow me, Mr.  Lugovoy."

Lugovoy was impressed.  Like many Russians he was naive in Western

business methods and wrongly assumed the office employees had stayed

late for his benefit.  He trailed the woman down a long corridor hung

with paintings of cargo ships flying the Bougainville Maritime flag,

their bows surging through turquoise seas.

The guine knocked lightly on an arched door, opened it and stepped

aside.

Lugovoy crossed the threshold and stiffened in astonishment.

The room was vast-mosaic floor in blue and gold floral patterns, massive

conference table supported by ten carved dragons that seemed to stretch

into infinity.  But it was the life-size terra-cotta warriors in armor

and prancing horses standing in silent splendor under soft spotlights in

alcoves that held him in awe.

He instantly recognized them as the tomb guardians of China's early

emperor Chin Shih Huang TiThe effect was dazzling.  He marveled that

they had somehow slipped through the Chinese government's fingers into

private hands.

"Please come forward and sit down, Mr.  Lugovoy."

He was so taken aback by the magnificence of the room that he failed to

notice a frail Oriental woman sitting in a wheelchair.  In front of her

was an ebony chair with gold silk cushions and a small table with a

teapot and cups.

"Madame Bougainville," he said.  "We meet at last."

The matriarch of the Bougainville shipping dynasty was eighty-nine years

old and weighed about the same number of pounds.  Her glistening gray

hair was pulled back from her temples in a bun.

Her face was strangely unlined, but her body looked ancient and frail.

It was her eyes that absorbed Lugovoy.  They were an intense blue and

blazed with a ferocity that made him uncomfortable.

"You are prompt," she said simply.  Her voice was soft and clear without

the usual hesitation of advanced age.

"I came as soon as I received the coded telephone call."

"Are you prepared to conduct your brainwashing project?"

"Brainwashing is an ugly term.  I prefer mind intervention."

"Academic terminology is irrelevant," she said indifferently.

"My staff has been assembled for months.  With the proper facilities we

can begin in two days."

"You'll begin tomorrow morning.

"So soon?"

"I've been informed by my grandson that ineal conditions have turned in

our favor.  The transfer will take place tonight."

Lugovoy instinctively looked at his watch.  "You don't give me much

time."

"The opportunity has to be snatched when it arrives," she said firmly.

"I made a bargain with your government, and I am about to fulfill the

first half of it.  Everything depends on speed.  You and your staff have

ten days to finish your part of the project-"

"Ten days!"  he gasped.

"Ten days," she repeated.  "That is your deadline.  Beyond that I will

cast you adrift."

A shiver ran up Lugovoy's spine.  He didn't need a detailed picture.  It

was plain that if something went wrong, he and his people would

conveniently vanish-probably in the ocean.

A quiet muffled the huge boardroom.  Then Madame Bougainville leaned

forward in the wheelchair.  "Would you like some tea?"

Lugovoy hated tea, but he nodded.  "Yes, thank you."

"The finest blend of Chinese herbs.  It costs over a hundred dollars a

pound on the retail market."

He took the offered cup and made a polite sip before he set it on the

table.  "You've been informed, I assume, that my work is still in the

research stage.  My experiments have only been proven successful eleven

times out of fifteen.  I cannot guarantee perfect results within a set

time limit."

"Smarter minds than yours have calculated how long White House advisers

can stall the news media."

Lugovoy's eyebrows rose.  "My understanding was that my subject was to

be a minor American congressman whose temporary disappearance would go

unnoticed."

"You were misled," she explained matter-of-factly.  "Your General

Secretary and President thought it best you should not know your

subject's inentity until we were ready."

"If I'd been given time to study his personality traits, I could have

been better prepared."

"I shouldn't have to lecture on security requirements to a Russian," she

said, her eyes burning into him.  "Why do you think we've had no contact

between us until tonight?"

Unsure of what to answer, Lugovoy took a long swallow of the tea.

To his peasant taste it was like drinking watered-down perfume.

"I must know who my subject is," he said finally, mustering his courage

and returning her stare.

Her answer burst like a bomb in the cavernous room, reverberated in

Lugovoy's brain and left him stunned.  He felt as though he'd been

thrown into a bottomless pit with no hope of escape.

AFTER YEARS OF BUFFETING by storms at sea, the drums containing the

nerve agent had broken the chains holding them to wooden cradles and now

they lay scattered about the deck of the cargo hold.  The one-ton

standard shipping containers, as approved by the Department of

Transportation, measured exactly 81 inches in length by 301/2 inches in

diameter.  They had concave ends and were silver in color.  Neatly

stenciled on the sides in green paint were the Army code letters "GS."

"I make the count twenty drums," said Pitt.

"That tallies with the inventory of the missing shipment," Mendoza said,

the relief audible in her voice.

They stood in the hold's depths, now brightly lit by floodlights

connected to a portable generator from the Catawba.  Nearly a foot of

water flooded the deck, and the sloshing sounds as they waded between

the deadly containers echoed off the rusting sides of the hold.

An EPA chemist made a violent pointing motion with his gloved hand.

"Here's the drum responsible for the leak!"  he said excitedly.

"The valve is broken off its threads."

"Satisfied, Mendoza?"  Pitt asked her.

"YOU bet your sweet ass," she exclaimed happily.  Pitt moved toward her

until their faceplates were almost touching.  "Have you given any

thought to my reward?"

"Reward?"

"Our bargain," he said, trying to sound earnest.  "I found your nerve

agent thirty-six hours ahead of schedule."

"You're not going to hold me to a silly proposition?"

"I'd be foolish not to."

She was glad he couldn't see her face redden under the helmet.

They were on an open radio frequency and every man in the room could

hear what they were saying.

"You pick strange places to make a date."

"What I thought," Pitt continued, "was dinner in Anchorage, cocktails

chilled by glacier ice, smoked salmon, elk Remington, baked Alaska.

After that-"

"That's enough," she said, her embarrassment growing.

"Are you a party girl?"

"Only when the occasion demands," she replied, coming back on even keel.

"And this is definitely not the occasion."

He threw up his arms and then let them drop dejectedly.  "A sad day for

Pitt, a lucky day for NUMA."

"Why NUMA?"

"The contamination is on dry land.  No need for an underwater salvage

job.  My crew and I can pack up and head for home."

Her helmet nodded imperceptibly.  "A neat sidestep, Mr.  Pitt, dropping

the problem straight into the Army's lap."

"Do they know?"  he asked seriously.

"Alaskan Command was alerted seconds after you'reported discovering the

Pilottown.  A chemical warfare disposal team is on its way from the

mainland to remove the agent."

"The world applauds efficiency."

"It's not important to you, is it?"

"Of course it's important," Pitt said.  "But my job is finished, and

unless you have another spill and more dead bodies, I'm going home."

"Talk about a hard-nosed cynic."

"Say Yes."

She felt trapped, impaled, and was annoyed with herself for enjoying it.

She answered before she could form a negative thought.  "Yes."

The men in the hold stopped their work amin enough poison to kill half

the earth's population and clapped muted gloves together, cheering and

whistling into their transmitters.  She suddenly realized that her stock

had shot up on the Dow Jones.  Men admired a woman who could ramrod a

dirty job and not be a bitch.

Later, Dover found Pitt thoughtfully studying a small open hatchway,

shining his flashlight inside.  The glow diminished into the darkness

within, reflecting on dull sparkles on the oil-slicked water rippling

from the cargo hold.

"Got something in mind?"  Dover asked.

"Thought I'd do a little exploring," Pitt answered.

"You won't get far in there."

"Where does it lead?"

"Into the shaft tunnel, but it's flooded nearly to the roof.

You'd need air tanks to get through."

Pitt swung his light up the forward bulkhead until it spot lighted a

small hatch at the top of a lander.  "How about that one?"

"Should open into cargo hold four."

Pitt merely nodded and began scaling the rusty rungs of the lander,

closely followed by Dover.  He muscled the dog latches securing the

hatch, swung it open and clambered down into the next hold, again

followed by Dover.  A quick traverse of their lights told them it was

bone empty.

"The ship must have been traveling in ballast," Pitt speculated out

loud.

"It would appear so," said Dover.

"Now where?"

"Up one more lander to the alleyway that runs between the fresh water

tanks into the ship's storerooms."

Slowly they made their way through the bowels of the Pilottown, feeling

like gravediggers probing a cemetery at midnight.  Around every corner

they half expected to find the skeletons of the crew.

But there were no bones.  The creNVs living quarters should have looked

like an anniversary sale at Macy's-clothes, personal belongings,

everything that should have been strewn about by a crew hastily

abandoning ship.  Instead, the pitch-black interior of the Pilottown

looked like the tunnels and chambers of a desert cavern.

All that was missing were the bats.

The food lockers were bare.  No dishes or cups lined the shelves of the

crew mess.  Even the toilets lacked paper.  Fire extinguishers, door

latches, furnishings, anything that could be unbolted or was of the

slightest value was gone.

"Mighty peculiar," muttered Dover.

"My thought too," Pitt said.  "She's been systematically stripped."

"Scavengers must have boarded and carried away everything during the

years she was adrift."

"Scavengers leave a mess," Pitt disagreed.  "Whoever was behind this job

had a fetish for neatness."

It was an eerie trip.  Their shadows flitted on the dark walls of the

alleyways and followed alongside the silent and abandoned machinery.

Pitt felt a longing to see the sky again.

"Incredible," mumbled Dover, still awed by what they'd found, or rather

not found.  "They even removed all the valves and gauges."If I was a

gambling man," said Pitt thoughtfully, "I'd bet we've stumbled on an

insurance scam."

"Wouldn't be the first ship that was posted missing for a Lloyd's of

London payday," Dover said.

"You told me the crew claimed they abandoned the Pilottown in a storm.

They abandoned her all right, but they left nothing but a barren,

worthless shell."

"Easy enough to check out," said Dover.  "Two ways to scuttle a ship at

sea.  Open the sea cocks and let her flood, or blow out the bottom with

explosive charges."

"How would you do it?"

"Flooding through the sea cocks could take twenty-four hours or more.

Time enough for a passing ship to investigate.  I opt for the charges.

Quick and dirty; put her on the seafloor in a matter of minutes."

"Something must have prevented the explosives from detonating."

"It's only a theory."

"Next question," Pitt persisted.  "Where would you lay them?"

"Cargo holds, engine room, most any place against the hull plates so

long as it was below the waterline."

"No sign of charges in the after holds," said Pitt.  "That leaves the

engine room and the forward cargo holds."

"We've come this far," Dover said.  "We might as well finish the job."

"Faster if we split up.  I'll search the engine room.  You know your way

around the ship better than I do-"

"The forward cargo holds it is," Dover said, anticipating him.

The big Coast Guardsman started up a companionway, whistling the Notre

Dame fight song under his breath.  His bearlike gait and hulking build,

silhouetted by the wavering flashlight in his hand, grew smaller and

finally faded.

Pitt began probing around the maze of steam pipes leading from the

obsolete old steam reciprocating engines and boilers.  The walkway

gratings over the machinery were nearly eaten through by rust, and he

treaded lightly.  The engine room seemed to come alive in his

imagination-creaks and moans, murmurings drifting out of the

ventilators, whispering sounds.

He found a pair of sea cocks.  Their handwheels were frozen in the

closed position.

So much for the sea-cock theory, he thought.

An icy chill crept up the back of Pitts neck and spread throughout his

body, and he realized the batteries operating the heater in his suit

were nearly drained.  He switched off the light for a moment.  The pure

blackness nearly smothered him.  He flicked it on again and quickly

swept the beam around as if he expected to see a specter of the crew

reaching out for him.  Only there were no specters.  Nothing except the

dank metal walls and the worn machinery.

He could have sworn he felt the grating shudder as if the engines

looming above him were starting up.

Pitt shook his head to purge the phantoms in his mind and methodically

began searching the sides of the hull, crawling between pumps and

asbestos-covered pipes that led into the darkness and nowhere.  He fell

down a lander into six feet of greasy water.

He struggled back up, out of the seeming clutches of the dead and evil

and-@ugly bilge, his suit now black with oil.  Out of breath, he hung

there a minute, making a conscious effort to relax.

It was then he noticed an object dimly outlined in the farthest reach of

the light beam.  A corroded aluminum canister about the size of a

five-gallon gas can was wired to a beam welded on the inner hull plates.

Pitt had set explosives on marine salvage projects and he quickly

recognized the detonator unit attached to the bottom of the canister. An

electrical wire trailed upward through the grating to the deck above.

Sweat was pouring from his body but he was shivering from the cold.  He

left the explosive charge where he found it and climbed back up the

lander.  Then he began inspecting the engines and boilers.

There were no markings anywhere, no manufacturer's name, no inspector's

stamped date.  Wherever there had been a metal in tag it was removed.

Wherever there had been letters or numbers stamped into the metal, they

were filed away.  After probing endless nooks and crannies around the

machinery, he got lucky when he felt a small protrusion through his

gloved hand.  It was a small metal plate partially hidden by grease

under one of the boilers.

He rubbed away the grime and aimed the light on the indented surface. It

read: PRESSURE 220 ' psi.

TEMPERATURE 4500 F.

HEATING SURFACE 5,017 se.  it.

MANUFACTURED BY THE ALHAMBRA MON AND BOMER COMPANY CHAliLESTON, SOUTH

CAROLINA SER.  #38874

Pitt memorized the serial number and then made his way back to where he

started.  He wearily sank to the deck and tried to rest while suffering

from the cold.

Dover returned in a little under an hour, carrying an explosive canister

under one arm, as indifferently as if it were a jumbo can of peaches.

Cursing fluently and often as he slipped on the oily deck, he stopped

and sat down heavily next to Pitt.

"There's four more between here and the forepeak," Dover said tiredly.

"I found another one about forty feet aft," Pitt replied.

"Wonder why they didn't go off."

"The timer must have screwed up."

"Timer?"

"The crew had to jump ship before the bottom was blown out.

Trace the wires leading from the canisters and you'll find they all meet

at a timing device hidden somewhere on the deck above.

When the crew realized something was wrong, it must have been too late

to reboard the ship."

"Or they were too scared it would go up in their faces."

"There's that," Pitt agreed.

"So the old Pilottown began her legendary drift.  A deserted ship in an

empty sea."

"How is a ship officially identified?"

"What's on your mind?"

"Just curious."

Dover accepted that and stared up at the shadows of the engines.

"Well, in can be found most anywhere.  Life jackets, lifeboats, on the

bow and stern the name is often bead welded, outlining the painted

letters.  Then you have the builder's plates, one on the exterior of the

superstructure, one in the engine room.  And, oh, yeah, the ship's

official number is burned into a beam around the outer base of the hatch

covers."

"I'll wager a month's pay that if you could dig the ship from under the

mountain you'd find the hatch number burned off and the builder's plate

gone."

"That leaves one in the engine room."

"Missing too.  I checked, along with all the manufacturer's markings."

"Sounds devious," said Dover quietly.

"You're damn right," Pitt replied abruptly.  "There's more to the

Pilottown than a marine insurance rip-off."

"I'm in no mood to solve mysteries now," Dover said, rising awkwardly to

his feet.  "I'm freezing, starved and tired as hell.  I vote we head

back."

Pitt looked and saw Dover was still clutching the canister of

explosives.  "Bringing that along?"

"evidence."

"Don't drop it," Pitt said with a sarcastic edge in his voice.

They climbed from the engine room and hurried through the ship's

storerooms, anxious to escape the damp blackness and reach daylight

again.  Suddenly Pitt stopped in his tracks.  Dover, walking head down,

bumped into him.

"Why'd you stop?"

"You feel it?"

Before Dover could answer, the deck beneath their feet trembled and the

bulkheads creaked ominously.  What sounded like the muffled roar of a

distant explosion rumbled closer and closer, quickly followed by a

tremendous shock wave.  The Pilottown shuddered under the impact and her

welded seams screeched as they split under enormous pressure.

The shock flung the two men violently against the steel bulkheads.

Pitt managed to remain on his feet, but Dover, unbalanced by his heavy

burden, crashed like a tree to the deck, embracing the canister with his

arms and cushioning its fall with his body.  A grunt of pain passed his

lips as he dislocated his shoulder and wrenched a knee.  He dazedly

struggled to a sitting position and looked up at Pitt.

"What in God's name was that?"  he gasped.

"Augustine Volcano," Pitt said, almost clinically.  "It must have

erupted."

"Jesus, what next?"

Pitt helped the big man to his feet.  He could feel Dover's arm tense

through the heavy suit.  "You hurt?"

"A little bent, but I don't think anything's broken."

"Can you make a run for it?"

"I'm all right," Dover lied through clenched teeth.  "What about the

evidence?"

"Forget it," Pitt said urgently.  "Let's get the hell out of here."

Without another word they took off through the storerooms and into the

narrow alleyway between the freshwater tanks.  Pitt slung his arm around

Dover's waist and half dragged, half carried him through the darkness.

Pitt thought the alleyway would never end.  His breath began to come in

gasps and his heart pounded against his ribs.  He struggled to stay on

his feet as the old Pilottown shook and swayed from the earth's tremors.

They reached cargo hold number four and scrambled down the lander.  He

lost his grip and Dover fell to the deck.

The precious seconds lost manhandling Dover over to the opposite lander

seemed like years.

Pitt had barely set foot on the scaly rungs when there was a crack like

thunder and something fell past him and struck the deck.

He threw the light beam up.  At that instant the hatch cover

disintegrated and tons of rock and debris cascaded into the hold.

"Climb, damn it, climb!"  He yelled at Dover.  His chest heaved and the

blood roared in his ears.  With an inner strength he thrust Dover's 220

pounds up the lander.

Suddenly a voice shouted.  The light showed a figure leaning through the

upper hatch, his hands grabbing Dover and pulling him through into the

aft hold.  Pitt instinctively knew it was Giordino.

The burly little Italian had a keen sense of arriving at the right place

at the right moment.

Then Pitt was at the top and crawling into the hold containing the nerve

agent.  The hatch cover was still intact, because the sloping ground

above was not as dense near the stern section.  When he reached the

bottom of the lander, willing hands were helping Dover toward the after

deckhouse and temporary safety.  Giordino gripped Pitts arm.

"We took casualties during the quake," he said grimly.

"How bad?"  asked Pitt.

"Four injured, mostly broken bones, and one dead."

Giordino hesitated and Pitt knew.

"Mendoza?"

"One of the drums crushed her legs," Giordino explained, his voice more

solemn than Pitt had ever known it.  "She suffered a compound fracture.

A bone splinter pierced her suit."  His words died.

"The nerve agent leaked onto her skin," Pitt finished, a sense of

helplessness and shock flooding through him.

Giordino nodded.  "We carried her outside."

Pitt found Julie Mendoza lying on the Pilottown's stern deck.

Overhead a great cloud of volcanic ash rose into a blue sky and

fortuitously drifted to the northward and away from the ship.

She lay alone and off to one side.  The uninjured people were attending

to the living.  Only the young officer from the Catawba stood beside

her, and his entire body was arching convulsively as he was being

violently sick into his air filter.

Someone had removed her helmet.  Her hair flared out on the rusty deck

and glinted orange under the setting sun.  Her eyes were open and

staring into nothingness, the jaw jutting and rigin in what must have

been indescribable agony.  The blood was hardening as it dried in

sun-tinted copper rivers that had gushed from her gaping mouth, nose and

ears.  It had even seeped from around the edges of her eyes.  What

little facial skin still showed was already turning a bluish black.

Pitts only emotion was cold rage.  It swelled up inside him as he knelt

down beside her and struck the deck repeatedly with his fist.

"It won't end here," He snarled bitterly.  "I won't let it end here."

OSCAR LUCAS STARED MOODILY at his desktop.  Everything depressed him:

the acin-tasting coffee in a cold cup, his cheaply furnished government

office, the long hours on his job.  For the first time since he became

special agent in charge of the presidential detail, he found himself

longing for retirement, cross-country skiing in Colorado, building a

mountain retreat with his own hands.

He shook his head to clear the fantasies, sipped at a diet soft drink

and studied the plans of the presidential yacht for perhaps the tenth

time.

Built in 1919 for a wealthy Philadelphia businessman, the Eagle was

purchased by the Department of Commerce in 1921 for presidential use.

Since that time, thirteen Presidents had paced her decks.

Herbert Hoover tossed medicine balls while onboard.  Roosevelt mixed

martinis and discussed war strategy with Winston Churchill.

Harry Truman played poker and the piano.  John Kennedy celebrated his

birthdays.  Lyndon Johnson entertained the British Royal Family, and

Richard Nixon hosted Leonin Brezhnev.

Designed with an old straight-up-and-down bow, the maboganytrimmed yacht

displaced a hundred tons and measured 110 feet in length with a beam of

twenty feet.  Her draft was five feet and she could slice the water at

fourteen knots.

The Eagle was originally constructed with five master staterooms, four

baths and a large glass-enclosed deckhouse, used as a combination dining

and living room.  A crew of thirteen Coast Guardsmen manned the yacht

during a cruise, their quarters and galley located forward.

Lucas went through the files on the crew, re-checking their personal

backgrounds, family histories, personality traits, the results of

psychological interviews.  He could find nothing that merited any

suspicion.

He sat back and yawned.  His watch read 9:20 P.m. The Eagle had been

tied up at Mount Vernon for three hours.  The President was a night owl

and a late riser.  He would keep up his guests, Lucas was certain,

sitting around the deckhouse, thrashing out government affairs, with

little thought given to sleep.

He twisted sideways and looked out the window.  A falling mist was a

welcome sight.  The reduced visibility eliminated the chances of a

sniper, the greatest danger to a President's life.  Lucas persuaded

himself that he was chasing ghosts.  Every detail that could be covered

was covered.

If there was a threat, its source and method eluded him.

The mist had not yet reached Mount Vernon.  The summer night still

sparkled clear and the lights from nearby streets and farms danced on

the water.  The river at this stretch winened to slightly over a mile,

with trees and shrubs lining its sweeping banks.  A hundred yards from

the shoreline, a Coast Guard cutter stood at anchor, her bow pointing

upriver, radar antenna in constant rotation.

The President was sitting in a lounge chair on the foredeck of the

Eagle, earnestly promoting his Eastern European aid program to Marcus

Larimer and Alan Moran.  Suddenly he came to his feet and stepped to the

railing, his head tilted, listening.  A small herd of cows were mooing

in a nearby pasture.  He became momentarily absorbed; the problems of

the nation vanished and a country boy surfaced.  After several seconds

he turned and sat down again.

"Sorry for the interruption," he said with a broad smile.  "For a minute

there I was tempted to find a bucket and squeeze us some fresh milk for

breakfast."

"The news media would have a field day with a picture of you milking a

cow in the dead of night."  Larimer laughed.

"Better yet," said Moran sarcastically, "you could sell the milk to the

Russians for a fat profit."

"Not as farfetched as it sounds," said Margolin, who was sitting off to

one side.  "Milk and butter have all but disappeared from Moscow state

food stores."

"It's a fact, Mr.  President," said Larimer seriously.  "The average

Russian is only two hundred calories a day from a starvation diet.

The Poles and Hungarians are even worse off.  Why, hell, our pigs eat

better than they do."

"Exactly my point," said the President in a fervent voice.  "We cannot

turn our backs on starving women and children simply because they live

under Communist domination.  Their plight makes my aid plan all the more

important to echo the humanitarian generosity of the American people.

Think of the benefits such a program will bring in good will from the

Third World countries.

Think of how such an act could inspire future generations.  The

potential rewards are incalculable."

"I beg to differ," said Moran coldly.  "In my mind what you propose is

foolish, a sucker play.  The billions of dollars they spend annually

propping up their satellite countries have nearly wiped out their

financial resources.  I'll take bets the money they save by your

proposed bailout plan would go directly into their military budget."

"Perhaps, but if their troubles continue unchecked the Soviets will

become more dangerous to the U.S" the President argued.

"Historically, nations with deep economic problems have lashed out in

foreign adventures."

"Like grabbing control of the Persian Gulf oil?"  said Larimer.

Constantly dangle.  But they know damned well the Western nations would

intervene with force to keep the lifeblood of their economies flowing.

No, Marcus, their sights are set on a far easier target.  One that would

open up their complete dominance of the Mediterranean."

Larimer's eyebrows raised.  "Turkey?"

"Precisely," the President answered bluntly.

"But Turkey is a member of NATO," Moran protested.

"Yes, but would France go to war over Turkey?   Would England or West

Germany?   Better yet, ask yourselves if we would send American boys to

die there, any more than we would in Afghanistan?   The truth is Turkey

has few natural resources worth fighting over.  Soviet armor could sweep

across the country to the Bosporus in a few weeks, and the West would

only protest with words."

"You're talking remote possibilities," said Moran, "not high

probabilities."

"I agree," said Larimer.  "In my opinion, further Soviet expansionism on

the face of their faltering system is extremely remote."

The President raised a hand to protest.  "But this is far different,

Marcus.  Any internal upheaval in Russia is certain to spill over her

borders, particularly into Western Europe."

"I'm not an isolationist, Mr.  President.  God knows my record in the

Senate shows otherwise.  But I, for one, am getting damned sick and

tired of the United States being constantly twisted in the wind by the

whims of the Europeans.  We've left more than our share of dead in their

soil from two wars.  I say if the Russians want to eat the rest of

Europe, then let them choke on it, and good rindance."

Larimer sat back, satisfied.  He had gotten the words off his chest that

he didn't dare utter in public.  Though the President fervently

disagreed, he couldn't help wondering how many grass-roots Americans

shared the same thoughts.

" Let's be realistic," he said quietly.  "You know and I know we cannot

desert our allies."

"Then what about our constitution," Moran jumped back in.

"What do you call it when you take their tax dollars from a budget

overburdened with deficit spending and use them to feed and support our

enemies?"

"I call it the humane thing to do," the President replied wearily.

He realized he was fighting a no-win war.

"Sorry, Mr.  President," Larimer said, rising to his feet.  "But I

cannot with a clear conscience support your Eastern bloc aid plan.

Now if you'll excuse me, I think I'll hit the sack."

"Me too," Moran said, yawning.  "I can hardly keep my eyes open."

"Are you settled in all right?"  asked the President.

"Yes, thank you," replied Moran.

"if i haven't been seasick by now," said Larimer with a half grin, "I

should keep my supper till morning."

They bin their good nights and disappeared together down the stairs to

their staterooms.  As soon as they were out of earshot, the President

turned to Margolin.

"What do you think, Vince?"

"To be perfectly honest, sir, I think you're pissing up a rope."

"You're saying it's hopeless?"

"Let's look at another side to this," Margolin began.  "Your plan calls

for buying surplus grain and other agricultural products to give to the

Communist world for prices lower than our farmers could receive on the

export market.  Yet, thanks to poor weather conditions during the last

two years and the inflationary spiral in diesel fuel costs, farms are

going bankrupt at the highest rate since 1934.  . . . If you persist in

handing out aid money, I respectfully suggest you do it here-not in

Russia."

"Charity begins at home.  is that it?"

"What better place?   Also, you must consider the fact that you're

rapidly losing party support-and getting murdered in the polls."

The President shook his head.  "I can't remain mute while millions of

men, women and children die of starvation."

"A noble stand, but hardly practical."

The President's features became shrouded with sadness.  "Don't you see,"

he said, staring out over the dark waters of the river, "if we can show

that Marxism has falled, no guerrilla movement anywhere in the world

will be justified in using it as a battle cry for revolution."

"Which brings us to the final argument," said Margolin.  "The Russians

don't want our help.  As you know, I've met with Foreign Minister

Gromyko.  He told me in no uncertain terms that if Congress should pass

your aid program, any food shipments will be stopped at the borders."

"Still, we must try."

Margolin sighed softly to himself.  Any argument was a waste of time.

The President could not be moved.

"If you're tired," the President said, "please don't hesitate to go to

bed.  You don't have to stay awake just to keep me company."

"I'm not really in the mood for sleep."

"How about another brandy then?"

"Sounds good."

The President pressed a call button beside his chair and a figure in the

white coat of a steward appeared on deck.

"Yes, Mr.  President?   What is your pleasure?"

"Please bring the Vice President and me another brandy."

"Yes, sir."

The steward turned to bring the order, but the President held up his

hand.

"One moment."

"Sir?"

"You're not jack Klosner, the regular steward."

"No, Mr.  President.  I , am Seaman First Class Lee Tong.  Seaman

Klosner was relieved at ten o'clock.  I'm on duty until tomorrow

morning."

The President was one of the few politicians whose ego was attuned to

people.  He spoke as graciously to an eight-year-old boy as he did to an

eighty-year-old woman.  He genuinely enjoyed drawing strangers out,

calling them by their Christian names as if he'd known them for years.

"Your family Chinese, Lee?"

"No, sir.  Korean.  They immigrated to America in nineteen fifty-two.'

"Why did you join the Coast Guard?"

"A love of the sea, I guess."

"Do you enjoy catering to old bureaucrats like me?"

Seaman Tong hesitated, obviously uneasy.  "Well my choice, I'd rather be

serving on an icebreaker."

"I'm not sure I like coming in second to an icebreaker."  The President

laughed good-naturedly.  "Remind me in the morning to put in a word to

Commandant Collins for a transfer.  We're old friends."

"Thank you, Mr.  President," Seaman Tong mumbled excitedly.

"I'll get your brandies right away."

Just before Tong turned away he flashed a wine smile that revealed a

large gap in the middle of his upper teeth.

A HEAVY FOG CREPT OVER the Eagle, smothering her hull in damp, eerie

stillness.  Gradually the red warning lights of a radio antenna on the

opposite shore blurred and disappeared.  Somewhere overhead a gull

shrieked, but it was a muted, ghostly sound; impossible to tell where it

came from.  The teak decks soon bled moisture and took on a dull sheen

under the mist-veiled floodlights standing above the pilings of the old

creaking pier anchored to the bank.

A small army of Secret Service agents, stationed at strategic posts

around the landscaped slope that gently rose toward George Washington's

elegant colonial home, guarded the nearly invisible yacht.

Voice contact was kept by shortwave miniature radios.  So that both

hands could be free at all times, the agents wore earpiece receivers,

battery units on their belts and tiny microphones on their wrists.

Every hour the agents changed posts, moving on to the next prescheduled

security area while their shift leader wandered the grounds checking the

efficiency of the surveillance network.

In a motor home parked in the drive beside the old manor house, agent

Blackowl sat scanning a row of television monitors.  Another agent

manned the communications equipment, while a third eyeballed a series of

warning lights wired to an intricate system of alarms spaced around the

yacht.

"You'd think the National Weather Service could give an accurate report

ten miles from its forecast office," Blackowl groused as he sipped his

fourth coffee of the night.  "They said 'light mist." if this is light

mist, I'd like to know what in hell they call fog so thick you can dish

it with a spoon?"

The agent in charge of radio commudications turned and lifted the

earphones on his headset.  "The chase boat says they can't see beyond

their bow.  They request permission to come ashore and tie up."

"Can't say I blame them," said Blackowl.  "Tell them affirmative."

He stood and massaged the back of his neck.  Then he patted the

communications agent on the shoulder.  "I'll take over the radio.

You get some sleep."

"As advance agent, you should be bedded down yourself."

"I'm not tired.  Besides, I can't see crap on the monitors anyway."

The agent looked up at a large digital clock on the wall.  "Zero one

fifty hours.  Ten minutes till the next post change."

Blackowl nodded and slin into the vacated chair.  He had no sooner

settled the earphones on his head than a call came from the Coast Guard

cutter anchored near the yacht.

"Control, this is River Watch."

"This is Control," Blackowl replied, recognizing the voice of the

cutter's commander.

"We're experiencing a problem with our scanning equipment."

"What kind of problem?"

"A high-energy signal on the same frequency as our radar is fouling

reception."

A look of concern crossed Blackowl's face.  "Could someone be jamming

you?"

"I don't think so.  It looks like cross traffic.  The signal comes and

goes as if messages are being transmitted.  I suspect that some

neighborhood radio freak has plugged onto our frequency by accinent."

"Do you'read any contacts?"

"Boat traffic this time of night is nil," answered the commander.

"The only blip we've seen on the oscilloscope in the last two hours was

from a city sanitation tug pushing trash barges out to sea."

"What time did it go by?"

"Dinn't.  The blip merged with the riverbank a few hundred yards

upstream.  The tug's skipper probably tied up to wait out the fog."

"Okay, River Watch, keep me assessed of your radar problem."

"Will do, Control.  River Watch out."

Blackowl sat back and mentally calculated the potential hazards.

With river traffic at a standstill, there was little danger of another

ship collining with the Eagle.  The Coast Guard cutter's radar, though

operating intermittently, was operating.  And any assault from the river

side was ruled out because the absence of visibility made it next to

impossible to home in on the yacht.  The fog, it seemed, was a blessing

in disguise.

Blackowl glanced up at the clock.  It read one minute before the post

change.  He quickly reread the security plan that listed the names of

the agents, the areas they were scheduled to patrol and the times.

He noted that agent Lyle Brock was due to stand post number seven, the

yacht itself, while agent Karl Polaski was slated for post number six,

which was the pier.

He pressed the transmit button and spoke into the tiny microphone

attached to his headset.  "Attention all stations.  Time zero two

hundred hours.  Move to your next post.  Repeat, move to the next Post

on your schedule."  Then he changed frequencies and uttered the code

name of the shift leader.  "Cutty Sark, this is Control."

A veteran of fifteen years in the service, agent Ed McGrath answered

almost immediately.  "Cutty Sark here."

"Tell posts numbers six and seven to keep a sharp watch on the river."

"They won't see much in this slop."

"How bad is it around the dock area?"

"Let's just say you should have issued us white canes with red tips."

"Do the best you can," Blackowl said.

A light blinked and Blackowl cut transmission to McGrath and answered

the incoming call.

"Control."

"This is River Watch ' Control.  Whoever is screwing up our radar

signals seems to be transmitting continuously now."

"You read nothing?"  asked Blackowl.

"The geographic display on the oscilloscope is forty percent blanked

out.  Instead of blips we receive a large wedge shape."

"Okay, River Watch, let me pass the word to the special agent in charge.

Maybe he can track the interference and stop any further transmission."

Before he apprised Oscar Lucas at the White House of the radar problem,

Blackowl turned and gazed curiously at the television monitors.  They

reflected no discernible image, only vague shadows wavering in

wraithlike undulation.

Agent Karl Polaski refixed the molded earplug of his Motorola HT-220

radio receiver and wiped the dampness from his Bismarck mustache. Forty

minutes into his watch on the pier, he felt damp and downright

miserable.  He wiped the moisture from his face and thought it odd that

it felt oily.

His eyes wandered to the overhead floodlights.  They gave out a dim

yellowish halo, but the edges had a prismatic effect and displayed the

colors of the rainbow.  From where he stood, about minpoint on the

thirty-foot dock, the Eagle was completely hidden by the oppressive

mist.  Not even her deck or mast lights were visible.

Polaski walked over the weatherworn boards, occasionally stopping and

listening.  But all he heard was the gentle lapping of the water around

the pilings and the soft hum of the yacht's generators.  He was only a

few steps from the end of the pier when the Eagle finally materialized

from the gray tentacles of the fog.

He called softly to agent Lyle Brock, who was manning post seven onboard

the boat.  "Hey, Lyle.  Can you hear me?"

A voice replied slightly above a whisper.  "What do you want?"

"How about a cup of coffee from the galley?"

"The next post change is in twenty minutes.  You can get a cup when you

come onboard and take my place."

"I can't wait twenty minutes," Polaski protested mildly.  "I'm already

soaked to the bones."

"Tough.  You'll have to suffer."

Polaski knew that Brock couldn't leave the deck under any circumstances,

but he goaded the other agent good-naturedly.  "Wait till you want a

favor from me."

"Speaking of favors, I forgot where I go from here."

Polaski gave a quizzical look at the figure in the shadows on the

Eagle's deck.  "Look at your diagram, numb brain."

"It got soggy and I can't read it."

"Post eight is fifty yards down the bank."

"Thanks."

"If you want to know where post nine is it'll cost you a cup of coffee,"

Polaski said, grinning.

"Screw you.  I remember that one."

Later, during the next post change, the agents merely waved as they

passed each other, two indistinct forms in the mist.

Ed McGrath could not recall having seen fog this thick.  He sniffed the

air, trying to identify the strange aroma that hung everywhere, and

finally wrote it off as a common oily smell.  Somewhere in the mist he

heard a dog bark.  He paused, cocking one ear.

It was not the baying of a hound in chase or the frightened yelps of a

mutt, but the sharp yap of a dog alert to an unfamiliar presence.

Not too far away, judging by the volume.  Seventy-five, maybe a hundred,

yards beyond the security perimeter, McGrath estimated.

A potential assassin would have to be sick or brain damaged or both, he

thought, to stumble blindly around a strange countryside in weather such

as this.  Already, McGrath had tripped and fallen down, walked into an

unseen tree branch and scratched his cheek, found himself lost three

times, and almost got himself shot when he accinentally walked onto a

guard post before he could radio his approach.

The barking stopped abruptly, and McGrath figured a cat or some wild

animal had set the dog off.  He reached a familiar bench beside a fork

in a graveled path and made his way toward the riverbank below the

yacht.  He spoke into his lapel microphone.

"Post eight, coming up on you."

There was no reply.

McGrath stopped in his tracks.  "Brock, this is McGrath, coming up on

you."

Still nothing.

"Brock, do you'read me?"

Post number eight was oddly quiet and McGrath began to feel uneasy.

Moving very slowly, one step at a time, he cautiously closed on the

guard area.  He called faintly through the mist, his voice weirdly

magnified by the heavy dampness.  Silence was his only reply.

"Control, this is Cutty Sark."

"Go ahead, Cutty Sark," came back Blackowl's tired voice.

"We're missing a man on post eight."

Blackowl's tone sharpened considerably.  "No sign of him?"

"None."

"Check the boat," Blackowl said without hesitation.  "I'll meet you

there after I inform headquarters."

McGrath signed off and hurried along the bank to the dock.

"Post six, coming up on you."

"Aiken, post six.  Come ahead."

McGrath groped his way onto the dock and found agent John Aiken's

hulking figure under a floodlight.  "Have you seen Brock?"

"You kidding?"  answered Aiken.  "I haven't seen shit since the fog

hit."

McGrath dogtrotted along the dock, repeating the call-warning process.

By the time he reached the Eagle, Polaski had come around from the

opposite deck to meet him.

"I'm missing Brock," he said tersely.

Polaski shrugged.  "Last I saw of him was about a half-hour ago when we

changed posts."

"Okay, stand here by the dockside.  I'm going to take a look below

decks.  And keep an eye peeled for Blackowl.  He's on his way down from

Control."

When Blackowl lurched out into the damp morning, the fog was thinning

and he could see the faint glimmer of stars through the fading overcast

above.  He steered his way from post to post, breaking into a run along

the pathway to the pier as the visibility improved.  Fear smoldered in

his stomach, a dread that something was terribly wrong.

Agents did not desert their posts without warning, without reason.

When at last he leaped aboard the yacht, the fog had disappeared as if

by magic.  The ruby lights of the radio antenna across the river

sparkled in the newly cleared air.  He brushed by Polaski and found

McGrath sitting alone in the deckhouse, staring trancelike into

nothingness.

Blackowl froze.

McGrath's face was as pale as a white plaster death mask.  He stared

with such horror in his eyes that Blackowl immediately feared the worst.

"The President?"  he demanded.

McGrath looked at him dully, his mouth moving but no words coming out.

"For Christ's sake, is the President safe?"

"Gone," McGrath finally muttered.

"What are you talking about?"

"The President, the Vice President, the crew, everybody, they're all

gone."

"You're talking crazy!" Blackowl snapped.

"True .  . . it's true," McGrath said lifelessly.  "See for yourself."

Blackowl tore down the steps of the nearest companionway and ran to the

President's stateroom.  He threw open the door without knocking.

It was deserted.  The bed was still neatly made and there were no

clothes in the closet, no toilet articles in the bathroom.  His heart

felt as if it were being squeezed between two blocks of ice.

As though in a nightmare, he rushed from stateroom to stateroom.

Everywhere it was the same; even the crew's quarters lay in undisturbed

emptiness.

The horror was real.

Everyone on the yacht had vanished as though they had never been born.

July 29, 1989

Washington, D.C.

The chase boat Coast Mount Vernon Guard cutter Dock Eagle Secret Service

Command Cent UNLIKE ACTORS IN MOTION PICTURES, who take forever to wake

up and answer a ringing telephone in bed, Ben Greenwald, Director of the

Secret Service, came instantly alert and snatched the receiver before

the second ring.

"Greenwald."

"Greetings," said the familiar voice of Oscar Lucas.  "Sorry to wake

You, but I knew you were anxious to hear the score of the soccer game.

Greenwald tensed.  Any Secret Service communication opening with the

word "greetings" meant the beginning of an urgent, topsecret report on a

critical or grave situation.  The sentence that followed was

meaningless; a caution in case the telephone line might not be secure-a

real possibility, since the Kissinger State Department had allowed the

Russians to build their new embassy on a rise overlooking the city,

vastly increasing their telephone eavesdropping capacity.

"Okay," Greenwald said, trying to sound conversational.  "Who won?"

"You lost your bet."

"Bet" was another key word indicating that the next statement was coming

in coded double-talk.

"Jasper College, one," Lucas continued, "Drinkwater Tech, nothing.

Three of the jasper players were sidelined for injuries."

The dire news exploded in Greenwald's ears.  Jasper College was the code

for a presidential abduction.  The reference to the sidelined players

meant the next three men in succession were taken too.  It Was a code

that in Greenwald's wildest dreams he never thought he would hear.

"There's no mistake?"  he asked, dreading the answer.

"None," replied Lucas, his tone like the thin edge of broken glass.

"Who else in the office pool knows the score?"

"Only Blackowl, McGrath and myself."

"Keep it that way."

"To be on the safe side," said Lucas, "I initiated an immediate

assessment of the second-string players and future rookies."

Greenwald instantly picked up on Lucas' drift.  The wives and children

of the missing parties were being located and protected, along with the

men next in line for the Presidency.

He took a deep breath and quickly arranged his thoughts.  Speed was

essential.  Even now, if the Soviets were behind the President's

kidnapping to gain an edge for a pre-emptive nuclear strike, it was too

late.  On the other hand, with the top government effectively removed,

it hinted at a plot to overthrow the government.

There was no time left to be shackled by security.  "Amen," said

Greenwald, signaling Lucas that he was dropping the doable-talk.

"Understood."

A sudden terrifying thought swept Greenwald's mind.  "The bag man?"  he

asked nervously.

"Gone with the rest."

Oh, dear God, Greenwald agonized to himself silently.  Disaster was

piling on top of disaster.  "Bag man" was the irreverent nickname for

the field-grade officer at the President's side day and night who

carried the briefcase containing codes called release messages that

could unleash the nation's 10,000 strategic nuclear warheads on

preselected targets inside Soviet Russia.  The consequences of the

ultrasecret codes falling into alien hands were beyond any conceivable

horror.

"Alert the Chairman of the joint Chiefs of Staff," he ordered.

"Then send a detail to pick up the Secretaries of State and Defense,

also the National Security Adviser, and rush them to the White House

Situation Room."

"Anyone on the presidential staff?"

"Okay, bring in Dan Fawcett.  But for now let's keep it a closed club.

The fewer who know the 'Man' is missing until we can sort things out,

the better."

"In that case," Lucas said, "it might be wise to hold the meeting

someplace besides the Situation Room.  The press constantly monitor the

White House.  They'd be on us like locusts if the heads of state

suddenly converged there at this time of morning.

Sound thinking," Greenwald replied.  He paused a moment, then said,

"Make it the Observatory."

"The Vice President's residence?"

"Press cars are almost never in evidence there."

"I'll have everyone on the premises as soon as possible."

"Oscar?"

"Yes."

"Very briefly, what happened?"

There was a slight hesitation and then Lucas said, "They all vanished

from the presidential yacht."

"I see," said Greenwald heavily, but it was clear he didn't.

Greenwald wasted no more time on talk.  He hung up and hurriedly

dressed.  On the drive to the Observatory his stomach twisted into

knots, a delayed reaction to the catastrophic news.  His vision blurred

and he fought off an overwhelming urge to vomit.

He drove in a mental haze through the deserted streets of the capital.

Except for an occasional delivery truck, traffic was nearly nonexistent

and most of the traffic signals were simply blinking on a cautious

yellow.

Too late he saw a city streetsweeper make a sudden U-turn from the

right-hand gutter.  His windshield was abruptly filled with the bulky

white-painted vehicle.  In the cab the driver jumped sideways at the

protesting scream of tires, his eyes wine in the glare of Greenwald's

headlights.

There was a metal-tearing crunch and the splash of flying glass.

The hood bent double, flew up, and the steering wheel rammed into

Greenwald's chest, crushing his rib cage.

Greenwald sat pinned to the seat as the water from the mangled radiator

hissed and steamed over the car's engine.  His eyes were open as though

staring in vague iindifference at the abstract cracks on the shattered

windshield.

Oscar Lucas stood in front of the corner fireplace in the living room of

the Vice President's mansion and described the presidential kidnapping.

Every few seconds he glanced nervously at his watch, wondering what was

keeping Greenwald.  The five Men seated around the room listened to him

in undisguised astonishment.

Secretary of Defense Jesse Simmons clamped his teeth on the stem of an

unlit meerschaum pipe.  He was dressed casually in a summer sportcoat

and slacks, as was Dan Fawcett and National Security Adviser Alan

Mercier.  Army General Clayton Metcalf was in uniform, while Douglas

Oates, the Secretary of State, sat fastiniously groomed in a dark suit

and necktie.

Lucas came to the end of his briefing and waited for the barrage of

questions he was certain would be fired.  Instead, there was a prolonged

hush.  They just sat there, numb and immobile.

Oates was the first to break the stunned silence.  "Good Lord!" he

gasped.  "How could such a thing happen?   How could everyone on the

yacht simply evaporate into thin air?"

"We don't know," Lucas answered helplessly.  "I haven't ordered an

investigating team to the site yet for obvious security reasons.

Ben Greenwald slammed a lin on the affair until you gentlemen could be

informed.  Outside this room, only three Secret Service personnel,

including Greenwald, are privy to the facts."

"There has to be a logical explanation," said Mercier.  The President

adviser on national security rose to his feet and paced the room.

"Twenty people were not whisked away by supernatural powers or aliens

from outer space.  If, and I make that a questionable if, the President

and the others are indeed missing from the Eagle, it has to be a highly

organized conspiracy."

"I assure you, sir," said Lucas, staring directly into Mercier's eyes,

"my deputy agent found the boat totally deserted."

"You say the fog was thick," Mercier continued.

"That's how Agent Blackowl described it."

"Could they have somehow penetrated your security network and driven

away?"

Lucas shook his head.  "Even if they managed to elude my security detail

in the fog, their movement would have been detected by the sensitive

alarm systems we installed around the estate."

"That leaves the river," observed Jesse Simmons.  The Secretary of

Defense was a taciturn man, given to telegramlike statements.  A

leathery tan face was evidence of his weekends as an avin water skier.

"Suppose the Eagle was boarded from the water?   Suppose they were

forcibly removed to another boat?"

Oates gave Simmons a dubious stare.  "You make it sound as if Blackbeard

the Pirate was responsible."

"Agents were patrolling the dock and riverbank," Lucas explained.

"No way passengers and crew could be subdued and carried off without a

sound."

"Maybe they were drugged," suggested Dan Fawcett.

"A possibility," admitted Lucas.

"Let's look at this head-on," said Oates.  "Rather than speculate on how

the abduction occurred, I think we must concentrate on the reason and

the force responsible before we can plan a response."

"I agree," said Simmons.  He turned to Metcalf.  "General, any evidence

the Russians are behind this as a time cushion to launch a first

strike?"

"If that was the case," answered Metcalf, "their strategic rocket forces

would have taken us out an hour ago."

"They still might."

Metcalf gave a slight negative tilt to his head.  "Nothing indicates

they're in a state of readiness, Our Kremlin intelligence sources report

no signs of increased activity in or around the eighty underground

command posts in Moscow, and our satellite surveillance shows no troop

buildup along the Eastern bloc border.

Also, President Antonov is on a state visit to Paris."

"So much for World War Three," said Mercier with a look of relief.

"We're not out of shallow water yet," Fawcett said.  "The officer

carrying the codes designating nuclear strike sites is also gone."

"Not to worry on that score," said Metcalf, smiling for the first time.

"As soon as Lucas here alerted me to the situation, I ordered the

alphabetical code words changed."

"What's to stop whoever has them from using the old code words to break

the new ones?"

"For what purpose?"

"Blackmail, or maybe an insane attempt to bit the Russians first."

"Can't be done," Metcalf replied simply.  "There are too many built-in

safeguards.  Why hell, even the President couldn't launch our nuclear

arsenal on his own, in a fit of madness.  The order to start a war has

to be transmitted through Secretary of Defense Simmons and the joint

Chiefs.  If any of us knew for certain the order was invalin, we could

countermand it."

"All right," said Simmons, "we temporarily shelve a Soviet conspiracy or

an act of war.  What are we left with?"

"Damned little," grunted Mercier.

Metcalf looked squarely at Oates.  "As things stand, Mr. Secretary, you

are the constitutionally designated successor."

"He's right," said Simmons.  "Until the President, Margolin, Larimer and

Moran are found alive, you're the acting President."

For several seconds there was no sound in the library.  Oates's

flamboyant and forceful facial exterior cracked ever so slightly, and he

seemed to suddenly age five years.  Then, just as suddenly, he regained

control and his eyes took on a cold, visceral expression.

"The first thing we must do," he said in a level tone, "is to act as

though nothing has happened."

Mercier tilted back and gazed unseeing at the high ceiling.

"Granted we can't hold a press conference and announce to the world

we've misplaced the nation's four ranking leaders.  I don't care to

think about the repercussions when the word leaks out.  But we can't

hide the facts from the press for more than a few hours."

"And we have to consider the likelihood the people responsible for the

kidnapping will give us an ultimatum or make a ransom demand through the

news media," Simmons anded.

Metcalf looked doubtful.  "My guess is that when contact is made it will

come without a trumpet blast to Secretary Oates, and any demand will be

for something besides money."

"I can't fault your thinking, General," said Oates.  "But our top

priority is still to conceal the facts and stall for as long as it takes

to find the President."

Mercier had the look of an atheist buttonholed by a Hare Krishna at an

airport.  "Lincoln said it: 'You can't fool all the people all the

time." It won't be easy keeping the President and Vice President out of

the public eye for more than a day, at most.  And you can't simply erase

Larimer and Moran; they're too highly visible around Washington.  Then

there is the Eagle's crew to consider.  What do you tell their

families?"

"Jack Sutton!"  Fawcett blurted as though he was having a revelation.

"Who?"  Simmons demanded.

"The actor, the spitting image of the President who plays him in TV

commercials and on comedy shows."

Oates sat up.  "I think I see your point.  The resemblance is

remarkable, but we'd never get away with it, not on a face-to-face

basis.  Sutton's voice is a far from perfect imitation, and anyone who

is in close daily contact with the President would see through the

deception."

"Yes, but from thirty feet his own wife couldn't tell the difference."

"Where is this leading?"  Metcalf asked Fawcett.

The White House Chief of Staff took his cue.  "Press Secretary Thompson

can hand out a press release saying the President is taking a working

vacation on his New Mexico farm to study congressional reaction to his

Eastern aid program.  The White House press corps will be kept on the

sidelines-a situation that's not uncommon when the President isn't in

the mood to answer questions.

All they'd see from a roped-off distance would be him-in this case,

Sutton the actor-entering the helicopter for the flight to Andrews Air

Force Base for departure in Air Force One.  They could follow on a later

plane, of course, but be denied entry onto the farm itself."

"Why not have a phony Vice President go with Sutton?"  Mercier

suggested.

"Both men can't fly on the same plane," Lucas reminded him.

"Okay, send him on a plane leaving at night," Mercier persisted.

"Not much news coverage is given to Margolin's movements.  No one would

notice a stand-in."

"Or care," anded Oates, alluding to the public apathy toward vice

presidents.

"I can handle the details from the White House end," offered Fawcett.

"Two down," said Simmons.  "Now what about Larimer and Moran?"

"This is an odd-numbered year," Mercier said, warming up to the scheme.

"Congress recesses for the entire month of Augustonly two days away. Our

one slice of luck.  Why not invent a mutual fishing trip or a junket to

some out-of-the-way resort?"

Simmons shook his head.  "Scratch the fishing trip."

"Why?"

Simmons gave a tight smile.  "Because it's known all over Capitol Hill

that Moran and Larimer relate like syrup and vinegar."

"No matter.  A fishing hole conference to discuss foreign relations

sounds logical," said Oates.  "I'll write up the memorandum from the

State Department end."

"What do you tell their office staffs?"

"This is Saturday; we've got two days' grace to iron out the bugs."

Simmons began making notes on a pad.  "Four down.  That leaves the

Eagle's crew."

"I think I can come up with a convenient cover," offered Metcalf. "I'll

work through the Coast Guard Commandant.  The crew's families can be

told the yacht was ordered on an unscheduled cruise for a top-secret

military meeting.  No further details need be given."

Oates stared around the room at his companions.  "If there are no

further questions-"

"Who else do we let in on the hoax?"  queried Fawcett.

"A poor choice of words, Dan," said Oates.  "Let's call it a

'distraction."

"

"It goes without saying," said Metcalf, "that Emmett of the FBI will

have to handle the domestic end of the investigation.

And, of course, Brogan of CIA must be called in to check out the

international conspiracy angle."

"You've just touched on an ungodly thought, General," said Simmons.

"Sir?"

"Supppose the President and the rest have already been spirited out of

the country?"

Simmons' speculation brought no immediate response.  It was a grim

possibility none of them had dared consider.  With the President beyond

reach of their vast internal resources, their investigative

effectiveness would be cut by 80 percent.

"They could also be dead," Oates said in a controlled voice.  "But we'll

operate on the premise they're alive and held somewhere in the United

States."

"Lucas and I will brief Emmett and Brogan," Fawcett volunteered.

There was a knock on the door.  A Secret Service agent entered, walked

over to Lucas and spoke softly in his ear.  Lucas' eyebrows arched

upward and he paled slightly.  Then the agent retreated from the room,

closing the door behind him.

Oates stared at Lucas questioningly.  "A new development, Oscar?"

"Ben Greenwald," Lucas answered vacantly.  "He was killed thirty minutes

ago.  His car struck a city maintenance vehicle."

Oates wasted no words of sympathy.  "With the powers temporarily vested

in me, I name you as the new Director of the Secret Service."

Lucas visibly recoiled.  "No, please, I don't think I can-"

"Doesn't make sense to select somebody else," Oates interrupted him.

"Like it or not, Oscar, you're the only man who can be named for the

job."

"Somehow it doesn't seem right to be promoted for losing the men I'm

sworn to protect," said Lucas dejectedly.

"Blame me," said Fawcett.  "I forced the yacht cruise on you before your

people were fully prepared."

"There's no time for self-recrimination," Oates said sharply.  "We each

have our jobs cut out for us.  I suggest we get to work."

"When should we meet again?"  Simmons asked.

Oates looked at his watch.  "Four hours from now," he replied.

"The White House Situation Room."

"We're flirting with exposure if everyone shows up at the same time,"

said Fawcett.

"There's an underground utility tunnel running from the basement of the

Treasury building beneath the street to the White House," Lucas

explained.  "Perhaps some of you gentlemen could enter unseen from that

direction."

"Good idea," Metcalf agreed.  "We can arrive at the Treasury building in

unmarked government cars, cross under the street through the tunnel and

take the elevator to the Situation Room."

"That settles it then," Oates said, rising from his chair.  "If any of

you ever dreamed of going on the stage, this is your big chance.

And I don't have to tell you, if the show's a flop, we just may bring

down the whole country along with the curtain."

AFTER the brisk weather OF ALASKA, the hot, humin atmosphere of South

Carolina felt like the inside of a sauna.  Pitt made a phone call and

then rented a car at the Charleston airport.  He drove south on Highway

52 toward the city and took the turnoff for the sprawling naval base.

About a mile after turning right on Spruill Avenue, he came to a large

red brick building with an ancient rusting sign perched on the roof

advertising the Alhambra Iron and Boiler Company.

He parked the car and walked under a high iron archway with the date

1861 suspended on a panel.  The reception area took him by surprise. The

furnishings were ultramodern.  Chrome was everywhere.

He felt as though he'd walked onto a photo layout from Architectural

Digest.

A sweet young thing looked up, pursed an ever so small smile and said,

"Can ah help you, sir?"

Pitt stared into the mossy green magnolia eyes and imagined her as a

former homecoming queen.  "I called from the airport and set an

appointment with Mr.  Hunley.  My name is Pitt."

The recognition was automatic and the smile didn't alter so much as a

millimeter.  "Yes, he's expecting you.  Please come this way."

She led him into an office decorated entirely in brown tones.

Pitt was suddenly overwhelmed with the sensation of drowning in oatmeal.

A rotund, smiling little man rose from behind an enormous kinney-shaped

desk and extended his hand.

"Mr.  Pitt.  I'm Charlie Hunley."

"Mr.  Hunley," Pitt said, shaking hands.  "Thank you for seeing me.

"Not at all.  Your phone call ticked my curiosity.  You're the first

person to ask about our boiler making capacity in, golly, must be forty

years."

"You're out of the business?"

"Heavens, yes.  Gave it up during the summer of fifty-one.  End of an

era, you might say.  My great-granddandy rolled armor plate for the

Confederate ironclad fleet.  After World War Two, my dandy figured the

time had come for a change.  He retooled the plant and started

fabricating metal furniture.  As things turned out, it was a shrewd

decision."

"did you, by chance, save any of your old production records?" Pitt

asked.

"Unlike you Yankees, who throw out everything," Hunley said with a sly

smile, "we Southern boys hold onto everything, including our women."

Pitt laughed politely and didn't bother asking how his California

upbringing had qualified him as a Yankee.

"After your call," Hunley continued, "I ran a search in our file storage

room.  You didn't give me a date, but since we only supplied forty

water-tube boilers with the specifications you mentioned for Liberty

ships, I found the invoice listing the serial number in question in

fifteen minutes.  Unfortunately, I can't tell you what you don't already

know."

"Was the boiler shipped to the company that supplied the engines or

direct to the shipyard for installation?"

Hunley picked up the yellowing paper from his desk and studied it for a

moment.  "It says here we shipped to the Georgia Shipbuilding

Corporation in Savannah on June fourteenth, 1943."  Hunley picked,up

another piece of paper.  "Here's a report from one of our men who

inspected the boilers after they were installed in the ship and

connected to the engines.  All that is mentioned of any interest is the

name of the ship."

"Yes, I have that," said Pitt.  "It was the Pilottown."

A strange expression of puzzlement crossed Hunley's face as he restudied

the inspector's report.  "We must be talking about two different ships."

Pitt looked at him.  "Could there be a mistake?"

"Not unless you wrote down the wrong serial number."

"I was careful," Pitt replied firmly.

"Then I don't know what to tell you," said Hunley, passing the paper

across the desk.  "But according to the inspection report, boiler number

38874 went into a Liberty ship called the San Marino."

CONGRESSWOMAN LOREN SMITH WAS WAITING on the concourse when Pitts flight

from Charleston arrived at Washington's National Airport.  She waved to

get his attention, and he smiled.  The gesture was unnecessary.  She was

an easy woman to spot.

Loren stood tall, slightly over five foot eight.  Her cinnamon hair was

long but layered around the face, which accented her prominent

cheekbones and deep violet eyes.  She was dressed in a pink cotton-knit

tunic-style dress with scoop neck and long sleeves that were rolled up.

For an elegant touch, she wore a Chinese-patterned sash around her

waist.

She possessed an air of breezy sophistication, yet underneath one could

sense a tomboyish daring.  A representative elected from the state of

Colorado, Loren was serving her second term.  She loved her job; it was

her life.  Feminine and softspoken, she could be an unleashed tiger on

the floor of Congress when she tackled an issue.

Her colleagues respected her for her shrewdness as well as her beauty.

She was a private woman, shunning the parties and dinners unless they

were politically necessary.  Her only outside activity was an on again,

off again" affair with Pitt.

She approached him and kissed him lightly on the mouth.  "Welcome home,

voyager."

He put his arm around her and they set off toward the baggage claim.

"Thank you for meeting me."

"I borrowed one of your cars.  I hope you don't mind."

"Depends," he said.  "Which one?"

"My favorite, the blue Talbot-Lago."

"The coupe' with the Saoutchik coachwork?   You have expensive taste.

That's a $200,000 car."

"Oh, dear, I hope it doesn't get dented in the parking lot."

Pitt gave her a solemn look.  "If it does, the sovereign state of

Colorado will have a vacant seat in Congress."

She clutched his arm and laughed.  "You think more of your cars than you

do your women."

"Cars never nag and complain."

"I can think of a few other things they never do," she said with a

girlish smile.

They threaded their way through the crowded terminal and waited at the

baggage claim.  Finally the conveyor belt hummed into motion and Pitt

retrieved his two suitcases.  They passed outside into a gray, sticky

morning and found the blue 1948 Talbot-Lago sitting peacefully under the

watchful eye of an airport security guard.  Pitt relaxed in the

passenger's seat as Loren slipped behind the wheel.  The rakish car was

a right-hand drive, and it always struck Pitt odd to sit and stare out

the left side of the windshield at the approaching traffic with nothing

to do.

"did you call Perlmutter?"  he asked.

"About an hour before you landed," she answered.  "He was quite

agreeable, for someone who was jolted out of a sound sleep.

He said he'd go through his library for data on the ships you asked

about."

"If anyone knows ships, it's St.  Julien Perlmutter."

"He sounds like a character over the phone."

"An understatement.  Wait till you meet him."

Pitt watched the passing scenery for a few moments without speaking.  He

stared at the Potomac River as Loren drove north along the George

Washington Memorial Parkway and cut over the Francis Scott Key bridge to

Georgetown.

Pitt was not fond of Georgetown; "Phonyville," he called it.  The drab

brick town houses looked like they had all been popped from the same

biscuit mold.  Loren steered the Talbot onto N Street.

Parked cars jammed the curbs, trash lay in the gutters, little of the

sidewalk shrubbery was trimmed, and yet it was perhaps four blocks of

the most overpriced real estate in the country.  Tiny houses, Pitt

mused, filled with gigantic egos generously coated with megadoses of

forged veneer.

Loren squeezed into a vacant parking space and turned off the ignition.

They locked the car and walked between two vineencrusted homes to a

carriage house in the rear.  Before Pitt could lift a bronze knocker

shaped like a ship's anchor, the door was thrown open by a great monster

of a man who mashed the scales at nearly four hundred pounds.  His

sky-blue eyes twinkled and his crimson face was mostly hidden under a

thick forest of gray hair and heard, Except for his small tulip nose, he

looked like Santa Claus gone to seed.

"Dirk," he fairly boomed.  "Where've you been hining?"

St.  Julien Perlmutter was dressed in purple silk pajamas under a red

and gold paisley robe.  He encompassed Pitt with his chunky arms and

lifted him off the doorstep in a bear hug, without a hint of strain.

Loren's eyes winened in astonishment.  She'd never met Perlmutter in

person and wasn't prepared.

"You kiss me, Julien," said Pitt sternly, "and I'll kick you in the

crotch."

Perlmutter gave a belly laugh and released Pitts 180 pounds.

"Come in, come in.  I've made breakfast.  You must be starved after your

travels."

Pitt introduced Loren.  Perlmutter kissed her hand with a Continental

flourish and then led them into a huge combination living room, bedroom

and study.  Shelves supporting the weight of thousands of books sagged

from floor to ceiling on every wall.  There were books on tables, books

on chairs.  They were even stacked on a king-size water bed that rippled

in an alcove.

Perlmutter possessed what was acknowledged by experts as the finest

collection of historical ship literature ever assembled.  At least

twenty marine museums were constantly angling to have it donated to

their libraries after a lifetime of excess calories sent him to a

mortuary.

He motioned Pitt and Loren to sit at a hatch-cover table lain with an

elegant silver and china service bearing the emblem of a French

transatlantic steamship line.

"It's all so lovely," said Loren admiringly.

"From the famous French liner Normandie," Perlmutter explained.

"Found it all in a warehouse where it had been packed away since before

the ship burned and rolled over in New York harbor."

He served them a German breakfast, beginning with schnapps, thin-sliced

Westphalian ham garnished with pickles and accompanied by pumpernickel

bread.  For a side dish he'd whipped up potato dumplings with a

prune-butter filling.

"Tastes marvelous," said Loren.  "I love eating something besides eggs

and bacon for a change."

"I'm andicted to German cooking."  Perlmutter laughed, patting his ample

stomach.  "Lots more substance than that candy-ass French fare, which is

nothing but an exotic way to prepare garbage."

"did you find any information on the San Marino and the Pilottown?"

asked Pitt, turning the conversation to the subject on his mind.

"Yes, as a matter of fact, I did."  Perlmutter hefted his bulk from the

table and soon returned with a large dusty volume on Liberty ships.  He

donned a pair of reading glasses and turned to a marked page.

"Here we are.  The San Marino, launched by the Georgia Shipbuilding

Corporation, July of 1943.  Hull number 2356, classed as a cargo

carrier.  Sailed Atlantic convoys until the end of the war.

Damaged by submarine torpedo from the U-573.  Reached Liverpool under

her own power and was repaired.  Sold after the war to the Bristol

Steamship Company of Bristol, England.  Sold 1956 to the Manx Steamship

Company of New York, Panamanian registry.

Vanished with all hands, north Pacific, 1966.

"So that was the end of her."

"Maybe, maybe not," said Perlmutter.  "There's a postscript.  I found a

report in another reference source.  About three years after the ship

was posted missing, a Mr.  Rodney Dewhurst, who was a marine insurance

underwriter for the Lloyd's office in Singapore, noticed a ship moored

in the harbor that struck him as vaguely familiar.  There was an unusual

design to the cargo booms, one he'd seen on only one other Liberty-class

ship.  He managed to talk his way onboard and after a brief search

smelled a rat.  Unfortunately, it was a holinay and it took him several

hours to round up the harbor authorities and convince them to arrest the

ship in port and hold it for an investigation.  By the time they reached

the dock, the vessel was long gone, steaming somewhere out to sea.  A

check of custom records showed her to be the Belle Chasse, Korean

registry, owned by the Sosan Trading Company of Inchon, Korea.  Her next

destination was Seattle.  Dewhurst cabled an alert to the Seattle Harbor

Police, but the Belle Chasse never arrived."

"Why was Dewhurst suspicious of her?"  Pitt asked.

"He had inspected the San Marino before underwriting the insurance on

her and was dead certain she and the Belle Chasse were one and the

same."

"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 and 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 boilermaker

would ship across the country to Oregon with a Savannah shipyard only

ninety miles away."

"Not logical at all," Perhnutter 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 celebrity 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."  Perhnutter nodded.  "There's no concrete pattern."

"I think there is," Pitt said confinently.  "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.

Pitts 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 Pilottown,

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 "Somebody

from the parent with a devious glint in his green eyes.

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."

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, andressing 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 Qandafi of Libya heads

the list."

"They certainly have the financial resources , said Defense Secretary

Simmons.

"But hardly the sophistication," Brogan anded.

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

arty'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 frodt.  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 goverrnment?"

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 in 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

onboard-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 winened.  "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!" OFFICIAL

WASHINGTON TURNS INTO A GHOST TOWN over the weekends.  The machinery of

government grinds to a halt at five o'clock Frinay 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, quickstepped 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 onboard 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."

"How are the wives taking it?"

"Cooperating a hundred percent," Fawcett answered.  "The First Lady and

Mrs.  Margolin have volunteered to stay shut up in their bedrooms

claiming to have a virus."

"What now?"  Lucas asked.  "What else can we do?"

"We wait," Fawcett replied, his voice wooden.  "We stick it out until we

find the President."

"Looks to me like you're overloading the circuits," said Don Miller,

Emmett's deputy director of the FBI.

Emmett didn't look up at Miller's negative remark.  Within minutes after

he had returned to the Bureau's headquarters at Pennsylvania Avenue and

Tenth Street he set into motion an All Bureaus Alert, followed by a

standby for Emergency Action of the Highest Priority to every office in

the fifty states and all agents on assignments overseas.  Next came

orders to pull files, records and descriptions on every criminal or

terrorist who specialized in abduction.

His-cover story to the Bureau's six thousand agents was that the Secret

Service had come on evidence of a planned abduction attempt on Secretary

of State Oates and other as yet unnamed officials of high government

levels.

"It may be a heavy conspiracy," Emmett said finally, his tone vague. "We

can't take the chance the Secret Service is wrong."

"They've been wrong before," Miller said.

"Not on this one."

Miller gave Emmett a curious look.  "You've given out damned little

information to work with.  Why the great secrecy?"

Emmett didn't answer, so Miller dropped the subject.  He passed three

file folders across the desk.  "Here's the latest data on kidnapping

operations, the Mexican Zapata Brigade's hostage activities, and one I'm

in the dark about."

Ennnett gave him a cold stare.  "Can you be more explicit?"

"i doubt if there's a connection, but since they acted strange-"

"Who are you talking about?"  Emmett demanded, picking up the file and

opening the cover.

"A Soviet representative to the United Nations, name of Aleksei

Lugovoy-"

"A prominent psychologist," Emmett noted as he read.

"Yes, he and several of his staff members on the World Health Assembly

have gone missing."

Emmett looked up.  "We've lost them?"

Miller nodded.  "Our United Nations surveillance agents report that the

Russians left the building Frinay night-"

"This is only Saturday morning," Emmett interrupted.  "You're talking a

few hours ago.  What's so suspicious about that?"

"They went to great lengths to shake our shadows.  The special agent in

charge of the New York bureau checked it out and discovered none of the

Russians returned to their apartments or hotels.

Collectively they dropped from sight."

"Anything on Lugovoy?"

"All indications are he's straight.  He appears to steer clear of the

Soviet mission's KGB agents."

"And his staff?"

"None of them have been observed engaging in espionage activities

either."

Emmett looked thoughtful for several moments.  Ordinarily he might have

brushed the report aside or at most ordered a routine follow-up.

But he had a nagging doubt.  The disappearance of the President and

Lugovoy on the same night could be a mere coincinence.  "I'd like your

opinion, Don," he said at last.

"Hard to second-guess this one," Miller replied.  "They may all show up

at the United Nations on Monday as though nothing had happened.

On the other hand, I'd have to suggest that the squeaky clean image

Lugovoy and his staff have projected may be a screen."

"For what purpose?"

Miller shrugged.  "I haven't a clue."

Emmett closed the file.  "Have the New York bureau stay on this.

I want priority-one updates whenever they're available."

"The more I think about it," Miller said, "the more it intrigues me."

"How so?"

"What vital secrets could a bunch of Soviet psychologists want to

steal?"

SUCCESSFUL SHIPPING LINE MAGNATEs travel through the glittering waters

of the international jet set in grand fashion.  From exotic yachts to

private airliners, from magnificent villas to resplendent hotel suites,

they roam the world in an unending pursuit of power and wealth.

Min Koryo Bougainville cared nothing for a freewheeling lifestyle.

She spent her waking hours in her office and her nights in small but

elegant quarters on the floor above.  She was frugal in most matters,

her only weakness being a fondness for Chinese antiques.

When she was twelve, her father sold her to a Frenchman who operated a

small shipping line consisting of three tramp steamers that plied the

coastal ports between Pusan and Hong Kong.  The line prospered and Min

Koryo bore Ren6 Bougainville three sons.

Then the war came and the Japanese overran China and Korea. Rene' was

killed in a bombing rain and the three sons were lost somewhere in the

South Pacific, after being forced into the Imperial Japanese Army.  Only

Min Koryo and one grandson, Lee Tong, survived.

After japan surrendered, she raised and salvaged one of her husband's

ships which had been sunk in Pusan harbor.  Slowly she built up the

Bougainville fleet, buying old surplus cargo ships, never paying more

than their scrap value.  Profits were few and far between, but she hung

on until Lee Tong finished his master's degree at the University of

Pennsylvania's Wharton School of business and began running the

day-to-day operation.  Then, almost magically, the Bougainville Maritime

Lines grew into one of the world's largest fleet of ships.

When their armada totaled 138 cargo ships and tankers, Lee Tong moved

the principal offices to New York.  In a ritual going back thirty years,

he sat dutifully near her bedside in the evening discussing the current

dealings of their farflung financial empire.

Lee Tong wore the misleading look of a jolly Oriental peasant.

His round brown face split in a perpetual smile that seemed chiseled in

ivory.  If the justice Department and half the federal lawenforcement

agencies had wanted to close the book on a backlog of unsolved maritime

crimes, they would have hung him from the nearest streetlight, but,

oddly, none had a file on him.  He skirted in the shadow of his

grandmother; he was not even listed as a director or an employee of

Bougainville Maritime.  Yet it was he, the anonymous member of the

family, who handled the dirty-tricks department and built the base of

the company.

Too systematic to place his faith in hired hands, he preferred to direct

the highly profitable illicit operations from the front rank.

His act often ran on blood.  Lee Tong was not above murder to achieve a

profit.  He was equally at home during a business luncheon at the "21"

Club or at a waterfront throat cuttingHe sat a respectful distance from

Min Koryo's bedside, a long silver cigarette holder planted between his

uneven teeth.  She disliked his smoking habit, but he clung to it, not

so much as a pleasure but as a small measure of independence.

"By tomorrow the FBI will know how the President disappeared," said Min

Koryo.

"I doubt it," Lee Tong said confinently.  "The chemical analysis people

are good, but not that good.  I say closer to three days. And then a

week to find the ship."

"Enough time so no loose threads can be traced to us?"

"Enough time, aunumi," said Lee Tong, andressing her in the Korean term

for mother.  "Rest assured, all threads lead to the grave."

Min Koryo nodded.  The inference was crystal clear: The handpicked team

of seven men who had ained Lee Tong in the abduetion had been murdered

by his own hand.

"Still no news from Washington?"  she asked.

"Not a word.  The White House is acting as though nothing happened.  In

fact, they're using a double for the President."

She looked at him.  "How did you learn that?"

"The six o'clock news.  The TV cameras showed the President boarding Air

Force One for a flight to his farm in New Mexico."

"And the others?"

"They appear to have stand-ins too."

Min Koryo sipped at a cup of tea.  "Seems odd that we must depend on

Secretary of State Oates and the President's Cabinet to provide a

successful masquerade until Lugovoy is ready."

"The only road open to them," said Lee Tong.  "They won't dare make any

kind of an announcement until they know what happened to the President."

Min Korvo stared at the tea leaves in the bottom of her cup.

"Still, I must believe we may have taken too large a bite."

Lee Tong nodded at her meaning.  "I understand, aunumi.  The congressmen

just happened to be fish in the same net."

"But not Margolin.  It was your scheme to misguine him onto the yacht."

"True, but Aleksei Lugovoy has stated his experiments have proven

successful eleven out of fifteen times.  Not exactly a perfect ratio.

If he fails with the President, he has an extra guinea pig to produce

the required result."

"You mean three guinea pigs."

"If you include Larimer and Moran in the rank of succession, yes.

"And if Lugovoy succeeds in each case?"  asked Min Koryo.

"So much the better," answered Lee Tong.  "Our influence would reach

further than we originally dared hope.  But I sometimes wonder, aunumi,

if the financial rewards are worth risking imprisonment and the loss of

our business."

"Do not forget, Grandson, the Americans killed my husband, your father

and his two brothers during the war."

"Revenge makes for a poor gambling game."

"All the more reason to protect our interests and guard against

double-dealing by the Russians.  President Antonov will do everything in

his power to keep from paying our fee."

"Should they be stupid enough to betray us at this crucial stage, they'd

lose the whole project."

"They don't think that way," said Min Koryo gravely.  "The Communist

mind thrives on mistrust.  Integrity is beyond their comprehension.

They're driven to take the devious path.  And that, my grandson, is

their Achilles' heel."

"What are you thinking?"

"We continue to play the role of their honest but gullible partner." She

paused, thinking.

"And when Lugovoy's project is finished?"  Lee Tong prompted her.

She looked up and a crafty smile cut across her aging face.  Her eyes

gleamed with a cunning look.  "Then we'll pull the rug from under them."

ALL inENTIFICATION AND WRISTWATCHESwere taken from the Russians when the

Bougainvilles' men transferred them from the Staten Island ferry in

minchannel.  They were blindfolded, and padded radio headsets were

placed over their ears that emitted soothing chamber music. Minutes

later they were airborne, lifted from the dark harbor waters by a

jet-engined seaplane.

The flight seemed long and wearisome, terminating at last on what

Lugovoy judged by the smooth landing was a lake.  After a drive of

twenty minutes, the disoriented Russians were led across a metal walkway

and into an elevator.  Only when they stepped out of the elevator and

were led across a carpeted corridor to their bedrooms were the

blindfolds and the earphones removed.

Lugovoy was profoundly impressed by the facilities provided by the

Bougainvilles.  The electronics and laboratory equipment went far beyond

any he'd seen in the Soviet Union.  Every piece of the several hundred

items he had requested was present and installed.

Nor had any creature comforts for his staff been overlooked.  They were

assigned indivinual sleeping quarters with private bathrooms, while at

the end of the central corridor stretched an elegant dining room that

was serviced by an excellent Korean chef and two waiters.

Furnishings, including kitchen freezers and ovens, office fixtures and

the data control room were tastefully color-coordinated, with walls and

carpeting in cool blues and greens.  The design and execution of every

detail was as exotic as it was complex.

And yet the self-contained habitat also served as a luxurious prison.

Lugovoy's staff was not permitted to come and go.  The elevator doors

were closed at all times and there were no outer controls.  He made a

compartment-to-compartment search but detected no windows or visible

crack of an exterior exit.  No sounds filtered in from the outside.

Further investigation was cut short by the arrival of his subjects.

They were semi-conscious from the effects of sedation and oblivious to

their surroundings.  All four had been prepared and lain inside separate

cubicles called cocoons.  The padded insides were seamless, with rounded

corners, giving no reference point for the eye to dwell on.  Dim

illumination came by reflection from an indirect light, tinting the

cocoon monochrome gray.  Specially constructed walls shielded all sound

and electrical current that could interfere with or enhance brain

activity.

Lugovoy sat at a console with two of his assistants and studied the row

of color vineo monitors that revealed the subjects lying in their

cocoons.  Most remained in a trancelike state of limbo.  One, however,

was raised to a near level of consciousness, vulnerable to suggestion

and mentally disoriented.  Drugs were injected that numbed his muscle

control, effectively paralyzing any body movement.  His head was covered

by a plastic skull cap.

L,ugovoy still found it difficult to grasp the power he held.  He

trembled inwardly at knowing he was embarking on one of the great

experiments of the century.  What he did in the next days could affect

the world as radically as the development of atomic energy.

"Dr.  Lugovoy?"

Lugovoy's concentration was interrupted by the strange voice, and he

turned, surprised, to see a stocky man with rugged Slavic features and

shaggy black hair who seemingly stepped out of a wall.

"Who are you?"  he blurted.

The stranger spoke very softly as though he didn't wish to be overheard.

"Suvorov, Paul Suvorov, foreign security."

Lugovoy paled.  "My God, you're KGB?   How did you get here?"

"Pure luck," Suvorov muttered sarcastically.  "You were assigned to my

security section for observation from the day'you set foot in New York.

After your suspicious visit to the Bougainville Maritime offices, I took

over your surveillance myself.  I was present on the ferryboat when you

were contacted by the men who brought you here.

Because of the darkness I had no difficulty mingling with your staff and

being included for the trip to wherever it is we are.

Since our arrival I've kept to my room."

"Do you have any idea what you've stuck your nose into?"

Lugovoy said, his face flushing with anger.

"Not yet," Suvorov said, unperturbed.  "But it is my duty to find out."

"This operation originates from the highest level.  It is of no concern

to the KGB."

"I'll be the judge-"

"You'll be crap in Siberian frost," Lugovoy hissed, "if you interfere

with my work here."

Suvorov appeared mildly amused at Lugovoy's irritated tone.  It slowly

began to dawn on him that he might have overstepped his authority.

"Perhaps I could be of help to you."

"How?"

"You may have need of my special skills."

"I don't require the services of an assassin.

"I was thinking more of escape."

"There is no reason to escape."

Suvorov was becoming increasingly annoyed.  "You must try to understand

my position."

Lugovoy was in command now.  "There are more important problems to

occupy my mind than your bureaucratic interference."

"Like what?"  Suvorov swept his hand around the room.  "Just what is

going on here?"

Lugovoy stared at him consideringly for a long moment before yielding to

vanity.  "A mind-intervention project."

Suvorov's eyebrows rose.  "Mind intervention?"

"Brain control if you prefer."

Suvorov faced the vineo monitor and nodded at the image.  "is that the

reason for the small helmet?"

"On the subject's head?"

"The same."

"A microelectronic integrated circuit module containing a hundred and

ten probes, measuring internal body fudetions ranging from common pulse

to hormone secretions.  It also intercepts data flowing through the

subject's brain and transmits it to the computers here in this room. The

brain's talk, so to speak, is then translated into a comprehensible

language."

"I see no electrode terminals."

"From a bygone era," answered Lugovoy.  "Everything we wish to record

can be telemetered through the atmosphere.  We no longer rely on the

unnecessary bulk of wires and terminals."

"You can actually understand what he's thinking?"  asked Suvorov

incredulously.

Lugovoy nodded.  "The brain speaks a language of its own, and what it

says reveals the inner thoughts of its landlord.  Night and day, the

brain speaks incessantly, providing us with a vivin look into the

working mind, how a man thinks and why.  The impressions are subliminal,

so lightning-quick that only a computer designed to operate in

picoseconds can memorize and decipher them."

"I had no idea brain science had evolved to such a high level."

"After we establish and chart his brain rhythms," Lugovoy continued, "we

can forecast his intentions and physical movements.

We can tell when he is about to say or do something in error.  And most

important, we can intervene in time to stop him.  In less than the blink

of an eye the computer can erase his mistaken intent and rephrase his

thought."

Suvorov was awed.  "A religious capitalist would accuse you of breaching

man's soul."

"Like you, I am a loyal member of the Communist Party, Comrade Suvorov.

I do not believe in the salvation of souls.  However, in this case we

can't tolerate a drastic conversion.  There'll be no disruption of his

fundamental thought processes.  No change in speech patterns or

mannerisms."

"A form of controlled brainwashing."

"This is not a crude brainwashing," Lugovoy replied indignantly.

"Our sophistication goes far beyond anything the Chinese invented.

They still believe in destroying a subject's ego in order to reeducate

him.  Their experiments in drugs and hypnosis have met with little

success.  Hypnosis is too vague, too slippery to have lasting value. And

drugs have proved dangerous by accinentally producing a sudden shift in

personality and behavior.  When I finish with the subject here, he will

re-enter reality and return to his personal lifestyle as though he'd

never left it.  All I intend to do is alter his political perspective."

"Who is the subject?"

"Don't you know?   Don't you'recognize him?"

Suvorov studied the vineo display.  Gradually his eyes winened and he

moved two steps closer to the screen, his face taut, his mouth working

mechanically.  "The President?"  His voice was an unbelieving whisper.

"Is that really the President of the United States?"

"In the flesh."

"How.... where?"

"A gift from our hosts," Lugovoy explained vaguely.

"He'll suffer no side effects?"  Suvorov asked in a haze.

"None."

"Will he remember any of this?"

"He will recall only going to bed when he wakes up ten days from now."

"You can do this thing, really do it?"  Suvorov questioned with a

security man's persistence.

"Yes," Lugovoy said with a confinent gleam behind his eyes.

"And much more."

AMAD FLAPPING OF WINGs broke the early morning stillness as two

pheasants broke toward the sky.  Soviet President Georgi Antonov snapped

the over-and-under Purdey shotgun to his shoulder and pulled the two

triggers in quick succession.  The twin blasts echoed through the

mist-dampened forest.  One of the birds suddenly stopped flying and fell

to the ground.

Vladimir Polevoi, head of the Committee for State Security, waited an

instant until he was sure Antonov had missed the second pheasant before

he brought it down with one shot.

Antonov fixed his KGB director with a hard-eyed stare.  "Showing up your

boss again, Vladimir?"

Polevoi read Antonov's mock anger correctly.  "Your shot was difficult,

Comrade President.  Mine was quite easy."

"You should have joined the Foreign Ministry instead of the Secret

Police," Antonov said, laughing.  "Your diplomacy ranks with Gromyko's."

He paused and looked around the forest.  "Where is our French host?"

"President L'Estrange is seventy meters to our left."  Polevoi's

statement was punctuated by a volley of gudshots somewhere out of sight

beyond the undergrowth.

"Good," grunted Antonov.  "We can have a few minutes of conversation."

He held out the Purdey to Polevoi, who replaced the empty shells and

clicked the safety switch.

Polevoi moved in close and spoke in a low tone.  "I would caution about

speaking too freely.  French intelligence has listening probes

everywhere."

"Secrets seldom last long these days," Antonov said with a sigh.

Polevoi cracked a knowing smile.  "Yes, our operatives recorded the

meeting between L'Estrange and his Finance Minister last night."

"Any revelations I should know about?"

"Nothing of value.  Most of their conversation centered on persuading

you to accept the American President's financial assistance program.

"If they're stupid enough to believe I would not take advantage of the

President's naive generosity, they're also stupid enough to think I

agreed to fly here to discuss it."

"Rest assured, the French are completely unaware of the true nature of

your visit."

"Any late word from New York?"

"Only that Huckleberry Finn exceeded our projections."  Polevoi's

Russian tongue pronounced Huckleberry as Gulkleberry.

"And all goes well?"

"The trip is under way."

"So the old bitch accomplished what we thought was impossible."

"The mystery is how she managed it."

Antonov stared at him.  "We don't know?"

"No, sir.  She refused to take us into her confinence.  Her son

sheltered her operation like the Kremlin wall.  So far we haven't been

able to penetrate her security."

"The Chinese whore," Antonov snarled.  "Who does she think she's dealing

with, empty-headed schoolboys?"

"I believe her ancestry is Korean," said Polevoi.

"No difference."  Antonov stopped and sat down heavily on a fallen log.

"Where is the experiment taking place?"

Polevoi shook his head.  "We don't know that either."

"Have you no communication with Comrade Lugovoy?"

staff departed lower Manhattan Island on the Staten Island ferry late

Frinay night.  They never stepped ashore at the landing.  We lost all

contact."

"I want to know where they are," Antonov said evenly.  "I want to know

the exact location of the experiment.

"I have our best agents working on it."

"We can't allow her to keep us wandering in the dark, especially when

there is one billion American dollars' worth of our gold reserves at

stake."

Polevoi gave the Communist Party Chairman a crafty look.  "Do you intend

to pay her fee?"

"Does the Volga melt in January?"  Antonov replied with a broad grin.

"She won't be an easy prey to outfox."

The sound of feet tramping through the underbrush could be heard.

Antonov's eyes flickered to the groundkeepers who were approaching with

the downed pheasants and then back to Polevoi.

"Just find Lugovoy," he said softly, "and the rest will take care of

itself."

Four miles away in a sound truck two men sat in front of a sophisticated

microwave receiving set.  Beside them two reel-to-reel tape decks were

recording Antonov and Polevoi's conversation in the woods.

The men were electronic surveillance specialists with the SDECE,

France's intelligence service.  Both could interpret six languages,

including Russian.  In unison they lifted their earphones and exchanged

curious looks.

"What in hell do you suppose that was all about?"  said one.

The second man gave a Gallic shrug.  "Who can say?   Probably some kind

of Russian double-talk."

"I wonder if an analyst can make anything important out of it?"

"Important or not, we'll never know."

The first man paused, held an earphone to his ear for a few moments and

then set it down again.  "They're talking with President L'Estrange now.

That's all we're going to get."

"Okay, let's close down shop and get the recordings to Paris.

I've got a date at six o'clock."

THE SUN WAS TWO HOURS ABOVE the eastern edge of the city when Sandecker

drove through a back gate of Washington's National Airport.

He stopped the car beside a seemingly deserted hangar standing in a

weed-covered part of the field far beyond the airlines' maintenance

area.  He walked to a side door whose weathered wood had long since shed

its paint and pressed a small button opposite a large rusting padlock.

After a few seconds the door silently swung open.

The cavernous interior was painted a glossy white, which brightly

reflected the sun's rays through huge skylights in the curved roof, and

had the look of a transportation museum.  The polished concrete floor

held four long orderly rows of antique and classic automobiles.  Most

gleamed as elegantly as the day their coachmakers anded the finishing

touch.  A few were in various stages of restoration.  Sandecker lingered

by a majestic 1921 Rolls-Royce Silver Ghost with coachwork by Park-Ward

and a massive red 1925 Isotta-Fraschini with a torpedo body by Sala.

The two centerpieces were an old Ford trimotor aircraft known to

aviation enthusiasts as the "tin goose" and an early-twentiethcentury

railroad Pullman car with the words MANHATTAN LIMITED painted in gilded

letters on its steel side.

Sandecker made his way up a circular iron stairway to a glassenclosed

apartment that spanned the upper level across one end of the hangar. The

living room was decorated in marine antiques.

One wall was lined with shelves supporting delicately crafted ship

models in glass cases.

He found Pitt standing in front of a stove studying a strangelooking

mixture in a frying pan.  Pitt wore a pair of khaki hiking shorts,

tattered tennis shoes and a T-shirt with the words RAISE The LUSITANIA

across the front.

"You're just in time to eat, Admiral."

What have you got there?"  asked Sandecker, eyeing the mixture with

suspicion.

"Nothing fancy.  A spicy Mexican omelet."

"I'll settle for a cup of coffee and half a grapefruit."

Pitt served as they sat down at a kitchen table and poured the coffee.

Sandecker frowned and waved a newspaper in the air.  "You made page

two."

"I hope I do as well in other papers."

"What do you expect to prove?"  Sandecker demanded.  "Holding a press

conference and claiming you found the San Marino, which you didn't, and

the Pilottown, which is supposed to be top secret.

Have you lost your gray matter?"

Pitt paused between bites of the omelet.  "I made no mention of the

nerve agent."

"Fortunately the Army quietly buried it yesterday."

"No harm done.  Now that the Pilottown is empty, she's just another

rusting shipwreck."

"The President won't see it that way.  If he wasn't in New Mexico, we'd

both be picking our asses out of a White House carpet by now."

Sandecker was interrupted by a buzzing noise.  Pitt rose from the table

and pushed a switch on a small panel.

"Somebody at the door?"  inquired Sandecker.

Pitt nodded.

"This is a Florida grapefruit."  Sandecker grumbled, spitting out a

seed.

"So?"

"I prefer Texas,"

"I'll make a note," said Pitt with a grin.

"Getting back to your cockamamie story," Sandecker said, squeezing out

the last drops of juice in a spoon, "I'd-like to know your reasoning."

Pitt told him.

"Why not let the Justice Department handle it?"  Sandecker asked.

"That's what they're pain for."

Pitts eyes hardened and he pointed his fork menacingly.  "Because the

justice people will never be called in to investigate.  The government

isn't about to admit over three hundred deaths were caused by a stolen

nerve agent that isn't supposed to exist.  Lawsuits and damaging

publicity would go on for years.  They want to whitewash the whole mess

into oblivion.  The Augustine Volcano eruption was timely.

Later today the President's press secretary will hand out a bogus

cover-up blaming sulphuric gas clouds for the deaths."

Sandecker looked at him sternly for a moment.  Then he asked, "Who told

you that?"

"i did," came a feminine voice from the doorway.

Loren's face was wrapped in a disarming smile.  She had been out jogging

and was dressed in brief red satin shorts with a matching tank top and

headband.  The Virginia huminity had brought out the sweat and she was

still a little breathless.  She dried her face with a small towel that

was tucked in her waistband.

Pitt made the introductions.  "Admiral James Sandecker, Congresswoman

Loren Smith."

"We've sat across from each other during Maritime Committee meetings,"

said Loren, extending her hand.

Sandecker didn't need clairvoyance to read Pitt and Loren's

relationship.  "Now I see why you've always looked kindly on my NUMA

budget proposals."

If Loren felt any embarrassment at his insinuation, she didn't show it.

"Dirk is a very persuasive lobbyist," she said sweetly.

"Like some coffee?"  asked Pitt.

"No, thanks.  I'm too thirsty for coffee."  She went over to the

refrigerator and poured herself a glass of buttermilk.

"You know the subject of Press Secretary Thompson's news release?"

Sandecker prompted her.

Loren nodded.  "My press aid and his wife are chummy with the Sonny

Thompsons.  They all had dinner together last night.

Thompson mentioned that the White House was laying the Alaskan tragedy

to rest, but that was all.  He didn't slip the details."

Sandecker turned to Pitt.  "If you persist in this vendetta, you'll be

stepping on a lot of toes."

"I won't give it up," Pitt said gravely.

Sandecker looked at Loren.  "And you, Congresswoman Smith?"

"Loren."

"Loren," he obliged.  "May I ask what your interest is in this?"

She hesitated for a fraction of a second and then said, "Let's just say

congressional curiosity about a possible government scandal."

"You haven't told her the true purpose behind your Alaskan fishing

expedition?"  Sandecker asked Pitt.

"No."

"I think you should tell her."

"Do I have your official permission?"

The admiral nodded.  "A friend in Congress will come in handy before

your hunt is over."

"And you, Admiral, where do you stand?"  Pitt asked him.

Sandecker stared hard across the table at Pitt, examining every feature

of the craggy face as though he were seeing it for the first time,

wondering what manner of man would step far beyond normal bounds for no

personal gain.  He read only a fierce determination.  It was an

expression he had seen many times in the years he'd known Pitt.

"I'll back you until the President orders your ass shot," he said at

last.  "Then you're on your own."

Pitt held back an audible sigh of relief.  It was going to be all right.

Better than all right.

Min Koryo looked down at the newspaper on her desk.  "What do you make

of this?"

Lee Tong leaned over her shoulder and read the opening sentences of the

article aloud.  "'It was announced yesterday by Dirk Pitt, Special

Projects Director for NUMA, that two ships missing for over twenty years

have been found.  The San Marino and the Pilottown, both Liberty-class

vessels built during World War Two, were discovered on the seafloor in

the North Pacific off Alaska."' "A bluff!"  Min Koryo snapped.  "Someone

in Washington, probably from the Justice Department, had nothing better

to do, so they sent up a trial balloon.

They're on a fishing expedition, nothing more."

"I think you're only half right, aunumi," Lee Tong said thoughtfully. "I

suspect that  NUMA was searching for the source behind the deaths in

Alaskan waters, they stumbled on the ship containing the nerve agent."

"And this press release is a scheme to ferret out the true owners of

that ship," Min Koryo anded.

Lee Tong nodded.  "The government is gambling we will make an inquiry

that can be traced."

Min Koryo sighed.  "A pity the ship wasn't sunk as planned."

Lee Tong came around and sank into a chair in front of the desk.

"Bad luck," he said, thinking back.  "After the explosives failed to

detonate, the storm hit, and I was unable to reboard the ship."

"You can't be faulted for nature's whims," Min Koryo said impassively.

"The true blame lies with the Russians.  If they hadn't backed out of

their bargain to buy Nerve Agent S, there would have been no need to

scuttle the ship."

"They were afraid the agent was too unstable to transport across Siberia

to their chemical warfare arsenal in the Urals."

"What's puzzling is how did NUMA tie the two ships together?"

"I can't say, aunumi.  We were careful to strip every piece of

identification."

"No matter," Min Koryo said.  "The fact remains, the article in the

newspaper is a ploy.  We must remain silent and do nothing to jeopardize

our anonymity."

"What about the man who made the announcement?"  Lee Tong asked.

"This Dirk Pitt?"

A long, cold, brooding look came over Min Koryo's narrow face.

"Investigate his motives and observe his movements.  See where he fits

in the picture.  If he appears to be a danger to us, arrange his

funeral."

The gray of evening softened the harsh outlines of Los Angeles, and the

lights came on, pimpling the sides of the buildings.  The noise of the

street traffic rose and seeped through the old-fashioned sash window.

The tracks were warped and jammed under a dozen coats of paint.  It

hadn't been opened in thirty years.  Outside, an air conditioner rattled

in its brackets.

The man sat in an aging wooden swivel chair and stared unseeing through

the grime filming the glass.  He stared through eyes that had seen the

worst the city had to give.  They were hard, stark eyes, still clear and

undimmed after sixty years.  He sat in shirtsleeves, the well-worn

leather of a holster slung over his left shoulder.  The butt of a .45

automatic protruded from it.  He was largeboned and stocky.

The muscles had softened over the years, but he could still lift a

two-hundred-pound man off the sidewalk and slam him in a brick wall.

The chair creaked as he swung around and leaned over a desk that was

battle-scarred with uncountable cigarette burns.  He picked up a folded

newspaper and read the article on the ship discoveries for perhaps the

tenth time.  Pulling open a drawer, he searched out a dog-eared folder

and stared at the cover for a long while.  Long ago he had memorized

every word on the papers inside.  Along with the newspaper he slipped it

inside a worn leather briefcase.

He rose and stepped over to a washbowl hung in one corner of the room

and rinsed his face with cold water.  Then he donned a coat and a

battered fedora, turned off the light and left the office.

As he stood in the hallway waiting for the elevator, he was surrounded

by the smells of the aging building.  The mold and rot seemed stronger

with each passing day.  Thirty-five years at the same stand was a long

time, he mused, too long.

His thoughts were interrupted by the clatter of the elevator door.

An operator who looked to be in his seventies gave him a yellow-toothed

grin.  "Callin' it quits for the night?"  he asked.

"No, I'm taking the red-eye flight to Washington."

"New case?"

"An old one."

There were no more questions and they rode the rest of the way in

silence.  As he stepped into the lobby he nodded at the operator.

"See you in a couple of days, Joe."

Then he passed through the main door and melted into the night.

To MOST, HIS NAME WAs HIRAM YAEGER.  To a select few he was known as

Pinocchio because he could stick his nose into a vast number of computer

networks and sift over their software.  His playground was the

tenth-floor communications and information network of NUMA.

Sandecker hired him to collect and store every scrap of data ever

written on the oceans, scientific or historical, fact or theory.

Yaeger tackled the job with a fierce dedication, and within five years

had accumulated a huge computer library of knowledge about the sea.

Yaeger worked erratic hours, sometimes coming in with the morning sun

and working straight through until the following dawn.  He seldom showed

up for departmental meetings, but Sandecker left him alone because there

was none better, and because Yaeger had an uncanny ability to pry out

secret access codes to a great number of worldwine computer networks.

Always dressed in Levi's jacket and pants, he wore his long blond hair

in a bun.  A scraggly heard combined with his probing eyes gave him the

appearance of a desert prospector peering over the next hill for

Eldorado.

He sat at a computer terminal stuck away in a far corner of NUMA's

electronic maze.  Pitt stood off to one side watching with interest the

green block letters on a display screen.

"That's all we're going to comb from the Maritime Administration's mass

storage system."

"Nothing new there," Pitt agreed.

What now?"

Can you tap the Coast Guard headquarters documents?"

Yaeger gave a wolfish grin.  "Can Aunt jemima make pancakes?"

He consulted a thick black notebook for a minute, found the insertion he

was looking for and punched the number into a pushbbutton telephone

connected to a modern link.  The Coast Guard computer system answered

and accepted Yaeger's access code, and the green block letters swept

across the display: "PLEASE STATE YOUR REQUEST."

Yaeger gave Pitt a questioning look.

"Ask for an abstract of title on the Pilottown," Pitt ordered.

Yaeger nodded and sent the request into the terminal.  The answer

flashed back and Pitt studied it closely, noting all the transactions of

the vessel from the time she was built, who owned it as long as it was a

documented vessel flying the United States flag, and the mortgages

against it.  The prohe was redundant.  The Pilottown had been removed

from documentation when it was sold to an alien, in this case the

Kassandra Phosphate Company of Athens, Greece.

"Anything promising?"  Yaeger inquired.

"Another dry hole," Pitt grunted.

"How about Lloyd's of London?   They'll have it in their register."

"Okay, give it a shot."

Yaeger logged out of the Coast Guard system, checked his book again and

routed the terminal to the computer bank of the great maritime insurance

company.  The data printed out at 400 characters a second.  This time

the history of the Pilottown was revealed in greater detail.  And yet

little of it appeared useful.  Then an item at the bottom of the display

screen caught Pitts attention.

"I think we might have something."

"Looks pretty much like the same stuff to me," said Yaeger.

"The line after Sosan Trading Company."

"Where they're listed as operators?   So what?   That showed up before."

"As owners, not operators.  There's a difference."

"What does it prove?"

Pitt straightened, and his eyes took on a reflective look.  "The reason

owners register their vessel with what is called a 'country of

convenience' is to save costly licenses, taxes and restrictive operating

regulations.  Another reason is they become lost to any kind of

investigation.  So they set up a dummy front and carry the company

headquarters andress as a post office box, in this case, Inchon, Korea.

Now, if they contract with an operator to arrange cargoes and crews for

the ship, the transfer of money from one to the other must take place.

Banking facilities must be used.  And banks keep records."

"All right, but say I'm a parent outfit.  Why let my shady shipping

line be run by some sleazy second party if we leave traceable banking

links?   I fail to see the advantage .

"An insurance scam," Pitt answered.  "The operator does the dirty work

while the owners collect.  For example, take the case of a Greek tanker

several years ago.  A tramp called the Trikeri.  It departed Surabaja,

Indonesia, with its oil tanks filled to the brim.

After reaching Capetown, South Africa, it slipped onto an offshore

pipeline and removed all but a few thousand gallons.  A week later it

mysteriously sank off West Africa.  An insurance claim was filed on the

ship and a full cargo of oil.  Investigators were dead certain the

sinking was intentional, but they couldn't prove it.  The Trikeri's

operator took the heat and quietly went out of business.  The registered

owners collected the insurance payoff and then siphoned it off through a

corporate maze to the power at the top."

"This happen often?"

"More than anyone knows," Pitt replied.

"You want to dig into the Sosan Trading Company's bank account?"

Pitt knew better than to ask Yaeger if he could do it.  He simply said,

"Yes."

Yaeger logged out of the Lloyd's computer network and walked over to a

file cabinet.  He returned with a large bookkeeping ledger.

"Bank security codes," he said without elaboration.

Yaeger set to work and horned in on Sosan Trading's bank in two minutes.

"Got it!"  he exclaimed.  "An obscure Inchon branch of a big bank

headquartered in Seoul.  Account was closed six years ago."

"Are the statements still on file?"

Without answering, Yaeger stabbed the terminal's keys and then sat back,

arms folded, and eyed the printouts.  The data blinked on with the

account number and a request for the monthly statements desired.

He looked up at Pitt expectantly.

"March through September 1976," Pitt directed.

The bank's computer system in Korea obliged.

"Most curious," Yaeger said, digesting the data.  "Only twelve

transactions over a span of seven years.  Sosan Trading must have

cleared their overhead and payroll with cash."

"Where did the deposits originate?"  Pitt asked.

"Appears to be a bank in Bern, Switzerland."

"One step closer."

"Yes, but here it gets tricky," said Yaeger.  "Swiss bank security codes

are more complex.  And if this shipping outfit is as cagey as they

appear, they probably juggle bank accounts like a vaudeville act."

"I'll get the coffee while you start digging."

Yaeger looked pensively at Pitt for a moment.  "You never give up, do

you?"

"No."

Yaeger was surprised at the sudden coldness in Pitts tone.  He shrugged.

"Okay, pal, but this isn't going to be a walkover.  It may take all

night and turn up zilch.  I'll have to keep sending different number

combinations until I strike the right codes."

"You got something better to do?"

"No, but while you're getting the coffee, I'd appreciate it if you scare

up some donuts."

The bank in Bern, Switzerland, proved discouraging.  Any trail to Sosan

Trading's parent company ended there.  They spotchecked six other Swiss

banks, hoping they might get lucky, like a treasure bunter who finds the

shipwreck chart he's searching for hidden away in the wrong drawer of an

archive.  But they turned up nothing of value.  Groping through the

account records of every banking house in Europe presented a staggering

problem.  There were over six thousand of them.

"Looks pretty dismal," said Yaeger after five hours of staring at the

display screen.

"I agree," said Pitt.

"Shall I keep punching away?"

"If you don't mind."

Yaeger raised his arms and stretched.  "This is how I get my kicks.  You

look like you've had it, though.  Why don't you shove off and get some

sleep?   If I stumble on anything, I'll give you a call."

Pitt gratefully left Yaeger at NUMA headquarters and drove across the

river to the airport.  He stopped the Talbot-Lago in front of his hangar

door, slipped a small transmitter from his coat pocket and pressed a

preset code.  In sequence the security alarm systems closed down and the

massive door lifted to a height of seven feet.

He parked the car inside and reversed the process.  Then wearily he

climbed the stairway, entered the living room and turned on the lights.

A man was sitting in Pitts favorite reading chair, his hands folded on a

briefcase that rested on his lap.  There was a patient look about him,

almost deadly, with only the tiniest hint of an indifferent smile.  He

wore an old-fashioned fedora hat and his customtailored coat, specially

cut to conceal a lethal bulge, was unbuttoned just enough to reveal the

butt of a.45 automatic.

For a moment they stared at each other, neither speaking, like fighters

sizing up their opponents.

At last Pitt broke the silence.  "I guess the appropriate thing to say

is, Who the hell are you?"

The thin smile broadened into a set grin.  "I'm a private investigator,

Mr.  Pitt.  My name is Casio, Sal Casio."

"Your security system is good-not great, but good enough to discourage

most burglars and juvenile vandals."

"That mean I flunked the test?"

"Not entirely.  I'd grade you a C-plus."

Pitt moved very slowly to an antique oak icebox he'd rebuilt into a

liquor cabinet and eased open the door.  "Would you like a drink, Mr.

Casio?"

"A shot of jack Daniel's on ice, thanks."

"A lucky guess.  I happen to have a bottle."

"I peeked," said Casio.  "Oh, and by the way, I took the liberty of

removing the clip from the gun."

"Gun?"  Pitt asked innocently.

"The .32-caliber Mauser automatic, serial number 922374, cleverly taped

behind the half-gallon bottle of gin."

Pitt gave Casio a long look indeed.  "How long did it take?"

"To make a search?"

Pitt nodded silently as he opened the refrigerator door for the ice.

"About forty-five minutes."

"And you found the other two guns I squirreled away."

"Three actually."

"You're very thorough."

"Nothing that is hidden in a house can't be found.  And some of us are

more talented at probing than others.  It's simply a matter of

technique."  There was nothing boastful in Casio's tone.  He spoke as

though merely stating an accepted truth.

Pitt poured the drink and brought it into the living room on a tray.

Casio took the glass with his right hand.  Then suddenly Pitt dropped

the tray, exposing a small vest-pocket .25-caliber automatic aimed at

Casio's forehead.

Casio's only reaction was a thin smile.  "Very good," he said

approvingly.  "So there were a total of five."

"Inside an empty milk carton," Pitt explained.

"Nicely done, Mr.  Pitt.  A clever touch, waiting until my gun hand was

holding a glass.  That shows you were thinking.  I'll have to mark you

up to a B-minus."

Pitt clicked on the safety and lowered the gun.  "If you came here to

kill me, Mr.  Casio, you could have blown me away when I stepped through

the door.  What's on your mind?"

Casio nodded down at his briefcase.  "May I?"

"Go ahead."

He set the drink down, opened the case and pulled out a bulging

cardboard folder that was held together with rubber bands.  "A case I've

worked on since 1966."

"A long time.  You must be a stubborn man."

"I hate to let go of it," Casio admitted.  "It's like walking away from

a jigsaw puzzle before it's completed, or putting down a good book.

Sooner or later every investigator gets on a case that has him staring

at the ceiling nights, the case he can never solve.  This one has a

personal tie, Mr.  Pitt.  It began twenty-three years ago when a girl, a

bank teller by the name of Arta Casilighio, stole $128,000 from a bank

in Los Angeles."

"How can that concern me?"

"She was last seen boarding a ship called the San Marino."

"Okay, so you'read the press story about the shipwreck discovery."

"Yes."

"And you think this girl disappeared with the San Marino?"

"I'm certain of it."

"Then your case is solved.  The thief is dead and the money gone

forever."

"Not that simple," said Casio, staring into his glass.  "There's no

doubt Arta Casilighio is dead, but the money is not gone forever.

Arta took freshly printed currency from the Federal Reserve Bank.

All serial numbers were recorded, so it was an easy matter to account

for the missing bills."  Casio paused to look over his glass into Pitts

eyes.  "Two years ago the missing money finally turned up."

Sudden interest flared in Pitts eyes.  He sat down in a chair facing

Casio.  "All of it?"  he asked cautiously.

Casio nodded.  "it appeared in dribbles and spurts.  Five thousand in

Frankfurt, a thousand in Cairo, all in foreign banks.  None came to

light in the United States, except one hundred-dollar bill."

"Then Arta didn't die on the San Marino."

"She vanished with the ship all right.  The FBI connected her to a

stolen passport belonging to an Estelle Wallace.  With that lead they

were able to follow her as far as San Francisco.  Then they lost her.

I kept digging and finally ran down a drifter who sometimes drove a cab

when he needed booze money.  He remembered hauling her to the boarding

ramp of the San Marino."

"Can you trust the memory of a lush?"

Casio smiled confinently, "Arta gave him a crisp new hundred-dollar bill

for the fare.  He couldn't make change so she told him to keep it.

Believe me, it took little effort for him to recall the event."

"If stolen Federal Reserve currency is in FBI jurisdiction, where do you

fit in the picture?   Why the dogged pursuit of a criminal whose trail

is ice cold?"

"Before I shortened my name for business reasons, it was Casilighio.

Arta was my daughter."

There was an uncomfortable silence.  From outside the windows

overlooking the river came the rumble of a jetliner taking off.  Pitt

stood up and went into the kitchen, where he poured a cup of coffee from

a cold pot and placed it in a microwave oven.  "Care for another drink,

Mr.  Casio?"

Casio shook his head.

"So the bottom line is that you think there's something queer about your

daughter's disappearance?"

"She and the ship never made port, but the money she stole turns up in a

manner that suggests it's being laundered a little at a time.

Doesn't that suggest a queer circumstance to you, Mr.  Pitt?"

"I can't deny you make a good case."  The microwave beeped and Pitt

retrieved a steaming cup.  "But I'm not sure what you want from me."

"I have some questions."

Pitt sat down, his interest going beyond mere curiosity.  "Don't expect

detailed answers."

"I understand."

"Fire away."

"Where did you find the San Marino?   I mean in what part of the Pacific

Ocean?"

"Near the southern coast of Alaska," Pitt replied vaguely.

"A bit far off the track for a ship steaming from San Francisco to New

Zealand, wouldn't you say?"

"Way off the track," Pitt agreed.

"As far as two thousand miles?"

"And then some."  Pitt took a swallow of coffee and made a face.

It was strong enough to use as brick mortar.  He looked up.

"Before we continue it's going to cost you."

Casio gave him a reappraising eye.  "Somehow you never struck me as the

type who'd extend a greasy palm."

"I'd like to have the names of the banks in Europe that passed the

stolen money."

"Any particular reason?"  Casio asked, not bothering to conceal his

puzzlement.

"None I can tell you about."

"You're not very cooperative."

Pitt started to reply, but the phone on an end table rang loudly.

"Hello."

"Dirk, this is Yaeger.  You still awake."

"Thank you for calling.  How is Sally?   Is she out of intensive care

yet?"

"Can't talk, huh?"

"Not too well."

"But you can listen."

"No problem."

"Bad news.  I'm not getting anywhere.  I'd stand a better chance of

throwing a deck of cards in the air and catching a straight flush."

"Maybe I can knock down the odds.  Hold on a minute."  Pitt turned to

Casio.  "About that list of banks."

Casio slowly rose, poured himself another shot of jack Daniel's and

stood with his back to Pitt.

"A trade-off, Mr.  Pitt.  The bank list for what you know about the San

Marino."

"I don't give a damn if it's stenciled on the inside of the President's

jockey shorts.  Either we deal or I pack up and hike."

"How do you know I won't lie?"

"my list could be phony."

st each other," said Pitt with a loose grin.

"The hell we will," grunted Casio.  "But neither of us has any choice."

He took a sheet of paper from the folder and handed it to Pitt, who in

turn read off the names over the phone to Yaeger.

"Now what?"  Casio demanded.

"Now I tell you what happened to the San Marino.  And by breakfast I may

also be able to tell you who killed your daughter."

FIFTEEN MINUTES AFTER SUNRISE, the photoelectric controllers in all of

Washington's streetlights closed off their circuits.  One by one,

separated by no more than a few seconds, the yellow and red rays of the

high-pressure sodium lamps faded and died, to wait through the daylight

hours until fifteen minutes before sunset, when their light-sensitive

controllers would boost them to life again.

Beneath the dimming glow of the streetlights, Sam Emmett could hear the

vibration from the early-morning traffic as he walked hurriedly through

the utility tunnel.  There was no Marine Corps or Secret Service escort.

He came alone, as did the others.

The only person he'd met since leaving his car under the Treasury

building was the White House guard stationed at the basement door.  At

the head of the hallway leading to the Situation Room, Emmett was

greeted by Alan Mercier.

"You're the last," Mercier informed him.

Emmett checked his watch and noted he was five minutes early.

"Everyone?"  he questioned.

"Except for Simmons in Egypt and Lucas, who's giving your speech at

Princeton, they're all present."

As he entered, Oates motioned him to a chair beside his, while Dan

Fawcett, General Metcalf, CIA chief Martin Brogan and Mercier gathered

around the conference table.

"I'm sorry for moving the scheduled meeting up by four hours," Oates

began, "but Sam informed me that his investigators have determined how

the kidnapping took place."  Without further explanation he nodded to

the FBI Director.

Emmett passed out folders to each of the men at the table, then rose,

moved to a blackboard and took a piece of chalk.  Quickly and to precise

scale he drew in the river, the grounds of Mount Vernon and the

presidential yacht tied to the dock.  Then he filled in the detail and

labeled specific areas.  The completed drawing had a realism about it

that suggested a talent for architectural design.

Satisfied finally that each piece of the scene was in its correct place,

he turned and faced his audience.  "We'll walk through the event

chronologically," he explained.  "I'll briefly summarize while you

gentlemen study the details shown in the report.  Some of what I'm about

to describe is based on fact and hard evidence.  Some is conjecture.  We

have to fill in the blanks as best we can."

Emmett wrote in a time on the upper left corner of the blackboard.

"1825: The Eagle arrives at Mount Vernon, where the Secret Service has

installed its security network and the surveillance begins.

"2015: The President and his guests sit down to dinner.  In the same

hour, officers and the crew began their meal in the messroom.

The only men on duty were the chef, one assistant and the dining room

steward.  This fact is important because we feel that it was during

dinner that the President, his party, and the ship's crew were drugged."

"Drugged or poisoned?"  Oates said, looking up.

"Nothing so drastic as poison," Emmett answered.  "A mild drug that

induced a gradual state of drowsidess was probably administered in their

food by either the chef or the steward who served the table."

"Sounds practical," said Brogan.  "It wouldn't do to have bodies

dropping all over the decks."

Emmett paused to gather his thoughts.  "The Secret Service agent whose

post was onboard the yacht the hour before midnight reported the

President and Vice President Margolin were the last to retire.  Time:

2310."

"That's too early for the President," said Dan Fawcett.  "I've seldom

known him to be in bed before two in the morning."

"0025: A light mist drifts in from the northeast.  Followed at by a

heavy fog caused by two Navy surplus fogging generators concealed in the

trees one hundred and sixty yards upriver from the Eagle."

"They could blanket the entire area?"  Oates asked.

"Under the right atmospheric conditions-in this case, no wind the units

left on site by the kinnappers can cover two square acres."

Fawcett looked lost.  "My God, this operation must have taken an army."

Emmett shook his head.  "Our projections figure it took as few as seven

and certainly no more than ten men."

"Surely the Secret Service scouted the woods surrounding Mount Vernon

before the President's arrival," said Fawcett.  "How did they miss the

foggers?"

"The units weren't in place prior to 1700 the night of the abduction,"

replied Emmett.

"How could the equipment operators see what they were doing in the

dark?"  Fawcett pressed.  "Why weren't their movements and the sound of

the generators overheard?"

"Infrared night visual gear would answer your first question.

And the noise made by the equipment was muffled by the mooing of

cattle."

Brogan gave a thoughtful twist of his head.  "Who would have ever

thought of that?"

"Somebody did," said Emmett.  "They left the tape recorder and an

amplifier behind with the foggers."

"It says here the only thing the security people noticed was an oily

aroma to the fog."

Emmett nodded.  "The fogger heats a deodorized kerosene type of fuel to

a high pressure and blows it out a nozzle in very fine droplets,

producing the fog."

"Let's move on to the next event," said Oates.

"0150: The small chase boat moors to the dock because of limited

visibility.  Three minutes later the Coast Guard cutter notifies agent

George Blackowl at the Secret Service command post that a high-intensity

signal is jamming their radar reception.  They also apprised agent

Blackowl that before their equipment went blind the only contact on

their oscilloscope was a city sanitation tugboat and its trash barges

that tied up to the bank to wait out the fog."

Metcalf looked up.  "Tied up how far away?"

"Two hundred yards upriver."

"Then the tug was above the artificial fog."

"A crucial point," Emmett acknowledged, "which we'll come to later."

He turned to the blackboard and wrote in another time sequence.

The room fell quiet.  The men seated around the long table sat in

rocklike stillness waiting for Emmett to reveal the final solution to

the presidential abduction.

"0200: The agents moved to their new guard posts.  Agent Lyle Brock took

up station onboard the Eagle after agent Karl Polaski relieved him on

the pier entrance.  What is most important is that during this time the

Eagle was hidden from his sight.  He later walked to the boarding

gangway of the yacht and talked to someone he thought was Brock.  Brock

by now was either unconscious or dead.  Polaski did not notice anything

suspicious except that Brock appeared to have forgotten his next Post."

"Polaski couldn't tell he was talking with a stranger?"

questioned Oates.

"They conversed from at least ten feet away from each other in low tones

so they wouldn't disturb anyone on the yacht.  When the 0300 post change

came around, Brock simply melted into the fog.

Agent Polaski states that he was never able to see more than a vague

figure.  It wasn't until 0348 that agent Edward McGrath discovered that

Brock was not at his scheduled post.  McGrath then notified Blackowl,

who met him on the Eagle four minutes later.

The yacht was searched and found empty, except for Polaski who had moved

onboard to replace Brock."

Emmett placed the chalk back in the tray and wiped his hands together.

"The rest is cut and dried.  Who was alerted and when .  . .

the results of a fruitless search on the river and around the grounds of

Mount Vernon .  . . the roadblocks that failed to produce the missing

men .  . . and so on."

"What was the disposition of the tugboat and trash barges after the

alert?"  Metcalf questioned cannily.

"The barges were found moored to the riverbank," Emmett answered him:

"The tug was gone."

"So much for facts," said Oates.  "The prize question is How were almost

twenty men spirited off the yacht under the noses of an army of Secret

Service agents and passed undetected through the most advanced security

alarm system that money can buy?"

"Your answer is, Mr.  Secretary, they weren't."

Oates's eyebrows raised.  "How was it done?"

Emmett noticed a smug expression on Metcalf's face.  "I think the

general has figured it out."

"I wish someone would tell me," said Fawcett.

Emmett took a deep breath before he spoke.  "The yacht that agents

Blackowl and McGrath found deserted is not the same yacht that carried

the President and his party to Mount Vernon."

"Son of a bitch!"  gasped Mercier.

"That's hard to swallow," said Oates skeptically.

Emmett picked up the chalk again and began diagramming.

"About fifteen minutes after the fogging generators began laying a dense

cloud over the river and Mount Vernon, the abduction team transmitted on

the Coast Guard's radar frequency and knocked it out of commission.

Upriver the sanitation tugboat except in this instance it was not a

river tug but a yacht identical in every detail to the Eagle-cast off

from the barges, which we found to be empty, and slowly cruised

downstream.  Its radar, of course, was operating on a different

frequency from the Coast Guard's."

Emmett drew in the path of the approaching yacht.  "When it was fifty

yards from the Mount Vernon pier and the stern of the Eagle, it shut

down its engines and drifted with the current, which was running about

one knot.  Then the abductors-"

"What I'd like to know, is how they got onboard in the first place,"

Mercier interrupted.

Emmett made a shrugging gesture with his hands.  "We don't know.

Our best guess at the moment is that they killed the galley crew earlier

in the day and took their places, using counterfeit Coast Guard

identification and orders."

"Please continue your findings," Oates persisted.

"Then the abductors on the yacht," Emmett repeated, "untied the mooring

lines, allowing the Eagle to drift silently from the pier to make room

for its double.  Polaski heard nothing from his post near the bank,

because any strange sounds were covered by the hum of the engine-room

generators.  Then, once the bogus yacht was tied to the pier its crew,

probably no more than two men, rowed a small dinghy to the Eagle and

escaped with the others down river.  One remained, however, to

impersonate agent Brock.

By the time Polaski conversed with Brock's impersonator, the switch had

already been made.  At the next post change, the man calling himself

Brock slipped off and joined the men operating the foggers.

Together they drove off and swung on the highway toward Alexandria.  We

know that much by footprints and tire tracks."

Everyone but Emmett focused his attention on the blackboard, as if

trying to visualize the scene.  The incredible timing, the ease with

which presidential security was breached, the smoothness of the entire

operation, staggered everyone.

"I can't help but admire the execution," General Metcalf said.

"They must have taken a long time to plan this thing."

"Our estimate is three years," said Emmett.

"Where could they possibly have found an identical boat?"  Fawcett

muttered to no one in particular.

"My investigating team considered that.  They traced the old boating

records and found that the original builder constructed the Eagle and a

sister ship named the Samantha at the same time.  The last registered

owner of the Samantha was a stockbroker in Baltimore.  He sold it about

three years ago to a guy named Dunn.

That's all he could tell us.  It was an under-the-table cash transaction

to beat a profit tax.  He never saw Dunn or the yacht again.

The Samantha that was never registered or licensed under the new owner.

They both dropped from sight."

"Was it identical in every respect to the Eagle?"  Brogan asked.

"A creative job of deception.  Every stick of furniture, bulkhead decor,

paint and equipment is a perfect match."

Fawcett nervously tapped a pencil on the table.  "How did you catch on?"

"Every time you enter and leave a room, you leave particles of your

presence behind.  Hair, dandruff, lint, fingerprints-they can all be

detected.  My lab people couldn't find one tiny hint that the President

or the others had ever been on board."

Oates straightened in his chair.  "The Bureau has done a magnificent

job, Sam.  We're all grateful."

Emmett gave a curt nod and sat down.

"The yacht transfer brings up a new angle," Oates continued.

"As gruesome as it sounds, we have to consider the possibility they were

all assassinated."

"We've got to find the yacht," Mercier said grimly.

Emmett looked at him.  "I've already ordered a surface and air search."

"You won't find it that way," Metcalf interjected.  "We're dealing with

damned smart people.  They're not about to leave it lying around where

it can be found."

Fawcett poised his pencil in minair.  "Are you saying the yacht was

destroyed?"

"That may well be the case," Metcalf said, apprehension forming in his

eyes.  "If so, we have to be prepared to find corpses."

Oates leaned on his elbows and rubbed his face with his hands and wished

he was anyplace but in that room at that moment.

"We're going to have to spread our trust," he said finally.  "The best

man I can think of for an underwater search is Jim Sandecker over at

NUMA."

"I concur," said Fawcett.  "His special project team has just wrapped

tip a ticklish job off Alaska, where they found the ship responsible for

winespread contamination."

"Will you brief him, Sam?"  Oates asked Emmett.

"I'll go directly from here to his office."

'Veil, I guess that's it for now," Oates said, exhaustion creeping into

his voice.  "Good or bad, we have a lead.  Only God knows what we'll

have after we find the Eagle."  He hesitated, staring up at the

blackboard.  Then he said, "I don't envy the first man who steps

inside."

Every MORNING, including Saturdays and Sundays, Admiral Sandecker jogged

the six miles from his Watergate apartment to the NUMA headquarters

building.  He had just stepped out of the bathroom shower adjoining his

office when his secretary's voice came over a speaker above the sink:

"Admiral, Mr.  Emmett is here to see you."

Sandecker was vigorously toweling his hair and he was not sure he heard

the name right.  "Sam Emmett, as in FBI?"

"Yes, sir.  He asked to see you immediately.  He says it's extremely

urgent."

Sandecker saw his face turn incredulous in the mirror.  The esteemed

Director of the FBI did not make office calls at eight in the morning.

The Washington bureaucratic game had rules.  Everyone from the President

on down abined by them.  Emmett's unannounced visit could only mean a

dire emergency.

"Send him right in."

He barely had time to throw on a terry-cloth robe, his skin still

dripping, when Emmett strode through the door.

"Jim, we've got a hell of a problem."  Emmett didn't bother with a

preliminary handshake.  He quickly lain his briefcase on Sandecker's

desk, opened it and handed the admiral a folder.  "Sit down and look

this over, and then we'll discuss it."

Sandecker was not a man to be shoved and ordered around, but he could

read the tension in Emmett's eyes, and he did as he was asked without

comment.

Sandecker studied the contents of the folder for nearly ten minutes

without speaking.  Emmett sat on the other side of the desk and looked

for an expression of shock or anger.  There was none.

Sandecker remained enigmatic.  At last he closed the folder and said

simply, "How can I help?"

"Find the Eagle."

"You think they sank her?"

"An air and surface search has turned up nothing."

"All right, I'll get my best people on it."  Sandecker made a movement

toward his intercom.  Emmett raised his hand in a negative gesture.

"I don't have to describe the chaos if this leaks out."

"I've never lied to my staff before."

"You'll have to keep them in the dark on this one."

Sandecker gave a curt nod and spoke into the intercom.  "Sylvia, please

get Pitt on the phone."

"Pitt?"  Emmett inquired in an official tone.

"My special projects director.  He'll head up the search."

"You'll tell him only what's necessary?"  It was more an order than a

request.

A yellow caution light glimmered in Sandecker's eyes.  "That will be at

my discretion."

Emmett started to say something but was interrupted by the intercom.

"Admiral?"

"Yes, Sylvia."

"Mr.  Pitts line is busy."

"Keep trying until he answers," Sandecker said gruffly.  "Better yet,

call the operator and cut in on his line.  Tell her this is a government

priority."

"Will you be able to mount a full-scale search operation by evening?"

asked Emmett.

Sandecker's lips parted in an all-devouring grin.  "If I know Pitt,

he'll have a crew scanning the depths of the Potomac River before

lunch."

Pitt was speaking to Hiram Yaeger when the operator broke in.

He cut the conversation short and then dialed the admiral's private

line.  After listening without doing any talking for several moments, he

replaced the receiver in its cradle.

"Well," asked Casio expectantly.

"The money was exchanged, never deposited," Pitt said, looking miserably

down at the floor.  "That's all.  That's all there is.  No thread left

to pick up."

There was only a flicker of disappointment in Casio's face.  He'd been

there before.  He let out a long sigh and stared at his watch.

He struck Pitt as a man drained of emotional display.

"I appreciate your help," he said quietly.  He snapped his briefcase

shut and stood up.  "I'd better go now.  If I don't lag, I can catch the

next flight back to L.A."

"I'm sorry I couldn't provide an answer."

Casio shook Pitts hand in a tight grip.  "Nobody scores one hundred

percent every time.  Those responsible for the death of my daughter and

your friend have made a mistake.  Somewhere, sometime, they overlooked a

detail.  I'm glad to have you on my side, Mr.  Pitt.

It's been a lonely job until now."

Pitt was genuinely moved.  "I'll keep digging from my end."

"I couldn't ask for more."  Casio nodded and then walked down the

stairs.  Pitt watched him shuffle across the hangar floor, a proud,

hardened old man, battling his own private windmill.

THE President SAT upright in a black leather-cushioned chrome chair, his

body held firmly in place by nylon belts.  His eyes stared off in the

distance, unfocused and vacant.  Wireless sensor scans were taped onto

his chest and forehead, transmitting the physical signatures of eight

different life functions to a computer network.

The operating room was small, no more than a hundred square feet, and

crammed with electronic monitoring equipment.  Lugovoy and four members

of his surgical team were quietly and efficiently preparing for the

delicate operation.  Paul Suvorov stood in the only empty corner,

looking uncomfortable in a green sterile gown.

He watched as one of Lugovoy's technicians, a woman, pressed a small

needle into one side of the President's neck and then the other.

"Odd place for an anesthetic," Suvorov remarked.

"For the actual penetration we'll use a local," Lugovoy replied while

staring at an image-intensified X ray on a vineo display.

"However, a tiny dose of Amytal into the carotin arteries puts the left

and right hemispheres of the brain in a drowsy state.  This procedure is

to eliminate any conscious memory of the operation."

"Shouldn't you shave his head?"  Suvorov asked, gesturing toward the

President's hair, which protruded through an opening of a metal helmet

encasing his skull.

"We must ignore normal surgical procedures," Lugovoy patiently answered.

"For obvious reasons, we cannot alter his appearance in any form."

"Who will direct the operation'?"

"Who do you think?"

"I'm asking you, comrade."

"I will."

Suvorov looked puzzled.  "I've studied your file and the file of every

member of the staff.  I can almost repeat their contents by heart.  Your

field is psychology, most of the others are electronic technicians and

one is a biochemist.  None of you has surgical qualifications."

"Because we don't require them."  He dismissed Suvorov and scrutinized

the TV display again.  Then he nodded.  "We can begin now.

Set the laser in place."

A technician pressed his face against the rubber eyepiece of a

microscope attached to an argon laser.  The machine tied into a computer

and displayed a set of coordinates in orange numbers across the bottom

of the microscope's position fixer.  When the numbers read only zeros

the placement was exact.

The man at the laser nodded.  "Position set."

"Commence," Lugovoy directed.

A wisp of smoke, so faint that only the laser operator could see it in

the microscope, signaled the contact of the imperceptibly thin

blue-green beam with the President's skull.

It was a strange scene.  Everyone stood with his back to the patient,

watching the monitors.  The images were magnified until the beam could

be seen as a weblike filament strand.  With a precision far above human

dexterity, the computer guided the laser in cutting a minute hole one

thirtieth of a millimeter in the bone, penetrating only to the membrane

covering the brain and its fluid.

Suvorov moved closer in rapt fascination, "What happens next?" he asked

hoarsely.

Lugo'voy motioned him over to an electron microscope.  "See for

yourself."

Suvorov peered through the twin lenses.  "All I make out is a dark

speck."

"Adjust the focus to your eyes."

Suvorov did so and the speck became a chip-an integrated circuit.

"A microminiaturized implant that can transmit and receive brain

signals.  We're going to place it in his cerebral cortex, where the

brain's thought processes originate."

'What does the implant use for an energy source?"

"The brain itself produces ten watts of electricity," Lugovoy explained.

"The President's brainwaves can be telemetered to a control unit

thousands of miles away, translated and any required commands returned.

You might say it's like changing TV channels with a remote control box."

Suvorov stepped back from the microscope and stared at Lugovoy.

"The possibilities are even more overwhelming than I thought," he

murmured.  "We'll be able to learn every secret of the United States

government."

"We'll also be able to manipulate his days and nights for as long as he

lives," Lugovoy continued.  "And through the computer, direct his

personality so that neither he nor anyone close to him will notice."

A technician stepped behind him.  "We're ready to position the implant."

He nodded.  "Proceed."

A robotlike machine was moved in place of the laser.  The incredibly

diminutive implant was taken from under the microscope and exactingly

fitted into the end of a single slim wire protruding from a mechanical

arm.  It was then aligned with the opening in the President's skull.

"Beginning penetration now," droned the voice of the man seated at a

console.

As with the viewer on the laser, he studied a series of numbers on a

display screed.  The entire procedure was preprogrammed.  No human hand

was lifted.  Led by the computer, the robot delicately eased the wire

through the protective membrane into the soft folds of the brain.

After six minutes the display screen flashed, "MARK."

Lugovoy's eyes never left the color X-ray monitor.  "Release and

withdraw the probe."

"Released and withdrawing," a voice echoed.

After the wire was removed it was replaced with a miniature tubelike

instrument containing a small plug with three hairs and their roots,

removed from one of the Russian staff whose head growth closely

resembled the President.  The plug was then inserted into the tiny hole

neatly cut by the laser beam.  When the robot unit was pulled back,

Lugovoy approached and studied the results with a large magnifying

glass.

"What little scabbing that transpires should flake away in a few days,"

he remarked.  Satisfied, he straightened and viewed the

computer-directed screens.

"The implant is operational," announced his female assistant.

Lugovoy massaged his hands in a pleased gesture.  "Good, we can begin

the second penetration."

"You're going to place another implant?"  Suvorov asked.

"No, inject a small amount of RNA into the hippocampus."

"Could you enlighten me in layman terms?"

Lugovoy reached over the shoulder of the man sitting at the computer

console and twisted a knob.  The image of the President's brain enlarged

until it covered the entire screen of the X-ray monitor.

"There," he said, tapping the glass screen.  "The sea-horse-shaped

bridge running under the horns of the lateral ventricles, a vital

section of the brain's limbic system.  It's called the hippocampus.

It's here where new memories are received and dispersed.  By injecting

RNA-ribonucleic acin, which transmits genetic instructions-from one

subject, one who's been programmed with certain thoughts, we can

accomplish what we term a 'memory transfer."' Suvorov had been furiously

storing what he saw and heard in his mind, but he was falling behind. He

could not absorb it all.  Now he stared down at the President's, eyes

uncertain.

"You can actually inject the memory of one man into another's brain?"

"Exactly," Lugovoy said nonchalantly.  "What do you think happens in the

mental hospitals where the KGB sends enemies of the state.  Not all are

re-educated to become good party lovers.  Many are used for important

psychological experiments.  For example, the RNA we are about to

administer into the President's hippocampus comes from an artist who

insisted on creating illustrations depicting our leaders in awkward and

uncomplimentary poses.

I can't recall his name."

"Belkaya?"

"Yes, Oskar Belkaya.  A sociological misfit.  His paintings were either

masterpieces of modern art or nightmarish abstractions, depending on

your taste.  After your fellow state security agents arrested him at his

studio, he was secretly taken to a remote sanitarium outside of Kiev.

There he was placed in a cocoon, like the ones we have here, for two

years.  With new memory storage techniques, discovered through

biochemistry, his memory was erased and indoctrinated with political

concepts we wish the President to implement within his government."

"But can't you accomplish the same thing with the control implant?"

"The implant, with its computerized network, is extremely complex and

liable to breakdown.  The memory transfer acts as a backup system.

Also, our experiments have shown that the control process operates more

efficiently when the subject creates the thought himself, and the

implant then commands a positive or negative response."

"Very impressive," Suvorov said earnestly.  "And that's the end of it?"

"Not entirely.  As an anded safety margin, one of my staff, a highly

skilled hypnotist, will put the President in a trance and wipe out any

subconscious sensations he might have absorbed while under our care.

He'll also be primed with a story of where he's been for ten days in

vivin detail."

"As the Americans are fond of saying, you have all the bases covered."

Lugovoy shook his head.  "The human brain is a magical universe we will

never fully understand.  We may think we've finally harnessed its three

and a half pounds of grayish-pink jelly, but its capricious nature is as

unpredictable as the weather."

"What you're saying is that the President might Dot react the way you

want him to."

"It's possible," Lugovoy said seriously.  "It's also possible for his

brain to break the bonds of reality, despite our control, and make him

do something that will have terrible consequences for us all."

SANDECKER STOPPED HIS CAR in the parking lot of a small yacht marina

forty miles below Washington.  He climbed from under the wheel and stood

looking out over the Potomac River.  The sky sparkled in a clear blue as

the dull green water rolled eastward toward Chesapeake Bay.  He walked

down a sagging stairway to a floating dock.  Tied up at the end was a

tired old clamming boat, its rusting tongs hanging from a deck boom like

the claws of some freakish animal.

The hull was worn from years of hard use and most of the paint was gone.

Her diesel engine chugged out little puffs of exhaust that leaped from

the tip of the stack and dissolved into a soft breeze.  Her name, barely

discernible over the stern transom, read Hoki Jamoki.

Sandecker glanced at his watch.  It showed twenty minutes to noon.

He nodded in approval.  Only three hours after he'd briefed Pitt, the

search for the Eagle was on.  He jumped on deck and greeted the two

engineers connecting the sonar sensor to the recorder cable, then

entered the wheelhouse.  He found Pitt scrutinizing a large satellite

photograph through a magnifying glass.

Is that the best you can do?"  Sandecker asked.

Pitt looked up and grinned humorously.  "You mean the boat?"

"I do."

"Not up to your spit and polish naval standards, but she'll serve

nicely."

"None of our research vessels were available?"

"They were, but I chose this old tub for two reasons.  One, she's a damn

good little workboat; and two, if somebody really snatched a government

boat with a party of VIPs on board and deep-sixed her, they'll expect a

major underwater search effort and will be watching for it.  This way,

we'll be in and out before they're wise."

Sandecker had told him only that a boat belonging to the naval yard had

been stolen from the pier at Mount Vernon and presumed sunk.

Little else.  "Who said anything about VIPs being onboard?"

"Army and Navy helicopters are as thick as locusts overhead, and you can

walk across the river on the Coast Guard ships crowding the water.

There's more to this search project than you've let on, Admiral.  A hell

of a lot more."

Sandecker didn't reply.  He could only admit to himself that Pitt was

thinking four jumps ahead.  His silence, he knew, only heightened Pitts

suspicions.  sidestepping the issue, he asked, "You see something that

caused you to begin looking this far below Mount Vernon?"

"Enough to save us four days and twenty-five miles," Pitt answered.  "I

figured the boat would be spotted by one of our space cameras, but which

one?   Military spy satellites don't orbit over Washington, and space

weather pictures won't enhance to pinpoint small detail."

"Where did you get that one?"  Sandecker asked, motioning toward the

photograph.

"From a friend at the Department of Interior.  One of their geological

survey satellites flew 590 miles overhead and shot an infrared portrait

of Chesapeake Bay and the adjoining rivers.  Time: four-forty the

morning of the boat's disappearance.  If you look through the glass at

the blowup of this section of the Potomac, the only boat that can be

seen down river from Mount Vernon is cruising a mile below this dock."

Sandecker peered at the tiny white dot on the photograph.  The

enhancement was incredibly sharp.  He could detect every piece of gear

on the decks and the figures of two people.  He stared into Pitts eyes.

"No way of proving that's the boat we're after," he said flatly.

"I didn't fall off a pumpkin truck, Admiral.  That's the presidential

yacht Eagle."

"I won't run you around the horn," Sandecker spoke quietly, "but I can't

tell you any more than I already have."

Pitt gave a noncommittal shrug and said nothing.

"so where do you think it is?"

Pitts green eyes deepened.  He gave Sandecker a sly stare and picked up

a pair of diviners.  "I looked up the Eagle's specifications.

Her top speed was fourteen knots.  Now, the space photo was taken at

four-forty.  Daylight was an hour and a half away.  The crew who pirated

the yacht couldn't risk being seen, so they put her on the bottom under

cover of darkness.  Taking all that into consideration, she could have

traveled only twenty-one miles before sun up."

"That still takes in a lot of water."

"I think we can slice it some."

"By staying in the channel?"

"Yes, sir, deep water.  If I was running the show, I'd sink her deep to

prevent accinental discovery."

"What's the average depth of your search grid?"

"Thirty to forty feet."

"Not enough."

"True, but according to the depth soundings on the navigation charts,

there are several holes that drop over a hundred."

Sandecker paused and gazed out the wheelhouse window as Al Giordino

marched along the dock carrying a pair of air tanks on his beefy

shoulders.  He turned back to Pitt and observed him thoughtfully.

"If you dive on it," Sandecker said coldly, "you're not to enter.

Our job is strictly to discover and identify, nothing else."

"What's down there that we can't see?"

"Don't ask."

Pitt smiled wryly.  "Humor me.  I'm fickle."

"The hell you are," grunted Sandecker.  "What do you think is in the

yacht?"

"Make that who."

"Does it matter?"  Sandecker asked guardedly.  "It's probably empty."

"You're jerking me around, Admiral.  I'm sure of it.  After we find the

yacht, what then?"

"The FBI takes over."

"So we do our little act and step aside."

"That's what the orders say."

"i say screw them."

"Them?"

"The powers who play petty secret games."

"Believe me, this project isn't petty."

A hard look crossed Pitts face.  "We'll make that judgment when we find

the yacht, won't we?"

"Take my word for it," said Sandecker, "you don't want to see what might

be inside the wreck."

Almost as the words came out, Sandecker knew he'd waved a flag in front

of a bull elephant.  Once Pitt dropped beneath the river's surface, the

thin leash of command was broken.

Six HOURS LATER and twelve miles down river, target number seventeen

crept across the recording screen of the Klein High Resolution Sonar. It

lay in 109 feet of water between Persimmon and Mathias points directly

opposite Popes Creek and two miles above the Potomac River bridge.

"Dimensions?"  Pitt asked the sonar operator.

"Approximately thirty-six meters long by seven meters wine."

"What kind of size are we looking for?"  asked Giordino.

"The Eagle has an overall length of a hundred and ten feet with a

twenty-foot beam," Pitt replied.

"That matches," Giordino said, mentally juggling meters to feet.

"I think we've got her," Pitt said as he examined the configurations

revealed by the sidescan sonar.  "Let's make another passthis time about

twenty meters to starboard-and throw out a buoy."

Sandecker, who was standing outside on the after deck keeping an eye on

the sensor cable, leaned into the wheelhouse.  "Got something?" Pitt

nodded.  "A prime contact."

"Going to check it out?"

" After we drop a buoy, Al and I'll go down for a look."

Sandecker stared at the weathered deck and said nothing.  Then he turned

end walked back to the stern, where he helped Giordino hoist a

fifty-pound lead weight attached to a bright orange buoy onto the Hoki

lamoki's bulwark.

Pitt took the helm and brought the boat about.  When the target began to

raise on the depth sounder, he shouted, "Now!" The buoy was thrown

overboard as the boat slowed.  One of the engineers moved to the bow and

lowered the anchor.  The Hoki famoki drifted to a stop with her stern

pointed downstream.

"Too bad you didn't include an underwater TV camera," said Sandecker as

he helped Pitt into his dive gear.  "You could have saved yourself a

trip."

"A wasted effort," Pitt said.  "Visibility is measured in inches down

there."

"The current is running about two knots," Sandecker judged.

"When we begin our ascent to the surface, it will carry us astern.

Better throw out a hundred-yard lifeline on a floating buoy to pull us

aboard."

Giordino tightened his weight belt and flashed a jaunty grin.

"Ready when you are."

Sandecker gripped Pitt on the shoulder.  "Mind what I said about

entering the wreck."

" I'll try not to look too hard," Pitt said flatly.

Before the admiral could reply, Pitt adjusted his face mask over his

eyes and dropped backwards into the river.

The water closed over him and the sun diffused into a greenish orange

blur.  The current pulled at his body and he had to swim on a diagonal

course against it until he found the buoy.  He reached out and clutched

the line and stared downward.  Less than three feet away the white nylon

brain faded into the opaque murk.

Using the line as a guine and a support, Pitt slipped into the depths of

the Potomac.  Tiny filaments of vegetation and fine particles of

sediment swept past his face mask.  He switched on his dive light, but

the dim beam only anded a few inches to his field of vision.  He paused

to work his jaws and equalize the growing pressure within his ear

canals.

The density increased as he dove deeper.  Then suddenly, as if he'd

passed through a door, the water temperature dropped by ten degrees and

visibility stretched to almost ten feet.  The colder layer acted as a

cushion pushing against the warm current above.  The bottom appeared and

Pitt discerned the shadowy outline of a boat off to his right.  He

turned and gestured to Giordino, who gave an affirmative nod of his

head.

As though growing out of a fog, the superstructure of the Eagle slowly

took on shape.  She lay like a lifeless animal, alone in haunted silence

and watery gloom.

Pitt swam around one side of the hull while Giordino kicked around the

other.  The yacht was sitting perfectly upright with no indication of

list.  Except for a thin coating of algae that was forming on her white

paint, she looked as pristine as when she rode the surface.

They met at the stern, and Pitt wrote on his message board, "Any

damage?"

Giordino wrote back, "None."

Then they slowly worked their way over the decks, past the darkened

windows of the staterooms and up to the bridge.  There was nothing to

suggest death or tragedy.  They probed their lights through the bridge

windows into the black interior, but all they saw was eerie desolation.

Pitt noted that the engine-room telegraph read ALL STOP.

He hesitated for a brief moment and wrote a new message on his board:

"I'm going in."

Giordino's eyes glistened under the face-mask lens and he scrawled back,

"I'm with you."

Out of habit they checked their air gauges.  There was enough time left

for another twelve minutes of diving.  Pitt tried the door to the

wheelhouse.  His heart squeezed within his chest.  Even with Giordino at

his side, the apprehension was oppressive.  The latch turned and he

pushed the door open.  Taking a deep breath, Pitt swam inside.

The brass gave off a dull gleam under the dive lights.  Pitt was curious

at the barren look about the room.  Nothing was out of place.

The floor was clean of any spilled debris.  It reminded him of the

Pilottown.

Seem nothing of interest, they threaded their way down a stairway into

the lounge area of the deckhouse.  In the fluin darkness the large

enclosure seemed to yawn into infinity.  Everywhere was the same strange

neatness.  Giordino aimed his light upward.  The overhead beams and

mahogany paneling had a stark, naked appearance.  Then Pitt realized

what was wrong.  The ceiling should have been littered with objects that

float.  Everything that might have drifted to the surface and washed

ashore must have been removed.

Accompanied by the gurgle of their escaping air bubbles, they glided

through the passageway separating the staterooms.  The same neat look

was everywhere; even the beds and mattresses had been stripped.

Their lights darted amin the furniture securely bolted to the carpeted

deck.  Pitt checked the bathrooms as Giordino probed the closets.  By

the time they reached the crew's quarters, they only had seven minutes

of air left.  Communicating briefly with hand signals, they divided up,

Giordino searching the galley and storerooms while Pitt took the engine

room.

He found the hatch cover over the engine room locked and bolted.

Without a second of lost motion, he quickly removed his dive knife from

its leg sheath and pried out the pins in the hinges.

The hatch cover, released from its mountings and thrust upward by its

buoyancy, sailed past him.

And so did a bloated corpse that burst through the open hatch like a

jack-in-the-box.

PITT REELED BACKWAIRD into a bulkhead and watched numbly as an unearthly

parade of floating debris and bodies erupted from the engine room.  They

drifted up to the ceiling, where they hung in grotesque postures like

trapped balloons.  Though the internal gases had begun to expand, the

flesh had not yet started to decompose.

Sightless eyes bulged beneath strands of hair that wavered from the

disturbance in the water.

Pitt struggled to fight off the grip of shock and revulsion, hardening

his mind for the repugnant job he could not leave undone.

With creeping nausea merged with cold fear he snaked through the hatch

into the engine room.

His eyes were met with a charnel house of death.  Bedding, clothing from

half-open suitcases, pillows and cushions, anything buoyant enough to

float, mingled between a crush of bodies.  The scene was a nightmare

that could never be imagined or remotely duplicated by a Hollywood

horror film.

Most of the corpses wore white Coast Guard uniforms that anded to their

ghostly appearance.  Several had on ordinary work clothes.

None showed signs of injury or wounds.

He spent two minutes, no more, in there, cringing when a lifeless hand

brushed across his arm or a white expressionless face drifted inches in

front of his face mask.  He could have sworn they were all staring at

him, begging for something that was not his to give.  One was dressed

differently from the others, in a knit sweater covered by a stylish

raincoat.  Pitt swiftly rifled through the dead man's pockets.

Pitt had seen enough to be permanently etched in his mind for a

lifetime.  He hurriedly kicked up the lander and out of the engine room.

Once free of the morbin scene below, he hesitated to read his air gauge.

The needle indicated a hundred pounds, an ample supply to reach the sun

again if he didn't linger.  He found Giordino rummaging through a

cavernous food locker and made an upward gesture with his thumb.

Giordino nodded and led the way through a passageway to the outside

deck.

A great wave of relief swept over Pitt as the yacht receded into the

murk.  There wasn't time to search for the buoy line so they ascended

with the bubbles that flowed from their air regulators' exhaust valves.

The water slowly transformed from an almost brown-black to a leaden

green.  At last they broke the surface and found themselves fifty yards

downstream from the Hoki lamoki.

Sandecker and the boat's crew of engineers spotted them immediately and

quickly began hauling on the lifeline.  Sandecker cupped his hands to

his mouth and shouted, "Hang on, we'll pull you in."

Pitt waved, thankful he could lie back and relax.  He felt too drained

to do anything but lazily float against the current and watch the trees

lining the banks slip past.  A few minutes later he and Giordino were

lifted onto the deck of the old clamming boat.

"Is it the Eagle?"  Sandecker asked, unable to mask his curiosity.

Pitt hesitated in answering until he'd removed his air tank.

"Yes," he said finally, "it's the Eagle." Sandecker could not bring

himself to ask the question that was gripping his mind.  He sidestepped

it.  "Find anything you want to talk about?"

"The outside is undamaged.  She's sitting upright, her keel resting in

about two feet of silt."

"No sign of life?"

"Not from the exterior."

It was obvious that Pitt wasn't going to volunteer any information

unless asked.  His healthy tan seemed strangely paled.

"Could you see inside?"  Sandecker demanded.

"Too dark to make out anything."

"All right, dammit, let's have it straight .

"Now that you've asked so pleasantly," Pitt said stonily, "there's more

dead bodies in the yacht than a cemetery.  They were stacked in the

engine room from deck to overhead.  I counted twenty-one of them."

"Christ!"  Sandecker rasped, suddenly taken aback.  "Could you'recognize

any of them?"

"Thirteen were crewmen.  The rest looked to be civilians."

"Eight civilians?"  Sandecker seemed stunned.

"As near as I could judge by their clothing.  They weren't in any

condition to interrogate."

"Eight civilians," Sandecker repeated.  "And none of them looked

remotely familiar to you?"

"I'm not sure their own mothers could identify them," said Pitt.

"Why?   Was I supposed to know somebody?"

Sandecker shook his head.  "I can't say."

Pitt couldn't recall seeing the admiral so distraught.  The iron armor

had fallen away.  The penetrating, intelligent eyes seemed stricken.

Pitt watched for a reaction as he spoke.

"If I had to venture an opinion, i'd say someone snuffed the candle on

half the Chinese embassy."

"Chinese?"  The eyes suddenly turned as sharp as ice picks.

"What are you saying?"

"Seven of the eight civilians were from eastern Asia."

"Could you be in error?"  Sandecker asked, regaining a foothold.

"with little or no visibility-"

"Visibility was ten feet.  And, I'm well aware of the difference between

the eye folds of a Caucasian and an Oriental."

"Thank God," Sandecker said, exhaling a deep breath.

"I'd be much obliged if you would inform me just what in hell you

expected Al and me to find down there."

Sandecker's eyes softened.  "I owe you an explanation," he said, "but I

can't give you one.  There are events occurring around us that we have

no need to know."

"I have my own project," said Pitt, his voice turning cold.  "I'm not

interested in this one."

"Yes, Julie Mendoza.  I understand."

Pitt pulled something from under the sleeve of his wet suit.

"Here, I almost forgot.  I took this from one of the bodies."

"what is it?"

Pitt held up a soggy leather billfold.  On the inside was a water proof

id card with a man's photograph.  Opposit was a badge in the shape of a

shield.  "A Secret Service agent's identification," Pitt answered.  "His

name was Brock, Lyle Brock."

Sandecker took the billfold without comment.  He glanced at his watch.

"I've got to contact Sam Emmett at FBI.  This is his problem now."

"You can't drop it that easily, Admiral.  We both know NUMA will be

called on to raise the Eagle."You're right, of course," Sandecker said

wearily.  "You're relieved of that project.  You do what you have to do.

I'll have Girodino handle the salvage."  He turned and stepped into the

wheelhouse to use the ship-to-shore phone.

Pitt stood looking for a long time at the dark forbinding water of the

river, reliving the terrible scene below.  A line from an old seaman's

poem ran through his head: "A ghostly ship, with a ghostly crew, with no

place to go."

Then as though closing a curtain, he turned his thoughts back to the

Pilottown.

On the east bank of the river, concealed in a thicket of ash trees, a

man dressed in Vietnam leaf camouflage fatigues pressed his eye to the

viewfinder of a vineo camera.  The warm sun and the heavy huminity

caused sweat to trickle down his face.  He ignored the discomfort and

kept taping, zooming in the telephoto lens until Pitts upper body filled

the miniature viewing screen.  Then he panned along the entire length of

the clamming boat, holding for a few seconds on each member of the crew.

A half-hour after the divers climbed out of the water, a small fleet of

Coast Guard boats descended around the Hoki Jamoki.  A derrick on one of

the vessels lifted a large red-banded buoy with a flashing light over

the side and dropped it beside the wreck of the Eagle.

When the battery of his recording unit died, the hidden cameraman neatly

packed away his equipment and slipped into the approaching dusk.

PITT WAS CONTEMPLATING A MENU when the maitre d' of Positano Restaurant

on Fairmont Avenue steered Loren to his table.  She moved with an

athletic grace, nodding and exchanging a few words with the Capitol

crowd eating lunch amin the restaurant's murals and wine racks.

Pitt looked up and their eyes met.  She returned his appraising stare

with an even smile.  Then he rose and pulled back her chair.

"Damn, you look ugly today," he said.

She laughed.  "You continue to mystify me."

"How so?"

"One minute you're a gentleman, and the next a slob."

"I was told women crave variety."

Her eyes, clear and soft, were amused.  "I do give you credit, though.

You're the only man I know who doesn't kiss my fanny."

Pitts face broke into his infectious grin.  "That's because I don't need

any political favors."

She made a face and opened a menu.  "i don't have time to be made fun

of.  I have to get back to my office and respond to a ton of

constituents'mail.  What looks good?"

"I thought I'd try the zuppa di pesce."

"My scale said I was up a pound this morning.  I think I'll just have a

salad."

The waiter approached.

"A drink?"  Pitt asked.

"You order."

"Two Sazerac cocktails on the rocks, and please ask the bartender to

pour rye instead of bourbon."

"Very good, sir," the waiter acknowledged.

Loren lain her napkin in her lap.  "I've phoned for two days.

Where've you been?"

"The admiral sent me on an emergency salvage job."

"Was she pretty?"  she asked, playing the age-old game.

"A coroner might think so.  But drowned bodies never turned me on."

"Sorry," she said and went sober and quiet until the drinks were

brought.  They stirred the ice around the glasses and then sipped the

reddish contents.

"One of my aides ran across something that might help you," she said

finally.

"What is it?"

She pulled several stapled sheets of typewritten paper from her attache'

case and passed them to Pitt.  Then she began explaining in a soft

undertone.

"Not much meat, I'm afraid, but there's an interesting report on the

CIA's phantom navy."

"Didn't know they had one," Pitt said, scanning the pages.

"Since 1963 they have accumulated a small fleet of ships that few people

inside the government know about.  And the few who are aware of the

fleet won't admit it exists.  Besides surveillance, its primary function

is to carry out clandestine operations involving the transporting of men

and supplies for the infiltration of agents or guerrillas into

unfriendly countries.  Originally it was put together to harass Castro

after his takeover of Cuba.  Several years later, when it became

apparent that Castro was too strong to topple, their activities were

curtailed, partly because the Cubans threatened to retaliate against

American fishing vessels.  From that time on the CIA navy expadded its

sphere of operations from Central America to the fighting in Vietnam to

Africa and the middle East.  Do you follow?"

"I'm with you, but I have no idea where it's leading."

"Just be patient," she said.  "Several years ago an attack cargo

transport called the Hobson was a part of the Navy's reserve mothball

fleet at Philadelphia.  She was decommissioned and sold to a commercial

shipping company, a cover for the CIA.  They spared no expense in

rebuilding her to outwardly resemble a common cargo carrier, while her

interior was filled with concealed armament, including a new missile

system, highly sophisticated communications and listening gear, and a

facility for launching fast patrol and landing boats through swinging

bow doors.

"She was manned and ready on station during Iran's disastrous invasion

of Kuwait and Saudi Arabia in 1985.  Flying the maritime flag of Panama,

she secretly sank two Soviet spy ships in the Persian Gulf.

The Russians could never prove who did it, because none of our Navy

ships were within range.  They still think the missiles that destroyed

their ships came from the Saudi shore."

"And you found out about all this?"

"I have my sources," she informed him.

"Does the Hobson have anything to do with the Pilottown?"

"Indirectly," Loren answered.

"Go on."

"Three years ago, the Hobson vanished with all hands off the Pacific

Coast of Mexico."

" so?   "

"So three months later the CIA found her again.

"Sounds familiar," Pitt mused.

"My thought too."  Loren nodded.  "A replay of the San Marino and the

Belle Chasse."

"Where was the Hobson discovered?"

Before Loren could answer, the waiter set their plates on the table. The

zuppa di pesce, an Italian bouillabaisse, looked sensational.

As soon as the waiter walked out of earshot he nodded to her.

"Go on."

"I don't know how the CIA tracked the ship down, but they came on her

sitting in a dry dock in Sydney, Australia, where she was undergoing a

major face-lift."

"They find who she was registered to?"

"She flew the Philippine flag under the registry of Samar Exporters.  A

bogus firm that was incorporated only a few weeks earlier in Manila. Her

new name was Buras."

"Burin," Pitt echoed.  "Must be the name of a person.  How's your

salad?"

"The dressing is very tasty.  And yours?"

"Excellent," he answered.  "An act of sheer stupidity on the part of the

pirates to steal a ship belonging to the CIA."

"A case of a mugger rolling a drunk and finding out the drunk was an

undercover detective."

"What happened next in Sydney?"

"Nothing.  The CIA, working with the Australian branch of the British

Secret Service, tried to apprehend the owners of the Buras but were

never able to find them."

"No leads, no witnesses?"

"The small Korean crew living onboard had been recruited in Singapore.

They knew little and could only give a description of the captain, who

had vanished."

Pitt took a swallow of water and examined a page of the report.

"Not much of an id.  Korean, medium height, one hundred sixty-five

pounds, black hair, gap in front teeth.  That narrows it down to about

five or ten million men," he said sarcastically.  "Well, at least now I

don't feel so bad.  If the CIA can't pin a make on whoever is sailing

around the world hijacking ships, I sure as hell can't."

"Has St.  Julien Perhnutter called you?"

Pitt shook his head.  "Haven't heard a word.  Probably lost heart and

deserted the cause."

"I have to desert the cause too," Loren said gently.  "But only for a

little while."

Pitt looked at her sternly a moment, then relaxed and laughed.

"How did a nice girl ever become a politician?"

She wrinkled her nose.  "Chauvinist."

"Seriously, where will you be?"

"A shortifact-finding junket on a Russian cruise ship sailing the

Caribbean."

"Of course," Pitt said.  "I'd forgotten you chair the committee for

merchant marine transport."

Loren nodded and patted her mouth with her napkin.  "The last cruise

ship to fly the Stars and Stripes was taken out of service in 1984.  To

many people this is a national disgrace.  The President feels strongly

that we should be represented in ocean commerce as well as naval

defense.  He's asking Congress for a budget outlay of ninety million

dollars to restore the S.S. United States, which has been lain up at

Norfolk for twenty years, and put her back in service to compete with

the foreign cruise lines."

"And you're going to study the Russian method of lavishing their,

passengers with vodka and caviar?"

"That," she said, looking suddenly official, "and the economics of their

government-operated cruise ship."

"When do you sail?"

"Day after tomorrow.  I fly to Miami and board the Leonin Andreyev. I'll

be back in five days.  What will you do?"

"The admiral has given me time off to pursue the Pilottown

investigation."

"Does any of this information help you?"

"Every bit helps," he said, straining to focus on a thought that was a

distant shadow on the horizon.  Then he looked at her.  "Have you heard

anything through the congressional grapevine?"

"You mean gossip?   Like who's screwing who?"

"Something heavier.  Rumors of a missing party high in government or a

foreign diplomat."

Loren shook her head.  "No, nothing quite so sinister.  The Capitol

scene is pretty dull while Congress is in recess.  Why?   You know of a

scandal brewing I don't?"

"Just asking," Pitt said noncommittally.

Her hand crept across the table and clasped his.  "I have no idea where

all this is taking you, but please be careful.  Fu Manchu might get wise

you're on his scent and lay in ambush."

Pitt turned and laughed.  "I haven't read Sax Rohmer since I was a kid.

Fu Manchu, the yellow peril.  What made you think of him?"

She gave a little shrug.  "I don't really know.  A mental association

with an old Peter Sellers movie, the Sosan Trading Company and the

Korean crew of the Buras, I guess."

A faraway look came over Pitts eyes and then they widened.

The thought on the horizon crystallized.  He hailed the waiter and paid

the bill with a credit card.

"I've got to make a couple of phone calls," he explained briefly.

He kissed her lightly on the lips and hurried onto the crowded sidewalk.

Pitt QUICKLY DROVE to the NUMA building and closed himself in his

office.  He assembled his priorities for several moments and dialed Los

Angeles on his private phone line.  On the fifth ring a girl answered

who couldn't pronounce her r's.

"Casio and Associates Investigations."

"I'd like to speak to Mr.  Casio, please."

"Who shall I say is calling?"

"My name is Pitt."

"He's with a client.  Can you call back?"

"No!"  Pitt growled menacingly.  "I'm calling from Washington and it's

urgent."

Suitably intiminated, the receptionist replied, "One moment."

Casio came on the line almost immediately.  "Mr.  Pitt.  Good to hear

from you."

"Sorry to interrupt your meeting," said Pitt, "but I need a few

answers."

"I'll do my best."

"What do you know about the crew of the San Marino?"

"Not much.  I ran a make on the officers, but nothing unusual turned up.

They were all professional merchant mariners.  The captain, as I recall,

had a very respectable record."

"No ties to any kind of organized crime?"

"Nothing that came to light in the computers of the National Crime

Information Center."

"How about the rest of the crew?"

"Not much there.  Only a few had maritime union records."

"Nationality?"  Pitt asked.

"Nationality?"  Casio repeated, thought a moment, then said, "A mixture.

A few Greek, a few Americans, several Koreans."

"Koreans?"  Pitt came back, suddenly alert.  "There were Koreans

onboard?"

"Yeah, that's right.  Now that you mention it, as I remember, a group of

about ten signed on just before the San Marino sailed."

"Would it be possible to trace the ships and companies they served prior

to the San Marino?"

"You're going back a long time, but the files should be available."

"Could you throw in the history of the Pilottown's crew as well?"

"Don't see why not."

"I'd appreciate it."

"What are you after exactly?"  Casio asked.

"Should be obvious to you."

"A link between the crew and our unknown parent company, is that it?"

"Close enough."

"You're going back before the ship disappeared," said Casio

thoughtfully.

"The most practical way to take over a ship is by the crew."

"I thought mutiny went out with the Bounty."

"The modern term is hijacking."

"You've got a good hunch going," said Casio.  "I'll see what I can do."

"Thank you, Mr.  Casio."

"We've danced enough to know each other.  Call me Sal."

"Okay, Sal, and make it Dirk."

"I'll do that," Casio said seriously.  "Goodbye."

After he hung up, Pitt leaned back and put his feet on the desk.

He felt good, optimistic that a vague instinct was about to pay off.

Now he was about to try another long shot, one that was so crazy he

almost felt foolish for pursuing it.  He copied a number out of the

National University Directory and called it.

"University of Pennsylvania, Department of Anthropology."

"May I speak to Dr.  Grace Perth?"

"Just a sec."

"Thank you."

Pitt waited for nearly two minutes before a motherly voice said,

"Hello."

"Dr.  Perth?"

"Speaking."

"My name is Dirk Pitt and I'm with the National Underwater and Marine

Agency.  Have you got a moment to answer a couple of academic questions

for me?"

"What do you wish to know, Mr.  Pitt?"  Dr.  Perth asked sweetly. Pitt

tried to picture her in his mind.  His initial image was that of a prim,

white-haired lady in a tweed suit.  He erased it as a stereotype.

"If we take a male between the ages of thirty and forty, of medium

height and weight, who was a native of Peking, China, and another male

of the same description from Seoul, South Korea, how could we tell them

apart?"

"You're not doing a number on me, are you, Mr.  Pitt?"

Pitt laughed.  "No, Doctor, I'm quite serious," he assured her.

"Hmmm, Chinese versus Korean," she muttered while thinking.

"By and large, people of Korean ancestry tend to be more classic, or

extreme, Mongoloin.  Chinese features, on the other hand, lean more

generally to Asian.  But I wouldn't want to make my living guessing

which was which, because the overlap is so great.  It would be far

simpler to judge them by their clothes or behavior, or the way they cut

their hair-in short, their cultural characteristics."

"i thought they might have certain facial features that could separate

them, such as you find between Chinese and Japanese."

"Well now, here the genetic spread is more obvious.  If your Oriental

male has a fairly dense heard growth, you'd have a rather strong

indication that he's Japanese.  But in the case of China and Korea,

you're dealing with two racial groups that have intermixed for

centuries, so much so that the individual variations would tend to blur

out any distinction."

"You make it sound hopeless."

"Awfully difficult, maybe, but not hopeless," Dr.  Perth said.  "A

series of laboratory tests could raise your probability factor."

"My interest is strictly from a visual view."

"Are your subjects living?"

"No, drowning victims."

"A pity.  With a living individual there are little traits of facial

expressions that are culturally acquired and can be detected by someone

who has had a lot of experience with both races.  A pretty good guess

may be made on that basis alone."

"No such luck."

"Perhaps if you could define their facial characteristics to me."

Pitt dreaded the thought, but he closed his eyes and began describing

the lifeless heads he'd seen on the Eagle.  At first the vision was

vague, but soon it focused with clarity and he found himself dissecting

each detail with the callous objectivity of a surgeon narrating a heart

transplant into a tape recorder.  At one point he suddenly broke off.

"Yes, Mr.  Pitt, please go on," said Dr.  Perth.

"I just remembered something that escaped me," Pitt said.  "Two of the

bodies did in fact have thick facial hair.  One had a mustache while

another sprouted a goatee."

"Interesting."

"So they weren't Korean or Chinese?"

"Not necessarily"

"What else could they be but Japanese?"

"You're leaping before you look, Mr.  Pitt," she said, as if lecturing a

student.  "The features you've described to me suggest a heavy tendency

toward the classic Mongoloin."

"But the facial hair?"

"You must consider history.  The Japanese have been invading and

marauding Korea since the sixteenth century.  And for thirty-five years,

from 1910 until 1945, Korea was a colony of japan, so there was a great

blending of their particular genetic variations."

Pitt hesitated before he put the next question to Dr.  Perth.

Then he chose his words carefully.  "If you were to stick your neck out

and give an opinion on the race of the men I've described, what would

you say?"

Grace Perth came back with all flags flying.  "Looking at it from a

percentage factor, I'd say your test group's ancestry was ten percent

Japanese, thirty percent Chinese and sixty percent Korean."

"Sounds like you've constructed the genetic makeup of your average

Korean."

"You read it anyway you wish to see it, Mr.  Pitt.  I've gone as far as

I can go."

"Thank you, Dr.  Perth," Pitt said, suddenly exultant.  "Thank you very

much."

"SO THAT's DIRK PITT," Min Koryo said.  She sat in her wheelchair

peering over a breakfast tray at a large TV screen in her office wall.

Lee Tong sat beside her watching the vineotape of the Hoki Jamoki

anchored over the presidential yacht.  "What puzzles me," he said

quietly, "is how he discovered the wreck so quickly.  It's as though he

knew exactly where to search."

Min Koryo set her chin in frail bands and bowed her graying head, eyes

locked on the screen, the thin blue veins in her temples PUlsing in

concentration.  Her face slowly tightened in anger.  She looked like an

Egyptian mummy whose skin had somehow bleached white and remained

smooth.

"Pitt and NUMA."  She hissed in exasperation.  "What are those wily

bastards up to?   First the San Marino and Pilottown publicity hoax, and

now this."

"It can only be coincinence," Lee Tong suggested.  "There is no direct

link between the freighters and the yacht."

"Better an informer."  Her voice cut like a whip.  "We've been sold

out."

"Not a valid conclusion, aunumi," said Lee Tong, amused at her sudden

outburst.  "Only you and I knew the facts.  Everyone else IS dead."

"Nothing is ever immune to failure.  Only fools think they're perfect."

Lee Tong was in no mood for his grandmother's Oriental philosophy.

"Do not concern yourself unnecessarily," he said acinly.

"A government investigating team would have eventually stumbled onto the

yacht anyway.  We could not make the President',4 transfer in broad

daylight without running the danger of being seen and stopped.

And since the yacht wasn't reported after sunrise, simple mathematics

suggested that it was still somewhere on or below the river between

Washington and Chesapeake Bay."

"A conclusion Mr.  Pitt apparently had no trouble arriving at."

"It changes nothing," said Lee Tong.  "Time is still on our side.

Once Lugovoy is satisfied at his results, all that remains for us is to

oversee the gold shipment.  After that, President Antonov can have the

President.  But we keep Margolin, Larimer and Moran for insurance and

future bargaining power.  Trust me, aunumi, the tricky part is past. The

Bougainville corporate fortress is secure."

"Maybe so, but the hounds are getting too close."

"We're matching ourselves against highly trained and intelligent people

who possess the finest technology in the world.  They may come within

reach, but they'll never fully grasp our involvement."

Mollified somewhat, Min Koryo sighed and sipped at her ever present

teacup.  "Have you talked to Lugovoy in the past eight hours?"

"Yes.  He claims he's encountered no setbacks and can complete the

project in five more days."

"Five days," she said pensively.  "I think it is time we made the final

arrangements with Antonov for payment.  Has our ship arrived?"

"The Venice docked at Odessa two days ago."

"Who is ship's master?"

"Captain James Mangyai, a trusted employee of the company," Lee Tong

answered.

Min Koryo nodded approvingly.  "And a good seaman.  He hired on with me

almost twenty years ago."

"He has his orders to cast off and set sail the minute the last crate of

gold is loaded aboard."

"Good.  Now we'll see what kind of stalling tactics Antonov will try. To

begin with, he'll Do doubt demand to hold up payment until Lugovoy's

experiment is a proven success.  This we will not do.  In the meantime,

he'll have an army of KGB agents combing the American countryside,

looking for the President and our laboratory facilities."

"No Russian or American will figure out where we have Lugovoy and his

staff hidden," Lee Tong said firmly.

"They found the yacht," Min Koryo reminded him.

Before Lee Tong could reply, the vineo screen turned to snow as the tape

played out.  He set the control for rewind.  "Do you wish to view it

again?"  he asked.

"Yes, I want to examine the diving crew more closely."

When the recorder automatically switched off, Lee Tong pressed the

"play" button and the picture returned to life.

Min Koryo watched it impassively for a minute and then said, "What is

the latest status report on the wreck site?"

"A NUMA salvage crew is bringing up the bodies and preparing to raise

the yacht."

"Who is the man with the red heard talking with Pitt?"

Lee Tong enlarged the scene until both men filled the screen.

"That's Admiral James Sandecker, Director of NUMA."

"Your man was not seen filming Pitts movements?"

"No, he's one of the best in the business.  An ex-FBi agent.  He was

contracted for the job through one of our subsidiary corporations and

told that Pitt is suspected of selling NUMA equipment to outside

sources."

"What do we know about Pitt?"

"I have a complete dossier flying in from Washington.  It should be here

within the hour."

Min Koryo's mouth tightened as she moved closer to the TV.

"How could he know so much?   NUMA is an oceanographic agency.

They don't employ secret agents.  Why is he coming after us?"

"It'll pay us to find out."

"Move in closer," she ordered.

Lee Tong again enlarged the image, moving past Sandecker's shoulder

until it seemed as though Pitt was talking to the camera.

Then he froze the picture.

Min Koryo placed a pair of square-lensed glasses over her narrow nose

and stared at the weathered but handsome face that stared back.

Her dark eyes flashed briefly.  "Goodbye, Mr.  Pitt."

Then she reached over and pushed the "off" switch, and the screen went

black.

The smoke from Suvorov's cigarette hung heavily in the air of the dining

room as he and Lugovoy shared a bottle of 1966 Croft Vintage Port.

Suvorov looked at the red liquin in his glass and scowled.

"All these Mongolians ever serve us is beer and wine.  What I wouldn't

give for a bottle of good vodka."

Lugovoy selected a cigar out of a box that was held by one of the Korean

waiters.  "You have no culture, Suvorov.  This happens to be an

excellent port."

"American decadence has not rubbed off on me," Suvorov said arrogantly.

"Call it what you will, but you rarely see Americans defecting to Russia

because of our disciplined lifestyle," Lugovoy retorted sarcastically.

"You're beginning to talk like them, drink like them; next you'll want

to murder and rape in the streets like them.  At least I know where my

loyalties lie."

Lugovoy studied the cigar thoughtfully.  "So do i. What I accomplish

here will have grave effects on our nation's policy toward the United

States.  It is of far greater importance than your KGB's petty theft of

industrial secrets."

Suvorov appeared too mellowed by the wine to respond angrily to the

psychologist's remarks.  "Your actions will be reported to our

superiors."

"I've told you endlessly.  This project is underwritten by President

Antonov himself."

"I don't believe you.

Lugovoy lit the ciiiarette and blew a puff of smoke toward the ceiling.

"Your opinion is irrelevant."

"We must find a means to contact the outside."  Suvorov's voice rose.

"You're crazy," Lugovoy said seriously.  "I'm telling you, no I'm

ordering you not to interfere.  Can't you use your eyes, your brain?

Look around you.  All this was in preparation for years.  Every detail

has been carefully planned to carry out this operation.  Without Madame

Bougainville's organization, none of this would have been possible."

"We are her prisoners," Suvorov protested.

"What's the difference, so long as our government benefits?"

"We should be masters of the situation," Suvorov insisted.  "We must get

the President out of here and into the hands of our own people so he can

be interrogated.  The secrets you can pry from his mind are beyond

comprehension."

Lugovoy shook his head'in exasperation.  He did not know what else to

say.  Trying to reason with a mind scored by patriotic fervor was like

trying to teach calculus to a drunk.  He knew that when it was all over

Suvorov would write up a report depicting him as unreliable and a

potential threat to Soviet security.  Yet he laughed inwardly.  If the

experiment succeeded, President Antonov might be of a mood to name him

Hero of the Soviet Union.

He stood up, stretched and yawned.  "I think I'll catch a few hours'

sleep.  We'll begin programming the President's responses first thing in

the morning."

"What time is it now?"  Suvorov inquired dully.  "I've lost all track of

day and night in this tomb."

"Five minutes to midnight."

Suvorov yawned and sprawled on a couch.  "You go ahead to bed.

I'm going to have another drink.  A good Russian never leaves the room

before the bottle is empty."

"Good night," said Lugovoy.  He turned and entered the hallway.

Suvorov waved halfheartedly and pretended he was on the verge of dozing

off.  But he studied the second hand of his watch for three minutes.

Then he rose swiftly, crossed the room and noiselessly made his way down

the hallway to where it made a ninetydegree turn toward the sealed

elevator.  He stopped and pressed his body to the wall and glanced

around the edge of the corner.

Lugovoy was standing there patiently smoking his cigar.  In less than

ten seconds the elevator door silently opened and Lugovoy stepped

inside.  The time was exactly twelve o'clock.  Every twelve hours,

Suvorov noted, the project's psychologist escaped the laboratory,

returning twenty to thirty minutes later.

He left and walked past the monitoring room.  Two of the staff members

were intently examining the President's brain rhythms and life signs.

One of them looked up at Suvorov and nodded, smiling slightly.

"Going smoothly?"  Suvorov asked, making conversation.

"Like a prima ballerina's debut," answered the technician.

Suvorov entered and looked up at the TV monitors.  "What's happening

with the others?"  he inquired, nodding toward the images of Margolin,

Larimer and Moran in their sealed cocoons.

"Sedated -and fed heavy liquin concentrations of protein and

carbohydrates intravenously."

"Until it's their time for programming," Suvorov anded.

"Can't say.  You'll have to ask Dr.  Lugovoy that question."

Suvorov watched one of the screens as an attendant in a laboratory coat

lifted a panel on Senator Larimer's cocoon and inserted a hypodermic

needle into one arm.

"What's he doing?"  Suvorov asked, pointing.

The technician looked up.  "We have to administer a sedative every eight

hours or the subject will regain consciousness."

' "I see," said Suvorov quietly.  Suddenly it all became clear in his

mind as the details of his escape plan fell into place.  He felt good,

better than he had in days.  To celebrate, he returned to the dining

room and opened another bottle of port.  Then he took a small notebook

from his pocket and scribbled furiously on its pages.

Oscar Lucas PArked HIS CAR in a VIP slot at the Walter Reed Army Medical

School and hurried through a side entrance.  He jogged around a maze of

corrinors, finally stopping at a double door guarded by a Marine

sergeant whose face had a Mount Rushmore solemnity about it.

The sergeant carefully screened his identification and directed him into

the hospital wing where sensitive and highly secret autopsies were held.

Lucas quickly found the door marked LABORATORY.  AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL

ONLY and entered.

"I hope I haven't kept you waiting," he said.

"No, Oscar," said Alan Mercier.  "I only walked in a minute ago myself."

Lucas nodded and looked around the glass-enclosed room.

There were five men besides himself: General Metcalf, Sam Emmett, Martin

Brogan, Mercier and a short chesty man with rimless glasses introduced

as Colonel Thomas Thornburg, who carried the heavy title of Director of

Comparative Forensics and Clinical Pathology.

"Now that everyone is here, said Colonel Thornburg in a strange alto

voice, "I can show you gentlemen our results."

He went over to a large window and peered at a huge circular machine on

the other side of the glass.  It looked like a finned turbine attached

by a shaft to a generator.  Half of the turbine disappeared into the

concrete floor.  Inside its inner diameter was a cylindrical opening,

while just outside lay a corpse on a translucent tray.

"A spatial analyzer probe, or SAP as it's affectionately called by my

staff of researchers who developed it.  What it does essentially is

explore the body electronically through enhanced X rays while revealing

precise moving pictures of every millimeter of tissue and bone."

"A kind of CAT scanner," ventured Brogan.

"Their basic function is the same, yes," answered Thornburg.

"But that's like comparing a propeller aircraft to a supersonic jet.

The CAT scanner takes several seconds to display a single cross section

of the body.  The SAP will deliver twenty-five thousand in less time.

The findings are then automatically fed into the computer, which

analyzes the cause of death.  I've oversimplified the process, of

course, but that's a nuts-and-bolts description."

"I assume your data banks hold nutritional and metabolic disorders

associated with all known poisons and infectious diseases?"

Emmett asked: "The same information as our computer records at the

Bureau?"

Thornburg nodded.  "Except that our data are more extensive because we

occasionally deal with living tissue."

"In a pathology lab?"  asked Lucas.

"We also examine the living.  Quite often we receive field agents from

our intelligence agencies-and from our allies too-who have been injected

by a poisonous material or artificially infected by a contagious disease

and are still alive.  With SAP we can analyze the cause and come up with

an antinote.  We've saved a few, but most arrive too late."

"You can do an entire analysis and determine a cause in a few seconds?"

General Metcalf asked incredulously.

"Actually in microseconds," Thornburg corrected him.  "Instead of

gutting the corpse and going through an elaborate series of tests, we

can now do it in the wink of an eye with one elaborate piece of

equipment, which, I might and, cost the taxpayer something in the

neighborhood of thirty million dollars."

"What did you find on the bodies from the river?"

As if cued, Thornburg smiled and patted the shoulder of a technician who

was sitting at a massive panel of lights and buttons.

"I'll show you."

All eyes instinctively turned to the naked body lying on the tray.

Slowly it began moving toward the turbine and disappeared into the

center cylinder.  Then the turbine began to revolve at sixty revolutions

a minute.  The X-ray guns encircling the corpse fired in sequence as a

battery of cameras received the images from a fluorescent screen,

enhanced them and fed the results into the computer bank.

Before any of the men in the lab control room turned around, the cause

of the corpse's demise flashed out in green letters across the center of

a display screen.  Most of the wording was in anatomical terminology,

giving description of the internal organs, the amount of toxicity

present and its chemical code.  At the bottom were the words "Conium

maculatum."

"What in hell is Conium maculatum?"  wondered Lucas out loud.

"A member of the parsley family," said Thornburg, "more commonly known

as hemlock."

"Rather an old-fashioned means of execution," Metcalf remarked.

"Yes, hemlock was very popular during classical times.  Best remembered

as the drink given to Socrates.  Seldom used these days, but still easy

to come by and quite lethal.  A large enough dose will paralyze the

respiratory organs."

"How was it administered?"  Sam Emmett inquired.

"According to SAP, the poison was ingested by this particular victim

along with peppermint ice cream."

"Death for dessert," Mercier muttered philosophically.

"Of the Coast Guard crewmen we identified," Thornburg continued, "eight

took the hemlock with the ice cream, four with coffee, and one with a

diet soft drink."

"SAP could tell all that from bodies immersed in water for five days?"

asked Lucas.

"Decay starts immediately at death," explained Thornburg, "and travels

outward from the intestines and other organs containing body bacteria.

The process, develops rapidly in the presence of air.

But when the body is underwater, where the oxygen content is low, decay

proceeds very slowly.  The preservation factor that worked in our favor

was the confinement of the bodies.  A drowning victim, for example, will

float to the surface after a few days as the decomposition gases begin

to expand, thereby hastening decay from air exposure.  The bodies you

brought in, however, had been totally submerged until an hour before we

began the autopsies."

"The chef was a busy man," noted Metcalf.

Lucas shook his head.  "Not the chef, but the dining-room steward.

He's the only crewman unaccounted for."

"An impostor," said Brogan.  "The real steward was probably murdered and

his corpse hidden."

"What about the others?"  queried Emmett.

"The Asians?"

"Were they poisoned too?"

"Yes, but in a different manner.  They were all shot."

"Shot, poisoned, which is it?"

"They were killed by fragmenting darts loaded with a highly lethal venom

that comes from the dorsal spines of the stonefish."

"No amateurs, these guys," commented Emmett.

Thornburg nodded in agreement.  "The method was very professional,

especially the means of penetration.  I removed a similar dart two years

ago from a Soviet agent brought in by Mr.  Brogan's people.  As I

recall, the poison was injected by a bio-inoculator."

"I'm not familiar with it," said Lucas.

"An electrically operated handgun," said Brogan, giving Thornburg an icy

stare.  "Totally silent, used on occasion by our resident agents."

"A little loose with your arsenal, aren't you, Martin?"  Mercier goaded

him good-naturedly.

"The unit in question was probably stolen from the manufacturer," Brogan

said defensively.

"Has an id been made on any of the Asian bodies?"  Lucas asked.

"They have no records in FBI files," admitted Emmett.

"Nor with the CIA and Interpol," Brogan anded.  "None of the

intelligence services of friendly Asian countries have anything on them

either."

Mercier stared inly at the corpse moving out from the interior of the

spatial analyzer probe.  "It appears, gentlemen, that every time we open

a door we walk into an empty room."

"WHAT KIND OF MONSTERs are we dealing with?"  Douglas Oates growled

after listening to General Metcalf's report on the autopsies.

His face wore a chalky pallor and his voice was cold with fury.

"Twenty-one murders.  And for what purpose?   Where is the motive?

Is the President dead or alive?   If this is a grand extortion scheme,

why haven't we received a ransom demand?"

Metcalf, Dan Fawcett and Secretary of Defense Jesse Simmons sat in

silence in front of Oates's desk.

"We can't sit on this thing much longer," Oates continued.  "Any minute

now the news media will become suspicious and stampede into an

investigation.  Already they're grousing because no presidential

interviews have been granted.  Press Secretary Thompson has run out of

excuses."

"Why not have the President face the press?"  Fawcett suggested.

Oates looked dubious.  "That actor-what's his name-Sutton?

He would never get away with it."

"Not up close on a podium under a battery of lights, but in a setting

under shadows at a distance of a hundred feet .  . . Well, it might

work."

"You got something in mind?"  Oates asked.

"We stage a photo opportunity to enhance the President's image.

It's done all the time."

"Like Carter playing softball and Reagan chopping wood," said Oates

thoughtfully.  "I think I see a down-home scene on the President's

farm."

"Complete with crowing roosters and bleating sheep," allowed Fawcett.

"And Vice President Margolin?   Our double for him can't be faked in

shadows at a hundred feet."

"A few references by Sutton and a friendly wave by the double at a

distance should suffice," Fawcett answered, becoming more enthusiastic

over his brainstorm.

Simmons gazed steadily at Fawcett.  "How soon can you have everyone

ready?"

"First thing in the morning.  Dawn, as a matter of fact.

Reporters are night owls.  They hang around waiting for late news to

break, They're not at their best before sun up."

Oates looked at Metcalf and Simmons.  "well, what do you think?"

We've got to throw the reporters a bone before they become hored and

start snooping," answered Simmons.  "I vote yes."

Metcalf nodded.  "The only stalling tactic we've got.

Fawcett came to his feet and peered at his watch.  "If I leave for

Andrews Air Force Base now, I should arrive at the farm in four hours.

Plenty of time to arrange the details with Thompson and make an

announcement to the press corps."

Fawcett's hand froze on the doorknob as Oates's voice cut across the

room like a bayonet.

"Don't bungle it, Dan.  For God's sake, don't bungle it."

VLADIMIR POLEVOI CAUGHT up with Antonov as the Soviet leader strolled

beneath the outer Kremlin wall with his bodyguards.  They were moving

past the burial area where heroes of the Soviet Union were interred. The

weather was unusually warm and Antonov carried his coat over one arm.

"Taking advantage of the fine summer day?" ?"  Polevoi asked

conversationally as he approached.  Antonov turned.  He was young for a

Russian head of state, sixty-two, and he walked with a brisk step.

"Too pleasant to waste behind a desk," he said with a curt nod.

They walked for a while in silence as Polevoi waited for a sign or a

word that Antonov was ready to talk business.  Antonov paused before the

small structure marking Stalin's grave site.

"You know him?"  he asked.

Polevoi shook his head.  "I was too far down the party ladder for him to

notice me."

Antonov's expression went stern and he muttered tensely.  "You were

fortunate."  Then he stepped on, dabbing a handkerchief at the

perspiration forming on the back of his neck.

Polevoi could see his chief was in no mood for small talk, so he came to

the point.  "We may have a break on the Huckleberry Finn Project."

"We could use one," Antonov said grudgingly.

"One of our agents in New York who is in charge of security for our

United Nations workers has turned up missing."

"How does that concern Huckleberry Finn?"

"He disappeared while following Dr.  Lugovoy."

"Any possibility he defected?"

"I don't think so."

Antonov stopped in minstep and gave Polevoi a hard stare.

"we'd have a disaster in the making if he went over to the Americans.

"I personally vouch for Paul Suvorov," said Polevoi firmly.  "I'd stake

my reputation on his loyalty."

"The name is familiar."

"He is the son of Viktor Suvorov, the agriculture specialist."

Antonov seemed appeased.  "Viktor is a dedicated party member."

"So is his son," said Polevoi.  "If anything, he's overzealous."

"What do you think happened to him?"

"I suspect he somehow passed himself off as one of Lugovoy's staff of

psychologists and was taken along with them by Madame Bougainville's

men."

"Then we have a security man on the inside."

"An assumption.  We have no proof."

"did he know anything?"

"He was aware of nothing," Polevoi said unequivocally.  "His involvement

is purely coincinental."

"A mistake to have Dr.  Lugovoy watched."

Polevoi took a deep breath.  "The FBI keeps a tight collar on our United

Nations delegates.  If we had allowed Dr.  Lugovoy and his team of

psychologists to roam freely about New York without our security agents

observing their actions, the Americans would have become suspicious.

"So they watch us while we watch ours."

"In the last seven months, three of our people have asked for political

asylum.  We can't be too careful."

Antonov threw up his hands in a vague gesture.  "I accept your

argument."

"If Suvorov is indeed with Lugovoy, he will no doubt attempt to make

contact and disclose the location of the laboratory facility."

"Yes, but if Suvorov, in his ignorance, makes a stupid move, there is

nothing to indicate how that old bitch Bougainville will react."

"She might raise the ante."

"Or worse, sell the President and the others to the highest bidder."

"I can't see that," said Polevoi thoughtfully.  "Without Dr. Lugovoy,

the project isn't possible."

Antonov made a thin smile.  "Excuse my cautious nature, Comrade

Polevoi, but I tend to look on the dark side.  That way I'm seldom taken

by surprise."

"The completion of Lugovoy's experiment is only three days away.

We should be thinking of how to handle the payment."

"What are your proposals?"

"Not to pay her, of course."

"How?'@ "There are any number of ways.  Switching the gold bars after

her representative has examined them.  Substituting lead that is painted

gold or bars of lesser purity."

"And the old bitch would smell out every one of them."

"Still, we must try."

"How will it be transferred?"  Antonov asked.

"One of Madame Bougainville's ships is already docked at Odessa, waiting

to load the gold on board."

"Then we'll do what she least expects."

"Which is?"  Polevoi asked expectantly.

'Ve hold up our end of the bargain," said Antonov slowly.

"You mean pay?"  Polevoi asked incredulously.

"Down to the last troy ounce."

Polevoi was stunned.  "I'm sorry, Comrade President, but it was my

understanding-"

"I've changed my mind," Antonov said sharply.  "I have a better

solution."

Polevoi waited several moments in silence, but it was apparent Antonov

wasn't going to confine in him.  He slowly dropped back, finally coming

to a halt.

Surrounded by his entourage, Antonov kept walking, his mind rapidly

altering course and dwelling on other matters of state concern.

Suvorov pressed the switch to his night-light and checked the time on

his watch.  It read 4:04.  Not too bad, he thought.  He had programmed

his mind to awaken at four in the morning and he'd only missed by four

minutes.

Unable to suppress a yawn, he quickly pulled on a shirt and pair of

pants, not bothering with socks or shoes.  Stepping into the bathroom,

he splashed his face with cold water, then moved across the small

bedroom and cracked the door.

The brightly lit corridor was empty.  Except for two psychologists

monitoring the subjects, everyone else was asleep.  As he walked the

carpet in his bare feet, he began measuring the interior dimensions of

the facilities and jotting them down in the notebook.

Between the four outer walls he arrived at 168 feet in length by 33 feet

in winth.  The ceiling was nearly ten feet high.

He came to the door of the medical supply room and gently eased open the

door.  It was never locked, because Lugovoy saw no reason for anyone to

steal anything.  He stepped inside, closed the door and turned on the

light.  Moving swiftly, Suvorov found the small bottles containing

sedative solutions.  He set them in a row on the sink and sucked out

their contents with a syringe, emptying the fluin down the drain.  Then

he refilled the bottles with water and neatly rearranged them on the

shelf.

He returned unseen to his sleeping quarters and slipped into bed once

again and stared at the ceiling.

He was pleased with himself.  His moves had gone undetected with no sign

of the slightest suspicion.  Now all he had to do was wait for the right

moment.

IT WAS A SHADOWY DREAM.  The kind he could never remember when he woke

up.  He was searching for someone in the bowels of a deserted ship. Dust

and gloom obscured his vision.  Like the dive on the Eagle: green river

algae and russet silt.

His quarry drifted in front of him, blurred, always beyond reach.

He hesitated and tried to focus through the gloom, but the form taunted

him, beckoning him closer.

Then a high-pitched ringing sound went off in his ear and he floated out

of the dream and groped for the telephone.

"Dirk?",came a cheery voice from a throat he wanted to throttle.

" Yes.

"Got some news for you."

"Huh?"

"You asleep?   This is St.  Julien."

"Perlmutter?"

"Wake up.  I found something."

Then Pitt switched on the bed light and sat up.  "Okay, I'm listening."

"I've received a written report from my friends in Korea.  They went

through Korean shipyard records.  Guess what?   The Belle Chasse was

never scrapped."

Pitt threw back the covers and dropped his feet on the floor.

"Go on."

"Sorry I took so long getting back to you, but this is the most

incredible maritime puzzle I've ever seen.  For thirty years somebody

has been playing musical chairs with ships like you wouldn't believe."

"Try me."

"First, let me ask you a question," said Perlmutter.  "The name on the

stern of the ship you found in Alaska?"

"The Pilottown?"

"Were the painted letters framed by welded heading?"

Pitt thought back.  "As I recall it was faded paint.  The raised edges

must have been ground away."

Perlmutter uttered a heavy sigh of relief over the phone.  "I was hoping

you'd say that."

"Why?"

"Your suspicions are confirmed.  The San Marino, the Belle Chasse and

the Pilottown are indeed one and the same ship."

"Damn!"  Pitt said, suddenly excited.  "How'd you make the link?"

"By discovering what happened to the genuine Pilottown," said Perlmutter

with a dramatic inflection.  "My sources found no record of a Belle

Chasse being scrapped in the shipyards of Pusan.  So I played a hunch

and asked them to check out any other yards along the coast.

They turned up a lead in the port of Inchon.  Shipyard foremen are '

interesting guys.  They never forget a ship, especially one they've

junked.  They act hard-nosed about it, but deep down they're sad to see

a tired old vessel pulled into their dock for the last time.  Anyway,

one old retired foreman talked for hours about the good old days.  A

real gold mine of ship lore."

"What did he say?"  Pitt asked impatiently.

"He recalled in great detail when he was in charge of the crew who

converted the San Marino from a cargo transport into an ore carrier

renamed the Belle Chasse."

"But the shipyard records?"

"Obviously falsified by the shipyard owners, who, by the way, happened

to be our old friends the Sosan Trading Company.  The foreman also

remembered breaking up the original Pilottown.  it looks like Sosan

Trading, or the shady outfit behind it, hijacked the San Marino and its

cargo and killed the crew.  Then they modified the cargo holds to carry

ore, documented it under a different name and sent it tramping around

the seas."

"Where does the Pilottown come in?"  asked Pitt.

"She was a legitimate purchase by Sosan Trading.  You may be interested

to know the International Maritime Crime Center has her listed with ten

suspected customs violations.  A hell of a high number.

It's thought she smuggled everything from plutonium to Libya, rebel arms

to Argentina, secret American technology to Russia, you name it.

She sailed under a smart bunch of operators.

The violations were never proven.  On five occasions she was known to

have left port with clandestine cargo but was never caught unloading it.

When her hull and engines finally wore out, she was conveniently

scrapped and all records destroyed."

"But why claim her as sunk if it was really the San Marino, alias the

Belle Chasse, they scuttled?"

"Because questions might be raised regarding the Belle Chasse's

pedigree.  The Pilottown had Solid documentation, so they claimed it was

she that sank in 1979, along with a nonexistent cargo, and demanded a

fat settlement from the insurance companies."

Pitt glanced down at his toes and wiggled them, "did the old foreman

talk about other ship conversions for Sosan Trading?"

"He mentioned two, a tanker and a container ship," Perlmutter answered.

"But they were both refits and not conversions.  Their new names were

the Boothville and the Venice."

"What were their former names?"

"According to my friend's report, the foreman claimed that all previous

identification had been removed."

"Looks like somebody built themselves a fleet out of hijacked ships."

"A cheap and dirty way of doing business."

"Anything new on the parent company?"  Pitt asked.

"Still a closed door," Perlmutter replied.  "The foreman did say,

however, some big shot used to show up to inspect the ships when they

were completed and ready to sail."

Pitt stood up.  "What else?"

"That's about it."

"There has to be something, a physical description, a name, something."

"Wait a minute while I check through the report again."

Pitt could hear the rustle of papers and Perhnutter mumbling to himself.

"Okay, here it is.  'The VIP always arrived in a big black limousine.'

No make mentioned.  'He was tall for a Korean-"' "Korean?"

"That's what it says," replied Perlmutter.  "'And he spoke Korean with

an American accent."' The shadowed figure in Pitts dream moved a step

closer.  "St. Julien, you do good work."

"Sorry I couldn't take it all the way."

"You bought us a first down."

"Nail the bastard, Dirk."

"I intend to."

"If you need me, I'm more than willing."

"Thank you, St.  Julien."

Pitt walked to the closet, threw on a brief kimono and knotted the sash,

Then he padded into the kitchen, treated himself to a glass of guava

juice laced with dark rum and dialed a number on the phone.

After several rings an indifferent voice answered: "Yeah?"

"Hiram, crank up your computer.  I've got a new problem for you.

THE TENSION WAS LIKE A TWISTING KNOT in the pit of Suvorov's stomach.

For most of the evening he had sat in the monitoring room making small

talk with the two psychologists who manned the telemetry equipment,

telling jokes and bringing them coffee from the kitchen.

They failed to notice that Suvorov's eyes seldom strayed from the

digital clock on one wall.

Lugovoy entered the room at 11:20 P.m. and made his routine examination

of the analogous data on the President.  At 11:38 he turned to Suvorov.

"Join me in a glass of port, Captain?"

"Not tonight," Suvorov said, making a pained face.  "I have a heavy case

of indigestion.  I'll settle for a glass of milk later."

"As you wish," Lugovoy said agreeably.  "See you at breakfast."

Ten minutes after Lugovoy left, Suvorov noticed a small movement on one

of the TV monitors.  It was almost imperceptible at first, but then it

was caught by one of the psychologists.

"What in hell!"  he gasped.

"Something wrong?"  asked the other.

"Senator Larimer-he's waking up."

"Can't be."

"I don't see anything," said Suvorov, moving closer.

"His alpha activity is a clear nine-to-ten-cycle-per-second set of waves

that shouldn't be there if he was in his programmed sleep stage."

"Vice President Margolin's waves are increasing too."

"We'd better call Dr.  Lugovoy-" The words hardly escaped his mouth when

Suvorov cut him down with a savage judo chop to the base of the skull.

In almost the same gesture, Suvorov swung a crosscut with the palm of

the other hand into the throat of the second psychologist, crushing the

man's windpipe.

Even before his victims hit the floor, Suvorov coldly gazed at the

clock.  The blinking red numbers displayed 11:49-eleven minutes before

Lugovoy was scheduled to exit the laboratory in the elevator.  Suvorov

had practiced his movements many times, allowing no more than two

minutes for unpredictable delays.

He stepped over the lifeless bodies and ran from the monitor room into

the chamber containing the subjects in their soundproofed cocoons.

He unlatched the top of the third one, threw back the cover and peered

inside.

Senator Marcus Larimer stared back at him.  "What is this place?

Who the hell are you?"  the senator mumbled.

"A friend," answered Suvorov, lifting Larimer out of the cocoon and half

carrying, half dragging him to a chair.

"What's going on?"

"Be quiet and trust me."

Suvorov took a syringe from his pocket and injected Larimer with a

stimulant.  He repeated the process with Vice President Margolin, who

looked around dazedly and offered no resistance.  They were naked, and

Suvorov brusquely threw them blankets, "Wrap yourselves in these," he

ordered.

Congressman Alan Moran had not yet awakened.  Suvorov lifted him out of

the cocoon and lain him on the floor.  Then he turned and walked over to

the unit enclosing the President.  The American leader was still

unconscious.  The latch mechanism was different from the other cocoons,

and Suvorov wasted precious seconds trying to pry open the cover.  His

fingers seemed to lose all feeling and he fought to control them.  He

began to sense the first prickle of fear.

His watch read 11:57- He was beyond his timetable; his two minute

reserve evaporated.  Panic was replacing fear.  He reached down and

snatched a Colt Woodsman .22-caliber automatic from a holster strapped

to his right calf.  He screwed on a four-inch suppressor; and for a

brief instant he was not himself, a man outside himself, a man whose

only code of duty and unleashed emotion blinded his perception.  He

aimed the gun at the President's forehead on the other side of the

transparent cover, Through the mist of his drugged mind, Margolin

recognized what Suvorov was about to do.  He staggered across the cocoon

chamber and lurched into the Russian agent, grabbing for the gun.

Suvorov just sidestepped and pushed him against the wall.  Somehow

Margolin remained on his feet.  His vision was blurred and distorted,

and a wave of sudden nausea threatened to gag him.  He flung himself

forward in another attempt to save the President's life.

Suvorov smashed the barrel of the gun against Margolin's temple and the

Vice President dropped limply in a heap, blood streaming down the side

of his face.  For a moment Suvorov stood rooted.

His well-rehearsed plan was cracking and crumbling apart.  Time had run

out.

His last fleeting hope lay in salvaging the pieces.  He forgot the

President, kicked Margolin out of the way and shoved Larimer through the

door.  Heaving the still unconscious Moran over his shoulder, he herded

the uncomprehending senator down the corridor to the elevator.

They stumbled around the final corner just as the concealed doors parted

and Lugovoy was about to step inside.

"Stop right where you are, Doctor."

Lugovoy whirled and stared dumbly.  The Colt was held rocksteady in

Suvorov's hand.  The eyes of the KGB agent blazed with a contemptuous

disdain.

"You fool!" Lugovoy blurted as the full realization of what was

happening struck him.  "You bloody fool!"

"Shut up!" Suvorov snapped.

"And step back out of the way."

"You don't know what you're doing."

"I'm only doing my duty as a good Russian."

"You're ruining years of planning," Lugovoy said angrily.

"President Antonov will have you shot."

"No more of your lies, Doctor.  Your insane project has placed our

government in extreme jeopardy.  It is you who will be executed.  It is

you who is the traitor."

"Wrong," Lugovoy said in near shock.  "Can't you see the truth?"

"I see you working for the Koreans.  Most likely the South Koreans who

have bought you off."

"For God's sake, listen to me."

"A good Communist has no God but the party," said Suvorov, roughly

elbowing Lugovoy aside and shoving the unprotesting Americans into the

elevator.  "I have no more time to argue."

A wave of despair swept Lugovoy.  "Please, you can't do this," he

pleaded.

Suvorov did not reply.  He turned and glared malevolently as the

elevator doors closed and blocked him from view.

ASTHE ELEVATOR ROSE, Suvorov reversed the gun and smashed out the

overhead light with the butt.  Moran moaned and went through the motions

of coming to, rubbing his eyes and shaking his head to clear the fog.

Larimer became sick and vomited in a corner, his breath coming in great

croaking heaves.

The elevator eased to a smooth stop and the doors automatically opened

to a smothering rush of warm air.  The only light came from three dim

yellow bulbs that hung suspended on a wire like ailing glowworms.  The

air was dank and heavy and smelled of diesel oil and rotting vegetation.

Two men stood about ten feet away, engaged in conversation, waiting for

Lugovoy to make his scheduled progress report.  They turned and glared

questioningly into the darkened elevator.  One of them bels an attache'

case.  The only other detail Suvorov noted before he shot them each

twice in the chest was the Oriental fold of their eyes.

He slung his free arm under Moran's waist and hauled him across what

seemed like a rusting iron floor.  He kicked Larimer ahead of him as he

would a remorseful dog that had run away from home.  The senator reeled

like a drunk, too sick to speak, too stunned to resist.  Suvorov pushed

the gun inside his belt and took Larimer's arm, guining him.

The skin under his hand felt goosefleshed and clammy.  Suvorov hoped the

old legislator's heart wasn't about to give out.

Suvorov cursed as he stumbled over a large chain.  Then he stopped and

peered down an enclosed ramp that stretched into the dark.  He felt as

if he were inside a sauna; his clothes were turning damp with sweat and

his hair was plastered down his forehead and temples.  He tripped and

almost fell, regaining his balance just before he was about to sprawl on

the cross slats of the ramp.

Moran's dead weight was becoming increasingly burdensome, and Suvorov

realized his strength was ebbing.  He doubted whether he could lug the

congressman another fifty yards.

At last they left the tunnel-like ramp and staggered out into the night.

He looked up and was vastly relieved to see a diamondclear sky carpeted

with stars.  Beneath his feet the ground felt like a graveled road and

there were no lights to be seen anywhere.  In the shadows off to his

left he dimly recognized the outline of a car.

Pulling Larimer into a ditch beside the road, he gratefully dropped

Moran like a bag of sand and cautiously circled around, approaching the

car from the rear.

He froze into immobility, rigin against the shadowless landscape, and

listened.  The engine was running and music was playing on the radio.

The windows were tightly rolled up and Suvorov right

assumed the air conditioner was on.

Silent as a cat, he crouched and moved in closer, keeping low and out of

any reflection in the side-view mirror on the door.  The inside was too

dark to make out more than one vague form behind the wheel.  If there

were others, Suvorov's only ally was the element of surprise.

The car was a stretch-bodied limousine, and to Suvorov it seemed as long

as a city block.  From the raised letters on the rear'of the trunk, he

identified it as a Cadillac.  He'd never driven one and hoped he would

have no trouble finding the right switches and controls.

His groping fingers found the door handle.  He took a deep breath and

tore open the door.  The interior light flicked on and the man in the

front seat twisted his head around, his mouth opening to shout.

Suvorov shot him twice, the silver-tip hollow-point bullets tearing

through the rib cage under the armpit.

Almost before the blood began to spurt, Suvorov jerked the driver's body

out of the car and rolled it away from the wheels.  Then he roughly

crowded Larimer and Moran into the back seat.  Both men had lost their

blankets, but they were too deeply gripped by shock to even notice or

care.  No longer the power brokers of Capitol Hill, they were as

helpless as children lost in the forest.

Suvorov dropped the shift lever into drive and jammed the accelerator to

the floor mat so fiercely, the rear tires spun and sprayed gravel for

fifty yards before finally gaining traction.  Only then did Suvorov's

fumbling hand find the headlight switch and pull it on.

He sagged in relief at discovering the big car was hurtling down the

precise middle of a rutted country road.

As he threw the heavy, softly sprung limousine over three miles of

choppy washboard, he began to take stock of his surroundings.

Cypress trees bordering the road had great tentacles of moss hanging

from their limbs.  This and the heavy atmosphere suggested they were

somewhere in the Southern United States.  He spotted a narrow paved

crossroad ahead and slin to a stop in a swirling cloud of dust.

On the corner stood a deserted building, more of a shack actually, with

a decrepit sign illuminated by the headlights: GLOVER CULPEPPER. GAS &

GROCERIES.  Apparently Glover had packed up and moved on many years

before.

The intersection had no marker, so he mentally flipped a coin and turned

left.  The cypress gave way to groves of pine and soon he began passing

an occasional farmhouse.  Traffic was scarce at this hour of morning.

Only one car and a pickup truck passed him, both going in the opposite

direction.  He came to a winer road and spotted a bent sign on a leaning

post designating it as State Highway 700.  The number meant nothing to

him, so he made another left turn and continued on.

Throughout the drive, Suvorov's mind remained cold and riginly alert.

Larimer and Moran sat silently watchful, blindly putting their faith in

the man at the wheel.

Suvorov relaxed and eased his foot from the gas pedal.  No following

headlights showed in the rearview mirror, and as long as he maintained

the posted speed limit his chances of being stopped by a local sheriff

were remote.  He wondered what state he was in.

Georgia, Alabama, Louisiana?   It could be any one of a dozen.  He

watched for some clue as the roadside became more heavily populated;

darkened buildings and houses squatted under increasing numbers of

overhead floodlights.

After another half-hour he came to a bridge spanning a waterway called

the Stono River.  He'd never heard of it.  From the high point of the

bridge, the lights of a large city blinked in the distance.  Off to his

right the lights suddenly halted and the entire horizon went pure black.

A seaport, he swiftly calculated.  Then the headlights fell on a large

black-and-white directional sign.  The top line read CHARLEsTON 5 miles.

"Charleston!" Suvorov said aloud in a sudden burst of jubilation,

sifting through his knowledge of American geography.  "I'm in

Charleston, South Carolina."

Two miles further he found an all-night drugstore with a public

telephone.  Keeping a wary eye on Larimer and Moran, he dialed the

long-distance operator and made a collect call.

A LONE CLOUD WAS DRIFTING overhead, scattering a few drops of moisture

when Pitt slipped the Talbot beside the passenger departure doors of

Washington's Dulles International Airport.  The morning sun roasted the

capital city, and the rain steamed and evaporated almost as soon as it

struck the ground.  He lifted Loren's suitcase out of the car and passed

it to a waiting porter.

Loren unwound her long legs from the cramped sports car, demurely

keeping her knees together, and climbed out.

The porter stapled the luggage claim check to the flight ticket and Pitt

handed it to her.

"I'll park the car and baby-sit you until boarding time."

"No need," she said, standing close.  "I've some pending legislation to

scan.  You head back to the office."

He nodded at the briefcase clamped in her left hand.  "Your crutch.

You'd be lost without it."

"I've noticed you never carry one."

"Not the type."

"afraid you might be taken for a business executive?"

"This is Washington; you mean bureaucrat."

"You are one, you know.  The government pays your salary, same as me.

Pitt laughed.  "We all carry a curse."

She set the briefcase on the ground and pressed her hands against his

chest.  "I'll miss you."

He circled his arms around her waist and gave a gentle squeeze.

"Beware of dashing Russian officers, bugged staterooms and vodka

hangovers."

"I will," she said, smiling.  "You'll be here when I return?"

"Your flight and arrival time are duly memorized."

She tilted her head up and kissed him.  He seemed to want to say

something more, but finally he released her and stood back.  She slowly

entered the terminal through the automatic slining glass doors.  A few

steps into the lobby she turned to wave, but the blue Talbot was pulling

away.

On the President's farm, thirty miles south of Raton, New Mexico,

members of the White House press corps were spaced along a barbed-wire

fence, their cameras trained on an adjoining field of alfalfa.  It was

seven in the morning, Mountain Daylight-Saving Time, and they were

drinking black coffee and complaining about the early hour, the

high-plains heat, the watery scrambled eggs and burned bacon catered by

a highway truck stop, and any other discontents, real or imagined.

Presidential Press Secretary Jacob (Sonny) Thompson walked briskly

through the dusty press camp prepping the bleary-eyed correspondents

like a high school cheerleader and assuring them of great unrehearsed

homespun pictures of the President working the soil.

The press secretary's charm was artfully contrived-bright white teeth

capped with precision, long sleek black hair, tinted gray at the

temples, dark eyes with the tightened look of cosmetic surgery.

No second chin.  No visible sign of a potbelly.  He moved and gestured

with a bouncy enthusiasm that didn't sit well with journalists, whose

major physical activities consisted of pounding typewriters, punching

word processors and lifting cigarettes.

The clothes didn't hurt the image either.  The tailored seersucker suit

with the blue silk shirt and matching tie.  Black Gucci moccasins coated

lightly with New Mexico dust.  A classy, breezy guy who was no dummy. He

never showed anger, never let the correspondents' needles slip under his

fingernails.  Bob Finkel of the haltimore Sun slyly suggested that an

undercover investigation revealed that Thompson had graduated with

honors from the Joseph Goebbels School of Propaganda.

He stopped at the CNN television motor home.  Curtis Mayo, the White

House correspondent network newscaster, sagged in a director's chair

looking generally miserable.

"Got your crew set up, Curt?"  Thompson asked jovially.

Mayo leaned back, pushed a baseball cap to the rear of a head forested

with billowy silver hair and gazed up through orange tinted glasses.  "I

don't see anything worth capturing for posterity."

Sarcasm ran off Thompson like rainwater down a spout.  "In five minutes

the President is going to step from his house, walk to the barn and

start up a tractor."

"Bravo," Mayo grunted.  "What does he do for an encore?"

Mayo's voice had a resonance to it that made a symphonic kettledrum

sound like a bongo: deep, booming, with every word enunciated with the

sharpness of a bayonet.

"He is going to drive back and forth across the field with a mower and

cut the grass."

"That's alfalfa, city slicker."

"N"atever," Thompson acknowledged with a good-natured shrug.

"Anyway, I thought it would be a good chance to roll tape on him in the

rural environment he loves best."

Mayo leveled his gaze into Thompson's eyes, searching for a flicker of

deception.  "What's going down, Sonny?"

" Sorry?   "

"Why the hide-and-seek?   The President hasn't put in an appearance for

over a week."

Thompson stared back, his nut-brown eyes unreadable.  "He's been

extremely busy, catching up on his homework away from the pressures of

Washington."

Mayo wasn't satisfied.  "I've never known a President to go this long

without facing the cameras."

"Nothing devious about it," said Thompson.  "At the moment, he has

nothing of national interest to say-"

"Has he been sick or something?"

"Far from it.  He's as fit as one of his champion bulls.  You'll see."

Thompson saw through the verbal ambush and moved on along the fence,

priming the other news people, slapping backs and shaking hands.

Mayo watched him with interest for a few moments before he reluctantly

rose out of the chair and assembled his crew.

Norm Mitchell, a loose, ambling scarecrow, set up his vineo camera on a

tripod, aiming it toward the back porch of the President's farmhouse,

while the beefy sound man, whose name was Rocky Montrose, connected the

recording equipment on a small folding table.  Mayo stood with one

booted foot on a strand of barbed wire, holding a microphone.

"Where do you want to stand for your commentary?"  asked Mitchell.

"I'll stay off camera," answered Mayo.  "How far do you make it to the

house and barn?"

Mitchell sighted through a pocket range finder.  "About a hundred and

ten yards from here to the house.  Maybe ninety to the barn."

"How close can you bring him in?"

Mitchell leaned over the camera's eyepiece and lengthened the zoom lens,

using the rear screen door for a reference.  "I can frame him with a

couple of feet to spare."

"I want a tight close-UP.

"That means a two-X converter to double the range."

"Put it on."

Mitchell gave him a questioning look.  "I can't promise you sharp

detail.  At that distance, we'll be giving up resolution and depth of

field."

"No problem," said Mayo.  "We're not going for air time."

Montrose looked up from his audio gear.  "Then you don't need me."

"Roll sound anyway and record my comments."

Suddenly the battalion of news correspondents came alive as someone

shouted, "Here he comes!"

Fifty cameras went into action as the screen door swung open and the

President stepped onto the porch.  He was dressed in cowboy boots and a

cotton shirt tucked into a pair of faded Levi's.

Vice President Margolin followed him over the threshold, a large Stetson

te in conversation, the President gesturing animatedly while Margolin

appeared to listen thoughtfully.

"Go tight on the Vice President," Mayo ordered.

"Have him," Mitchell responded.

The sun was climbing toward the middle of the sky and the heat waves

were rising over the reddish earth.  The President's farm swept away in

all directions, mostly fields of hay and alfalfa, with a few pastures

for his small herd of breeding cattle.  The crops were a vivin green in

contrast to the barren areas, and watered by huge circular sprinkling

systems.  Except for a string of cottonwoods bordering an irrigation

ditch, the land unfolded in flat solitude.

How could a man who had spent most of his life in such desolation drive

himself to influence billions of people?   Mayo wondered.

The more he saw of the strange egomania of politicians the more he came

to despise them.  He turned and spat at a colony of red ants, missing

their tunnel entrance by only a few inches.  Then he cleared his throat

and began describing the scene into the microphone.

Margolin turned and went back into the house.  The President, acting as

though the press corps were still back in Washington, hiked to the barn

without turning in their direction.  The exhaust of a diesel engine was

soon heard and he reappeared seated on a green John Deere tractor, Model

2640, that was hooked to a hay mower.  There was a canopy and the

President sat out in the open, a small transistor radio clipped to his

belt and earphones clamped to his head.  The correspondents began

yelling questions at him, but it was obvious he couldn't hear them above

the rap of the exhaust and music from the local FM station.

He wrapped a red handkerchief over the lower part of his face, bandit

style, to keep from breathing dust and exhaust fumes.  Then he let down

the mower's slining blades and started cutting the field, driving back

and forth in long rows, working away from the people crowding the fence.

After about twenty minutes the correspondents slowly packed away their

equipment and returned to the air-conditioned comfort of their trailers

and motor homes.

"That's it," announced Mitchell.  "No more tape, unless you want me to

reload."

"Forget it."  Mayo wrapped the cord around the microphone and handed it

to Montrose.  "Let's get out of this heat and see what we've got."

They tramped into the cool of the motor home.  Mitchell removed the

cassette holding the three-quarter-inch vineotape from the camera,

inserted it into the playback recorder and rewound it.

When he was ready to roll from the beginning, Mayo pulled up a chair and

parked himself less than two feet from the monitor.

"What are we looking for?"  asked Montrose.

Mayo's concentration didn't waver from the images moving before his

screen.  "Would you say that's the Vice President?"

"Of course," said Mitchell.  "Who else could it be?"

"You're taking what you see for granted.  Look closer."

Mitchell leaned in.  "The cowboy hat is covering his eyes, but the mouth

and chin match.  The build fits too.  Looks like him to me."

"Anything odd about his mannerisms?"

"The guy is standing there with his hands in his pockets," said Montrose

dumbly.  "What are we supposed to read in that?"

"Nothing unusual about him at all?"  Mayo persisted.

"Don't notice a thing," said Mitchell.

"All right, forget him," said Mayo as Margolin turned and went back

into the house.  "Now look at the President."

"if that aid't him," muttered Montrose acinly, "then he's got an

identical twin brother."

Mayo brushed off the remark and sat quietly as the camera followed the

President across the barnyard, revealing the slow, recognizable gait

known to millions of television viewers.  He disappeared into the dark

of the barn, and two minutes later emerged on the tractor.

Mayo snapped erect.  "Stop the tape!"  he shouted.

Startled, Mitchell pressed a button on the recorder and the image froze.

"The hands!"  Mayo said excitedly.  "The hands on the steering wheel!"

"So he's got ten fingers," mumbled Mitchell, his expression sour.

"So what?"

"The President wears only a wedding band.  Look again.  No ring on the

middle finger of the left hand, but on the index finger you see a

good-sized sparkler.  And the pinkie on the right-"

"I see what you mean," Montrose interrupted.  "A flat blue stone in a

silver setting, probably an amethyst."

"Doesn't the President usually sport a Timex watch with an Indian silver

band inlain with turquoise?"  observed Mitchell, becoming swept along.

"I think you're right," Mayo recalled.

"The detail is fuzzy, but I'd say that's one of those big Rolex

chronometers on his wrist."

Mayo pounded a fist on his knee.  "That clinches it.  The President is

known never to buy or wear anything of foreign manufacture."

"Hold on," Montrose said slowly.  "This is crazy.  We're talking about

the President of the United States as if he wasn't real."

"Oh, he's flesh and bone all right," said Mayo, "but the body sitting on

that tractor belongs to someone else."

"If you're right, you've got a live bomb in your hands," said Montrose.

Mitchell's enthusiasm began to dim.  "We may be digging for clams in

Kansas.  Seems to me the evidence is damned shaky.  You can't go on the

air, Curt, and claim some clown is impersonating the President unless

you have documented proof."

"Nobody knows that better than me," Mayo admitted.  "But I'm not about

to let this story slip through my hands."

"You're launching a quiet investigation then?"

"I'd turn in my press card if I didn't have the guts to see it through."

He looked at his watch.  "If I leave now, I should be in Washington by

noon."

Montrose crouched in front of the TV screen.  His face had the look of a

child who found his tooth still in the glass of water the next morning.

"It makes you wonder," he said in a hurt tone, "how many times one of

our Presidents used a double to fool the public."

VLADIMIR POLEVOI GLANCED UP from his desk as his chief deputy and

number-two man of the world' largest intelligence organization, Sergei

Iranov, walked purposefully into the room.

"You look as if you've got a hot stake up your ass this morning, Sera-..

"He's escaped," Iranov said tersely.

"Who are you talking about?"

"Paul Suvorov.  He's managed to break out of Bougainville's hidden

laboratory."

Sudden anger flushed Polevoi's face.  "Damn, not howl"

"He called our New York covert action center from a public telephone in

Charleston, South Carolina, and asked for instructions."

Polevoi rose and furiously paced the carpet.  "Why didn't he call the

FBI and ask them for instructions too?   Better yet, he could have taken

out an advertisement in USA Today."

"Fortunately his superior immediately sent a coded message to us

reporting the incinent."

"At least someone is thinking."

"There's more," said Iranov.  "Suvorov took Senator Larimer and

Congressman Moran with him."

Polevoi halted and spun around.  "The idiot! He's queered everything!"

"He is not entirely to blame."

"How do you draw that conclusion?"  Polevoi asked cynically.

"Suvorov is one of our five top agents in the United States.  He is not

a stupid man, He was not briefed on Lugovoy's project and it's logical

to assume it was entirely beyond his comprehension.  He undoubtedly

treated it with great suspicion and acted accordingly-', "In other

words, he did what he was trained to do."

"In my opinion, yes."

Polevoi gave an indifferent shrug.  "If only he'd concentrated on simply

giving us the location of the laboratory.  Then our people could have

moved in and removed the Huckleberry Finn operation from Bougainville's

control."

"As things are now, Madame Bougainville may be angry enough to cancel

the experiment."

"And lose a billion dollars in gold?   I doubt that very much.  She

still has the President and Vice President in her greedy hands.

Moran and Larimer are no great loss to her."

"Nor to us," Iranov stated.  "The Bougainvilles were our smokescreen in

case the American intelligence agencies scuttled Huckleberry Finn.  Now,

with two abducted congressmen in our hands, it might be considered an

act of war, or at very least a grave crisis.

It would be best if we simply eliminated Moran and Larimer."

Polevoi shook his head.  "Not yet.  Their knowledge of the inner

workings of the United States military establishment can be of

incalculable benefit to us."

"A hazardous game."

"Not if we're careful and quickly dispose of them when and if the net

tightens."

"Then our first priority is to keep them from discovery by the FBI."

"Has Suvorov found a safe place to hide?"

"Not known," Iranov answered.  "He was only told by New York to report

every hour until they reviewed the situation and received orders from us

in Moscow."

"Who heads our undercover operations in New York?"

"His name is Basil Kobylin."

"Advise him of Suvorov's predicament," said Polevoi, "omitting, of

course, any reference pertaining to Huckleberry Finn.  His orders are to

hide Suvorov and his captives in a secure place until we can plan their

escape from U.S. soil."

"Not an easy matter to arrange."  Iranov helped himself to a chair and

sat down.  "The Americans are searching under every rock for their

missing heads of state.  All airfields are closely watched, and our

submarines can't come within five hundred miles of their coastline

without detection by their underwater warning line."

"There is always Cuba."

Iranov looked doubtful.  "The waters are too closely guarded by the

U.S. Navy and Coast Guard against drug traffic.  I advise against any

escape by boat in that direction."

Polevoi gazed out the windows of his office overlooking Dzerzhinsky

Square.  The late-morning sun was fighting a losing battle to brighten

the drab buildings of the city.  A tight smile slowly crossed his lips.

"Can we get them safely to Miami?"

"Florida?"

"Yes."

Iranov stared into space.  "There is the danger of roadblocks, but I

think that could be overcome."

"Good," said Polevoi, suddenly relaxing, "See to it."

Less than three hours after the escape, Lee Tong Bougainville stepped

out of the laboratory's elevator and faced Lugovoy.  It was a few

minutes before three in the morning, but he looked as if he had never

slept.

"My men are dead," Lee Tong said without a trace of emotion.

"I hold you'responsible."

"I didn't know it would happen."  Lugovoy spoke in a quiet but steady

voice.

"How could you not know?"

"You assured me this facility was escape-proof.  I didn't think he would

actually make an attempt."

"Who is he?"

"Paul Suvorov, a KGB agent, who your men picked off the Staten Island

ferry by mistake."

"But you knew."

"He didn't make his presence known until after we arrived."

"And yet you said nothing."

"That's true," Lugovoy admitted.  "I was afraid.  When this experiment

is finished I must return to Russia.  Believe me, it doesn't pay to

antagonize our state security people."

The built-in fear of the man behind you.  Bougainville could see it in

the eyes of every Russian he met.  They feared foreigners, their

neighbors, any man in uniform.  They'd lived with it for so long it

became an emotion as common as anger or happiness.  He did not find it

in himself to pity Lugovoy.  Instead, he despised him for willingly

living under such a depressing system.

"did this Suvorov cause any damage to the experiment?"

"No," Lugovoy answered.  "The Vice President has a slight concussion,

but he is back under sedation.  The President was untouched."

"Nothing delayed?"

"Everything is proceeding on schedule."

"And you expect to finish in three more days?"

Lugovoy nodded.

"I'm moving your deadline up."

Lugovoy acted as though he hadn't heard correctly.  Then the truth broke

through to him.  "Oh, God, no!"  he gasped.  "I need every minute.  As

it is, my staff and I are cramming into ten days what should take

thirty.  You're eliminating all our safeguards.  We must have more time

for the President's brain to stabilize."

"That is President Antonov's concern, not mine or my grandmother's.  We

fulfilled our part of the bargain.  By allowing a KGB man in here, you

jeopardized the entire project."

"I swear I had nothing to do with Suvorov's breakout."

"Your story," Bougainville said coldly.  "I choose to believe his

presence was planned, likely on President Antonov's orders.  Certainly

by now Suvorov has informed his superiors and every Soviet agent in the

States is converging on us.  We will have to move the facility."

That was the final shattering blow.  Lugovoy looked as if he was about

to gag.  "Impossible!" he howled like an injured dog.

"Absolutely no way can we move the President and all this equipment to

another site and still meet your ridiculous deadline."

Bougainville glared at Lugovoy through narrow slits of eyes.

When he spoke again, his voice was rock calm.  "Not to worry, Doctor. No

upheaval is necessary."

WHEN PITT WALKED INTO His NUMA OFFICE, he found Hiram Yaeger asleep on

the couch.  With his sloppy clothes, long knotted hair and heard, the

computer expert looked like a derelict wino.  Pitt reached down and

gently shook him by the shoulder.  An eyelin slowly raised, then Yaeger

stirred, grunted and pushed himself to a sitting position.

"Hard night?"  Pitt inquired.

Yaeger scratched his head with both hands and yawned.  "You have any

Celestial Seasonings Red Zinger Tea?"

"Only yesterday's warmed-over coffee."

Yaeger clicked his lips sourly.  "The caffeine will kill you."

"Caffeine, pollution, booze, women-what's the difference?"

"By the way, I got it."

"Got what?"

"I nailed it, your cagey shipping company."

"Jesus!" Pitt said, coming alive.  "Where?"

"Right in our own backyard," Yaeger said with a great grin.

"New York."

"How did you do it?"

"Your bunch about Korean involvement was the key, but not the answer.  I

attacked it from that angle, probing all the shipping and export lines

that were based in Korea or sailed under their registry.

There were over fifty of them, but none led to the trail of banks we

checked earlier.  With nowhere else to go, I let the computer fly on its

own.  My ego is shattered.  It proved a better sleuth than I am.

The kicker was in the name.  Not Korean, but French."

"French."

"Based in the World Trade Center in lower Manhattan, their fleet of

legitimate ships flies the flag of the Somali Republic.  How does that

grab you?"

"Go on."

"A first-rate company, no rust-bucket operation, rated lily-white by

Fortune, Forbes and Dun and Bradstreet.  So damned pure that their

annual report comes accompanied with harp music.  Scratch the surface

deep enough though, and you find more phony front men and dummy

subsidiary companies than gays in San Francisco.  Documentary ship

fraud, bogus insurance claims, chartering phantom ships with nonexistent

cargoes, substitution of worthless cargoes for ones of great value.  And

always beyond the jurisdiction of the private outfits and governments

they screw."

"What's their name?"

"Bougainville Maritime," answered Yaeger.  "Ever heard of it?"

"Min Koryo Bougainville-the'Steel Lotus'?"  said Pitt, impressed.

"Who hasn't?   She's right up there with the celebrity British and Greek

shipping tycoons."

"She is your Korean connection."

"Your data are conclusive?   No chance of error?"

"Solid stuff," Yaeger replied adamantly.  "Take my word for it.

Everything triple-checks.  Once I tuned in on Bougainville as the

source, it became a simple chore of working backwards.  It all came

together; bank accounts, letters of credit-you wouldn't believe how the

banks turn their backs on these frauds.  The old broad reminds me of one

of those East Indian statues with twenty arms, sitting there with a holy

look on her face while the hands are making obscene gestures."

"You did it," Pitt said enthusiastically.  "You actually pinned Sosan

Trading, the San Marino and the Pilottown on the Bougainvihe shipping

empire."

"Like a stake through the heart."

"How far back did you go?"

"I can give you the old girl's biography almost to when she spit out the

tit.  A tough old bird.  Started from scratch and a lot of guts after

World War Two.  Slowly anded old tramp ships to her fleet, crewed by

Koreans who were glad to work for a bowl of rice and pennies a day.

With practically no overhead, she cut-rate her freight costs and built a

thriving business.  About twenty-five years ago, when her grandson

joined the company, things really took off.  A slippery customer, that

one.  Keeps in the background.  Except for school records, his data file

is almost blank.  Min Koryo Bougainviue built the foundation for

maritime crime that spanned thirty nations.  When her grandson-Lee Tong

is his name-came along, he honed and smoothed the piracy and fraud part

of the organization to a fine art.  I had the whole mess printed out.

There's a hard copy on your desk."

Pitt turned and for the first time noticed a five-inch-thick sheaf of

computer printout paper on his desk.  He sat down and briefly scanned

the notched pages.  The incredible reach of the Bougainvilles was

mind-boggling.  The only criminal activity they appeared to shy away

from was prostitution.  nodded.  "A super job, After several minutes he

looked up and Hiram," he said sincerely.  "Thank you."

Yeager nodded toward the printouts.  "I wouldn't let that out of my

sight if I were you."

"Any chance of us getting caught?"

"A foregone conclusion.  Our illegal taps have been recorded on the

bank's computer log and printed out on a daily form.  If a smart

supervisor scans the list, he'll wonder why an American oceanographic

agency is snooping in his biggest depositor's records.  His next step

would be to rig the computer's communications line with a tracing

device."

"The bank would most certainly notify old Min Koryo," said Pitt

thoughtfully.  Then he looked up.  "Once they identify NUMA as the tap,

can Bougainville's own computer network probe our system to see what

we've gleaned from their data banks?"

"Our network is as vulnerable as any other.  They won't learn much,

though.  Not since I removed the magnetic storage disks."

"When do you think they'll smoke us out?"

"i'd be surprised if they haven't pegged us already."

"Can you stay one jump ahead of them?"

Yaeger gave Pitt an inquiring stare.  "What sneaky plan are you about to

uncork?"

"Go back to your keyboard and screw them up but good.  Reenter the

network and alter the data, foul up the Bougainville dayto-day

operations, erase legitimate bank records, insert absurd instructions

into their programs.  Let them feel the heat from somebody else for a

change."

"But well lose vital evidence for a federal investigation."

"So what?"  Pitt declared.  "It was obtained illegally.  It can't be

used anyway."

"Now wait a minute.  We can be stepping into big trouble."

"Worse than that, we might get killed," Pitt said with a faint smile.

An expression blossomed on Yaeger's face, one that wasn't there before.

It was sudden misgiving.  The game had ceased to be fun and was taking

on darker dimensions.  It had never dawned on him that the search could

turn ugly and he might be murdered.

Pitt read the apprehension in Yaeger's eyes.  "You can quit now and take

a vacation," he said.  "I wouldn't blame you."

Yaeger seemed to waver for a moment.  Then he shook his head.

"No, I'll stick with it.  These people should be put away."

"Come down hard on them.  jam the works in all aspects of their shipping

company-outside investments, subsidiary businesses, real estate

dealings, everything they touch."

"it's my ass, but I'll do it.  just keep the admiral out of my hair for

a few more nights."

"Keep a lookout for any information relating to a ship called the

Eagle."

"The presidential yacht?"

"Just a ship called the Eagle."

"Anything else?"

Pitt nodded grimly.  "I'll see that security is increased around your

computer processing center."

"Mind if I stay here and use your couch.  I've developed this sudden

aversion to sleeping alone in my apartment."

"My office is yours."

Yaeger stood up and stretched.  Then he nodded at the data sheets again.

"What are you going to do with it?" Pitt stared down at the first breach

ever in the Bougainville criminal structure, The pace of his personal

investigation was gaining momentum, pieces falling into his hands to be

fitted in the overall picture, jagged edges meshing together.  The scope

was far beyond anything he'd imagined in the beginning.

"You know," he said pensively, "I don't have the vaguest idea."

WHEN SENATOR L,IKRIME:R AWOKE in the rear seat of the limousine, the

eastern sky was beginning to turn orange.  He slapped at the mosquito

whose buzzing had interrupted his sleep.  Moran stirred in his corner of

the seat, his squinting eyes unfocused, his mind still unaware of his

surroundings.  Suddenly a door was opened and a bundle of clothes was

thrown in Larimer's lap.

"Put these on," Suvorov ordered brusquely.

"You never told me who you are," Larimer said, his tongue moving in slow

motion.

"My name is Paul."

"No surname?"

"Just Paul."

"You FBI?"

"No."

"CIA?"

"It doesn't matter," Suvorov said.  "Get dressed."

"When will we arrive in Washington?"

"Soon," Suvorov lied.

"Where did you get these clothes?   How do you know they'll fit.

Suvorov was losing his patience with the inquisitive American.

He shrugged off an impulse to crack the senator in the jaw with the gun.

"I stole them off a clothesline," he said.  "Beggars can't be

particular.  At least they're washed."

"I can't wear a stranger's shirt and pants," Larimer protested

indignantly.

"If you wish to return to Washington in the nude, it is no concern of

mine."

Suvorov slammed the door, moved to the driver's side of the car and

edged behind the wheel.  He drove out of a picturesque residential

community called Plantation Estates and cut onto Highway 7. The

early-morning traffic was starting to thicken as they crossed over the

Ashley River bridge to Highway 26, where he turned north.

He was grateful that Larimer went silent.  Moran was climbing from his

semi-conscious state and mumbling incoherently.  The headlights

reflected off a green sign with white letters: AIRPORT NEXT RIGHT.  He

took the off ramp and came to the gate of the Charleston Municipal

Airport.  Across the main landing strip the brightening sky revealed a

row of jet fighters belonging to the Air National Guard.

Following the directions given over the phone, he skirted the airport

searching for a narrow cutoff.  He found it and drove over a dirt road

until he came to a pole holding a wind sock that hung limp in the dank

atmosphere.

He stopped and got out, checked his watch and waited.  Less than two

minutes later the steady beat of a helicopter's rotor could be heard

approaching from behind a row of trees.  The blinking navigation lights

popped into view and a teardrop blue-and-white shape hovered for a few

moments and then sat down beside the limousine.

The door behind the pilot's seat swung outward and a man in white

coveralls stepped to the ground and walked up to the limousine.

"You Suvorov?"  he asked.

"I'm Paul Suvorov."

"okay, let's get the baggage inside before we attract unwanted

attention."

Together they led Larimer and Moran into the passenger compartment of

the copter and belted them in.  Suvorov noted that the letters on the

side of the fuselage read SUMTER AIRBORNE AMBULANCE.

"This thing going to the capital?"  asked Larimer with a spark of his

old haughtiness.

"Sir, it'll take you anyplace you want," said the pilot agreeably.

Suvorov eased into the empty co-pilot's seat and buckled the harness. "I

wasn't told our destination," he said.

"Russia, eventually," the pilot said with a smile that was anything but

humorous.  "First thing is to find where you came from."

"Came from?"

"My orders are to fly you around the back country until you identify the

facility in which you and those two windbags in the back have spent the

last eight days.  When we accomplish that mission, I'm to fly you to

another departure area."

"All right," said Suvorov.  "I'll do my best."

The pilot didn't offer his name and Suvorov knew better than to ask. The

man was undoubtedly one of the estimated five thousand Soviet-paid

"charges" stationed around the United States, experts in specialized

occupations, all waiting for a call instructing them to surface, a call

that might never come.

The helicopter rose fifty feet in the air and then banked off toward

Charleston Bay.  "Okay, which way?"  asked the pilot.

"I can't be sure.  It was dark and I was lost."

"Can you give me a landmark?"

"About five miles from Charleston; I crossed a river."

"From what direction?"

"West, yes, the dawn was breaking ahead of me."

"Must be Stono River."

"Stono, that's it."

"Then you were traveling on State Highway 700."

"I turned onto it about half an hour before the bridge," The sun had

heaved itself above the horizon and was filtering through the blue

summer haze that hung over Charleston.  The helicopter climbed to nine

hundred feet and flew southwestward until the highway unreeled beyond

the cockpit windows.  The pilot pointed downward and Suvorov nodded.

They followed the outbound traffic as the South Carolina coastal plain

spread beneath them.  Here and there a few cultivated fields lay

enclosed on all sides by forests of long-leafed pines.  They passed over

a farmer standing in a tobacco field who waved his hat at them.

"See anything familiar?"  the pilot asked.

Suvorov shook his head helplessly.  "The road I turned off of might be

anywhere."

"What direction were you facing when you met the highway?"

"I made a left turn so I must have been heading south."

"This area is called Wadmalaw Island.  I'll start a circular search

pattern.  Let me know if you spot something."

An hour slipped by, and then two.  The scene below transformed into a

maze of creeks and small rivers snaking through bottomland and swamps.

One road looked the same as another from the air.

Thin ribbons of reddish-brown dirt or potholed asphalt slicing through

dense overgrowth like lines on the palm of a hand.  Suvorov became more

confused as time wore on, and the pilot lost his patience.

"We'll have to knock off the search," he said, "or I won't have enough

fuel to make Savannah."

'Savannah is in the state of Georgia," Suvorov said, as though reciting

in a school class.

The pilot smiled.  "Yeah, you got it."

"Our departure point for the Soviet Union?"

"Only a fuel stop."  Then the pilot clammed up.

Suvorov saw it was impossible to draw any information out of the man, so

he turned his attention back to the ground.

Suddenly he pointed excitedly over the instrument panel.

"There!" he shouted above the engine's roar.  "The small intersection to

the left."

"Recognize it?"

"I think so.  Drop lower.  I want to read the sign on that shabby

building sitting on the corner."

The pilot obliged and lowered the helicopter until it hovered thirty

feet over the bisecting roadways.  "Is that what you want?"

he asked.  "'Glover Culpepper-gas and groceries "We're close," said

Suvorov.  "Fly up the road that leads toward that river to the north."

"The Intracoastal Waterway."

"A canal?"

"A shallow canal that provines an almost continuous inshore water

passage from the North Atlantic States to Florida and the Gulf of

Mexico.  Used mostly by small pleasure boats and tugs."

The helicopter beat over the tops of trees, whipping leaves and bending

branches with the wash from its rotor blades.  Suddenly, at the edge of

a wine marshy creek, the road ended.  Suvorov stared through the

windshield.

"The laboratory, it must be around here."

"I don't see anything," the pilot said, banking the craft and studying

the ground.

"Set us down!"  Suvorov demanded nervously.  "Over there, a hundred

meters from the road in that glade."

The pilot nodded and gently eased the helicopter's landing skids into

the soft grassy earth, sending up a swirl of dead and moldy leaves.  He

set the engine on inle with the blades 'Slowly turning and opened the

door, Suvorov leaped out and ran stumbling through the underbrush back

to the road.  After a few minutes of frantic searchin he stared at the

bank of the creek and looked around in exasperation.

"What's the problem?"  asked the pilot as he approached.

"Not here," Suvorov said dazedly.  "A warehouse with an elevator that

dropped down to a laboratory.  It's gone."

"Buildings can't vanish in six hours," said the pilot.  He was beginning

to look bored.  "You must be on the wrong road."

"No, no, this has to be the right one."

"I only see trees and swamp"-he hesitated and pointed-"and that decrepit

old houseboat on the other side of the creek."

"A boat!" Suvorov said as though having a revelation.  "It must have

been a boat."

The pilot gazed down into the muddy water of the creek.  "The bottom

here is only three or four feet deep.  Impossible to bring a vessel the

size of a warehouse, requiring an elevator, in here from the waterway."

Suvorov threw up his hands in bewilderment.  "We must keep searching."

"Sorry," the pilot said firmly.  "We haven't the time or the fuel to

continue.  To keep our appointment we've got to leave now."

He turned without waiting for a reply and walked back to the helicopter.

Slowly Suvorov followed him, looking for all the world like a man deep

in a trance.

As the helicopter lifted above the trees and swung toward Savannah, a

gunnysack curtain in the window of the houseboat was pulled aside to

reveal an old Chinaman peering through an expensive pair of Celestron 11

x 80 binoculars.

Satisfied he had read the aircraft's identification number on the

fuselage correctly, he lain down the glasses and dialed a number on a

portable telephone scrambling unit and spoke in rapid Chinese.

"GOT A MINUTE, DAN?"  Curtis Mayo asked as Dan Fawcett got out of his

car in the private street beside the White House.

"You'll have to catch me on the run," Fawcett replied without looking in

Mayo's direction.  "I'm late for a meeting."

"Another heavy situation in the Situation Room?"

Fawcett sucked in his breath.  Then, as calmly as his trembling fingers

would permit, he locked the car door and picked up his attache' case.

"Care to comment?"  Mayo asked.

Fawcett marched off toward the security gate.  "I shot an arrow in the

air .  - ."

"It fell to earth, I know not where," Mayo finished, keeping step.

"Longfellow.  Want to see my arrow?"

"Not particularly."

"This one is going to land on the six o'clock news."

Fawcett slowed his pace.  "Just what are you after?"

Mayo took a large tape cassette from his pocket and handed it to

Fawcett.  "You might like to view this before air time."

"Why are you doing this?"

"Call it professional courtesy."

"Now that's news."

Mayo smiled.  "Like I said, view the tape."

"Save me the trouble.  What's on it?"

"A folksy scene of the President playing farmer.  Only it isn't the

President."

Fawcett drew up and stared at Mayo.  "You're full of crap."

"Can I quote you?"

"Don't get Gute," Fawcett snapped.  "I'm in no mood for a slanted

interview."

"Okay, straight question," said Mayo.  "Who is impersonating the

President and Vice President in New Mexico?"

"Nobody."

"I've got proof that says otherwise.  Enough to use it as a news item. I

release this and every muckraker between here and Seattle will crawl

over the White House like an army of killer ants."

"Do that and you'll have a dozen eggs on your face when the President

stands as close to you as I am and denies it."

"Not if I find out what sort of mischief he's been up to while a double

played hide-and-seek down on the farm."

"I won't wish you luck, because the whole idea is outlandish."

"Level with me, Dan.  Something big is going down."

"Trust me, Curt.  Nothing off limits is happening.  The President will

be back in a couple of days.  You can ask him yourself."

"What about the sudden burst of secret Cabinet meetings at all hours?"

"No comment."

"It's true, isn't it?"

"Who's your source for that little gem?"

"Somebody who's seen a lot of unmarked cars entering the subbasement of

the Treasury Department in the dead of night."

"So the Treasury people are burning the midnight oil."

"No lights go on in the building.  My guess is they're sneaking into the

White House through the utility tunnel and congregating in the Situation

Room."

"Think what you like, but you're dead wrong.  That's all I have to say

on the subject."

"I'm not going to drop it," Mayo said defiantly.

"Suit yourself," Fawcett replied indifferently.  "It's your funeral."

Mayo dropped back and watched as Fawcett walked through the security

gate.  The presidential adviser had put up a good front, he thought, but

that's all it was, a front.  Any doubts Mayo might have entertained

about sinister maneuvers emanating behind the walls of the nation's

executive branch were swept away.

He was more determined than ever to damn well find out what was going

on.

Fawcett slid the cassette in a vineotape recorder and sat down in front

of the TV screen.  He ran the tape three times, examining every detail

until he knew what Mayo had caught.

Wearily he picked up a phone and asked for a secure line to the State

Department.  After a few moments the voice of Doug Oates answered

through the earpiece.

"Yes, Dan, what is it?"

"We have a new development."

"News of the President?"

"No, sir.  I've just had a talk with Curtis Mayo of CNN News.

He's onto us."

There was a taut pause.  "What can we do?"

"Nothing," said Fawcett somberly, "absolutely nothing."

Sam Emmett left the FBI building in downtown Washington and drove over

to CIA headquarters in Langley, Virginia.  A summer shower passed

overhead, moistening the forested grounds of the intelligence complex

and leaving behind the sweet smell of dampened greenery.

Martin Brogan was standing outside his office when Emmett walked through

the anteroom door.  The tall ex-college professor offered an

outstretched hand.  "Thank you for taking time from your busy schedule

to drive over."

Emmett smiled as he took his hand.  Brogan was one of the few men around

the President he genuinely admired.  "Not at all.  I'm not a desk man. I

jump at any excuse to get off my butt and move around."

They entered Brogan's office and sat down.  "Coffee or a drink?" Brogan

asked.

"Nothing, thanks."  Emmett opened his briefcase and lain a bound report

on the CIA Director's desk.  "This spells out the Bureau's findings

until an hour ago on the President's disappearance."

Brogan handed him a similarly bound report.  "Likewise from Central

Intelligence.  Damned little to and since our last meeting, I'm sorry to

say."

"You're not alone.  We're miles from a breakthrough too."

Brogan paused to light a ropelike Toscanini cigar.  it seemed oddly out

of place with his Brooks Brothers suit and vest.  Together the men began

reading.  After nearly ten minutes of quiet, Brogan's expression

softened from deep concentration to curious interest, and he tapped a

page of Emmett's report.

"This section about a missing Soviet psychologist."

"I thought that would interest you."

"He and his entire United Nations staff vanished the same night as the

Eagle's hijacking?"

"Yes, to date none of them have turned up.  Could be merely an

intriguing coincinence, but I felt it shouldn't be ignored."

"The first thought that crossed my mind is that this"-Brogan glanced at

the report again-"Lugovoy, Dr.  Aleksei Lugovoy, may have been assigned

by the KGB to use his psychological knowledge to pry national secrets

from the abducted men."

"A theory we can't afford to dismiss."

"The name," Brogan said vacantly.  "It strikes a chord."

"You've heard it before?"

Suddenly Brogan's brows raised and his eyes winened ever so slightly and

he reached for his intercom.  "Send up the latest file from the French

Internal Security Agency."

"You think you've got something?"

"A recorded conversation between President Antonov and his KGB chief

Vladimir Polevoi.  I believe Lugovoy was mentioned."

"From French intelligence?"  Emmett asked.

"Antonov was on a state visit.  Our friendly rivals in Paris are quietly

cooperative about passing along information they don't consider

sensitive to their national interests."

In less than a minute, Brogan's private secretary knocked on the door

and gave him a transcription of the secret tape recording.  He quickly

consumed its contents.

"This is most encouraging," he said.  "Read between the lines and you

can invent all sorts of Machiavellian schemes.  According to Polevoi,

the UN psychologist disappeared off the Staten Island ferry in New York

and all contact was severed."

"The KGB lost several sheep from their herd at one time?"  Emmett asked

in mild astonishment.  "That's a new twist.  They must be getting

sloppy."

"Polevoi's own statement."  Brogan held out the transcript papers.

"See for yourself."

Emmett read the typed print and reread it.  When he looked up, a trace

of triumph brightened his eyes.  "So the Russians are behind the

abduction."

Brogan nodded in agreement.  "From all appearances, but they can't be in

it alone.  Not if they're ignorant of Lugovoy's whereabouts.

Another source is working with them, someone here in the United States

with the power to dictate the operation."

"You?"  Emmett asked wolfishly.

Brogan laughed.  "No, and you?"

Emmett shook his head.  "If the KGB, the CIA and the FBI are all kept in

the dark, then who's dealing the cards?"

"The person they refer to as the 'old bitch' and 'Chinese whore."' "No

gentlemen these Communists."

"The code word for their operation must be Huckleberry Finn."

Emmett stretched out his legs, crossing them at the ankles, and sagged

comfortably in his chair.  "Huckleberry Finn," he repeated, enunciating

every syllable.  "Our counterpart in Moscow has a dark sense of humor.

But what's important, he's unwittingly given us an eye to shove a sharp

stick into."

No one pain any attention to the two men seated comfortably in a pickup

truck parked in a loading zone by the NUMA building.  A cheap plastic

removable sign adhered to the passenger's door advertised GUS MOORE'S

PLUMBING.  Behind the cab in the truck's bed, several lengths of copper

pipe and an assortment of tools lay in casual disorder.  The men's

coveralls were stained with dirt and grease, and neither had shaved in

three or four days.  The only odd thing about their appearance was their

eyes.  They never shifted from the entrance to NUMA's headquarters.

The driver tensed and made a directional movement with a nod of his

head.  "I think this is him coming."

The other man raised a pair of binoculars wrapped in a brown paper bag

with the bottom torn out and gazed at a figure emerging from the

revolving glass doors.  Then he lain the glasses in his lap and examined

a face in a large eleven-by-fourteen-inch glossy photograph.

"Confirmed."

The driver checked a row of numbers on a small black transmitter.

"Counting one hundred forty seconds from .  . . now."  He punctuated his

words by pushing a toggle switch to the "on" position.

"Okay," his partner said.  "Let's get the hell away."

Pitt reached the bottom of the broad stone steps as the plumber's truck

drove past in front of him.  He stood a moment to let another car by and

began walking through the parking lot.  He was seventy yards from the

Talbot-Lago when he turned at the honking of a horn.

Al Giordino drew up alongside in a Ford Bronco four-wheel  drive.

His curly black hair was shaggy and uncombed and a heavy growth covered

his chin.  He looked as if he hadn't slept in a week.

"Sneaking home early?"  he said.

"I was until you caught me," Pitt replied, grinning.

"Lucky you, sitting around with nothing to do."

"You wrap the Eagle salvage?"  Pitt asked.

Giordino gave a tired nod.  "Towed her up the river and pushed her into

dry dock about three hours ago.  You can smell her death stink a mile

away."

"At least you didn't have to remove the bodies."

"No, a Navy diving team was stuck with that ugly chore."

"Take a week off.  You've earned it."

Giordino spread his Roman smile.  "Thanks, boss.  I needed that."

Then his expression turned solemn.  "Anything new on the Pilottown?"

"We're zeroing in-" Pitt never finished the sentence.  A thunderous

explosion tore the air.  A ball of flame erupted between the densely

packed cars and jagged metal debris burst in all directions.  A tire and

wheel, the chrome spokes flashing in the sun, flew in a high are and

landed with a loud crunch in the middle of Giordino's hood.

Bouncing inches over Pitts head, it then rolled through a landscaped

parkway before coming to rest in a cluster of rosebushes. The rumble

from the blast echoed across the city for several seconds before it

finally faded and died.

"God!"  Giordino rasped in bewildered awe.  "What was that?"

Pitt took off running, dodging between the tightly parked cars until he

slowed and halted in front of a scrambled mass of metal that smoldered

and coughed up a cloud of dense black smoke.  The asphalt underneath was

gouged and melting from the heat, turning into a heavy sludge.  The

tangled wreck was nearly unrecognizable as a car.

Giordino ran up behind him.  "Jesus, whose was it?"

"Mine," said Pitt, his features twisted in bitterness as he stared at

the remains of the once beautiful Talbot-Lago.

August 7, 1989

Miami, Florida LOREN WAS GREETED by Captain Yakov Pokofsky when she

boarded the Leonin 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 throuah 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

Leonin 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 lain

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 closedover 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 unaimed 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 radarscope.  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?"

"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 intiminated 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."

Soviet Military Intelligence.

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 placinly.  "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."

TALK AROUND THE CAPTAIN'S TABLE was dull and inane, as could be

expected.  Loren's dining companions bored her with long-drawnout

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-subsinized passenger line.

He described the Leonin 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 landing.  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 Pitts 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 lain 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 self-consciously 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 Marci.is 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 time.  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."

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.

"Information?"

"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 hin 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 Manh;ittan, 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 lain a look on him reserved for Martians and weirdos, shrugged and

continued her rounds of the other tables.

Pitt sat there inly stirring the Manhattan with a cherry, scowling at

nothing.  Somewhere along the line he had lost his grip on things.

Events were controlling him.  Knowing who tried to kill him provided

little satisfaction.  Only the Bougainville hierarchy had the motive.

He was getting too close.  No brilliance required in solving that

mystery. He was angry at himself for playing adolescent computer games

with their financial operation while they ran in a tougher league.

Pitt felt like a prospector who'd discovered a safe full of currency in

the middle of the Antarctic and no place to spend it.  His only leverage

was that he knew more than they thought he knew.

The enigma that nagged him was Bougainville's unlikely involvement with

the Eagle.  He knew of no motive for the sinking and murders.  The only

tie, and a slim one at that, was the overabundance of Korean bodies.

No matter; that was the FBI's problem, and he was glad to be rin of it.

The time had come, he decided, to get rolling, and the first step was to

marshal his forces.  No brilliance required in that decision either.

He rose and walked over to the bar.  "Can I borrow your phone, Cabot?"

The bartender, a pixie-faced Irishman, name of Sean Cabot, gave Pitt a

doleful glare.  "Local or long distance?"

"Long distance, but don't cry in your cash register.  I'll use a credit

card."

Cabot nodded indifferently and set a telephone on the end of the bar

away from the other customers.  "Too bad about your car, Dirk.  I saw

her once.  She was a beauty."

"Thanks.  Buy yourself a drink and put it on my tab."

Cabot filled a glass with ginger ale from the dispenser and held it

aloft.  "To a Good Samaritan and a bon vivant."

Pitt didn't feel like a Good Samaritan and even less like a bon vivant

as he punched out the numbers on the phone.  He gave his credit card

number to the operator and waited for a voice to answer.

"Casio and Associates Investigations."

"This is Dirk Pitt.  Is Sal in?"

"One moment, sir."

Things were looking up.  He'd been accepted into the receptionist's

club.

"Dirk?"  came Casio's voice.  "I've been calling your office all

morning.  I think I've got something."

"Yes?"

"A hunt through maritime union files pain divinends.  Six of the Korean

seamen who signed on the San Marino had prior crew tickets.

Mostly with foreign shipping lines.  But all six had one thing in

common.  At one time or another they sailed for Bougainville Maritime.

Ever hear of it?"

"It figures," said Pitt.  Then he proceeded to tell Casio what he found

during the computer search.

"Damn!"  Casio exclaimed incredulously.  "Everything fits."

"The maritime union, what did their records show on the Korean crew

after the San Marino hijacking?"

"Nothing, they dropped from sight."

"If Bougainville history ran true to form, they were murdered."

Casio fell silent, and Pitt guessed what was running through the

investigator's mind.

"I owe you," Casio said finally.  "You've helped me zero in on Arta's

killer.  But it's my show.  I'll take it alone from here."

"Don't give me the vengeance is mine martyr routine," Pitt said

abruptly.  "Besides, you still don't know who was directly responsible

."

"Min Koryo Bougainville," said Casio, spitting out the name.

"Who else could it be?"

"The old girl might have given the orders," said Pitt, "but she didn't

dirty her hands.  It's no secret she's been in a wheelchair for ten

years.  No interviews or pictures of her have been published since Nixon

was President.  For all we know, Min Koryo Bougainville is a senile,

bedrinden vegetable.  Hell, she may even be dead.

No way she scattered bodies over the seascape alone."

"You're talking a corporate hit squad."

"Can you think of a more efficient way to eliminate the competition?"

"Now you're insinuating she's a member of the Mafia," grunted Casio.

"The Mafia only kill informers and each other.  The evil beauty of Min

Koryo's setup is that by murdering crews in wholesale lots and stealing

vessels from other shipping lines, she built her assets with almost no

overhead.  And to do it she has to have someone organize and orchestrate

the crimes.  Don't let your hate blind you to hard-core reality, Sal.

You haven't got the resources to take on Bougainville alone."

"And you do?"

"Takes two to start an army."

There was another silence, and Pitt thought the connection might have

been broken.

"You still there, Sal?"

"I'm here," Casio finally said in a thoughtful voice.  "What do you want

me to do?"

"Fly to New York and pay a visit to Bougainville Maritime."

"You mean toss their office?"

I thought the term was 'breaking and entering."' "A cop and a judge use

different dictionaries."

"Just employ your talents to see what you can find of interest that

doesn't show up in the computers."

"I'll bug the place while I'm at it."

"You're the expert," said Pitt.  "Our advantage is that you'll be coming

from a direction they won't suspect.  Me, I've already been marked."

:,Marked?"  asked Casio.  "How?"

"They tried to kill me."

"Christi' muttered Casio.  "How?"

"Car bomb."

"The bastards!" he rasped, "I'll leave for New York this afternoon."

Pitt pushed the telephone across the bar and returned to his booth.  He

felt better after talking to Casio, and he finished the sandwich.  He

was contemplating his fourth Manhattan when Giordino walked up to the

table.

"A private party?"  he asked.

"No," Pitt said.  "A hate-the-world, feel-sorry-for-yourself,

downin-the-dumps party."

"I'll join it anyway," Giordino said, slining into the booth.

"The admiral's concerned about you."

"Tell him I'll pay for the damage to the parking lot."

"Be serious.  The old guy is madder than a stepped-on rattler.

Raised hell with the Justice Department all morning, demanding they

launch an all-out investigation to find out who was behind the bombing.

To him, an attack on you is an attack on NUMA."

"The FBI nosing around my apartment and office?"

Giordino nodded.  "No less than six of them."

"And reporters?"

"I lost count.  What did you expect?   The blast that disintegrated your

car thrust your name in the limelight.  Instant celebrity.  First bomb

explosion the city's had in four years.  Like it or not, old friend,

you've become the eye of the storm."

Pitt felt a mild elation at having seared the Bougainville interests

enough for them to attempt his removal.  They must somehow have learned

he was nipping at their flanks, digging deeper into their secrets with

each bite.  But why the overreaction?

The fake announcement of his discovery of both the San Marino and the

Pilottown no doubt alerted them.  Yet it shouldn't have thrown them into

a panic.  Min Koryo wasn't the panicky typepoint demonstrated by the

fact she did not respond to the doctored story.

How then did they realize he was so close?

Bougainville couldn't have tied him to the computer penetration and

planned his death in such short order.  Then the revelation struck him.

The notion had been there all the time, but he had pushed it aside,

failing to pursue it because it did not fit a pattern, Now it burst like

a flare.

Bougainville had linked Men to the Eagle.

Pitt was so engrossed in thought he didn't hear Giordino telling him he

had a phone call.

"Your mind must be a million miles away," said Giordino, pointing toward

Cabot the bartender, who was holding up the bar phone.

Pitt walked over to the bar and spoke in the mouthpiece.  "Hello."

Sally Lindemann's voice bubbled excitedly over the wire.  "Oh, thank

heavens I've finally tracked you down.  I've been trying to reach you

all day."

"What's wrong?"  Pitt demanded.  "Is Loren all right?"

"I think so, and then maybe not," said Sally, becoming flustered.

"I just don't know."

"Take your time and spell it out," Pitt said gently.

"Congresswoman Smith called me in the middle of the night from the

Leonin Andreyev and told me to find the whereabouts of Speaker of the

House Alan Moran.  She never gave me a reason.

When I asked her what to say when I contacted him, she said to tell him

it was a mistake.  Make sense to you?"

"did you find Moran?"

"Not exactly.  He and Senator Marcus Larimer were supposed to be fishing

together at a place called Goose Lake.  I went there but nobody else

knew anything about them."

"What else did Loren say?"

"Her last words to me were 'Call Dirk and tell him I need-' Then we were

cut off.  I tried several times to reach her again, but there was no

answer."

"did you tell the ship's operator it was an emergency?"

"Of course.  They claimed my message was passed on to her stateroom, but

she made no attempt to reply.  This is the damnedest thing.  Not like

Congresswoman Smith at all.  Sound crazy?"

Pitt was silent, thinking it out.  "Yes," he said at last, "just crazy

enough to make sense.  Do you have the Leonin Andreyev's schedule?"

"One moment."  Sally went off the line for nearly a minute.

"Okay, what do you want to know?"

:, When does it make the next port?"

'Let's see, it arrives in San Salvador in the Bahamas at ten A.M.

tomorrow and departs the same evening at eight P.m. for Kingston,

Jamaica."

" Thank you, Sally."

"What's all this about?"  Sally asked.  "I wish you'd tell me."

"Keep trying to reach Loren.  Contact the ship every two hours."

"You'll call if you find out anything," Sally said suspiciously.

"I'll call," Pitt promised.

He returned to the table and sat down.

"What was that all about?"  Giordino inquired.

"My travel agent," Pitt answered, pretending to be nonchalant.

"I've booked us for a cruise in the Caribbean."

CURnS MAYO SAT AT A DESK amin the studio mock-up of a busy newsroom and

peered at the television monitor slightly to his right and below camera

number two.  He was ten minutes into the evening news and waited for his

cue after a commercial advertising a bathroom disinfectant.  The

thirty-second spot wound down on a New York fashion model, who probably

never cleaned a toilet bowl in her life, smiling demurely with the

product caressing her cheek.

The floor director moved into Mayo's eye range, counted down the last

three seconds and waved.  The red light on the camera blinked on and

Mayo stared into the lens, beginning the segment of his news program.

"At the President's farm in New Mexico there have been rumors that the

nation's chief executive and the Vice President are using look-alike

stand-ins."

As Mayo continued his story line the engineer in the control booth cut

to the tape of the President driving the tractor.

"These scenes of the President cutting alfalfa on his farm, when viewed

close up, suggest to some that it is not him.  Certain famous mannerisms

seem exaggerated, different rings are seen on the fingers, the

wristwatch is not the one he usually wears, and there appears to be a

casual habit of scratching the chin that has not been noted before."

"John Sutton, the actor who bears a striking resemblance and who often

imitates the President on TV shows and commercials, could not be found

by reporters in Hollywood for comment.  Which raises the question Why

would our nation's leaders require doubles?   Is it a secret security

procedure, or a deception for darker motives?   Could it be the

pressures of the job are such that they have to be in two places at the

same time?   We can only speculate."

Mayo let the story dangle on a thread of suspicion.  The engineer in the

booth switched back to the studio camera, and Mayo went into the next

story.

"In Miami today, police claimed a breakthrough in a string of

drug-related murders.  . . ."

After the program, Mayo smiled in grim delight when informed of the

hundreds of calls flooding the network news offices asking for more

information on the President's double story, The same reaction, if not

far heavier, had to be pouring into White House phone lines.  In a

spiteful sort of glee, he wondered how the presidential press secretary

was taking it.

In New Mexico, Sonny Thompson stared blankly at the TV set long after

Mayo left the air.  He sat collapsed in his chair, his flesh the

consistency of blubber.  He envisioned his carefully nurtured world

slamming to a rapid end.  His peers in the news media were about to

crucify him on a cross of sensationalism.  When he was proven an

accomplice to a conspiracy to deceive the American public, no newspaper

or TV network would ever hire him after his looming White House

departure.

John Sutton stood in back of him with a drink in one hand.  "The

vultures are circling," he said.

"In giant flocks," Thompson muttered.

"What happens now?"

"That's for others to decide."

"I'm not going to jail like Lindy, Colson and those other guys," Sutton

said nastily.

'Nobody's going to jail," Thompson said wearily.  "This isn't Watergate.

The Justice Department is working with us."

"No way I'm going to take a fall for a bunch of politicians."

Sutton's eyes began to take on a greedy gleam.  "A guy could make

thousands, maybe a few million out of this."

Thompson looked at him.  "How?"

"Interviews, articles, and there's book rights royalties-the

possibilities for making a bundle are endless."

"And you think you're going to walk out of here and tell all."

"Why not?"  said Sutton.  "Who's going to stop me?"

It was Thompson's turn to smile.  "You haven't been told the reasons

behind your employment.  You have no idea how vital your little act is

to our country's interests."

"So who cares?"  Sutton said indifferently.

"You may not believe it, Mr.  Sutton, but there are many decent people

in our government who are genuinely concerned about its welfare.

They will never allow you to endanger it by speaking your piece for

profit."

"How can those egomaniacs who run the fun house in Washington hurt me?

Slap my hand?   Draft me into a volunteer army at age sixty-two?

Turn me over to the Internal Revenue Service?   No sweat on that score.

I get audited every year anyway."

"Nothing so mundane," said Thompson.  "You will simply be taken out."

'What do you mean, taken out?"  demanded Sutton.

"Perhaps I should have said 'disappear,"' Thompson replied, delighting

in the realization that grew in Sutton's eyes.  "It goes without saying

your body will never be recovered."

Fawcett FELT NO ENTHUSIASM for the day ahead.  As he scraped the beard

from his chin, he occasionally glanced at the stack of newspapers

spilling off the bathroom sink.  Mayo's story made front page news

across every morning edition in the nation.  Suddenly the press began to

ask why the President hadn't been reachable for ten days.  Half the

editorial columns demanded he step forward and make a statement.  The

other half asked the question "Where is the real President?"

Wiping the remaining lather away with a towel and slapping his face with

a mild after-shave lotion, Fawcett decided his best approach was to play

the Washington enigma game and remain silent.  He would cover his

personal territory, slide artfully into the background and gracefully

permit Secretary Oates to carry the brunt of the media onslaught.

Time had slipped from days to a few hours.  Soon only minutes would be

left.  The inner sanctum could stall no longer.

Fawcett couldn't begin to predict the complications that would arise

from the announcement of the abduction.  No crime against the government

had ever approached this magnitude.

His only conviction was that the great perpetuating bureaucracy would

continue to somehow function.  The power elite were the ones who were

swept in and swept out by the whim of the voters.

But the institution endured.

He was determined to do everything within his shrinking realm of

influence to make the next President transition as painless as possible.

With luck, he might even save his job.

He put on a dark suit, left the house and drove to his office, dreading

every mile.  Oscar Lucas and Alan Mercier were waiting for him as he

entered the West Wing.

"Looks grim" was all Lucas said.

"Someone has to make a statement," said Mercier, whose face looked like

it belonged in a coffin.

"Anybody I know draw the short straw?"  asked Fawcett.

"Doug Oates thought you'd be the best man to hold a press conference and

announce the kidnapping."

"What about the rest of the Cabinet?"  Fawcett asked incredulously.

"They concurred."

"Screw Oates!"  Fawcett said coarsely.  "The whole idea is stupid.

He's only trying to save his own ass.  I don't have the credentials to

drop the bombshell.  As far as the grass-roots voters are concerned, I'm

a nonentity.  Not one out of a thousand can recall my name or give my

position in the administration.  You know exactly what would happen. The

public would immediately sense their nation's leaders are floundering in

a sinking boat, shrinking behind closed doors to save their political

hines, and when it was over, any respect the United States ever had

would be wiped out.  No, I'm sorry.  Oates is the logical choice to make

the announcement."

"But you see," Mercier said patiently, "if Oates is forced to take the

heat and plead ignorance to a lot of embarrassing questions, it might

seem he had something to do with the abduction.  As next in line for the

Presidency, he has the most to gain.  Every muckraker in the country

will scream 'conspiracy." Remember the public backlash when former

Secretary of State Alexander Haig said he had everything under control

right after Reagan was shot by Hinckley?

Warranted or not, his image as a power seeker mushroomed.  The public

didn't like the idea of him running the country.  His base of influence

eroded until he finally resigned."

"You're comparing catsup to mustard," Fawcett said.  "I'm telling you,

the people will be incensed if I stand up and state the President, Vice

President and the two majority leaders in Congress have mysteriously

vanished and are presumed dead.  Hell, no one would believe me."

"We can't sidestep the main issue," Mercier said firmly.  "Douglas Oates

has to go into the White House as pure as the driven snow.

He can't do a decent job of picking up the pieces if he's surrounded by

doubt and malicious rumor."

"Oates is not a politician.  He's never expressed the slightest interest

in attaining the Presidency-"

"He has no choice," Mercier said.  "He must serve in the interim until

the next elections."

"Can I have the Cabinet standing behind me for support during the press

conference?"

"No, they won't agree to that."

"So I'm to be run out of town on a rail," said Fawcett bitterly.

"Is that the mutual decision?"

"You're overstating your case," said Mercier mildly.  "You won't be

tarred and feathered.  Your job is secure.  Doug Oates wants you to

remain as White House Chief of Staff."

"And ask me to resign six months later."

"We can't guarantee the future."

"All right," Fawcett said, his voice trembling in anger.  He pushed past

Mercier and Lucas.  "Go back and tell Oates he's got his human

sacrifice."

He never turned back but strode down the hallway and went directly to

his office, where he paced the floor, fuming in rage.  The bureaucracy,

he cursed to himself, its wheels were about to rumble over him.  He was

so furious he did not even notice the President's secretary, Megan

Blair, enter the room.

"Mercy, I've never seen you so agitated," she said.

Fawcett turned and managed a smile.  "Just complaining to the walls."

"I do that too, especially when my visiting niece drives me mad with her

disco recordings.  Blasts that awful music all over the house."

"Can I help you with anything?"  he asked impatiently.

"Speaking of complaining," she said testily, "why wasn't I told the

President had returned from his farm?"

"Must have slipped my mind-" He stopped and gazed at her queerly.

"What did you say?"

"The President back and no one on your staff warned me."

Fawcett's expression turned to abject disbelief.  "He's in New Mexico."

"Certainly not," Megan Blair said adamantly.  "He's sitting at his desk

this very moment, He chewed me out for coming in late."

Megan was not a woman who could lie easily.  Fawcett looked deeply into

her eyes and saw she was telling the truth.

"Are you She stared back at him, her head tilted questioningly.

all right?"  she asked.

Fawcett didn't answer.  He ran from his office and down the hallway,

meeting Lucas and Mercier, who were still conferring in hushed tones.

They looked up startled as Fawcett frantically pounded around them.

"Follow me!"  he shouted over one shoulder, arms flinging.

They stood stone-still for a moment, blinking in utter confusion.

Then Lucas reacted and dashed after Fawcett, with Mercier bringing up

the rear.

Fawcett burst into the Oval Office and stopped dead, his face going

white.

The President of the United States looked up and smiled.  "Good morning,

Dan.  Ready to go over my appointment schedule?"

Less than a mile away, in a secure room on the top floor of the Russian

embassy, Aleksei Lugovoy sat in front of a large monitor and read the

deciphered brainwaves of the President.  The display screen showed the

thoughts in English while a nearby printer produced paper copies

translated into Russian.

He sipped a cup of thick black coffee, then stood up, keeping his eyes

on the green letters, the heavy bunched eyebrows raised in controlled

conceit.

From a distance, the President's brain transmitted its every thought,

speech pattern, and even the words spoken by others nearby as they were

received and committed to memory.

The second stage of the Huckleberry Finn Project was a success.

Lugovoy decided to wait a few more days before he entered the final and

most critical stage, the issuing of commands.  If all went well, he knew

with a sinking certainty, his revered project would be taken over by the

men in the Kremlin.  And then Chairman of the Party Antonov and not the

President would direct policy for the United States.

THE MOLTEN SUN SLIPPED BELow the western edge of the Aegean Sea as the

ship cleared the Dardanelles and headed through the maze of Greek

islands.  The surface rolled under gentle two-foot swells and a hot

breeze set in from the African coast to the south.

Soon the orange faded from the sky and the sea lost its blue and they

melted together into a Solid curtain of black.  The moon had not yet

risen; the only light came from the stars and the sweeping beam of the

navigation beacon on the island of LesbosCaptain james Mangyai, master

of the 540-foot bulk freighter Venice, stood on the bridge and kept a

close watch over the bow.

He gave a cursory glance to the radar display and stared out the window

again, relieved that the sea was empty of other shipping.

of Odessa in the Black Sea, six Since departing the Russian port hundred

nautical miles behind, he had been extremely restless.

Now he began to breathe easier.  There were few tricks the Russians

would dare attempt in Greek waters.

The Venice was in ballast-her only cargo was the gold shipment

transferred from the Soviet government to Madame Bougainvilleand her

hull rode high in the water.  Her destination was Genoa, where the gold

was to be secretly unloaded and shipped to Lucerne, Switzerland, for

storage.

Captain Mangyai heard footsteps behind him on the teak deck and

recognized his first officer, Kim Chao, in the reflection on the window.

"How does it look to you, Mr.  Chao?"  he said without turningChao read

over the hour-by-hour meteorological report from the automated data

system.  "Calm sailing for the next twelve hours," he said in an

unhurried voice.  "Extended forecast looks good too.

We're fortunate.  The southerly winds are usually much stronger this

time of year."

"We'll need a smooth sea if we're to dock in Genoa under Madame

Bougainville's schedule."

"Why the hurry?"  asked Chao.  "Another twelve hours of sailing won't

matter."

"It matters to our employer," said Mangyai dryly.  "She doesn't wish our

cargo in transit any longer than necessary."

"The chief engineer is making more wind than a typhoon.  He claims he

can't keep up this speed for the whole voyage without burning up the

engines."

"He always sees black clouds."

"You haven't left the bridge since Odessa, Captain.  Let me spell YOU."

Mangyai nodded gratefully.  "I could use a short rest.  But first I

should look in on our passenger."

He turned over the bridge watch to Chao and walked down three decks to a

heavy steel door at the end of an alleyway aminships.  He pressed a

transmit button on a speaker bolted to the bulkhead.

"Mr.  Hong, this is Captain Mangyai."

He was answered by the gentle creak of the massive door as it was pulled

open.  A small moon-faced man with thick-lensed spectacles peered

cautiously around the edge.  "Ah, yes, Captain.  Please come in."

"Can I get you anything, Mr.  Hong?"

"No, I'm quite comfortable, thank you."

Hong's idea of comfort was considerably different from Mangyai's.

The only suggestion of human habitation was a suitcase neatly stowed

under a canvas folding cot, one blanket, a small electric burner with a

pot of tea, and a desk hanging from a bulkhead, its surface hidden under

a pile of chemical analysis equipment.  The rest of the compartment was

packed with wooden crates and gold bars.  The gold was stacked thirty

high and ten deep in several rows.  Some bars were scattered on the deck

next to the open crates, the unsanded sides stenciled with the

disclosure: MERCURY IN GLASS

SUZAKA CHEMICAL COMPANY KYOTO,JAPAN

"How are you coming?"  Mangyai asked.

"I should have it all examined and crated by the time we reach port."

"How many gilded lead bars did the Russians slip in?"

"None," said Hong, shaking his head.  "The count tallies, and every bar

I've checked so far is pure."

"Strange they were so accommodating.  The shipment arrived at the preset

hour.  Their dockworkers loaded it onboard without incinent.

And we were cleared to depart without the usual administrative hassle.

"I've never experienced such efficiency in any of my previous dealings

with Soviet port authorities."

"Perhaps Madame Bougainville has great influence in the Kremlin."

"Perhaps," said Mangyai skeptically.  He looked curiously at the piles

of gleaming yellow metal.  "I wonder what was behind the transaction?"

"I'm not about to ask," said Hong, carefully wrapping a bar in wanding

and placing it in a crate.

Before Mangyai could answer, a voice came over the speaker.

"Captain, are you in there?"

He walked over and cracked the heavy door.  The ship's communications

officer was standing outside in the alleyway.

:'Yes, what is it?"

'I thought you should know, Captain, someone is jamming our

communications."

"You know this for a fact?"

"Yes, sir,"' said the young officer.  "I managed to get a fix on it.

The source is less than three miles off our port bow."

Mangyai excused himself to Hong and hurried to the bridge.

First Officer Chao was calmly sitting in a high swivel chair studying

the instruments on the ship's computerized control panel.

"Do you have any ship contacts in, Mr.  Chao?"  asked MangyAllf Chao was

surprised at the captain's sudden reappearance, he didn't show it.

"Nothing visual, nothing on radar, sir."

"What is our depth?"

Chao checked the reading on the depth sounder.  "Fifty meters, or about

a hundred and sixty feet."

The awful truth struck Mangyai's mind like a hammer.  He leaned over the

chart table and plotted their course.  The keel of the Venice was

passing over the Tzonston Bank, one of many areas in the middle of the

Aegean where the seabed rose to within a hundred feet of the surface.

Deep enough for a ship's safe passage, but shallow enough for a routine

salvage operation.

"Steer for deep water!" he shouted.

Chao stared at the captain, hesitating in bewilderment.  "Sir?"

Mangyai opened his mouth to repeat the order but the words froze in his

throat.  At that instant, two sound-tracking torpedoes horned in on the

freighter's engine room and exploded with devastating effect.

Her bottom torn in gaping holes, the sea rushed into her innards. The

Venice shuddered and entered her death throes.

She took only eight minutes to die, going down by the stern and

disappearing beneath the indifferent swells forever.

The Venice was hardly gone when a submarine surfaced nearby and began

playing her searchlight on the fragmented floating wreckage.  The

pitifully few survivors, clinging to the flotsam, were coldly

machine-gunned until their shredded bodies sank out of sight.  Boats

were sent out, guided by the darting shaft of light.

After searching for several hours until all the debris was pulled

aboard, they returned to their ship.

Then the light was killed and the sub returned to the darkness.

THE President SAT AT THE CENTER of the oval mahogany conference table in

the White House Cabinet Room.  There were eleven men seated there

besides himself.  A bemused expression shone in his eyes as he surveyed

the somber faces around the table.

"I know you gentlemen are curious about where I've been for the last ten

days, and about the status of Vince Margolin, Al Moran and Marcus

Larimer.  Let me put this fear to rest.  Our temporary disappearance was

an event planned by me."

"You alone?"  Douglas Oates put to him.

"Not entirely.  President Antonov of the Soviet Union was also

involved."

For several moments, stunned and disbelieving, the President's top

advisers stared at him.

" You held a secret meeting with Antonov without the knowledge of anyone

in this room?"  Oates said.  His face paled in dismay.

"Yes," the President admitted.  "A face-to-face talk minus outside

interference and preconceived notions, without the international news

media second-guessing every word and unbound by politics.

just our top four people against his."  He paused and his eyes swept the

men before him.  "An unorthodox way of negotiating, but one I believe

the electorate will accept when they see the results."

"Would you mind telling us how and where this talk was held, Mr.

President?"  asked Dan Fawcett"After the exchange of yachts, we

transferred to a civilian helicopter and flew to a small airport outside

of Baltimore.  From there we took a private airliner belonging to an old

friend of mine and crossed the Atlantic to an abandoned airstrip deep in

the desert east of Atar, Mauritania.  Antonov and his people were

waiting when we arrived."

"I thought .  . . rather it was reported," Jesse Simmons said

hesitatingly, "that Antonov was in Paris last week."

"Georgi stopped over in Paris for a brief conference with President

LEstrange before continuing to Atar."  He turned and looked at Fawcett.

"By the way, Dan, that was a brilliant masquerade."

"We came within a hair of getting caught."

"For the time being, I'll deny the rumors of a double as too absurd to

comment on.  Everything will be explained to the press, but not before

I'm ready."

Sam Emmett placed his elbows on the table and leaned toward the

President.  "Were you informed, sir, that the Eagle was sunk and its

crew drowned?"

The President stared quizzically for a few moments.  Then his eyes

sharpened and he shook his head.  "No, I wasn't aware of it.

I'd appreciate a full report, Sam, as soon as possible."

Emmett nodded.  "It will be on your desk when we adjourn."

Oates struggled to keep his emotions in rein.  That a high-level meeting

of such enormous consequences to world foreign policy had taken place

behind the back of the State Department was unthinkable.  It was without

precedent in anyone's memory.

"i think we'd all be interested in knowing what you and Georgi Antonov

discussed," he said stiffly.

"A very productive give-and-take," answered the President.  "The most

pressing item on the agenda was disarmament.  Antonov and I hammered out

an agreement to halt all missile production and start up a dismantling

program.  We arrived at a complicated formula that in simple terms means

they break down a nuclear missile and we match them on a one-for-one

basis with on-site inspection teams overseeing the operation."

"France and England will never buy such a proposal," said Oates.

"Their nuclear arsenals are independent from ours."

"We will begin with the long-range warheads and work down," the

President said, undaunted.  "Europe will eventually follow."

General Clayton Metcalf shook his head.  "On the face of it, i'd have to

say the proposal sounds incredibly naive."

"It's a beginning," said the President adamantly.  "I believe Antonov is

sincere in his offer, and I intend to show good faith by pursuing the

dismantling program."

"I'll reserve judgment until I've had a chance to study the formula,"

said Simmons.

"Fair enough."

"What else did you discuss?"  asked Fawcett.

"A trade agreement," answered the President.  "Briefly explained, if we

allow the Russians to transport their agricultural purchases in their

own merchant ships, Antonov promised to pay our farmers top world prices

and, most important, not to buy from any other nation unless we fail to

provide the goods as ordered.  In other words, American farmers are now

the exclusive suppliers of Soviet imported farm products."

"Antonov bought your package?"  Oates asked incredulously.  "I can't

believe the old bear capable of giving away an exclusive license to any

nation."

"I have his assurance in writing."

"It sounds great," said Martin Brogan.  "But I'd like someone to explain

how Russia can afford to make wholesale agricultural purchases.

Their East bloc satellites have defaulted on massive loans to the West.

The Soviet economy is in disastrous shape.  They can't even pay their

armed forces and government workers in anything but scrip good only for

food and clothing.  What are they going to use for money?   our farmers

aren't about to go in hock for Communists.  They need immediate payment

to clear their own yearly debts."

"There is a way out," the President said.

"Your East bloc bailout theory?"  said Fawcett, anticipating him.

The President nodded.  "Antonov agreed in principle to accept my

economic assistance plan."

"if you'll excuse me, Mr.  President," said Oates, his hands clutched to

keep them from visibly trembling, "your plan solves nothing.  What

you're proposing is that we give billions of dollars in financial aid to

the Communist nations so they can turn around and buy from our own

farming community.  I see that as a 'rob Peter to pay Paul' sucker game,

with our taxpayers footing the bill."

"I'm with Doug," said Brogan.  "What's in it for us?"

The President looked around the table, his face set in determination. "I

made up my mind that this is the only way to show the world once and for

all that, in spite of her monstrous military machine, Russia's system of

government is a failure not to be envied or copied.  if we do this

thing, no country in the world can ever again accuse us of imperialist

aggression, and no Soviet propaganda or disinformation campaigns against

us will be taken seriously.  Think of it, the United States helped its

enemies back on their feet after World War Two.  And now we can do the

same for a Dation that has made a crusade out of condemning our

democratic principles.  I devoutly believe no greater opportunity will

be lain on our doorstep to set humanity on a straight course into the

future."

"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 understood only a man like

themselves, with more faults than they cared to acknowledge.  The

realization lain 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 win show no trace of an aircraft

flying on a course from Maryland to Mauritania and return."

Oates's eyes winened.  "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,"

anded 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."

LUGOVOY TUIRNED FROM HIS NOTFs 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 holinay.

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?"

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 nwny 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 wine river, gazing at

the ship traffic and holding an artist's brush.  On the treecovered

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 heard 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.

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 rainbowed sack of Ukrainian

potatoes.  He couldn't quite make out her face because it was partially

obscured by a wine-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 Leonin 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 Leonin 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 Leonin Andreyev eased away from the dock.

The engines beat softly as the bow came around.  The sandy arms of San

Salvador's harbor slin 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 and

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'Callao,han, 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.  Girodino 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.

Then he snapped the lock, turned off the light and left.

Pitt suffered hunger pangs as he dropped down a tunnel lander toward the

engine room.  He hadn't eaten since Washington, and the growls from his

stomach seemed to echo inside the narrow steel access tube.  He wished

he was seated in the dining room putting away the delicacies from the

gourmet menu.  Suddenly he brushed away all thought of food as he

detected voices rising from the compartment below.

He crouched against the lander and gazed past his feet.  A man's

shoulder showed no more than four feet below him.  Then the top of a

head with stringy, unkempt blond hair moved into view.  The crewman said

a few words in Russian to someone else.  There was a muffled reply

followed by the sound of footsteps on a metal grating.  After three

minutes, the head moved away and Pitt heard the thin clap of a locker

door closing.  Then footsteps again and silence.

Pitt swung around the lander, inserted his feet and calves through a

rung and hung upside down, his eyes peering under the lip of the tunnel.

He found himself with an inverted view of the engine room crew's locker

room.  It was temporarily vacant.  Quickly he climbed down and went

through the lockers until he found a pair of greasestained coveralls

that were a reasonable fit.  He also took a cap that was two sizes too

large and pulled it over his forehead.  Now he was ready to wander the

working areas.

His next problem was that he only knew about twenty words of Russian,

and most of them had to do with ordering dinner in a restaurant.

Nearly a half-hour passed before Pitt meandered into the main crew's

quarters in the bow section of the ship.  Occasionally he passed a cook

from one of the kitchens, a porter pushing a cart loaded with liquor for

the cocktail bars, or a cabin main coming off duty.  None gave him a

second look except an officer who threw a distasteful glance at his

grimy attire.

By a fortunate accinent, he stumbled on the crew's laundry room.

A round-face girl looked up at him across a counter and asked him

something in Russian.

He shrugged and replied, "Nyet."

Bundles of washed uniforms lay neatly stacked on a long table.

It occurred to him that the laundry-room girl had asked him which bundle

was his.  He studied them for a few moments and finally pointed to one

containing three neatly folded white coveralls like the dirty pair he

wore.  By changing into clean ones he could have the run of the entire

ship, pretending to be a crewman from the engine room on a maintenance

assignment.

The girl lain the bundle on the counter and asked him another question.

His mind raced to dredge up something from his limited Russian

vocabulary.  Finally he mumbled, "Yes til u vas sosiski."

The girl gave him an odd look indeed but handed him the bundle, making

him sign for it, which he did in an illegible scrawl.

Pitt was relieved to see that her eyes reflected curiosity rather than

suspicion.

It was only after he found an empty cabin and switched coveralls that it

dawned on him that he'd asked the laundry girl for frankfurters.

After pausing at a bulletin board to remove a diagram showing the

compartments on the decks of the Leonin Andreyev, he calmly spent the

next five hours browsing around the lower hull of the ship.  Detecting

no clue to Loren's presence, he returned to his cabin and found Giordino

had thoughtfully ordered him a meal.

"Anything?"  Giordino asked, pouring two glasses from a bottle of

Russian champagne.

"Not a trace," said Pitt wearily.  "We celebrating?"

"Allow me a little class in this dungeon."

"You search her suite?"

Giordino nodded.  "What kind of perfume does Loren wear?"

Pitt stared at the bubbles rising from the glass for a moment.  "A

French name; I can't recall it.  Why do you ask?"

"Have an aroma like a flower?"

"Lilac .  . . no, honeysuckle.  Yes, honeysuckle."

"Her suite was wiped clean.  The Russians made it look like she'd never

been there, but I could still smell her scent."

Pitt drained the champagne glass and poured another without speaking.

"We have to face the possibility they killed her," Giordino said

matter-of-factly.

"Then why hide her clothes and luggage?   They can't claim she fell

overboard with all her belongings."

"The crew could have stored them below and are waiting for an opportune

moment, like rough weather, to announce the tragic news.

Sorry, Dirk," Giordino anded, no apology in his voice.

"We've got to look at every angle, good or bad."

"Loren is alive and onboard this ship somewhere," Pitt said steadfastly.

"And maybe Moran and Larimer too."

"You're taking a lot for granted."

"Loren is a smart girl.  She didn't ask Sally Lindemann to locate

Speaker of the House Moran unless she had a damn good reason.

Sally claims Moran and Senator Larimer have both mysteriously dropped

from sight.  Now Loren is missing too.  What impression do you get?"

"You make a good sales pitch, but what's behind it?"

Pitt shrugged negatively.  "I flatly don't know.  Only a crazy idea this

might somehow mix with Bougainville Maritime and the loss of the Eagle."

Giordino was silent, thinking it over.  "Yes," he said slowly, "a crazy

idea, but one that makes a lot of circumstantial sense.  Where do you

want me to start?"

"Put on your Zelda getup and walk past every cabin on the ship.

If Loren or the others are held prisoner inside, there will be a

security guard posted outside the door."

"And that's the giveaway," said Giordino.  "Where will you be?"

Pitt lain out the diagram of the ship on his bunk.  "Some of the crew

are quartered in the stern.  I'll scrounge there."  He folded up the

diagram and shoved it in the pocket of the coveralls.  "We'd best get

started.  There isn't much time."

"At least we have until the day after tomorrow, when the Leonin Andreyev

docks in Jamaica."

"No such luxury," said Pitt.  "Study a nautical chart of the Caribbean

and you'll see that about this time tomorrow afternoon we'll be cruising

within sight of the Cuban coast."

Giordino nodded in understanding.  "A golden opportunity to transfer

Loren and others off the ship where they can't be touched."

"The nasty part is they may not stay on Cuban soil any longer than it

takes to put them on a plane for Moscow."

Giordino considered that for a moment and then went over to his

suitcase, removed the mangy wig and slipped it over his curly head.

Then he peered in a mirror and made a hideous face.

'Veil, Zelda," he said sourly, "let's go walk the decks and see who we

can pick up."

THE President WENT ON NATIONAL TELEVISION that same evening to reveal

his meeting and accord with President Antonov of the Soviet Union.  In

his twenty-three-minute andress, he briefly outlined his programs to aid

the Communist countries.  He also stated his intention to abolish the

barriers and restrictions on purchases of American high technology by

the Russians.  Never once was Congress mentioned.  He spoke of the

Eastern bloc trade agreements as though they were already budgeted and

set in motion.

He closed by promising that his next task would be to throw his energies

behind a war to reduce the national crime rate.

The ensuing uproar in government circles swept all other news before it.

Curtis Mayo and other network commentators broadcast scathing attacks on

the President for overstepping the limits of his authority.  Specters of

an imperial Presidency were raised.

Congressional leaders who had remained in Washington during the recess

launched a telephone campaign encouraging their fellow lawmakers who

were vacationing or campaigning in their home states to return to the

capital to meet in emergency session.

House and Senate members, acting without the counsel of their majority

leaders, Moran and Larimer, who could not be reached, solinly closed

ranks against the President in a bipartisan flood.

Dan Fawcett burst into the Oval Office the next morning, anguish written

on his face.  "Good God, Mr.  President, you can't do this!" The

President looked up calmly.  "You're referring to my talk last night?"

"Yes, sir, I am," Fawcett said emotionally.  "You as good as went on

record as saying you were proceeding with your aid programs without

congressional approval."

'Is that what it sounded like?"

:, it did."

"Good," said the President, thumping his hand on the desk.

"Because that's exactly what I intend to do."

Fawcett was astonished.  "Not under the Constitution.  Executive

privilege does not extend that far-"

"God damn it, don't try and tell me how to run the Presidency, the

President shouted, suddenly furious.

"I'm through begging and compromising with those conceited hypocrites on

the Hill.  The only way I'm going to get anything done, by God, is to

put on the gloves and start swinging."

"You're setting out on a dangerous course.  They'll band together to

freeze out every issue you put before them."

"No, they won't " the President shouted, rising to his feet and coming

around the desk to face Fawcett.  "Congress will not have a chance to

upset my plans."

Fawcett could only look at him in shock and horror.  "You can't stop

them.  They're gathering now, flying in from every state to hold an

emergency session to block you."

"if they think that," the President said in a morbin voice Fawcett

scarcely recognized, "they're in for a big surprise."

The early-morning traffic was spreading thin when three military convoys

flowed into the city from different directions.  One Army Special

Counterterrorist Detachment from Fort Belvoir moved north along

Anacostia Freeway while another from Fort Meade came down the Baltimore

and Washington Parkway to the south.  At the same moment, a Critical

Operation Force attached to the Marine Corps base at Quantico advanced

over the Rochambeau bridge from the west.

As the long lines of five-ton personnel carriers converged on the

Federal Center, a flight of tilt-rotored assault transports settled onto

the grass of the mall in front of the Capitol reflecting pool and

disgorged their cargo of crack Marine field troops from Camp Lejeune,

North Carolina.  The two-thousand-man task force was made up of United

Emergency Response teams that were on twenty-four-hour alert.

As they deployed around the federal buildings, they quickly cleared

everyone out of the Capitol chambers, the House and Senate offices. Then

they took up their positions and sealed off all entrances.

At first the bewildered lawmakers and their aides thought it was a

building evacuation due to a terrorist bomb threat.  The only other

explanation was an unannounced military exercise.  When they learned the

entire seat of American government was shut down by order of the

President, they stood shocked and outraged, conferring in heated

indignation in small groups on the grounds east of the Capitol building.

Lyndon Johnson had once threatened to lock out Congress, but no one

could believe it was actually happening.

Arguments and demands went unheard by the purposeful-looking men dressed

in field camouflage and holding M-20 automatic rifles and riot guns. One

senator, nationally recognized for his liberal stands, tried to break

through the cordon and was dragged back to the street by two grim-faced

Marines.

The troops did not surround or close the executive departments or

independent agencies.  For most of the federal offices it was business

as usual.  The streets were kept open and traffic directed in an

efficient manner local citizens found downright enjoyable.

The press and television media poured onto the Capitol grounds.

The grass was nearly buried under a blanket of cables and electronic

equipment.  Interviews before cameras became so hectic and crowded that

senators and congressmen had to stand in line to voice their objections

to the President's unprecedented action.

Surprisingly, reaction from most Americans across the country was one of

amusement rather than distaste.  They sat in front of their television

screens and viewed the event as if it were a circus.

The consensus was that the President was throwing a temporary scare into

Congress and would order the troops removed in a day or two.

At the State Department, Oates huddled with Emmett, Brogan and Mercier.

The atmosphere was heavy with a sense of indecision and suspense.

"The President's a damned fool if he thinks he's more important than the

constitutional government," said Oates.

Emmett stared steadily at Mercier.  "I can't see why you didn't suspect

what was going on."

"He shut me out completely," said Mercier, his expression sheepish.  "He

never offered the slightest clue of what was on his mind."

"Surely Jesse Simmons and General Metcalf weren't a party to it," Oates

wondered aloud.

Brogan shook his head.  "My Pentagon sources say Jesse Simmons flatly

refused."

"Why didn't he warn us?"  asked Emmett.

"After Simmons told the President in no uncertain terms that he was off

base, the roof fell in.  A military security guard detail escorted him

home, where he was placed under house arrest."

"Jesus," muttered Oates in exasperation.  "It gets worse by the minute."

"What about General Metcalf?"  asked Mercier.

"I'm sure he voiced his objections," Brogan answered.  "But Clayton

Metcalf is a spit-and-polish soldier who's duty-bound to carry out the

orders of his commander in chief.  He and the President are old, close

friends.  Metcalf undoubtedly feels his loyalty is to the man who

appointed him to be Chief of Staff, and not Congress."

Oates's fingers swept an imaginary dust speck off the desktop.

"The President disappears for ten days and after his return falls off

the deep end."

"Huckleberry Finn," Brogan said slowly.

"Judging from the President's behavioral patterns over the past

twenty-four hours," Mercier said thoughtfully, "the evidence looks

pretty conclusive."

"Has Dr.  Lugovoy surfaced yet?"  Oates asked.

Emmett shook his head.  "He's still missing."

"We've obtained reports from our people inside Russia on the doctor,"

Brogan elucinated.  "His specialty for the last fifteen years has been

mind transfer.  Soviet intelligence ministries have provided enormous

funding for the research.  Hundreds of Jews and other dissidents who

vanished inside KGB-operated mental institutions were his guinea pigs.

And he claims to have made a breakthrough in thought interpretation and

control."

"Do we have such a project in progress?"  Oates inquired.

Brogan nodded.  "Ours is code-named 'Fathom,' which is working along the

same lines."

Oates held his head in his hands for a moment, then turned to Emmett.

"You still haven't a lead on Vince Margolin, Larimer and Moran?"

Emmett looked embarrassed.  "I regret to say their whereabouts is still

unknown."

"Do you think Lugovoy has performed the mind-transfer experiment on them

too?"

"I don't believe so," Emmett answered.  "If I were in the Russians'

shoes, I'd keep them in reserve in the event the President doesn't

respond to instructions as programmed."

"His mind could slip out of their grasp and react unpredictably," Brogan

anded.  "Fooling around with the brain is not an exact science.

There's no way of telling what he'll do next."

"Congress isn't waiting to find out," said Mercier.  "They're out

hustling for a place to convene so they can start impeachment

proceedings."

"The President knows that, and he isn't stupid," Oates responded.

"Every time the House and Senate members gather for a session, he'll

send in troops to break it up.  With the armed forces behind him, it's a

no-win situation."

"Considering the President is literally being told what to do by an

unfriendly foreign power, Metcalf and the other joint Chiefs can't

continue giving him their support," said Mercier.

"Metcalf refuses to act until we produce absolute proof of mind

control," Emmett anded.  "But I suspect he's only waiting for a ripe

excuse to throw his lot in with Congress."

Brogan looked concerned.  "Let's hope he doesn't make his move too

late."

"So the situation boils down to the four of us devising a way to

neutralize the President," Oates mused.

"Have you driven past the White House today?"  Mercier asked.

Oates shook his head.  "No.  Why?"

"Looks like an armed camp.  The military is crawling over every inch of

the grounds.  Word has it the President can't be reached by anybody.  I

doubt even you, Mr.  Secretary, could walk past the front door."

Brogan thought a moment.  "Dan Fawcett is still on the inside."

"I talked to him over the phone," Mercier said.  "He presented his

opposition to the President's actions a bit too strongly.  I gather he's

now persona non grata in the Oval Office."

"We need someone who has the President's trust."

"Oscar Lucas," Emmett said.

"Good thinking," Oates snapped, looking up.  "As head of the Secret

Service, he's got the run of the place."

"Someone will have to brief Dan and Oscar face to face," Emmett advised.

"I'll handle it," Brogan volunteered.

'You have a plan?"  asked Oates.

,: Not off the top of my head, but my people will come up with

something."

"Better be good," said Emmett seriously, "if we're to avoid the worst

fear of our Founding Fathers."

'And what was that?"  asked Oates.

"The unthinkable," replied Emmett.  "A dictator in the White House."

LOREN WAS SWEATING.  She had never sweated so much in her life.

Her evening gown was damp and plastered against her body like a second

skin.  The little windowless cell felt like a sauna and it was an effort

just to breathe.  A toilet and a bunk were her only creature comforts,

and a dim bulb attached to the ceiling in a small cage glowed

continuously.  The ventilators, she was certain, were turned off to

increase her discomfort.

When she was brought to the ship's brig, she had seen no sign of the man

she thought might be Alan Moran.  No food or water had been given to her

since the crew locked her up, and hunger pangs were gnawing at her

stomach.  No one had even visited her, and she began to wonder if

Captain Pokofsky meant to keep her in solitary confinement until she

wasted away.

At last she decided to abandon her attempt at vanity and removed her

clinging dress.  She began to do stretching exercises to pass the time.

Suddenly she heard the muted sound of footsteps outside in the

passageway.  Muffled voices spoke in a brief conversation, and then the

door was unlatched and swung open.

Loren snatched her dress off the bunk and held it in front of her,

shrinking back into a corner of the cell.

A man ducked his head as he passed through the small doorway.

He was turned out in a cheap business suit that looked to her several

decades out of fashion.

"Congresswoman Smith, please forgive the condition I was forced to put

you in."

"No, I don't think I will," she said defiantly.  "Who are you?"

"My name is Paul Suvorov.  I represent the Soviet government."

Contempt flooded into Loren's voice.  "Is this an example of the way

Communists treat visiting American VIPs?"

"Not under ordinary circumstances, but you gave us no choice."

"Please explain," she demanded, glaring at him.

He gave her an uncertain look.  "I believe you know."

"Why don't you'refresh my memory."

He paused to light a cigarette, carelessly tossing the match in the

toilet.  "The other evening when the helicopter arrived, Captain

Pokofsky's first officer observed you standing very close to the landing

area."

"So were several other passengers," Loren snapped icily.

:'Yes, but they were too far away to see a familiar face."

'And you think I wasn't."

"Why can't you be reasonable, Congresswoman.  Surely you can't deny you

recognized your own colleagues."

'I don't know what you mean."

,: Congressman Alan Moran and Senator Marcus Larimer," he said, closely

watching her reaction.

Loren's eyes winened and suddenly she began to shiver in spite of the

stifling heat.  For the first time since she was made a prisoner,

indignation was replaced by despair.

"Moran and Larimer, they're both here too?"

He nodded.  "In the next cell."

"This must be an insane joke," she said, stunned.

"No joke,"

" Suvorov said, smiling.  "They are guests of the KGB, same as you.

Loren shook her head, unbelieving.  Life didn't happen this way, she

told herself, except in nightmares.  She felt reality drifting slowly

from her grasp.

" I have diplomatic immunity," she said, "I demand to be released."

"You carry no influence, not here on board the Leonin Andreyev," said

Suvorov in a cold, disinterested voice.

"When my government hears of this-"

" They won't," he interrupted.

"When the ship leaves Jamaica on its return voyage to Miami, Captain

Pokofsky will announce with deep regret and sympathy that Congresswoman

Loren Smith was lost overboard and presumed drowned."

A numbing hopelessness seized Loren.  "What will happen to Moran and

Larimer?"

"I'm taking them to Russia."

"But you're going to kill me," she said, more as a statement than a

question.

"They represent senior members of your government.  Their knowledge will

prove quite useful once they're persuaded to provide it.

You, I'm sorry to say, are not worth the risk."

Loren almost said, As a member of the House Armed Services Committee, I

know as much as they do, but she recognized the trap in time and

remained silent.

Suvorov's eyes narrowed.  He reached over and tore the dress from in

front of her and casually tossed it outside the doorway.

"Very nice," he said.  "Perhaps if we were to negotiate, I might find a

reason to take you with me to Moscow."

"The most pathetic trick in the world," Loren spat contemptuously.

"You're not even original."

He took a step forward, his hand lashing out and slapping her on the

face.  She staggered back against the steel bulkhead and sagged to her

knees staring up at him, her eyes blazing with fear and loathing.

He grasped her by the hair and tilted her head back.  The conversational

politeness disappeared from his voice.  "I always wondered what it would

be like to screw a high-ranking capitalist bitch."

Loren's answer was to swiftly reach out and grab him in the groin,

squeezing with all her might.

Suvorov gasped in agony and swung his fist, connecting with her left

cheekbone just below the eye.  Loren fell sideways into the corner while

Suvorov clutched himself and paced the tiny cubicle like a mad animal

until the stabbing ache subsided.  Then he brutally picked her up and

threw her onto the bunk.

He leaned over her and ripped off her underclothes.  "You rotten bitch!"

he snarled.  "I'm going to make you wish for a quick death."

Tears of agony coursed from Loren's eyes as she teetered on the verge of

unconsciousness.  Vaguely, through the mist of pain, she could see

Suvorov slowly take off his belt and wrap it around his hand, leaving

the buckle free and swinging.  She tried to tense her body for the

coming blow as his arm lifted upward, but she was too weak.

Suddenly Suvorov seemed to grow a third arm.  It snaked over his right

shoulder and then locked around his neck.  The belt dropped to the deck

and his body stiffened.

Shock swept across Suvorov's face, the shock of disbelief, then horror

at the full realization of what was happening, and the torment as his

windpipe was slowly and mercilessly crushed and his breathing choked

off.  He struggled against the relentless pressure, throwing himself

around the cell, but the arm remained.  In a sudden flash of certainty,

he knew he would never live to feel the pressure ease.  The terror and

the lack of oxygen contorted his face and turned it reddish-blue.  His

starving lungs struggled for air and his arms flailed in frantic

madness.

Loren tried to raise her hands over her face to shut out the horrible

sight, but they refused to respond.  She could only sit frozen and watch

in morbid fascination as the life seeped out of Suvorov; watch his

violent thrashings subside until finally the eyes bulged from their

sockets and he went limp.  He hung there several seconds, supported by

the ghostly arm until it pulled away from his neck and he fell on the

deck in a heap.

Another figure loomed in Suvorov's place, standing inside the cell's

doorway, and Loren found herself staring into a friendly face with deep

green eyes and a faint crooked grin.

"Just between you and me," said Pitt, "I've never believed that rot

about getting there is half the fun."

NOON, A BRILLIANT AZuiRE SKY with small cottonball clouds nudged by a

gentle westerly breeze, found the Leonin Andreyev passing within

eighteen miles of Cabo Maisi, the easternmost tip of Cuba.

Many of the passengers sunbathing around the swimming pools took no

notice of the palm-lined coastline on the horizon.  To them it was just

another one of the hundred islands they had passed since leaving

Florida.

On the bridge, Captain Pokofsky stood with binoculars to his eyes.

He was observing a small powerboat that was circling from the land on

his starboard quarter.  She was old, her bow nearly straight up and

down, and her hull was painted black.  The topsides were varnished

mahogany, and the name Pilar was lettered in gold across her transom.

She looked an immaculately kept museum piece.  On the ensign staff at

her stern she flew the American stars and stripes in the inverted

position of distress.

Pokofsky walked over to the automated ship's control console and pressed

the "slow speed" switch.  Almost immediately he could feel the engines

reduce revolutions.  Then, waiting a few minutes until the ship had

slowed to a crawl, he leaned over and pressed the lever for "all stop."

He was about to walk out on the bridge wing when his first officer came

hurrying up the companionway from the deck below.

"Captain," he said, catching his breath.  "I've just come from the brig

area.  The prisoners are gone."

Pokofsky straightened.  "Gone?   You mean escaped?"

"Yes, sir.  I was on a routine inspection when I found the two security

guards unconscious and locked up in one of the cells.  The KGB agent is

dead."

"Paul Suvorov was killed?"

The first officer nodded.  "From all appearances, he was strangled."

"Why didn't you call me immediately over the ship's phone?"

"I thought it best to tell you in person."

"You're right, of course," Pokofsky admitted.  "This couldn't have come

at a worse time.  Our Cuban security people are arriving to transport

the prisoners to shore."

"If you can stall them, I'm confident a search effort will quickly turn

up the Americans."

Pokofsky stared through the doorway at the closing boat.  "They'll

wait," he said confidently.  "Our captives are too important to leave

onboard."

"There is one other thing, sir," said the first officer.  "The Americans

must have received help."

"They didn't break out by themselves?"  Pokofsky asked in surprise.

"Not possible.  Two old men in a weakened condition and one woman could

never have overpowered two security people and murdered a professional

KGB man."

"Damn!"  Pokofsky cursed.  He rammed a fist into a palm in exasperation,

compounded equally by anxiety and anger.  "This complicates matters."

"Could the CIA have sneaked onboard?"

"I hardly think so.  If the United States government remotely suspected

their government leaders were held on the Leonin Andreyev, their Navy

would be converging on us like mad bears.

See for yourself; no ships, no aircraft, and the Guantanamo Bay naval

station is only forty miles away."

"Then who?"  asked the first officer.  "Certainly none of our crew.

"It can only be a passenger," Pokofsky surmised.  He fell silent,

thinking.  Utter stillness fell on the bridge.  At last he looked up and

began issuing orders.  "Collect every available officer and form

five-man search parties.  Divine up the ship in sections from keel to

sun deck.  Alert the security guards and enlist the stewards.  If

questioned by the passengers, make up a believable pretext for entering

their cabins.  Changing the bed linen, repairing plumbing, inspecting

fire equipment, any story that fits the situation.  Say or do nothing

that will cause suspicion among the passengers or set them to asking

embarrassing questions.  Be as subtle as possible and refrain from

violence, but recapture the Smith woman and the two men quickly."

"What about Suvorov's body?"

Pokofsky didn't hesitate.  "Arrange a fitting tribute to our comrade

from the KGB," he said sarcastically.  "As soon as it's dark, throw him

overboard with the garbage."

"Yes, sir," the first officer acknowledged with a smile and hurried

away.

Pokofsky picked up a bullhorn from a bulkhead rack and stepped out on

the'bridge wing.  The small pleasure boat was drifting about fifty yards

away.

"Are you in distress?"  he asked, his voice booming over the water.

A man with a squat body and the skin tone of an old wallet cupped his

hands to his mouth and shouted back.  "We have people who are quite ill.

I suspect ptomaine poisoning.  May we come aboard and use your medical

facilities?"

"By all means," Pokofsky replied.  "Come alongside.  I'll drop the

gangway."

Pitt watched the mini-drama with interest, seeing through the sham.  Two

men and a woman struggled up the metal stairway, clutching their

midriffs and pretending they were in the throes of abdominal agony.  He

rated them two stars for their performance.

After a suitable length of time for pseudodoctoring, he reasoned, Loren,

Moran and Larimer would have taken their places in the pleasure boat. He

also knew full well the captain would not resume the cruise until the

ship was scoured and the congressmen apprehended.

He left the railing and mingled with the other passengers, who soon

returned to their deck chairs and tables around the swimming pools and

cocktail bars.  He took the elevator down to his deck.  As the doors

opened and he stepped out into the passageway, he rubbed shoulders with

a steward who was entering.

Pitt idly noticed the steward was Asian, probably Mongolian if he was

serving on a Russian ship.  He brushed past and continued to his cabin.

The steward stared at Pitt curiously.  Then his expression turned to

blank astonishment as he watched Pitt walk away.  He was still standing

there gawking when the door closed and the elevator rose without him.

Pitt rounded the corner of the passageway and spied a ship's officer

with several crewmen waiting outside a cabin three down and across from

his.  None of them displayed their usual shipboard conviviality.  Their

expressions looked deadly earnest.  He fished in his pocket for the

cabin key while watching out of the corner of one eye.  In a few

moments, a stewardess came out and said a few words in Russian to the

officer and shook her head.  Then they moved toward the next cabin and

knocked.

Pitt quickly entered and closed the door.  The tiny enclosure looked

like a scene out of a Marx Brothers movie.  Loren was perched on the

upper pullman bunk while Moran and Larimer shared the lower.  All three

were ravenously attacking a tray of hors d'oeuvres that Giordino had

smuggled from the dining-room buffet table.

Giordino, seated on a small chair, half in the bathroom, threw an

offhand wave.  "See anything interesting?"

"The Cuban connection arrived," Pitt answered.  "They're drifting

alongside, standing by to exchange passengers."

"The bastards will have a long wait," said Giordino.

"Try four minutes.  That's how long before we'll all be chained and

tossed on a boat bound for Havana."

"They can't help but find us," Larimer uttered in a hollow voice.

Pitt had seen many such washed-out men-the waxen skin, the eyes that

once blazed with authority now empty, the vagrant thoughts.

Despite his age and long years of self-indulgent living amin the

political arena, Larimer was still a powerfully built man.

But the heart and circulation were no longer up to the stress and

dangers of staying alive in a hostile situation.  Pitt didn't require an

internship to recognize a man who was in dire need of medical treatment.

"A Russian search party is just across the hall," Pitt explained.

"We can't let them imprison us again," Moran shouted, springing to his

feet and looking around wildly.  "We must run!"

"You wouldn't make the elevator," snapped Pitt, grabbing him by the arm

as he would a child throwing a tantrum.  He didn't much care for Moran.

The Speaker of the House struck him as an oily weasel.

"There's no place to hide," said Loren, her voice not quite steady.

Pitt didn't answer her but brushed past Giordino and went into the

bathroom.  He pulled back the shower curtain and turned on the hot

water.  Less than a minute later clouds of steam billowed into the

cramped quarters.

"Okay," Pitt directed, "everybody in the shower."

Nobody moved.  They all stared at him, standing wraithlike in the

mist-filled doorway, as though he was from another earth.

"Move!" he said sharply.  "They'll be here any second."

Giordino shook his head in bewilderment.  "How are you going to get

three people in that stall shower?   It's hardly big enough for one."

"Get your wig on.  You're going in too."

"The four of us?"  Loren muttered incredulously.

"Either that or a free trip to Moscow.  Besides, college kids cram

entire fraternities in phone booths all the time."

Giordino slipped the wig over his head as Pitt re-entered the bathroom

and turned the water to lukewarm.  He placed a trembling Moran in a

squatting position between Giordino's legs.

Larimer pressed his heavy body against the far corner of the stall as

Loren climbed on Giordino's back.  At last they were jammed awkwardly

into the stall, drenched by the flow from the shower head.

Pitt was in the act of turning on the hot water in the sink to increase

the steam cloud when he heard a knock on the door.

He hurried over and opened it so there was no suspicious hesitation. The

ship's first officer bowed slightly and smiled.

"Mr.  Gruber, is it?   Very sorry to bother you, but we're Making a

routine inspection of the fire sprinklers.  Do you mind if we enter?"

"Why, sure," Pitt said obligingly.  "No problem with me, but my wife's

in the shower."

The officer nodded to the stewardess who eased past Pitt and made a show

of checking the overhead sprinkler heads.  Then she pointed to the

bathroom door.  "May I?"

"Go on in," said Pitt good-naturedly.  "She won't mind."

The stewardess opened the door and was enveloped in a cloud of steam.

Pitt went over and leaned in the bathroom.  "Hey, luv, our steward lady

wants to check the fire sprinkler.  All right with you?"

As the cloud began dissipating through the door, the stewardess saw a

huge stringy mop of hair and a pair of heavy browed eyes peeking around

the shower curtain.

"All right by me," came Loren's voice.  "And could you bring us a

couple of extra towels when you think of it?"

The stewardess simply nodded and said, "I'll be back with the towels

shortly."

Pitt casually munched on a canape' and offered one to the first officer,

who gave a polite shake of his head.

"Does my heart good to see you people so interested in the safety of the

passengers," said Pitt.

"Merely doing our duty," said the first officer, looking curiously at

the half-eaten stack of hors d'oeuvres.  "I see you also enjoy our

shipboard cuiside."

"My wife and I love appetizers," said Pitt.  "We'd rather eat these than

a main course."

The stewardess came out of the bathroom and said something to the first

officer.  The only word Pitt made out was "nyet."

"Sorry to have troubled you," said the first officer courteously.

"Any time," replied Pitt.

As soon as the door lock clicked, Pitt rushed to the bathroom.

"Everybody stay just as you are," he ordered.  "Don't move."  Then he

reclined on a bunk and stuffed his mouth with caviar on thin toast.

Two minutes later the door suddenly popped open and the stewardess burst

through like a bulldozer, her eyes darting around the cabin.

"Can I help you?"  Pitt mumbled with a full mouth.

"I brought the towels," she said.

"Just throw them on the bathroom sink," Pitt said indifferently.

She did precisely that and left the cabin, throwing Pitt a smile that

was genuine and devoin of any suspicion.

He waited another two minutes, then opened the door a crack and peered

into the passageway.  The search crew was entering a cabin near the end

of the passageway.  He returned to the bathroom, reached in and turned

off the water.

Whoever coined the phrase They look like drowned rats must have had the

poor souls huddled together in that pocket-sized shower in mind.  Their

fingertips were beginning to shrivel and all their clothing was soaked

through.

Giordino came out first and hurled his sopping wig in the sink.

Loren climbed off his back and immediately began drying her hair.

Pitt helped Moran to his feet and half carried Larimer to a bunk.

"A wise move," said Pitt to Loren, kissing her on the nape of the neck.

"Asking for more towels."

"It struck me as the thing to do."

"Are we safe now?"  asked Moran.  "Will they be back?"

"We won't be in the clear till we're off the ship," said Pitt.

"And we can count on their paying an encore visit.  When they come up

dry on this search, they'll redouble their efforts for a second."

"Got any more brilliant escape tricks up your sleeve, Houdini?" asked

Giordino

"Yes," Pitt replied, sure as the devil.  "As a matter of fact, I do."

THE SECOND ENGINEER MOVED ALONG a catwalk between the massive fuel tanks

that towered two decks above him.  He was running a routine maintenance

check for any trace of leakage in the pipes that transferred the oil to

the boilers that provided steam for the Leonin Andreyev's

27,000-horsepower turbines.

He whistled to himself, his only accompaniment coming from the hum of

the turbo-generators beyond the forward bulkhead.

Every so often he wiped a rag around a pipe fitting or valve, nodding in

satisfaction when it came away clean.

Suddenly he stopped and cocked an ear.  The sound of metal striking

against metal came from a narrow walkway leading off to his right.

Curious, he walked slowly, quietly along the dimly lit access.

At the end, where the walkway turned and passed between the fuel tanks

and the inner plates of the hull, he paused and peered into the gloom.

A figure in a steward's uniform appeared to be attaching something to

the side of the fuel tank.  The second engineer approached, stepping

softly, until he was only ten feet away.

"What are you doing here?"  he demanded.

The steward slowly turned and straightened.  The engineer could see he

was Oriental.  The white uniform was soiled with grime, and a seaman's

duffel bag lay open behind him on the walkway.  The steward flashed a

wine smile and made no effort to reply.

The engineer moved a few steps closer.  "You're not supposed to be here.

This area is off limits to the passenger service crew."

Still no answer.

Then the engineer noticed a strange misshapen lump pressed against the

side of the fuel tank.  Two strands of copper wire ran from it to a

clock mechanism beside the duffel bag.

"A bomb!" he blurted in shock.  "You're planting a damn bomb!"

He swung around and began running wildly down the walkway, shouting.

He'd taken no more than five steps when the narrow steel confines echoed

with a noise like twin handclaps in quick succession, and the

hollow-point bullets from a silenced automatic tore into the back of his

head.

The obligatory toasts were voiced and the glasses of iced vodka downed

and quickly refilled.  Pokofsky did the honors from the liquor cabinet

in his cabin, avoining the cold, piercing gaze of the man seated on a

leather sofa.

Geinar Ombrikov, chief of the KGB residency in Havana, was not in a

congenial mood.  "Your report won't sit well with my superiors," he

said.  "An agent lost under your command will be considered a clear case

of negligence."

"This is a cruise ship," Pokofsky said, his face reddening in

resentment.  "She was designed and placed in service for the purpose of

bringing in hard Western currency for the Soviet treasury.  We are not a

floating headquarters for the Committee for State Security."

"Then how do you explain the ten agents our foreign directorate assigned

onboard your vessel to monitor the conversations of the passengers?"

"I try not to think about it."

"You should," Ombrikov said in a threatening tone.

"I have enough to keep me busy running this ship," Pokofsky said

quickly.  "There aren't enough hours in my day to include intelligence

gathering too."

"Still, you should have taken better precautions.  If the American

politicians escape and tell their story, the horrendous repercussions

will have a disastrous effect on our foreign relations."

Pokofsky set his vodka on the liquor cabinet without touching it.

"There is no place they can hide for long on this ship.  They will be

back in our hands inside the hour."

"I do hope so," said Ombrikov acinly.  "Their Navy will begin to wonder

why a Soviet cruise liner is drifting around off their precious Cuban

base and send out a patrol."

"They wouldn't dare board the Leonin Andreyev."

"No, but my small pleasure boat is flying the United States flag.

They won't hesitate to come aboard for an inspection."

"She's an interesting old boat," Pokofsky said, trying to change the

subject.  "Where did you find her?"

"A personal loan from our friend Castro," Ombrikov replied.

"She used to belong to the author Ernest Hemingway."

"Yes, I've read four of his books-" Pokofsky was interrupted by the

sudden appearance of his first officer, who entered without knocking.

"My apologies for breaking in, Captain, but may I have a word in private

with you?"

Pokofsky excused himself and stepped outside his cabin.

"What is it?"

"We failed to find them," the officer announced uneasily.

Pokofsky paused for some moments, lit a cigarette in defiance of his own

regulations and gave his first officer a look of disapproval.

"Then I suggest you search the ship again, more carefully this time. And

take a closer look at the passengers wandering the decks.

They may be hining in the crowd."

His first officer nodded and hurried off.  Pokofsky returned to his

cabin.

"Problems?"  Ombrikov asked.

Before Pokofsky could answer he felt a slight shudder run through the

ship.  He stood there curious for perhaps half a minute, tensed and

alert, but nothing more seemed to happen.

Then suddenly the Leonin Andreyev was rocked by a violent explosion that

heeled her far over to starboard, flinging people off their feet and

sending a convulsive shock wave throughout the ship.  A great sheet of

fire erupted from the port side of the hull, raining fiery steel debris

and oil over the exposed decks.  The blast reverberated over the water

until it finally died away, leaving an unearthly silence in its wake and

a Solid column of black smoke that mushroomed into the sky.

What none of the seven hundred passengers and crew knew, what many of

them would never come to learn, was that deep aminship the fuel tanks

had detonated, blowing a gaping hole half above and half below the

waterline, spraying a torrent of burping oil over the superstructure in

blue and green flames, scarring the victims and blazing across the teak

decks with the speed of a brush fire.

Almost instantly, the Leonin Andreyev was transformed from a luxurious

cruise liner into a sinking fiery pyre.

Pitt stirred and wondered dully what had happened.  For a full minute as

the shock wore off he remained prone on the deck, where he'd been thrown

by the force of the concussion, trying to orient himself.

Slowly he rose to his hands and knees, then hoisted his aching body

erect by grabbing the inner doorknob.  Bruised but still functioning,

nothing broken or out of joint, he turned to examine the others.

Giordino was partly crouched, partly lying across the threshold of the

shower stall.  The last thing he remembered was sitting in the cabin. He

wore a surprised look in his eyes, but he appeared unhurt.

Moran and Loren had fallen out of the bunks and were lying in the middle

of the deck.  They were both dazed and would carry a gang of black and

blue marks for a week or two, but were otherwise uninjured.

Larimer was huddled in the far corner of the cabin.  Pitt went over and

gently lifted his head.  There was an ugly welt rising above the

senator's left temple and a trickle of blood dripped from a cut lip.  He

was unconscious but breathing easily.  Pitt eased a pillow from the

lower bunk under his head.

Giordino was the first to speak.  "How is he?"

"Just knocked out," Pitt replied.

"What happened?"  Loren murmured dazedly.

"An explosion," said Pitt.  "Somewhere forward, probably in the engine

room."

"The boilers?"  Giordino speculated.

"Modern boilers are safety-designed not to blow."

"God," said Loren, "my ears are still ringing."

A strange expression came over Giordino's face.  He took a coin out of

his pocket and rolled it across the hard-carpeted deck.  Instead of

losing its momentum and circling until falling on one side, it

maintained its speed across the cabin as though propelled by an unseen

hand and clinked into the far bulkhead.

"The ship's listing," Giordino announced flatly.

Pitt went over and cracked the door.  Already the passageway was filling

with passengers stumbling out of their cabins and wandering aimlessly in

bewilderment.  "So much for plan B."

Loren gave him a quizzical look.  "Plan B?"

"My idea to steal the boat from Cuba.  I don't think we're going to find

seats."

"What are you talking about?"  Moran demanded.  He rose unsteadily to

his feet, holding on to a bunk chain for support.  "A trick.  It's a

cheap trick to flush us out."

"Damned expensive trick if you ask me," Giordino said nastily.

"The explosion must have seriously damaged the ship.  She's obviously

taking on water."

"Will we sink?"  Moran asked anxiously.

Pitt ignored him and peered around the edge of the door again.

Most of the passengers acted calm, but a few were beginning to shout and

cry.  As he watched, the passageway became clogged with people stupidly

carrying armfuls of personal belongings and hastily packed suitcases.

Then Pitt caught the smell of burning paint, quickly followed by the

sight of a smoky wisp.  He slammed the door and began tearing the

blankets off the bunks and throwing them to Giordino.

"Hurry, soak these and any towels you can find in the shower!" Giordino

took one look at Pitts dead-serious expression and did as he was told.

Loren knelt and tried to lift Larimer's head and shoulders from the

deck.  The senator moaned and opened his eyes, looking up at Loren as if

trying to recognize her.  Moran cringed against the bulkhead, muttering

to himself.

Pitt rudely pushed Loren aside and lifted Larimer to his feet, slinging

one arm around his shoulder.  Giordino came out of the bathroom and

distributed the wet blankets and towels.

"All right, Al, you help me with the senator.  Loren, you hold on to

Congressman Moran and stick close behind me."  He broke off and looked

at everyone.  "Okay, here we go."

He yanked open the door and was engulfed by a rolling wau of smoke that

came out of nowhere.

Almost before the explosion faded, Captain Pokofsky shook off stunned

disbelief and rushed to the bridge.  The young watch officer was

pounding desperately on the automated ship console in agonized

frustration.

"Close all watertight doors and actuate the fire control system!"

Pokofsky shouted.

"I can't" the watch officer cried helplessly.  "We've lost all power!"

"What about the auxiliary generators?"

"They're out too."  The watch officer's face was wrapped in undisguised

shock.  "The ship's phones are dead.  The damage-control computer is

down.  Nothing responds.  We can't give a general alarm."

Pokofsky ran out on the bridge wing and stared aft.  His once beautiful

ship was vomiting fire and smoke from her entire midsection.

A few moments before there was music and relaxed gaiety.

Now the entire scene was one of horror.  The open swimming pool and

lounge decks had been turned into a crematorium.  The two hundred people

stretched under the sun were almost instantly incinerated by the tidal

fall of fiery oil.  Some had saved themselves by leaping into the pools,

only to die after surfacing for air when the heat seared their lungs,

and many had climbed the railings and thrown themselves overboard, their

skin and brief clothing ablaze.

Pokofsky stood sick and stunned at the sight of the carnage.  It was a

moment in time borrowed from hell.  He knew in his heart that his ship

was lost.  There was no stopping the holocaust, and the list was

increasing as the sea poured into the Leonin Andreyev's bowels.  He

returned to the bridge.

"Pass the word to abandon ship," he said to the watch officer.

"The port boats are burning.  Load what women and children you can into

the starboard boats still intact."

As the watch officer hurried off, the chief engineer, Erik Kazinkin,

appeared, out of breath from his climb from below.  His eyebrows and

half his hair were singed away.  The soles of his shoes were smoldering

but he appeared not to notice.  His mind was numb to the pain.

"Give me a report," Pokofsky ordered in a quiet tone.  "What caused the

explosion?"

"The fuel tank blew," answered Kazinkin.  "God knows why.

Took out the power generating room and the auxiliary generator

compartment as well.  Boiler rooms two and three are flooded.  We

managed to manually close the watertight doors to the engine rooms, but

she's taking on water at an alarming rate.  And without power to operate

the pumps He shrugged defeatedly without continuing.

All options to save the Leonin Andreyev had evaporated.  The only morbin

question was whether she would become a burnedout derelict or sink

first?   Few would survive the next hour, Pokofsky accepted with dread

certainty.  Many would burn and many would drown, unable to enter the

pitifully few lifeboats that were still able to be launched.

"Bring your men up from below," said Pokofsky.  "We're abandoning the

ship."

"Thank you, Captain," said the chief engineer.  He held out his hand.

"Good luck to you."

They parted and Pokofsky headed for the communications room one deck

below.  The officer in charge looked up from the radio as the captain

suddenly strode through the doorway.

"Send out the distress call," Pokofsky ordered.

"I took the responsibility, sir, of sending out Mayday signals

immediately after the explosion."

Pokofsky placed a hand on the officer's shoulder.  "I commend your

initiative."  Then he asked calmly, "Have you managed to transmit

without problem?"

"Yes, sir.  When the power supply went off, I switched to the emergency

batteries.  The first response came from a Korean container ship only

ten miles to the southwest."

"Thank God someone is close.  Any other replies?"

"The United States Navy at Guantdnamo Bay is responding with rescue

ships and helicopters.  The only other vessel within fifty miles is a

Norwegian cruise ship."

"Too late for her," said Pokofsky thoughtfully.  "We'll have to pin our

hopes on the Koreans and American Navy."

With the soaked blanket over his head, Pitt had to feel his way along

the passageway and up the smoke-filled staircase.  Three or four times

he and Giordino tripped over the bodies of passengers who had succumbed

to asphyxiation.

Larimer made a game effort of trying to keep in step, while Loren and

Moran stumbled along behind, their hands clutching the belted trousers

of Pitt and Giordino.

"How far?"  Loren gasped.

"We have to climb four decks before we break out on the open promenade

area," Pitt panted in reply.

At the second landing they ran into a Solid wall of people.  The

staircase became so packed with passengers struggling to escape the

smoke it became impossible to take another step.  The crew acted with

coolness, attempting to direct the human flow to the boat deck, but calm

gave way to the inevitable contagion of panic, and they were trampled

under the screaming, terror-driven mass of thrashing bodies.

"To the left!" Giordino shouted in Pitts ear.  "The passageway leads to

another staircase toward the stern."

Relying on a deep trust in his little friend, Pitt veered down the

passageway, pulling Larimer along.  The senator finally managed to get

his footing on the smooth surface and began carrying his own weight.

To their vast relief the smoke decreased and the frightened tidal wave

of people thinned.  When at last they reached the aft staircase they

found it practically empty.  By not following the herd instinct,

Giordino had led them to temporary safety.

They emerged in the clear on the deck aft of the observation lounge.

After a few moments to ease their coughing spasms and cleanse their

aching lungs with clean air, they looked in awe over the doomed ship.

The Leonin Andreyev was listing twenty degrees to port.  Thousands of

gallons of oil had spilled out into the sea and ignited.  The water

around the jagged opening caused by the blast was a mass of fire.  The

entire midsection of the ship was a blazing torch.  The tremendous heat

was turning steel plates red hot and warping them into twisted,

grotesque shapes.  White paint was blistering black, teak decks were

nearly burned through and the glass in the portholes popped like

gunshots.

The flames spread with incredible speed as the ocean breeze fanned them

toward the bridge.  Already the communications room was consumed and the

officer in charge burned to death at his radio.  Fire and swirling smoke

shot upward through the companionways and ventilating ducts.  The Leonin

Andreyev, like all modern cruise liners, was designed and constructed to

be fireproof, but no precise planning or visionary foresight could have

predicted the devastating results of a fuel tank explosion that showered

the ship like a flamethrower.

An immense billowing cloud of oily smoke reached hundreds of feet above,

flattening in the upper air currents, stretching over the ship like a

pall.  The base of the cloud was a Solid torrent of flame that twisted

and surged in a violent storm of orange and yellow.

While below, in the deeper reaches of the hull, the flames were an

acetylene blue-white, fed into molten temperatures by the intake of air

through the shattered plates, creating the effect of a blast furnace.

Though many of the passengers were able to fight their way up the

stairways, over a hundred lay dead below, some trapped and burned in

their cabins, others overtaken by smoke inhalation during their attempt

to escape topside.  The ones who made it were being driven by the flames

toward the stern and away from the lifeboats.

All efforts by the crew to maintain order were engulfed by the chaos.

The passengers were finally left to fend for themselves and no one knew

which way to turn.  All port lifeboats were ablaze, and only three were

lowered on the starboard side before the fire drove the crew back.  As

it was, one boat was beginning to burn by the time it hit the sea.

Now people began jumping into the water like migrating lemmings.

The drop was nearly fifty feet, and a number of those who had life

jackets made the mistake of inflating them before plummeting over the

side and broke their necks on impact.  Women stood spellbound with

terror, too frightened to leap.  Men cursed in desperation.  In the

water the swimmers struck out for the few lifeboats, but the crews who

manned them started up the engines and sailed beyond reach for fear of

being swamped by overloading.

In the middle of the frenzied drama, the container ship arrived.

The captain eased his vessel within a hundred yards of the Leonin

Andreyev and put his boats over as fast as they could be lowered.

A few minutes later, U.S. Navy sea rescue helicopters appeared and began

plucking survivors from the sea.

LOREN CAZED IN ABSTRACT FASCINATIONat the sheet of advancing fire.

"Shouldn't we jump or something?"  she asked in a vague tone.

Pitt didn't answer immediately.  He studied the slanting deck and judged

the list to be about forty degrees.  "No call to rush things," he said

with expressionless calm.  "The flames won't reach us for another ten

minutes.  The further the ship heels to port, the shorter the distance

to jump.  In the meantime, I suggest we start heaving deck chairs

overboard so those poor souls in the water have something to hang on to

until they're picked up."

Surprisingly, Larimer was the first to react.  He began sweeping up the

wooden deck chairs in his massive arms and dropping them over the

railings.  He actually had the look on his face of a man who was

enjoying himself.  Moran stood huddled against a bulwark, silent,

noncommittal, frozen in fear.

"Take care you don't hit a swimmer on the head," Pitt said to Larimer,

"I wouldn't dare," the senator replied with an exhausted smile.

"They might be a constituent and I'd lose their vote."

After all the chairs in sight had gone over the side, Pitt stood for two

or three seconds and took stock.  The blast from the heat was not yet

unbearable.  The fire wouldn't kill those packed on the stern deck, at

least not for a few more minutes.  He shouldered his way through the

dense throng to the port railing again.  The waves rolled only twenty

feet below.

He shouted to Giordino, "Let's help these people over the side."

Then he turned and cupped his hands to his mouth.

"There's no more time to lose!"  he yelled at the top of his lungs to

make himself heard over the did of the frightened crowd and the roar of

the holocaust.  "Swim for it or die!"

Several men took the hint and, clutching the hands of their protesting

wives, straddled the railing and slipped out of sight below.

Next came three teenage girls who showed no hesitation but dove cleanly

into the blue-green swells.

"Swim to a deck chair and use it for a float," Giordino instructed

everyone repeatedly.

Pitt separated families into a group and while Loren cheered the

children, he directed their parents to jump and latch onto a floating

deck chair.  Then he held the children over the side by the hands as far

as he could reach and let them drop, holding his breath until the mother

and father had them safely in tow.

The great curtain of flame crept closer and breathing became more

difficult.  The heat felt as though they were standing in front of an

open furnace.  A rough head count told Pitt only thirty people were

left, but it would be a close race.

A great bulking fat man stopped and refused to move.  "The water's full

of sharks!"  he screamed hysterically.  "We're better off here, waiting

for the helicopters."

"They can't hover over the ship because of air turbulence from the

heat," Pitt explained patiently.  "You can burn to a cinder or take your

chances in the water.  Which is it?   Be quick, you're holding up the

others."

Giordino took two paces, tensed his powerful muscles and lifted the fat

procrastinator off his feet.  There was no animosity, no expression of

meanness in Giordino's linblinking eyes as he carried the man to the

side and unceremoniously dumped him overboard.

"Send me a postcard," Giordino shouted after him.

The diverting action seemed to motivate the few passengers who hung

back.  One after the other, with Pitt assisting the elderly couples to

take the plunge, they departed the burning ship.

When the last of them was finally gone, Pitt looked around at Loren.

"Your turn," he said.

"Not without my colleagues," she said with a feminine resolve.

Pitt stared below to make certain the water was clear.  Larimer was so

weak he could barely lift his legs over the rail.  Giordino gave him a

hand as Loren jumped arm in arm with Moran.  Pitt watched anxiously

until they all cleared the side and swam away, admiring Loren's

endurance as she shouted words of encouragement to Larimer while towing

Moran by the collar.

"Better give her a hand," Pitt said to Giordino.

His friend didn't have to be urged.  He was gone before another word

passed between them.

Pitt took one last look at the Leonin Andreyev.  The air around

shimmered from the blasting heat waves as flames shot from her every

opening.  The list was passing fifty degrees and her end was only

minutes away.  Already her starboard propeller was clear of the water

and steam was hissing in white tortured clouds around her waterline.

As he was poised to leap, Pitt abruptly went rigin in astonishment.  At

the outer edge of his peripheral vision he saw an arm snake out of a

cabin porthole forty feet away.  Without hesitation, he picked up one of

the still soggy blankets from the deck, threw it over his head and

covered the distance in seven strines.  A voice inside the cabin was

screaming for help.  He peered in and saw a woman's face, eyes wine in

terror.

"Oh, my God, please help us?"

"How many are you?"

"Myself and two children."

"Pass out the kids."

The face disappeared and quickly a boy about six years of age was thrust

through the narrow port.  Pitt set him between his legs, keeping the

blanket suspended above the two of them like a tent.

Next came a little girl no more than three.  Incredibly she was sound

asleep.

"Give me your hand," Pitt ordered, knowing in his heart it was hopeless.

"I can't get through!"  the woman cried.  "The opening is too small."

"Do you have water in the bathroom?"

"There's no pressure."

"Strip nakedly" Pitt shouted in desperation.  "Use your cosmetics.

Smear your body with facial creams."

The woman nodded in understanding and disappeared inside.

Pitt turned and, clutching a child under each arm, rushed to the rail.

With great relief he spied Giordino treading water, looking up.

"Al," Pitt called.  "Catch."

If Giordino was surprised to see Pitt collar two more children he didn't

show it.  He reached up and gathered them in as effortlessly as if they

were footballs 'Jump!"  he yelled to Pitt.  "She's going over."

Without lingering to answer, Pitt raced back to the cabin port.

He realized with only a small corner of his mind that saving the mother

was a sheer act of desperation.  He passed beyond conscious thought; his

movements seemed those of another man, a total stranger.

The air was so hot and dry his perspiration evaporated before it seeped

from his pores.  The heat rose from the deck and penetrated the soles of

his shoes.  He stumbled and nearly fell as a heavy shudder ran through

the doomed ship, and she gave a sudden lurch as the deck dropped on an

increasing angle to port.  She was in her final death agony before

capsizing and sinking to the sea bottom.

Pitt found himself kneeling against the slanting cabin wall, reaching

through the port.  A pair of hands clasped his wrists and he pulled. The

woman's shoulders and breasts squeezed past the opening.

He gave another heave and then her hips scraped through.

The flames were running up and licking at his back.  The deck was

dropping away beneath his feet.  He held the woman around the waist and

leaped off the edge of the cabin as the Leonin Andreyev rolled over, her

propellers twisting out of the water and arching toward the sun.

They were sucked under by the fierce rush of water, swirled around like

dolls in a maelstrom.  Pitt lashed out with his free hand and feet and

struggled upward, seeing the glimmering surface turn from green to blue

with agonizing slowness.

The blood pounded in his ears and his lungs felt as though they were

filled with angry wasps.  The thin veil of blackness began to tint his

vision.  He felt the woman go limp under his arm, her body creating an

unwelcome drag, against his progress.  He used up the last particles of

oxygen, and a pyrotechnic display flared inside his head.  One burst

became a bright orange ball that exploaded until it exploded in a

wavering flash.

He broke through the surface, his upturned face directed at the

afternoon sun.  Thankfully he inhaled deep waves of air, enough to ease

the blackness, the pounding and the sting in his lungs.  Then he quickly

circled the woman's abdomen and squeezed hard several times, forcing the

salt water from her throat.  She convulsed and began retching, followed

by a coughing spell.  Only when her breathing returned to near normal

and she groaned did he look around for the others.

Giordino was swimming in Pitts direction, pushing one of the deck chairs

in front of him.  The two children were sitting on top, immune to the

tragedy around them, gaily laughing at Giordino's repertory of funny

faces.

"I was beginning to wonder if you were going to turn up," he said.

"Bad pennies usually do," said Pitt, keeping the children's mother

afloat until she recovered enough to hang on to the deck chair.

"I'll take care of them," said Giordino.  "You better help Loren.

I think the senator's bought it."

His arms felt as if they were encased in lead and he was numb with

exhaustion, but Pitt carved the water with swift even strokes until he

reached the floating jetsam that supported Loren and Moran.

Gray-faced, her eyes filled with sadness, Loren grimly held the

senator's head above water.  Pitt saw with sinking heart she needn't

have bothered; Larimer would never sit in the Senate again.  His skin

was mottled and turning a dusky purple.  He was game to the end, but the

half-century of living in the fast lane had called in the inevitable

IOU'S.  His heart had gone far beyond its limits and finally quit in

protest.

Gently, Pitt pried Loren's hands from the senator's body, and pushed him

away.  She looked at him blankly as if to object, then turned away,

unable to watch as Larimer slowly drifted off, gently pushed by the

rolling sea.

"He deserves a state funeral," she said, her voice a husky whisper.

"No matter," said Pitt, "as long as they know he went out a man."

Loren seemed to accept that.  She leaned her head on Pitts shoulder, the

tears intermingling with the salt water on her cheeks.

Pitt twisted and looked around.  "Where's Moran?"

"He was picked up by a Navy helicopter."

"He deserted you?"  Pitt asked incredulously.

"The crewman shouted that he only had room for one more."

"So the illustrious Speaker of the House left a woman to support a dying

man while he saved himself."

Pitts dislike for Moran burned with a cold flame.  He became obsessed

with the idea of ramming his fist into the little fedet's face.

Captain Pokofsky sat in the cabin of the powerboat, his hands clasped

over his ears to shut out the terrible cries of the people drowning in

the water and the screams of those suffering the agony of their burns.

He could not bring himself to look upon the indescribable horror or

watch the Leonin Andreyev plunge out of sight to the seabed two thousand

fathoms below.  He was a living dead man.

He looked up at Geinar Ombrikov through glazed and listless eyes.

"Why did you save me?   Why didn't you let me die with my ship?"

Ombrikov could plainly see Pokofsky was suffering from severe shock, but

he felt no pity for the man.  Death was an element the KGB agent was

trained to accept.  His duty came before all consideration of

compassion.

"I've no time for rituals of the sea," he said coldly.  "The noble

captain standing on the bridge saluting the flag as his ship sinks under

him is so much garbage.  State Security needs you, Pokofsky, and I need

you to identify the American legislators."

"They're probably dead," Pokofsky muttered distantly.

"Then we'll have to prove it," Ombrikov snapped ruthlessly.  "My

superiors won't accept less than positive identification of their

bodies.  Nor can we overlook the possibility they may still be alive out

there in the water."

Pokofsky placed his hands over his face and shuddered.  "I can't-"

Before the words were out of his mouth, Ombrikov roughly dragged him to

his feet and shoved him out on the open deck.

"Damn you!"  he shouted.  "Look for them!"

Pokofsky clenched his jaws and stared at the appalling reality of the

floating wreckage and hundreds of struggling men, women and children. He

choked off a sound deep inside him, his face blanched.

"No!"  he shouted.  He leaped over the side so quickly, suddenly,

neither Ombrikov nor his crew could stop him.  He bit the water swimming

and dove deep until the white of his uniform was lost to view on the

surface.

The boats from the container ship hauled in the survivors as fast as

they could reach them, quickly filling to capacity and unloading their

human cargo before returning to the center of the flotsam to continue

the rescue.  The sea was filled with debris of all kinds, dead bodies of

all ages, and those still fighting to live.  Fortunately the water was

warm and none suffered from exposure, nor did the threat of sharks ever

materialize.

One boat jockeyed close to Giordino, who helped lift the mother and her

two children onboard.  Then he scrambled over the freeboard and motioned

for the helmsman to steer toward Pitt and Loren.  They were among the

last few to be fished out.

As the boat slipped alongside, Pitt raised his hand in greeting to the

short, stocky figure that leaned over the side.

"Hello," Pitt said, grinning winely.  "Are we ever glad to see you."

"Happy to be of service," replied the steward Pitt had passed earlier at

the elevator.  He was also grinning, baring a set of large upper teeth

parted by a wide gap.

He reached down, grasped Loren by the wrists and pulled her effortlessly

out of the water and into the boat.  Pitt stretched out his hand, but

the steward ignored it.

"Sorry," he said, "we have no more room."

"What-what are you talking about?"  Pitt demanded.  "The boat is half

empty."

"You are not welcome aboard my vessel."

"You damned well don't even own it."

"Oh, but I do."

Pitt stared at the steward in sheer incredulity, then slowly turned and

took one long comprehensive look across the water at the container ship.

The name of the starboard bow was Chalmette, but the lettering on the

sides of the containers stacked on the main deck read "Bougainville."

Pitt felt as though he'd been kicked in the stomach.

"Our confrontation is a lucky circumstance for me, Mr.  Pitt, but I fear

a misfortune for yourself."

Pitt stared at the steward.  "You know me?"

The grin turned into an expression of hate and contempt.  "Only too

well.  Your meddling has cost Bougainville Maritime dearly."

"Tell me who you are?"  asked Pitt, stalling for time and desperately

glancing in the sky for a Navy recovery helicopter.

"I don't think I'll give you the satisfaction," the steward said with

all the warmth of a frozen food locker.

Unable to hear the conversation, Loren pulled at the steward's arm. "Why

don't you bring him onboard?   What are you waiting for?"

He turned and savagely backhanded her across the cheek, sending her

stumbling backward, falling across two survivors who sat in stunned

surprise.

Giordino, who was standing in the stern of the boat, started forward.  A

seaman produced an automatic shotgun from under a seat and rammed the

wooden shoulder stock into his stomach.  Giordino's jaw dropped open, he

gasped for breath and lost his footing,  dropping partially over the

side of the boat, arms trailing in the water.

The steward's lips tightened and the smooth yellow features bore no

readable expression.  Only his eyes shone with evil.  "Thank you for

being so cooperative, Mr.  Pitt.  Thank you for so thoughtfully coming

to me."

"Get screwed!"  Pitt snapped in defiance.

The steward raised an oar over his head.  "Bon voyage, Dirk Pitt."

The oar swung downward and clipped Pitt on the right side of his chest,

driving him under the water.  The wind was crushed from his lungs and a

stabbing pain swept over his rib cage.  He resurfaced and lifted his

left arm above his head to ward off the next inevitable blow.  His move

came too late.  The oar in the hands of the steward mashed Pitts

extended arm down and struck the top of his head, The blue sky turned to

black as consciousness left him, and slowly Pitt drifted under the

lifeboat and sank out of sight.

THE President's WIFE ENTERED his second-floor study, kissed him good

night and went off to bed.  He sat in a soft highback embroinered chair

and studied a pile of statistics on the latest economic forecasts. Using

a large yellow legal pad, he scribbled a prodigious amount of notes.

Some he saved, some he tore up and discarded before they were completed.

After nearly three hours, he removed his glasses and closed his tired

eyes for a few moments.

When he opened them again, he was no longer in his White House study,

but in a small gray room with a high ceiling and no windows.

He rubbed his eyes and looked once more, blinking in the monotone light.

He was still in the gray room, only now he found himself seated in a

hard wooden chair, his ankles strapped to square carved legs and his

hands to the armrests.

A violent fear coursed through him, and he cried for his wife and the

Secret Service guards, but the voice was not his.  It had a different

tonal quality, deeper, more coarse.

Soon a door that was recessed into one wall swung inward and a small man

with a thin, intelligent face entered.  His eyes had a dark, bemused

look, and he carried a syringe in one hand.

"How are we today, Mr.  President?"  he asked politely.

Strangely, the words were foreign, but the President understood them

perfectly.  Then he heard himself shouting repeatedly, "I am Oskar

Belkaya, I am not the President of the United States, I am Oskar-" He

broke off as the intruder plunged the needle into his arm.

The bemused expression never left the little man's face; it might have

been glued there.  He nodded toward the doorway and another man wearing

a drab prison uniform came in and set a cassette recorder on a Spartan

metal table that was bolted to the floor.  He wired the recorder to four

small eyelets on the table's surface and left.

"So you won't knock our new lesson on the floor, Mr. President," said

the thin man.  "I hope you find it interesting." Then he switched on the

recorder and left the room.

The President struggled to shake off the bewildering terror of the

nightmare.  Yet it all seemed too real to be dream fantasy.  He could

smell his own sweat, feel the hurt as the straps chafed his skin, hear

the walls echo with his cries of frustration.  His head sagged to his

chest and he began to sob uncontrollably as the recorded message droned

over and over.  When at last he sufficiently recovered, he raised his

head as if lifting a ponderous weight and looked around.

He was seated in his White House study.

Secretary Oates took Dan Fawcett's call on his private line.

"What's the situation over there?"  he asked without wasting words.

"Critical," Fawcett replied.  "Armed guards everywhere.  I haven't seen

this many troops since I was with the Fifth Marine Regiment in Korea."

"And the President?"

"Spitting out directives like a Gatling gun.  He won't listen to advice

from his aides any longer, myself included.  He's getting increasingly

harder to reach.  Two weeks ago, he'd give full attention to opposing

viewpoints or objective comments.  No more.  You agree with him or

you're out the door.  Megan Blair and I are the only ones still with

access to his office, and my days are numbered.  I'm bailing out before

the roof caves in."

"Stay put," said Oates.  "It's best for all concerned if you and Oscar

Lucas remain close to the President.  You're the only open line of

communications any of us have into the White House."

"Won't work."

"Why?"

"I told you, even if I stick around, I'll be closed out.  My name is

rapidly climbing to the top of the President's shit list."

"Then get back in his good graces," Oates ordered.  "Crawl up his butt

and support whatever he says.  Play yes-man and relay upto-the-minute

reports on every course of action he takes."

There was a long pause.  "Okay, I'll do my best to keep you informed."

"And alert Oscar Lucas to stand by.  We're going to need

"Can I ask what's going on?"

"Not yet," Oates replied tersely.

Fawcett didn't press him.  He switched tack.  "You want the President's

latest brainstorm?"

"Bad?"

"Very bad," admitted Fawcett.  "He's talking about withdrawing our

military forces from the NATO alliance."

Oates clutched the phone until his knuckles turned white. "Got to be

stopped," he said grimly.

Fawcett's voice sounded far away.  "The President and I are a long way

together, but in the best interests of the country must agree."

"Stay in touch."

Oates put down the phone, turned in his desk chair and stared  out the

window, lost in thought.  The afternoon sky had ominous gray, and a

light rain began to fall on Washington streets, their slickened surfaces

reflecting the federal buildings eerie distortions.

In the end he would have to take over the reins of office Oates thought

bitterly.  He was well aware that every President over the last thirty

years had been vilified and debased by ev yond his control.  Eisenhower

was the last chief executive the White House as venerated as when he

came in. No saintly or intellectually brilliant the next President,

stoned by an unmovable bureaucracy and increasingly news media; and

Oates harbored no desire to be a target for rock throwers.

He was pulled out of his reverie by the muted buzz of his com.  "Mr.

Brogan and another gentleman to see you.

"Send them in," Oates directed.  He rose and came around the desk as

Brogan entered.  They shook hands briefly and introduced the man

standing beside him as Dr.  Raymond. Oates correctly pegged Edgely as an

academician.

fashioned crew cut and bow tie suggested someone strayed from a

university campus.  Edgely was slender, scraggly barbed-wire heard, and

his bristly dark eyebro untrimmed and brushed upward in a Mephistopheles

set a@ "Dr.  Edgely is the director of Fathom," Brogan explain Agency's

special study into mind-control techniques at UDiversity in Colorado."

Oates gestured for them to sit on a sofa and took a chair across a

marble coffee table.  "I've just received a call from Dan Fawcett.

The President intends to withdraw our troops from NATO."

"Another piece of evidence to holster our case," said Brogan.

"Only the Russians would profit from such a move."

Oates turned to Edgely.  "Has Martin explained our suspicions regarding

the President's behavior to you?"

"Yes, Mr.  Brogan has filled me in."

"And how does the situation strike you?   Can the President be mentally

forced to become an involuntary traitor?"

"I grant the President's actions demonstrate a dramatic personality

change, but unless we can put him through a series of tests, there is no

way of being certain of brain alteration or exterior domination."

"He will never consent to an examination," said Brogan.

"That presents a problem," Edgely said.

"Suppose you tell us, Doctor," Oates asked, "how the President's mind

transfer was performed?"

"If that is indeed what we are faced with," replied Edgely, "the first

step is to isolate the subject in a womblike chamber for a given length

of time, removed from all sensorial influences.  During this sequence

his brain patterns are studied, analyzed and deciphered into a language

that can be programmed and translated by computer.  The next step is to

design an implant, in this instance a microchip, with the desired data

and then insert it by psychosurgery into the subject's brain."

"You make it sound as elementary as a tonsillectomy," said Oates.

Edgely laughed.  "I've condensed and oversimplified, of course, but in

reality the procedures are incredibly delicate and involved."

"After the microchip is imbedded into the brain, what then?"

"I should have mentioned that a section of the implant is a tiny

transmitter/receiver which operates off the electrical impulses of the

brain and is capable of sending thought patterns and other bodily

functions to a central computer and monitoring post located as far away

as Hong Kong."

"Or Moscow," anded Brogan.

"And not the Soviet embassy here in Washington, as you suggested

earlier?"  Oates asked, looking at Brogan.

"I think I can answer that," Edgely volunteered.  "The communication

technology is certainly available to relay data from a subject via

satellite to Russia, but if I were in Dr.  Lugovoy's shoes, I'd set up

my monitoring station nearby so I could observe the results of the

President's actions at firsthand.  This would also allow me a faster

response time to redirect my command signals to his mind during

unexpected political events."

"Can Lugovoy lose control over the President?"  asked Brogan.

"If the President ceases to think and act for himself, he breaks the

ties to his normal world.  Then be may tend to stray from Lugovoy's

instructions and carry them to extremes."

"Is this why he's instigated so many radical programs in such haste?"

"I can't say," Edgely answered.  "For all I know he is responding

precisely to Lugovoy's commands.  I do suspect, however, that it goes

far deeper."

"In what manner?"

"The reports supplied by Mr.  Brogan's operatives in Russia show that

Lugovoy has attempted experiments with political prisoners, transferring

the fluin from their hippocampuses-a structure in the brain's limbic

system that holds our memories-to those of other subjects."

"A memory injection," Oates murmured wonderingly, "So there really is a

Dr.  Frankenstein."

"Memory transfer is a tricky business," Edgely continued.  "There is no

predicting with any certainty the end results."

"Do you think Lugovoy performed this experiment on the President?"

"I hate to say yes, but if he runs true to form, he might very well have

programmed some poor Russian prisoner for months, even years, with

thoughts promoting Soviet policy, and then transplanted the hippocampal

fluin into the President's brain as a backup to the implant."

"Under the proper care," Oates asked, "could the President return to

normal?"

"You mean put his mind back as it was before?"

"Something like that."

Edgely shook his head.  "Any known treatment will not reverse the

damage.  The President will always be haunted by the memory of someone

else."

"Couldn't you extract his hippocampal fluin as well?"

"I catch your meaning, but by removing the foreign thought patterns,

we'd be erasing the President's own memories." Edgely paused.  "No, I'm

sorry to say, the President's behavior patterns have been irrevocably

altered."

"Then he should be removed from office .  . . permanently."

"That would be my recommendation," answered Edgely without hesitation.

Oates sat back in his chair and clasped his hands behind his head.

"Thank you, Doctor.  You've reinforced our resolve."

"From what I've heard, no one gets through the White House gates."

"If the Russians could abduct him," said Brogan, "I see no reason why we

can't do the same.  But first we have to disconnect him from Lugovoy."

"May I make a suggestion?"

'Please."

"There is an excellent opportunity to turn this situation around to our

advantage."

" How?"

"Rather than cut off his brain signals, why not tune in on the

frequency?"

"For what purpose?"

"So my staff and I can feed the transmissions into our own monitoring

equipment.  If our computers can receive enough data, say within a

forty-eight-hour period, we can take the place of the President's

brain."

" A substitution to feed the Russians false information," said Brogan,

rising to Edgely's inspiration.

"Exactly!" Edgely exclaimed.  "Because they have every reason to believe

the valinity of the data they receive from the President's, Soviet

intelligence can be led down whichever garden path you choose."

"I like the idea," said Oates.  "But the stickler is whether we can

afford the forty-eight hours.  There's no telling what the President

might attempt within that time frame."

"The risk is worth it," Brogan stated flatly.

There was a knock on the door and Oates's secretary leaned her head into

the room.  "Sorry to interrupt, Mr.  Secretary, but Mr. Brogan has an

urgent call."

Brogan got up quickly, lifted the phone on Oates's desk and pressed the

winking button.  "Brogan."

He stood there listening for close to a full minute without speaking.

Then he hung up and faced Oates.

"Speaker of the House, Alan Moran just turned up alive at our

Guant'anamo Bay naval base in Cuba," he said slowly.

"Margolin?"

"No report."

"Larimer?"

"Senator Larimer is dead."

"Oh, good God!"  Oates moaned.  "That means Moran could be our next

President.  I can't think of a more unscrupulous or illequipped man for

the job!"

"A Fagin poised at the White House gate," commented Brogan.

"Not a pleasant thought."

PITT WAS CERTAIN HE WAS DEAD.  There was no reason why he shouldn't be

dead.  And yet he saw no blinding light at the end of a tunnel, no faces

of friends and relatives who died before him.  He felt as though he were

dozing in his own bed at home, And Loren was there, her hair cascading

on the pillow, her body pressed against his, her arms encircling his

neck, holding tightly, refusing to let him drift away.  Her face seemed

to glow, and her violet eyes looked straight into his.  He wondered if

she was dead too.

Suddenly she released her hold and began to blur, moving away,

diminishing ever smaller until she vanished altogether.  A dim light

filtered through his closed eyelins and he heard voices in the distance.

Slowly, with an effort as great as lifting a pair of hundredpound

weights, he opened his eyes.  At first he thought he was gazing at a

flat white surface.  Then as his mind crept past the veil of

unconsciousness he realized he really was gazing at a flat white

surface.

It was a ceiling.

A strange voice said, "He's coming around."

"Takes more than three cracked ribs, a brain concussion and a gallon of

seawater to do this character in."  There was no mistaking this laconic

voice.

"My worst fears," Pitt managed to mutter.  "I've gone to hell and met

the devil."

"See how he talks about his best and only friend," said Al Giordino to a

doctor in naval uniform.

"He's in good physical shape," said the doctor.  "He should mend pretty

quickly."

"Pardon the mundane question," said Pitt, "but where am I?"

"Welcome to the U.S. Naval Hospital at Guantanamo Bay, Cuba," the doctor

answered.  "You and Mr.  Giordino were fished out of the water by one of

our recovery craft."

Pitt focused his eyes on Giordino.  "Are you all right?"

"He has a bruise the size of a cantaloupe on his abdomen, but he'll

survive," the doctor said, smiling.  "By the way, I understand he saved

your life."

Pitt cleared the mist from his mind and tried to recall.  "The steward

from the Leonin Andreyev was playing baseball with my head."

"Pounded you under the boat with an oar," Giordino explained.

"I slipped over the side, swam underwater until I grabbed your arm, and

dragged you to the surface.  The steward would have beat on me too

except for the timely arrival of a Navy helicopter whose paramedics

jumped into the water and helped sling us onboard."

"And Loren?"

Giordino averted his gaze.  "She's listed as missing."

"Missing, hell!" Pitt snarled.  He grimaced from the sudden pain in his

chest as he rose to his elbows.  "We both know she was alive and sitting

in the lifeboat."

A solemn look clouded Giordino's face.  "Her name didn't appear on a

list of survivors given out by the ship's captain."

"A Bougainville ship!"  Pitt blurted as his memory came flooding back.

"The Oriental steward who tried to brain us pointed toward the-"

"Chalmette," Giordino prompted.

"Yes, the Chalmette, and said it belonged to him.  He also spoke my

name."

"Stewards are supposed to remember passengers' names.  He knew you as

Charlie Gruber in cabin thirty-four."

"No, he rightly accused me of meddling in Bougainville affairs, and his

last words were 'Bon voyage, Dirk Pitt."

" Giordino gave a puzzled shrug.  "Beats hell out of me how he knew you.

But why would a Bougainville man work as a steward on a Russian cruise

ship?"

"I can't begin to guess .

"And lie about Loren's rescue?"

Pitt merely gave an imperceptible shake of his head.

"Then she's being held prisoner by the Bougainvilles," said Giordino as

if suddenly enlightened.  "But for what reason?"

"You keep asking questions I can't answer," Pitt said irritably.

"Where is the Chalmette now?"

"Headed toward Miami to land the survivors."

"How long have I been unconscious?"

"About thirty-two hours," replied the doctor.

"Still time," said Pitt.  "The Chalnwtte won't reach the Florida coast

for several hours yet."

He raised himself to a sitting position and swung his legs over the side

of the bed.  The room began to seesaw back and forth.

The doctor moved forward and steadied him by both arms.  "I hope you

don't think you're rushing off somewhere."

"I intend to be standing on the dock when the Chalmette arrives in

Miami," Pitt said implacably.

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 detachedly 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 lain a pile of Navy-issue clothing and a small paper sack in

Pitts 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 lain 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 holinay 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 Leonin

Andreyev tragedy."

"I'm deeply sandened 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 Leonin

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 vivin 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 say, performed magnificently."

"Were you aware that Congresswoman Loren Smith was traveling on the

Leonin 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 fall 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."

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 Leonin 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 aid

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 accinentally 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 Leonin 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 Pitts 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 Pitts 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 Agent 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 Leonin 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.  Pitts 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 lain a photograph on the table.  "I

borrowed this from the morgue file of the Washing 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 Leonin Andreyev, and the kidnapping of Congresswoman Loren

Smith."

"Congresswoman Smith's kidnapping is pure conjecture on your part."

"Dinn't Congressman Moran explain what occurred onboard 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 Pitts 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 Leonin 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 anded 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."

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 onboard.  All entreaties by the news media

demanding detailed information on the Leonin 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 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 Leonin

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 vineo and film cameras recorded the scene as the

giant container ship's mooring lines were dropped over rustin-,

bollards, 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 inentities of the surviving passengers and crewmen of the

Leonin 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 olit 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 onboard.  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 rainsoaked 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 onboard the Leonin 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 Leonin 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 that 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 ands 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 onboard 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 onboard the Leonin

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

hadfinally 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.

Casio had no way of guessing the critical content on the tape.

The decision to wait was dictated by routine procedure, but the delay

was to prove terribly costly.

"May I talk to you, General?"

About to leave for the day, Metcalf was in the act of snapping closed

his briefcase.  His eyes narrowed in apprehension at recognizing Alan

Mercier, who was standing in the doorway.

"Of course, please come in and sit down."

The President's National Security Adviser moved toward the desk but

remained standing.  "I have some news you aren't going to like."

Metcalf sighed.  "Bad news seems to be the order of the day lately. What

is it?"

Mercier handed him an unmarked binder holding several sheets of

typewritten paper and spoke in a soft, hurried voice.  "Orders direct

from the President.  All American forces in Europe must be pulled out by

Christmas.  He's given you twenty days to draw up a plan for total

withdrawal from NATO."

Metcalf slumped into his chair like a man struck with a hammer.

'It's not possible" he mumbled.  "I can't believe the President would

issue such orders!"

"I was as shocked as you are when he dropped the bomb on me," said

Mercier.  "Oates and I tried to reason with him, but it was useless.

He's demanding everything be removed-Pershing and cruise missiles, all

equipment, supply depots, our whole organization."

Metcalf was bewildered.  "But what about our Western alliances?"

Mercier made a helpless gesture with his hands.  "His outlook, one I've

never heard him voice before, is to let Europe police Europe."

"But good God!"  Metcalf snapped in sudden anger.  "He's handing the

entire continent to the Russians on a gold tray."

"I won't argue with you."

"I'll be damned if I'll comply."

"What will you do?"

"Go direct to the White House and resign," Metcalf said adamantly.

"Before you act hastily, I suggest you meet with Sam Emmett.

"Why?"

"There is something you should know," Mercier said in a low tone, "and

Sam is in a better position to explain it than me."

THE President WAS sitting at a writing table in his pajamas and bathrobe

when Fawcett walked into the bedroom.

"Well, did you speak with Moran?"

Fawcett's face was grim.  "He refused to listen to any of your

proposals."

"is that it?"

"He said you were finished as President, and nothing you could say was

of any consequence.  Then he threw in a few insults."

"I want to hear them," the President demanded sharply.

Fawcett sighed uncomfortably.  "He said your behavior was that of a

madman and that you belonged in the psycho ward.  He compared you with

Benedict Arnold and claimed he would see your administration wiped from

the history books.  After he ran through several more irrelevant slurs,

he suggested you do the country a great service by committing suicide,

thereby saving the taxpayers a long-drawn-out investigation and

expensive trial."

The President's face became a mask of rage.  "That sniveling little

bastard thinks he's going to put me in a courtroom?"

"It's no secret, Moran is pulling out all stops to take your place."

"His feet are too small to fill my shoes," the President said through

tight lips.  "And his head is too big to fit the job."

"To hear him tell it, his right hand is already raised to take the oath

of office," Fawcett said.  "The proposed impeachment proceeding is only

the first step in a blueprint for a transition from you to him."

"Alan Moran will never occupy the White House," the President said, his

voice flat and hard.

"No congressional session, no impeachment," said Fawcett.  "But you

can't keep them corralled indefinitely."

"They can't meet until I give the word."

"What about tomorrow morning at Lisner Auditorium?"

"The troops will break that up in short order."

"Suppose the Virginia and Maryland National Guardsmen stand their

ground?"

"For how long against veteran soldiers and Marines?"

"Long enough for a great many to die," said Fawcett.

"So what?"  the President scoffed coldly.  "The longer I keep Congress

in disarray, the more I can accomplish.  A few deaths are a small price

to pay."

Fawcett looked at him uneasily.  This was not the same man who solemnly

swore during his campaign for the Presidency that no American boy would

be ordered to fight and die under his administration.  It was all he

could do to act out his role of friend and adviser.  After a moment he

shook his head.  "I hope you're not being overly destructive."

"Getting cold feet, Dan?"

Fawcett felt trapped in a corner, but before he could reply Lucas

entered the room carrying a tray with cups and a teapot.

"Anyone care for some herbal tea?"  he asked.

The President nodded.  "Thank you, Oscar.  That was very thoughtful of

you."

"Dan?"

"Thanks, I could use some."

Lucas poured and passed out the cups, keeping one for himself.

Fawcett drained his almost immediately.

"Could be warmer," he complained.

"Sorry," said Lucas.  "It cooled on the way up from the kitchen."

"Tastes fine to me," the President said, between sips.  "I don't care

liquid so hot it burns your tongue."  He paused and set the cup on the

writing desk.  "Now then, where were we?"

"Discussing your new policies," Fawcett said, deftly sidestepping out of

the corner.  "Western Europe is in an uproar over your decision to

withdraw American forces from NATO.  The joke circulating around Embassy

Row is that Antonov is planning a coming-out party at the Savoy Hotel in

London."

"i don't appreciate the humor," the President said coldly.

"President Antonov has given me his personal assurances that he will

stay in his own yard."

"I seem to remember Hitler telling Neville Chamberlain the same thing."

The President looked as if he was going to make an angry retort, but

suddenly he yawned and shook his head, fighting off a creeping

drowsidess.  "No matter what anyone thinks," he said slowly, "I've

diffused the nuclear threat and that's all that matters."

Fawcett took the cue and yawned contagiously.  "If you don't need me any

more tonight, Mr.  President, I think I'll head for home and a soft

bed."

"Same here," said Lucas.  "My wife and kids are beginning to wonder if I

still exist."

"Of course.  I'm sorry for keeping you so late."  The President moved

over to the bed, kicked off his slippers and removed his robe.

"Turn on the TV, will you, Oscar?   I'd like to catch a few minutes of

the twenty-four-hour cable news."  Then he turned to Fawcett.  "Dan,

first thing in the morning, schedule a meeting with General Metcalf, I

want him to brief me on his troop movements."

"I'll take care of it," Fawcett assured him- "Good night," In the

elevator going down to the first floor Fawcett looked at his watch.

"Two hours should do it."

"He'll sleep like the dead and wake up sicker than a dog," said Lucas.

"By the way, how did you manage it?   I didn't see you slip anything

into his tea, and yet you poured all three cups from the same pot."

"An old magician's trick," Lucas said, laughing, "The teapot had two

interior compartments."

The elevator doors opened and they met Emmett, who was standin off to

one side.  "Any problems?"  he asked.

Fawcett shook his head.  "As smooth as glass.  The President went down

like a baby."

Lucas looked at him, his eyes cautious.  "Now comes the hard

part-fooling the Russians."

"He's sleeping unusually soundly tonight," said Lugovoy.

The monitoring psychologist who drew the early-morning shift nodded.  "A

good sign.  Less chance for Comrade Belkaya to penetrate the President's

dreams."

Lugovoy studied the display screen that recorded the President's body

functions.  "Temperature up one degree.  Congestion forming in the nasal

passages.  Appears as though our subject is coming down with either a

summer cold or the flu."

Fascinating, we know he's been attacked by a virus before he feels it."

"I don't think it's serious," Lugovoy said.  "But you better keep a

tight watch in case it develops into something that could jeopardize the

project-" Abruptly the green data filling the dozen screens encompassing

the console faded into distorted lines and vanished into blackness.

The monitoring psychologist tensed.  "What in hell-" Then, as quickly as

the display data were wiped clean, they returned in bright, clear

readings.  Lugovoy quickly checked the circuit warning lights.

They all read normal.

"What do you suppose that was?"

Lugovoy looked thoughtful.  "Possibly a temporary failure in the implant

transmitter."

"No indication of a malfunction."

"An electrical interference, perhaps?"

"Of course.  An atmospheric disturbance of some kind.  That would

explain it.  The symptoms match.  What else could it be?"

Lugovoy passed a weary hand across his face and stared at the monitors.

"Nothing," he said somberly.  "Nothing of any concern."

General Metcalf sat in his military residence and swirled the brandy

around in his glass as he closed the cover of the report in his lap.  He

looked up sadly and stared at Emmett, who was sitting across the room.

"A tragic crime," he said slowly.  "The President had every chance for

achieving greatness.  No finer man ever sat in the White House."

"The facts are all there," said Emmett, gesturing at the report.

"Thanks to the Russians, he's mentally unfit to continue in office."

"I must agree, but it's no easy thing.  He and I have been friends for

nearly forty years."

"Will you call off the troops and allow Congress to meet at Lisner

Auditorium tomorrow?"  Emmett pressed.

Metcalf sipped the brandy and gave a weary nod to his head.

"I'll issue orders for their withdrawal first thing in the morning.

You can inform the House and Senate leaders they can hold session in the

Capitol building."

"Can I ask a favor?"

"Of course."

"Is it possible to remove the Marine guard from around the White House

by midnight?"

"I don't see why not," said Metcalf.  "Any particular reason?"

"A deception, General," Emmett replied.  "One you will find most

intriguing."

SANDECKER STOOD IN THE CHART ROOM of NUMA and peered through a

magnification enhancer at an aerial photo of Johns Island, South

Carolina.  He straightened and looked at Giordino and Pitt, who were

standing on the opposite side of the table.  "Beats me," he said after a

short silence.  "If Suvorov pinpointed his landmarks correctly, I can't

understand why he didn't find Bougainville's lab facility from a

helicopter."

Pitt consulted the Soviet agent's notebook.  "He used an old abandoned

gas station for his base point," he said, pointing to a tiny structure

on the photograph, "which can be distinguished here."

"Emmett or Brogan know you made a copy before we left GuantAnamo Bay?"

asked Giordino, nodding toward the notebook.

Pitt smiled.  "What do you think?"

"I won't tell if you won't."

"If Suvorov escaped the lab at night," said Sandecker, "it's conceivable

he got his bearings crossed."

"A good undercover operative is a trained observer," Pitt explained. "He

was precise in his description of landmarks.  I doubt he lost his sense

of direction."

"Emmett has two hundred agents crawling over the area," Sandecker said.

"As of fifteen minutes ago, they came up emptyhanded."

" Then where?"  Giordino asked in a general sense.  "No structure the

size Suvorov recorded shows on the aerial survey.  A few old houseboats,

some scattered small homes, a couple of decrepit sheds, nothing on the

order of a warehouse."

"An underground facility?"  Sandecker speculated.

Giordino considered the point.  "Suvorov did say he took the elevator up

to break out."

"On the other hand, he mentions walking down a ramp to a gravel road."

"A ramp might suggest a boat," Giordino ventured.

Sandecker looked doubtful.  "No good.  The only water near the spot

where Suvorov puts the lab is a creek with a depth of no more than two

or three feet.  Far too shallow to float a vessel large enough to

require an elevator."

"There is another possibility," said Pitt.

"Which is?"

"A barge."

Giordino looked across the table at Sandecker.  "I think Dirk may have

something."

Pitt stepped over to a telephone, dialed a number and switched the call

to a speaker.

"Data Department," came a groggy voice.

"Yaeger, you awake?"

"Oh, God, it's you, Pitt.  Why do you always have to call after

midnight?"

"Listen, I need information on a particular type of vessel.  Can your

computers come up with a projection on its class if I supply the

dimensions?"

"Is this a game?"

"Believe you me, this is no game," Sandecker growled.

"Admiral!"  Yaeger muttered, coming alert.  "I'll get right on it.

What are your dimensions?"

Pitt thumbed to the correct page in the notebook and read them off into

the speaker phone.  "A hundred sixty-eight feet in length at inside

perpendiculars by thirty-three feet in the beam.  The approximate height

is ten feet."

"Not much to go on," Yaeger grumbled.

"Try", Sandecker replied sternly.

"Hold on.  I'm moving to the keyboard."

Giordino smiled at the admiral.  "Care to make a wager?"

"Name it."

"A bottle of Chivas Regal against a box of your cigars Dirk's right."

"No bet," said Sandecker.  "My specially rolled cigars cost far more

than a bottle of scotch."

Yaeger could be heard clearing his throat.  "Here it is."  There was a

slight pause.  "Sorry, not enough data.  Those figures are a rough match

for any one of a hundred different craft."

Pitt thought a moment.  "Suppose the height was the same from bow to

stern."

"You talking a flat superstructure?"

"Yes."

"Hold on," said Yaeger.  "Okay, you've lowered the numbers.

Your mystery vessel looks like a barge."

"Eureka," exclaimed Giordino.

"Don't cash in your coupons yet," Yaeger cautioned.  "The dimensions

don't fit any known barge in existence."

"Damni" Sandecker blurted.  "So near, yet-"

"Wait," Pitt cut in.

"Suvorov gave us interior measurements."  He leaned over the speaker

phone.  "Yaeger, and two feet all around and run it through again."

"You're getting warmer," Yaeger's voice rasped over the speaker.

"Try this on for size-no pun intended-one hundred and ninety-five by

thirty-five by twelve feet."

"Beam and height correspond," said Pitt, "but your length is way off."

"You gave me interior length between perpendicular bulkheads.

I'm giving you overall length including a raked bow of twenty-five

feet."

"He's right," said Sandecker.  "We didn't allow for the scoop of the

forward end."

Yaeger continued.  "What we've got is a dry cargo barge, steel

construction, two hundred and eighty to three hundred tons-selfenclosed

compartments for carrying grain, lumber and so forth.

Probably manufactured by the Nashville bridge Company, Nashville,

Tennessee."

"The draft?"  Pitt pushed.

"Empty or loaded?"

"Empty."

"Eighteen inches."

"Thanks, pal.  You've done it again."

"Done what?"

"Go back to sleep."

Pitt switched off the speaker and turned to Sandecker.  "The smoke

clears."

Sandecker fairly beamed.  "Clever, clever people, the Bougainvilles."

Pitt nodded.  "I have to agree.  The last place anyone would look for an

expensively equipped laboratory is inside a rusty old river barge moored

in a swamp."

"She also has the advantage of being movable," said Sandecker.

The admiral referred to any vessel, scow or aircraft carrier in the

feminine gender.  "A tug can transport and dock her anywhere the water

depth is over a foot and a half."

Pitt stared at the aerial photo pensively.  "The next test is to

determine where the Bougainvilles hin it again."

"The creek where she was tied leads into the Stono River," Sandecker

noted.

"And the Stono River is part of the Intracoastal Waterway," Pitt added.

"They can slip it into any one of ten thousand rivers, streams, bays and

sounds from Boston to Key West."

"No way of second-guessing the destination," Giordino murmured

dejectedly.

"They won't keep it in South Carolina waters," Pitt said.  "Too obvious.

The catch, as I see it, boils down to north or south, and a distance of

six, maybe eight hundred miles."

"A staggering job," Sandecker said in a soft voice, "untangling her from

the other barges plying the eastern waterways.  They're thicker than

leaves in a New England October."

"Still, it's more than we had to go on before," Pitt said hopefully.

Sandecker turned from the photo.  "Better give Emmett a call and steer

him onto our discovery.  Someone in his army of investigators may get

lucky and stumble on the right barge."

The admiral's words were empty of feeling.  He didn't want to say what

was on his mind.

If Lee Tong Bougainville suspected government investigators were

breathing down his neck, his only option would be to kill the Vice

President and Loren, and dispose of their bodies to cover his tracks.

"THE PATIENT WILL LIVE to fight another day," said Dr.  Harold Gwynne,

the President's physician, cheerfully.  He was a cherubic little man

with a balding head and friendly blue eyes.  "A common case of the flu

bug.  Stay in bed for a couple of days until the fever subsides.  I'll

give you an antibiotic and something to relieve the nausea.

"I can't stay on my back," the President protested weakly.  "Too much

work to do."

There was little fight in his words.  The chills from a 103-degree fever

sandbagged him, and he was constantly on the verge of vomiting.

His throat was sore, his nose stuffed up and he felt rotten from scalp

to toenails.

"Relax and take it easy," Gwynne ordered.  "The world can turn without

you for a few hours."  He jabbed a needle into the President's arm and

then held a glass of water for him to wash down a pill.

Dan Fawcett entered the bedroom.  "About through, Doc?"  he inquired.

Gwynne nodded.  "Keep him off his feet.  I'll check back around two

o'clock this afternoon."  He smiled warmly, closed his black bag and

stepped through the door.

"General Metcalf is waiting," Fawcett said to the President.

The President pushed a third pillow behind his back and struggled to a

sitting position, massaging his temples as the room began to spin.

Metcalf was ushered in, resplendent in a uniform decorated by eight rows

of colorful ribbons.  There was a briskness about the general that was

not present at their last meeting.

The President looked at him, his face pallin, his eyes drooping and

watery.  He began to cough uncontrollably.

Metcalf came over to the bed.  "is there anything I can get you, sir?"

he asked solicitously.

The President shook his head and waved him away.  "I'll survive," he

said at last.  "What's the situation, Clayton?"

The President never called his joint Chiefs by rank, preferring to lower

them a couple of notches down their pedestal by andressing them with

their Christian names.

Metcalf shifted in his chair uncomfortably.  "The streets are quiet at

the moment, but there were one or two isolated incinents of sniping. One

soldier was killed and two Marines wounded."

"Were the guilty parties apprehended?"

"Yes, sir," Metcalf answered.

"A couple of criminal radicals, no doubt."

Metcalf stared at his feet.  "Not exactly.  One was the son of

Congressman Jacob Whitman of South Dakota and the other the son of

Postmaster General Kenneth Potter.  Both were under seventeen years of

age."

The President's face looked stricken for an instant and then it quickly

hardened.  "Are your troops deployed at Lisner Auditorium?"

"One company of Marines is stationed on the grounds around the

building."

"Hardly seems enough manpower," said the President.  "The Maryland and

Virginia Guard units combined will outnumber them five to one."

"The Guard will never come within rifle shot of the auditorium," said

Metcalf knowingly.  "Our plan is to defuse their effectiveness by

stopping them before they arrive in the city."

"A sound strategy," the President said, his eyes briefly gleaming.

"I have a special news report," said Fawcett, who was kneeling in front

of the television set.  He turned up the volume and stood aside so the

picture could be seen from the bed.

Curtis Mayo was standing beside a highway blocked by armed soldiers.  In

the background a line of tanks stretched across the road, the muzzles of

their guns pointing ominously at a convoy of personnel carriers.

"The Virginia National Guard troops that Speaker of the House Alan Moran

was relying on to protect a meeting of Congress on the George Washington

University campus this morning have been turned back outside the

nation's capital by armored units of the Army special forces.  I

understand the same situation exists with the Maryland Guard northeast

of the city.  So far there has been no threat of fighting.  Both state

Guard units appeared subdued, if not in numbers, by superior equipment.

Outside Lisner Auditorium, a company of Marines, under the command of

Colonel Ward Clarke, a Vietnam Medal of Honor holder, is turning away

members of Congress, refusing them entrance to hold a session.

And so once again the President has thwarted House and Senate members

while he continues his controversial foreign affairs programs without

their approval.  This is Curtis Mayo, CNN news, on a highway thirty

miles south of Washington."

:'Seen enough?"  asked Fawcett, turning off the set.

'Yes, yes," the President rasped happily.  "That ought to keep that

egomaniac Moran floundering without a rudder for a while."

Metcalf rose to his feet.  "If you won't need me any further, Mr.

President, I should be getting back to the Pentagon.  Conditions are

pretty unsettled with our division commanders in Europe.

They don't exactly share your views on pulling back their forces to the

States."

"In the long haul they'll come to accept the risks of a temporary

military imbalance in order to dilute the dreaded specter of nuclear

conflict."  The President shook Metcalf's hand.  "Nice piece of work,

Clayton.  Thank you for keeping Congress paralyzed."

Metcalf walked along the corridor for fifty feet until it emptied into

the vast interior of a barren warehouselike structure.

The stage set that contained an exact replica of the President's White

House bedroom sat in the middle of the Washington Navy Yard's old brick

ordnance building, which had gone virtually unused since World War Two.

Every detail of the deception was carefully planned and executed.

A sound technician operated a stereo recorder whose tape played the

muted sounds of street traffic at a precise volume.  The lighting

outside the bedroom windows matched the sky exactly, with an occasional

shadowed effect to simulate a passing cloud.

The filters over the lamps were set to emit changing yellow-orange rays

to duplicate the day's movement of the sun.  Even the plumbing in the

adjacent bathroom worked with the familiar sounds of the original, but

emptying its contents into a septic tank rather than the Washington city

sewer system.  The huge concrete floor was heavily populated with Marine

guards and Secret Service agents, while overhead, amin great wooden

rafters, men stood on catwalks manning the overhead lighting system.

Metcalf stepped across a network of electrical cables and entered a

large mobile trailer parked against the far wall.  Oates and Brogan were

waiting and invited him into a walnut-paneled office.

"Coffee?"  Brogan asked, holding up a glass urn.

Metcalf nodded gratefully, reached for a steaming cup and sank into a

chair.  "My God, for a minute there I could have sworn I was in the

White House."

"Martin's people did an amazing job," said Oates.

"He flew in a crew from a Hollywood studio and constructed the entire

set in nine hours."

"did you have a problem moving the President?"

"The easy part," replied Brogan.  "We transferred him in the same moving

van as the furniture.  Strange as it might sound, the toughest hurdle

was the paint."

"How so?"

"We had to cover the walls with a material that didn't have the smell of

new paint.  Fortunately, our chemists at the agency lab came up with a

chalky substance they could tint that left no aroma.

"The news program was an ingenious touch," commented Metcalf.

"it cost us," Oates explained.  "We had to make a deal with Curtis Mayo

to give him the exclusive story in return for his cooperation in

broadcasting the phony news report.  He also agreed to hold off a

network investigation until the situation cools."

"How long can you continue to deceive the President?"

"For as long as it takes," answered Brogan.

"For what purpose?"

"To study the President's brain patterns."

Metcalf threw Brogan a very dubious look indeed.  "You haven't convinced

me.  Stealing back the President's mind from the Russians who stole it

in the first place is stretching my gullibility past the breaking

point."

Brogan and Oates exchanged looks and smiled.  "Would you like to see for

yourself?"  Oates asked.

Metcalf put down the coffee.  "I wouldn't miss it for a fifth star."

"Through here," Oates said, opening a door and gesturing for Metcalf to

enter.

The entire midsection and one end of the mobile trailer was filled with

exotic electronic and computer hardware.  The monitoring data center was

a generation ahead of Lugovoy's equipment onboard the Bougainville

laboratory.

Dr.  Raymond Edgely noticed their appearance and came over.

Oates introduced him to General Metcalf.

"So you're the mysterious genius who heads up Fathom," Metcalf said.

"I'm honored to meet you."

"Thank you, General," Edgely said.  "Secretary Oates tells me you have

some suspicions about the project."

Metcalf looked around the busy complex, studying the scientists who were

engrossed in the digital readings on the monitors.  "I admit I'm puzzled

by all this."

"Basically, it's quite simple," Edgely said.  "My staff and I are

intercepting and accumulating data on the President's brain rhythms in

preparation for switching control from his cerebral implant to our own

unit, which you see before you."

Metcalf's skepticism melted away.  "Then this is all true.  The Russians

really are dominating his thoughts."

"Of course.  It was their instructions to close down Congress and the

Supreme Court so he could instigate projects beneficial to the Communist

bloc without legislative roadblocks.  The order to withdraw our troops

from NATO is a perfect example.  Exactly what the Soviet military wants

for Christmas."

"And you people can actually take the place of the President's mind?"

Edgely nodded.  "Do you have any messages you wish sent to the Kremlin?

Some misleading information perhaps?"

Metcalf brightened like a searchlight.  "i think my intelligence people

can write some interesting science fiction that should spur them to draw

all the wrong conclusions."

"When do you expect to release the President from Lugovoy's command?"

Brogan asked.

"I think we can make the transfer in another eight hours," answered

Edgely.

"Then we'll get out of the way and leave you to your work," Oates said.

They left the data acquisition room and returned to the outer office,

where they found Sam Emmett waiting.  Oates could see that the

expression on his face spelled trouble.

"I've just come from Capitol Hill," Emmett said.  "They're acting like

animals in a zoo who haven't been fed.  Debate over impeachment is

raging in Congress.  The President's party is making a show of loyalty,

but that's all it is-a show.  There is no support on a broad front.

Desertions come in wholesale lots."

"What about committee?'asked Oates.

"The opposition party rammed through a floor vote to bypass a committee

investigation to save time."

"A guess as to when they'll decide?"

"The House may vote on impeachment this afternoon."

"The odds?"

"Five to one in favor."

"The Senate?"

"Not in the cards.  A straw vote indicates the Senate will vote to

convict with considerably more than the necessary two-thirds majority."

"They're not wasting any time."

"Considering the President's recent actions, the impeachment proceedings

are looked upon as a national emergency."

"Any show of support for Vince Margolin?"

"Of course, but no one can stand behind him if he doesn't put in an

appearance.  Sixty seconds after the President is swept from office,

someone has to take the oath as successor.  The rumor mills have him

hining out until the last minute so he won't be associated with the

President's crazy policies."

"What about Moran?"

"This is where it gets sticky.  He's claiming he has proof that Margolin

committed suicine and that I am covering up the fact."

"Anybody believe him?"

"Doesn't matter if he's believed.  The news media are jumping on his

statements like ants on honey.  His news conferences are getting massive

attention, and he's demanding Secret Service protection.  His aides have

already drafted a transition plan and named his inner circle of

advisers.  Shall I go on?"

"The picture is clear," Oates said resignedly.  "Alan Moran will be the

next President of the United States."

"We can't allow it," Emett said coldly.

The others stared at him.  "Unless we can produce Vince Margolin by

tomorrow," asked Brogan, "how can we prevent it?"

"Any way possible," said Emmett.  He produced a folder from an attache'

case.  "I'd like you gentlemen to take a look at this."

Oates opened the folder and studied the contents without comment, and

then passed it on to Brogan, who in turn handed it to Metcalf.

When they finished they gazed at Emmett as if silently nominating him to

speak first.

"What you gentlemen read in the report is true," he said simply.

"Why hasn't this come out before?"  Oates demanded.

Because there was never a reason to order an in-depth investigation into

the man before," answered Emmett.  "The FBI is not in the habit of

revealing skeletons in our legislators' closets unless there is Solid

evidence of criminal activity in their backgrounds.

Dirt on divorces, petty misdemeanors, sexual perversions or traffic

violations we file in a vault and look the other way.  Moran's file

showed him to be clean, too clean for someone who clawed his way to the

top without benefit of education, average intelligence, a penchant for

hard work, wealth or important contacts.  Nothing about his character

indicated aggressiveness or talent.  As you can see the results aren't

exactly a recommendation for a Pope."

Metcalf scanned the report again.  "This stock brokerage firm in

Chicago, what is it called?   Ah, yes, Blackfox and Churchill."

"A front to launder Moran's bribery and payoff operation.  The names

came off tombstones in a Fargo, North Dakota, cemetery.

Bogus stock transactions are conducted to hide bribe money from shady

special-interest groups, defense contractors, state and city officials

seeking federal funding and not caring how they get it, underworld

payments for favors.  Speaker of the House Moran makes the Bougainvilles

look like Boy Scouts."

"We've got to go public with this," Brogan said adamantly.

"I wouldn't push it," cautioned Oates.  "Moran would go to any length to

deny it, claiming it was a frame-up to keep him from leading the country

to reconciliation and unity." I can see him pleading for the American

tradition of fair play while he's hanging from the cross.

And by the time the Justice Department can make things tough for him, he

will have been sworn in as President.

Let's face it, you can't put the country through two impeachment

proceedings in the same year."

Metcalf nodded his head in agreement.  "Coming on the heels of the

President's insane policies and Moran I s ravings about the Vice

President presumed death, the upheaval may prove more than the public

can accept.  A complete loss of confidence in the federal system could

ignite a voters' revolt during the next election."

"Or worse," Emmett added.  "More and more people are refusing to pay

taxes on the rationale they don't like where their tax dollars are

spent.  And you can't blame them for not wanting to support a goverdment

managed by inept leaders and rip-off artists.

You get five million people out there who tear up their tax forms come

next April fifteenth, and the federal machinery as we know it will cease

to function."

The four men sat in the trailer office like frozen figures in a

painting.  The fantasy of their conjecture was not implausible.

Nothing like this had ever happened before.  The prospects of surviving

the storm unscathed seemed remote.

At last Brogan said, "We're lost without Vince Margolin."

"That fellow Pitt over at NUMA gave us our first tangible lead," said

Brogan.

"So what have you got?"  asked Metcalf.

"Pitt deduced that the mind control laboratory where Margolin is held is

inside a river barge."

"A what?"  Metcalf asked as if he hadn't heard right.

"River barge," Emmett repeated.  "Moored God knows where along the

inland water route."

"Are you searching?"

With every available agent Martin and I can spare from both our

agencies.

"If you give me a few more details and come up with a quick plan to

coordinate our efforts, I'll throw in whatever forces the Defense

Department can muster in the search areas."

"That would certainly help, General," said Oates.  "Thank you."

The phone rang and Oates picked it up.  After listening silently for a

moment, he set it down.  "Crap!" Emmett had never heard Oates use such

an expletive before.

"Who was that?"

"One of my aides reporting from the House of Representatives."

"What did he say?"

"Moran just railroaded through passage of the impeachment vote."

"Then nothing stands between him and the Presidency except trial by the

Senate," Brogan said.

"He's moved up the timetable by a good ten hours," said Metcalf.

"Hell we can't produce the Vice President by this time tomorrow," Emmett

said, "we can kiss the United States goodbye."

GIORDINO FOUND PITT IN IRIS HANGAR, sitting comfortably in the back seat

of an immense open touring car, his feet propped sideways on a rear

door.  Giordino couldn't help admiring the classic lines of the tourer.

Italian built in 1925, with coachwork by Cesare Sala, the red

torpedo-bodied Isotta-Fraschini sported long, flared fenders, a

disappearing top and a coiled cobra on the radiator cap.

Pitt was contemplating a blackboard mounted on a tripod about ten feet

from the car.  A large nautical chart depicting the entire inland water

route was tacked to the outer frame.  Across the board he had written

several notations and what appeared to Giordino as a list of ships.

"I've just come from the admiral's office," Giordino said.

"What's the latest?"  Pitt asked, his eyes never leaving the blackboard.

"The joint Chiefs of Staff have thrown the armed forces into the hunt.

Combined with agents from the FBI and CIA, they should be able to cover

every inch of shoreline by tomorrow evening."

"On the ground, by the sea and in the air," Pitt murmured

uninterestedly.  "From Maine to Florida."

"Why the sour grapes?"

"A damned waste of time.  The barge isn't there," Pitt said, flipping a

piece of chalk in the air.

Giordino shot him a quizzical look.  "What are you babbling about?

The barge has to be in there somewhere."

"Not necessarily."

"You saying they're searching in the wrong place?"

"If you were the Bougainvilles, you'd expect an exhaustive, whole-hog

hunt, right?"

"Elementary reasoning," Giordino said loftily.  "Me, I'd be more

inclined to camouflage the barge under a grove of trees, hide it inside

an enclosed waterfront warehouse, or alter the exterior to look like a

giant chicken coop or whatever.  Seems to me concealment is the logical

way to go."

Pitt laughed.  "Your chicken coop brainstorm, now that's class."

"You got a better idea?"

Pitt stepped out of the Isotta, went to the blackboard and folded over

the inland waterway chart, revealing another chart showing the coastline

along the Gulf of Mexico.  "As it happens, yes, I do."

He tapped his finger on a spot circled in red ink.  "The barge holding

Margolin and Loren captive is somewhere around here."

Giordino moved closer and examined the marked area.  Then he looked at

Pitt with an expression usually reserved for people who held signs

announcing the end of the world.

"New Orleans?"

"Below New Orleans," Pitt corrected.  "I judge it to be moored there

now."

Giordino shook his head.  "I think your brakes went out.  You're telling

me Bougainville towed a barge from Charleston, around the tip of Florida

and across the gulf to the Mississippi River, almost seventeen hundred

miles in less than four days?   Sorry, pal, the tug isn't built that can

push a barge that fast."

"Granted," Pitt allowed.  "But suppose they cut off seven hundred

miles?"

"How?"  inquired Giordino, his voice a combination of doubt and sarcasm.

"By installing wheels and driving it cross-country?"

"No joke," Pitt said seriously.  "By towing it through the recently

opened Florida Cross State Canal from Jacksonville on the Atlantic to

Crystal River on the Gulf of Mexico, shortcutting the entire southern

half of the state."

The revelation sparked Giordino.  He peered at the chart again, studying

the scale.  Then, using his thumb and forefinger as a pair of diviners,

he roughly measured the reduced distance between Charleston and New

Orleans.  When he finally turned and looked at Pitt, he wore a sheepish

smile.

"It works."  Then the smile quickly faded.  "So what does it prove?"

"The Bougainvilles must have a heavily guarded dock facility and

terminal where they unload their illegal cargoes.  It probably sits on

the banks of the river somewhere between New Orleans and the entrance to

the gulf."

"The Mississippi Delta?"  Giordino showed his puzzlement.

"How'd you pull that little number out of the hat?"

"Take a look," Pitt said, pointing to the list of ships on the

blackboard and then reading them off.  "The Pilottown, Belle Chasse,

Buras, Venice, Boothville, Chalmette-all ships under foreign registry

but at one time owned by Bougainville Maritime."

"I fail to make the connection."

"Take another look at the chart.  Every one of those ships is named

after a town along the river delta."

"A symbolic cipher?"

"The only mistake the Bougainvilles ever let slip, using a code to

designate their area of covert operations."

Giordino peered closer.  "By God, it fits like a girl in tight shorts."

Pitt rapped the chart with his knuckles.  "I'll bet my lsottaFraschini

against your Bronco that's where we'll find Loren."

"You're on."

"Run over to the NUMA air terminal and sign out a Lear jet.  I'll

contact the admiral and explain why we're flying to New Orleans."

Giordino was already heading toward the door.  "I'll have the plane

checked out and ready for takeoff when you get there," he called over

his shoulder.

Pitt hurried up the stairs to his apartment and threw some clothes in an

overnight bag.  He opened a gun cabinet and took out an old Colt

Thompson submachine gun, serial number 8545, and two loaded drums of

.45-caliber cartridges and lain them in a violin case, Then he picked up

the phone and called Sandecker's office.

He identified himself to Sandecker's private secretary and was put

through.  "Admiral?"

"Dirk?"

"I think I've got the barge area fixed."

"Where?"

"The Mississippi River Delta.  Al and I are leaving for there now."

"What makes you think it's in the delta?"

"Half guess, half deduction, but it's the best lead we've got."

Sandecker hesitated before replying.  "You'd better hold up," he said

quietly.

"Hold up?   What are you talking about?"

"Alan Moran is demanding the search be called off."

Pitt was stunned.  "What in hell for?"

"He says it's a waste of time and taxpayers' money to continue, because

Vince Margolin is dead."

"Moran is full of crap."

"He has the clothes Margolin was wearing the night they all disappeared

to back up his claim."

"We still have Loren to think about."

"Moran says she's dead too."

Pitt felt like he was sinking in quicksand.  "He's a damned liar!"

"Maybe so, but if he's right about Margolin, you're defaming the next

President of the United States."

"The day that little creep takes the oath is the day I turn in my

citizenship."

"You probably won't be alone," Sandecker said sourly.  "But your

personal feelings don't alter the situation."

Pitt stood unbudging.  "I'll call you from Louisiana."

"I was hoping you'd say that.  Stay in close contact.  I'll do

everything I can to help from this end."

"Thanks, you old fraud."

"Get your ass in gear and tell Giordino to stop swiping my cigars."

Pitt grinned and hung up.  He finished packing and hurried from the

hangar.  Three minutes after he drove off, his phone began to ring, Two

hundred miles away an ashen-faced Sal Casio despair@gly waited in vain

for an answer.

TEN MINUTES AFTER TWELVE NOON, Alan Moran walked through the main

corridor of the Capitol, down a narrow staircase and opened the door to

an out-of-the-way office he kept for privacy.

Most men in his position were constantly surrounded by a hive of aides,

but Moran preferred to travel a solitary trail, unhindered by inane

conversation.

He always wore the wary look of an antelope scanning the African plain

for predators.  He had the expressionless eyes of a man whose only love

was power, power attained by whatever means, at whatever cost.  To

achieve his prestigious position in Congress, Moran had carefully

nurtured a billboard image.  In his public life he oozed a religious

fervor, the personification of the friendly shy man with a warm sense of

humor, the appeal of the neighbor next door, ever ready to lend his lawn

mower, and the past of a man born underprivileged, self-made.

His private life couldn't have been more at odds.  He was a closet

atheist who looked on his constituents and the general public as

ignorant rabble whose chronic complaints led to an open license to twist

and control for his own advantage.  Never married, with no close

friends, he lived frugally like a penitent monk in a small rented

apartment.  Every dollar over and above subsistence level went into his

secret corporation in Chicago, where it was anded to funds obtained

through illegal contributions, bribes and other corrupt investments.

Then it was spread and sown to increase his power base until there were

few men and women with top positions in business and government who

weren't tied to his coattails by political favors and influence.

Douglas Oates, Sam Emmett, Martin Brogan, Alan Mercier and Jesse

Simmons, who was recently released from house arrest, were seated in

Moran's office as he entered.  They all rose as he took his place behind

a desk.  There was an air of smugness about him that was obvious to his

visitors.  He had summoned them to his private territory and they had no

choice but to respond.

" Thank you for meeting with me, gentlemen," he said with a false smile.

"I assume you know the purpose."

" To discuss your possible succession to the Presidency," Oates replied.

"There is no possible about it," Moran rejoined waspishly.  "The Senate

is scheduled to begin the trial at seven o'clock this evening.

As next in line to the executive office, I feel it is my sworn duty to

take the oath immediately afterward and assume the responsibility for

healing the wounds caused by the President's harmful delusions."

"Aren't you jumping the gun?"  asked Simmons.

"Not if it means stopping the President from any more outrageous

actions."

Oates looked dubious.  "Some people might interpret your undue reaction,

at least until Vince Margolin is proven dead, as an improper attempt to

usurp power, especially when considering your part in motivating the

President's ouster.

Moran glared at Oates and shifted his stare to Emmett.  "You have the

Vice President's clothing that was found in the river."

"My FBI lab has identified the clothing as belonging to Margolin,"

acknowledged Emmett.  "But it shows no indication of being immersed in

water for two weeks."

"Most likely it washed onshore and dried out."

"You say the fisherman who came to your office with the evidence stated

he snagged it in the middle of the Potomac River."

"You're the Director of the FBI," snapped Moran angrily.  "You figure it

out.  I'm not on trial here."

"Perhaps it would be in the best interests of everyone present," Oates

said quietly, "to continue the search for Margolin."

"I'm in total agreement," said Brogan.  "We can't write him off until we

find his body."

"Questions will most certainly arise," anded Mercier.  "For example, how

did he die?"

"Obviously he drowned," Moran answered.  'Trobably when the Eagle sank."

"Also," Mercier continued, "you never satisfactorily explained when and

how you and Marcus Larimer disembarked from the Eagle and traveled to an

as-yet-undisclosed resort for your Caribbean fishing trip."

"I'll be happy to answer any questions before a congressional

investigating committee," said Moran.  "Certainly not here and now in

front of people who are in opposition to me."

"You must understand, in spite of his mistakes, our loyalties lie with

the President," said Oates.

"I don't doubt it for a minute," said Moran.  "That's why I summoned you

here this morning.  Ten minutes after the Senate votes, I will be sworn

in as President.  My first official act will be to announce either your

resignations or firings; you have your choice. As of midnight tonight,

none of you will be working for the United States government."

The narrow paved road snaked through the high hills that dropped steeply

into the Black Sea.  In the rear seat of a Cadillac Seville stretch

limousine, Vladimir Polevoi sat reading the latest report from Aleksei

Lugovoy.  Every once in a while he looked up and gazed at the dawn sun

creeping past the horizon.

The limousine turned heads wherever it rolled.  Custom built with inlain

wood cabinets, color TV, electric diviner, liquor bar and overhead

stereo console, it had been ordered purchased by Polevoi and transported

to Moscow under the guise of studying its mechanical technology. Shortly

after its arrival he'd commandered it as his own.

The long car climbed around the forested edge of a craggy cliff until

the road ended at a huge wooden door hinged to a high brick wall.

A uniformed officer saluted the KGB chief and pressed a switch. The door

silently swung open to a vast garden that blazed with flowers, and the

car was driven in and parked beside a spreading one-story house,

constructed in a Western contemporary design.

Polevoi walked up circular stone steps and entered a foyer, where he was

greeted by President Antonov's secretary and escorted to a table and

chairs on a terrace overlooking the sea.

After a few moments Antonov appeared, followed by a pretty servant girl

carrying a huge plate of smoked salmon, caviar and iced vodka.

Antonov seemed in a happy mood and casually sat on the iron railing

around the terrace.

"You have a beautiful new dacha," said Polevoi.

"Thank you.  I had it designed by a firm of French architects.

They didn't charge me a ruble.  It won't pass critical inspection by a

state building committee, of course.  Too bourgeois.  But what the hell.

Times are changing."  Then he switched the subject abruptly.

"What news of events in Washington?"

"The President will be removed from office," answered Polevoi.

"When?"

"By this time tomorrow."

"No doubt of this."

"None."

Antonov picked up his vodka glass and emptied it, and the girl

immediately refilled it.  Polevoi suspected the girl did more than

simply pour vodka for the head of the Soviet Union.

"did we miscalculate, Vladimir?"  Antonov asked.  "did we expect to

accomplish too much too quickly?"

"Nobody can second-guess the Americans.  They don't behave in

predictable ways."

"Who will be the new President?"

"Alan Moran, Speaker of the House of Representatives."

"Can we work with him?"

"My sources say he has a devious mind, but can be swayed."

Antonov stared at a tiny fishing boat far below on the water.

"If given the choice, I'd prefer Moran over Vice President Margolin."

"Most definitely," Polevoi agreed.  "Margolin is a dedicated enemy of

our Communist society, and an adamant believer in expanding the American

military machine beyond our own."

"Anything our people can do, discreetly, of course, to assist Moran into

the White House?"

Polevoi shook his head.  "Very little worth the risk of exposure and

adverse propaganda."

"Where is Margolin?"

"Still in the hands of the Bougainvilles."

"Any chance that that old Oriental bitch will release him in time to cut

out Moran?"

Polevoi shrugged helplessly.  "Who can predict her schemes with any

accuracy?"

"If you were her, Vladimir, what would you do?" Polevoi paused

thoughtfully, then said, "I'd strike a deal with Moran to dispose of

Margolin."

"Has Moran the guts to accept?"

"If one man who was being held prisoner in an extremely vulnerable

situation stood between you and leadership of a superpower, how would

you play it?"

Antonov broke into a loud laugh that frightened a nearby bird into

flight.  "You read through me like glass, old friend.  I see your point.

I wouldn't hesitate to remove him."

"The American news media report that Moran is claiming Margolin

committed suicine by drowning."

"So your theory is on firm ground," said Antonov.  "Maybe the old Steel

Lotus will end up doing us a favor after all."

" At least our deal with her didn't cost anything."

"Speaking of cost, what is the status of the gold?"

"Admiral Borchavski has begun salvage operations.  He expects to raise

every bar within three weeks."

"That's good news," said Antonov.  "And what of Dr.  Lugovoy?

Can he continue his project after the President is cast from office?"

"He can," Polevoi replied.  "Locked inside the President's head is a

vast treasure store of United States secrets.  Lugovoy has yet to tap

it."

"Then keep the project going.  provide Lugovoy with an extensive list of

delicate political and military subjects we wish explored.  All American

leaders who leave office are consulted for their experience, regardless

of inept handling of their administrations.  The capitalist masses have

short memories.  The knowledge the President now possesses and has yet

to learn from briefings by his successors can be of great benefit to us

in the future.  This time we shall practice patience and probe slowly.

The President's brain may turn out to be a goose that lays golden

intelligence eggs for decades to come."

Polevoi raised his glass.  " A toast to the best secret agent we ever

recruited."

Antonov smiled.  "Long may he produce."

Across half a world, Raymond Edgely sat at a console and read the data

that unrolled from a paper recorder.  He raised his glasses and rubbed

his reddened eyes.  Despite his seeming tiredness, there was a tightly

contained nervous energy about him.  His competitive juices were

stirred.  The opportunity to beat his most esteemed counterpart in a

game of psychological intrigue drove him beyond any thought of sleep.

Dr.  Harry Greenberg, a respected psychiatric researcher in his own

right, lit a curved-stem clay pipe.  After stoking the stained yellow

bowl to life, he pointed the mouthpiece at the recorder.

"No sense in waiting any longer, Ray.  I'm satisfied we have the

necessary data to make the switch."

"I hate to rush in before I'm certain we can fool Aleksei."

"Do it," Greenberg urged.  "Stop screwing around and go for it."

Edgely looked around at his ten-member team of psychologists.

They stared back at him expectantly.  Then he nodded.  "Okay, everybody

stand by to transfer thought communication from the President's implant

to our central computer."

Greenberg walked around the room, briefly talking to everyone,

double-checking the procedures.  Three sat at the computer console,

their hands poised over the buttons.  The rest studied the display

screens and monitored the data.

palms on a handkerchief.  GreenberL, stood sliahtly off to one side and

behind him.

"We don't want to break in during a thought pattern or in the middle of

Lugovoy's instructions," Greenberg cautioned.

"I'm aware of that," Edgely said without taking his eyes from the

brainwave translator display.  "Our computer transmission also has to

match his heart rate and other life functions exactly" The programmer

punched in the command and waited.  They all waited, watching the empty

screen that would reveal success or failure.  The minutes ticked by,

nobody speaking, the only sounds coming from the soft hum of the

electronic hardware as the computer poised for the precise millisecond

to take command.

Then suddenly the display screen read: "COMMUNICATIONS TRANSFER

ACCOMPLISHED."

They all expelled a collective sigh of relief and began talking again,

and shaking hands with the enthusiasm of a NASA flight control center

after a successful rocket launch.

"Think Aleksei will fall for it?"  Edgely asked.

"Don't worry.  No suspicion will ever cross his mind.  Aleksei Lugovoy's

ego will never allow him to believe somebody pulled the wool over his

eyes."  Greenberg paused to expel a smoke ring.

"He'll swallow everything we hand him and send it off to Moscow as if he

was God's gift to espionage."

"I hope so," said Edgely, dabbing at his sweating forehead.

"The next step is to get the President over to Walter Reed Hospital and

remove the implant."

"First things first," said Greenberg, producing a bottle of champagne as

a staff member passed out glasses.  The cork was popped and the wine

poured.  Greenberg held up his glass.

"To Doc Edgely," he said, grinning, "who just set the KGB back ten

years.

August 13, 1989

New Orleans, Louisiana Pitt DOZED MOST OF THE  day while Giordino manned

the controls.  The afternoon sun blazed from a clear sky as they dropped

down over the blue-green waters of Lake Pontchartrain and lined up on

the small airport that poked out from the New Orleans shore.  The

aquamarine-colored NUMA jet touched down on the asphalt landing strip

and rolled to a stop near a helicopter with DELTA OIL LTD.  painted on

the side.

Nearby, a man in a seersucker suit stepped from a parked car and walked

over.  He removed his sunglasses and held out his hand as Pitt climbed

from the Lear jet's cabin.

"Mr.  Pitt?" he inquired, white teeth gleaming in a tanned face.

"I'm Pitt."

"Clyde Griffin, FBI, special agent in charge of the Louisiana field

office."

Giordino stepped to the ground and Pitt made the introductions.

"What can we do for you, Mr.  Griffin?"

"Director Emmett asked me to state officially that the Bureau cannot

provide official assistance on your hunt."

"I don't recall asking for any," said Pitt.

"I said no 'official assistance,' Mr.  Pitt."  The white teeth locked in

a broad smile.  "Unofficially, this is Sunday.  The Director suggested

that what field agents do on their day off is their business.

I have eight men at my disposal who feel what you're doing is more

important than their golf game."

"Emmett gave his blessing?"

"Strictly off the record, he strongly insinuated that if we don't find

the Vice President pretty damned quick, he'll put a boot up my ass so

far I'll never sit down at the piano again."

"My kind of guy," said Giordino.

"Were you briefed on what we're looking for?"  Pitt asked.

Griffin nodded.  "A river barge.  We've already checked out about two

hundred between here and Baton Rouge."

"You searched north.  I figure it to be south."

Griffin stared down at the ground doubtfully.  "Most all the incoming

freighters and tankers unload at the city docks.  Then the cargo is

transferred north by towboat.  Few barges ply the delta waters south

except those carrying trash and garbage to be dumped in the ocean."

"All the more reason to look in that direction."

Griffin made an inviting gesture toward the helicopter.  "My men are

waiting in cars along the river front.  We can direct them from the

air."

"Delta Oil make a good cover?"  Pitt asked.

"Oil company whirlybirds are a common sight around these parts,"

answered Griffin.  "They're heavily used to carry men and supplies to

offshore rigs in the gulf and pipe construction throughout the bayous.

Nobody gives them a second glance."

Pitt excused himself and returned inside the NUMA plane, reappearing a

minute later with the violin case.  Then he entered the helicopter and

was introduced to the pilot, a thin blond, dreamy-eyed woman who spoke

in a slow, deep drawl.  Pitt wouldn't have taken her for an FBI agent,

which she was, nor did she fit her name, "Slats" Hogan.

"Y'all play the violin when ya fly?"  Hogan asked curiously.

"Soothes my fear of height," Pitt replied, smiling.

"We get all kinds," Hogan muttered.

They fastened their seat belts and Hogan lifted the craft into the air

and made a pass over the heart of the City before turning south.

A tiny green streetcar crept along St.  Charles Avenue, the tracks

glinting as they reflected the sun through the trees.  Pitt could easily

make out the massive white roof of the Superdome, the largest sports

structure of its kind in the world.  The tightly packed houses and

narrow streets of the French Quarter, the green grass of Jackson Square

and the spires of the St.  Louis Cathedral slipped past off to their

right.  And then they broke over the muddy browngreen waters of the

Mississippi River.

"There it is," announced Hogan.  "Old Man River, too thick to drink and

too thin to plow."

"Spend any time on it?"  Griffin asked Pitt.

"I conducted a historical survey a few years ago on a pair of

Confederate Civil War wrecks about sixty miles further down river in

Plaquemines Parish."

"I know this great little restaurant in the parish-"

"So do I. The name is Tom's.  Excellent gulf oysters on the halfshell.

Be sure and ask for Tom's mama's special chili pepper juice.

Fantastic on the oysters."

"YOU get around."

"I try."

"Got any idea where the barge might be hidden?"

"Keep an eye open for a dock and warehouse that appear rundown and

little used, but well protected with heavy security-excessive number of

guards, high fencing, perhaps dogs.  The barge, rusted and in disrepair,

will be stashed nearby.  My guess is somewhere between Chalmette and

Pilottown."

"You can only reach Pilottown by boat," said Griffin.  "The delta

highway ends ten miles above at a town called Venice."

"I stand corrected."

They went silent for a minute while the river below flowed along at

almost four knots between the great levees that shielded the land from

flood.  Small farms with cows grazing in pastures and orange groves

spread across the narrow strips of Solid ground bordering the levees,

before slining away into marshland.  They flew over Port Sulphur, with

its great piers entrenched along the west bank.  Small mountains of

yellow sulphur rose fifty feet over the flat, poisoned ground.

The next half-hour produced the first of three false alarms.  A few

miles below Port Sulphur they spotted an abandoned cannery with two

barges tied up beside it.  Griffin radioed his team of agents, who were

chasing the helicopter from the road on the west bank.  A quick search

proved the building to be empty, and the barges contained only bilge

water and silt.

They continued south, flying over the vast marshes and meandering bayous

toward the gulf, spotting several grazing deer, a number of alligators

sunning themselves in the mud and a small herd of goats that looked up

at their passing with indifferent curiosity.

A huge freighter churned upriver, thrusting its blunt bow against the

current.  The flag of registry on its stern flapped red with a gold star

and hammer and sickle.

"Russian," Pitt observed.

"The Soviets own a fair percentage of the five thousand ships that steam

into New Orleans every year," said Griffin.

"Want to see what's on that barge?"  Hogan asked, pointing.

"There, tied up behind that dredge on the east bank."

Griffin nodded.  "We'll check this one out ourselves."

Hogan nodded her blond mane.  "I'll set you down on the levee."

She expertly dropped the tires of the helicopter onto the crushed shell

road that ran along the top of the levee.  Three minutes later Griffin

ran across a creaking ramp to the barge.  Another three minutes and he

was back strapping himself in his seat.

"No luck?"  asked Pitt.

"A bummer.  The old tub is half filled with oil.  Must be used as a

refilling station for the dredge."

Pitt looked at his watch, Two-thirty.  Time was sifting away.  A few

more hours and Moran would be sworn in as President.  He said, "Let's

keep the show moving."

"Ah hear y'all talkin'," Hogan said as she brought the craft up and over

the river in one quick bank that had Giordino feeling his stomach to see

if it was still in place.

Eight more miles and they drew another blank after spying a barge moored

suspiciously under a marine maintenance repair shed.  A quick search by

the ground team showed it was a derelict.

They pushed on past the fishing towns of Empire and Buras.

Then suddenly, after dipping around a bend, they saw a sight straight

out of the golden years of the river, a spectacular and picturesque

vision almost forgotten.  Long white hull, wine beam, with a plume of

steam drifting over her decks, a sidewheel pandle steamer sat with her

flat nose nudged into the west embankment.

"Shades of Mark Twain," said Giordino.

"She's a beauty," Pitt said as he admired the gingerbread carviiigs on

the many-storied superstructure.

"The Stonewall Jackson," Griffin explained.  "She's been an attraction

on the river for seventy years."

The steamer's landing stages were lowered on the bank in front of an old

brick fortress constructed in the shape of a pentagon.  A sea of parked

cars and a crowd of people wandered the parade ground and brick

ramparts.  In the center of a nearby field a cloud of blue smoke

billowed above two opposing lines of men who seemingly stood shooting at

each other.

"What's the celebration?"  asked Giordino.

"A War Between the States re-enactment," Hogan replied.

"Run that by me again."

"A staging of a historic battle," Pitt explained.  "As a hobby, men form

brigades and regiments based on actual fighting units from the Civil

War.  They dress in authentic woven uniforms and shoot blanks out of

exact-replica or original guns.  I witnessed a re-enactment at

Gettysburg, They're quite spectacular, almost like the real thing."

"Too bad we can't stop and watch the action," Griffin said.

"Plaquemines Parish is a storehouse of history," said Hogan.

"The star-shaped structure where they're staging the mock battle is

called Fort Jackson.  Fort St.  Philip, what little is left of it, is

directly across the river.  This is the area where Admiral Farragut ran

the forts and captured New Orleans for the Yankees in 1862."

It required no imagination at all to see and hear in their minds the

thundering clashes of cannon fire between Union gunboats and Confederate

batteries.  But the curve in the river where Admiral Farragut and his

fleet forced their passage over a century past was now quiet.  The water

rolled silently between the scrub-lined shores, having long ago covered

the bones of the ships that sank during the battle.

Hogan suddenly stiffened in her seat and peered over the instrument

panel through the cockpit window.  Not more than two miles away, a ship

with her bow aimed down river was tied alongside an old wooden dock

whose pilings ran under a large metal warehouse.

Behind the stern of the ship lay a barge and a towboat.

"This could be it," she said.

"Can you'read the name on the ship?"  Pitt asked from the rear

passenger's seat.

Hogan momentarily took her left hand off the collective pitch control

lever to shield her eyes.  "Looks like .  . . no, that's a town we just

passed."

"Which town?"

"Buras."

"Could be it.  Hell," Pitt said with triumph in his voice, "this is it."

"No crew members about on the ship," Griffin observed.  "You've got your

high fence about the place, but I don't see any sign of guards or dogs.

Looks pretty quiet to me."

"Don't bet on it," Pitt said.  "Keep flying down river, Slats, until

we're out of sight.  Then swing back below the west levee and rendezvous

with your people in the chase cars."

Hogan continued her course for five minutes and then came around in a

great half-circle to the north and landed on a high school football

field.  Two cars crammed with FBI agents were waiting when the

helicopter touched down.

Griffin twisted in his seat to face Pitt.  "I'll take my team and enter

through the front gate that opens onto the loading dock.  You and

Giordino remain with Hogan and act as aerial observers.

Should be a routine operation."

"Routine operation," Pitt replied acinly.  "Walk up to the gate, flash

your shiny FBI badge and watch everybody cringe.  Never happen.

These people kill like you and I swat mosquitoes.  Driving up in the

open is an invitation to get your head blown off.  You'd be smart to

wait and call up reinforcements .

Griffin's face showed he was not one to be told how to run his business.

He ignored Pitt and gave instructions to Hogan.

"Give us two minutes to reach the gate before you take off and circle

the warehouse.  Open a frequency with our field communications office

and inform them of the situation.  And tell them to relay our reports to

Bureau headquarters in Washington."

He stepped to the ground and got in the lead car.  They drove around the

high school gymnasium onto the almost invisible road that led to the

Bougainville docking facility and disappeared over the levee.

Hogan raised the helicopter into the air and went on the radio.

Pitt moved to the co-pilot's seat and watched as Griffin and his men

approached a high chain-link fence enclosing the pier and warehouse.

With a mounting uneasidess he observed Griffin leave the car and stand

at the gate, but no one appeared to confront him.

"Something's happening," said Hogan.  "The towboat and barge are

moving."

She was right.  The towboat began to slip away from the pier, pushing

the barge with its blunt snout.  The helmsman expertly maneuvered the

two craft into the main stream and turned toward the gulf.

Pitt grabbed a spare microphone/headset.  "Griffin!" he snapped, "the

barge is being moved from the area.  Forget the ship and warehouse.

Return to the road and take up the chase."

"I read you," Griffin's voice acknowledged.

Abruptly, doors flew open on the ship and the crew scrambled across the

decks, tearing canvas covers off two hidden gun emplacements on the

foredeck and stern.  The trap was sprung.

"Griffin!"  Pitt shouted into the microphone.  "Get out.  For God's

sake, get out."

The warning came too late.  Griffin leaped into the lead car, which

roared off toward the safety of the levee as 20-millimeter Oerlikon

machine guns began rapping out a deadly hail.  Bullets tore into the

wildly careening car, shattering windows, shredding the thin metal like

cardboard and ripping through the flesh and bones of those inside.  The

rear car coasted to a stop, bodies spilling out onto the ground, some

lying still, some trying to crawl for cover.  Griffin and his men made

it over the top of the levee, but all of them were badly wounded.

Pitt had whipped open the violin case, stuck the barrel of the Thompson

out the side window and sprayed the bow gun of the Buras.

Hogan instantly realized what he was up to and banked the helicopter to

give him a better angle of fire.  Men fell around the deck, never

knowing where the deadly barrage came from.

The gunners on the stern were more alert.  They swung their Oerlikon

from Griffin and his agents and began spewing its shells into the sky.

Hogan made a game effort to dodge the fire that missed not by feet but

inches.  She kicked the helicopter around the ship as though it had a

charmed life as the one-sided gun duel clattered over the river.

Then the trajectory from the Buras swayed through the air and hammered

into the helicopter.  Pitt threw up an arm to protect his eyes as the

windshield disintegrated and blew into the cockpit.

Steel-nosed bullets punctured the thin aluminum fuselage and wreaked

havoc with the engine.

"Ah can't see," Hogan announced in a surprisingly calm voice.

Her face ran crimson from several cuts, most of the blood streaming from

a scalp wound into her eyes, blinding her.

Except for a few deep scratches on his arm, Pitt was untouched.

He passed the machine gun to Giordino, who was wrapping a sleeve torn

from his shirt around a shell gash on his right calf.  The helicopter

was losing power and dipping sharply toward the middle of the river.

Pitt reached out and took the controls from Hogan and banked away from a

sudden murderous fire that erupted from the towboat.

A dozen men appeared from the pilothouse and a hatch on top of the barge

and wildly threw automatic weapons fire at the battered helicopter.

Oil was streaming out of the engine, and the rotor blades were madly

vibrating.  Pitt reduced the collective pitch to keep the rotor speed

from falling too quickly.  He saw the instrument panel break into

fragments from a storm of bullets.  He was fighting a hopeless battle;

he couldn't hold on to the sky much longer.  The forward motion dropped

off and he was losing lateral control.

On the ground behind the levee, Griffin sat on his knees in helpless

rage, holding a shattered wrist, watching the helicopter struggle like a

great mortally wounded bird.  The fuselage was so riddled by holes he

couldn't believe anybody onboard was still alive.

He watched the craft slowly die, dragging a long trail of smoke as it

faltered and limped upriver, barely clearing a grove of trees along the

bank and disappearing from sight.

SANDECKER SAT IN EmmErr's PRIVATE OFFICE at FBI headquarters and chewed

on a cigar stub, his thoughts depleted.  Brogan nervously juggled a

half-empty cup of coffee that had long since turned cold.

General Metcalf walked in and sat down.  "You all look like

pallbearers," he said with forced cheerfulness.

"Isn't that what we are?"  said Brogan.  "As soon as the Senate

convicts, all that's left to do is hold the wake."

"I've just come from the Senate reception room," Metcalf said.

"Secretary Oates is buttonholing members of the President's party,

trying to persuade them to hold off."

"What are his chances?"  asked Sandecker.

"Nil.  The Senate is only going through the formality of a trial.

Four hours from now, it will all be over."

Brogan shook his head disgustedly.  "I hear Moran has Chief justice

O'Brien standing by to administer the oath."

"The oily bastard won't waste a second," Emmett muttered.

"Any word from Louisiana?"  Metcalf asked.

Emmett gave the general a negative look.  "Not for an hour.  The last

report from my agent in charge of the field office said he was making a

sweep of a promising dock site."

"Any concrete reason to believe Margolin is hidden in the delta?"

"Only a stab in the dark by my special projects director," replied

Sandecker.

Metcalf looked at Emmett.  "What are you doing about the Bougainvilles?"

"I've assigned nearly fifty agents to the case."

"Can you make an arrest?"

"A waste of time.  Min Koryo and Lee Tong would be back on the streets

in an hour."

"Surely there must be enough evidence."

"Nothing the Attorney General can sink his teeth into.  Most of their

illegal operations are managed outside our borders in Third World

nations that aren't overly friendly toward the United States-"

The phone buzzed.

"Emmett."

"Agent Goodman in communications, sir."

"What is it, Goodman?"

"I have contact with agent Griffin in Louisiana."

"About time," Emmett snapped impatiently.  "Put me through."

"Hold on."  There was a pause broken by an audible click, and then

Emmett heard the sound of labored breathing.  He switched on the speaker

amplifier so the others could hear.

"Griffin, this is Sam Emmett, can you hear me?"

"Yes, sir, very clearly."  The words seemed uttered in pain.  "We ran .

. . ran into trouble."

"What happened?"

"We spotted a Bougainville cargo ship tied to a pier beside a barge and

towboat about seventy miles below New Orleans.

Before my team and I could gain entry for a search, we were fired upon

by heavy weapons mounted on the ship.  Everyone was hit.  . . . I have

two killed and seven wounded, including myself.

It was a massacre."  The voice choked and went quiet for a few moments.

When it came back on the line the tone was noticeably weaker.

"Sorry for not making contact sooner, but our communications gear was

shot out and I had to walk two miles before I could find a telephone."

Emmett's face took on a compassionate look.  The thought of a badly

wounded man trailing blood for two miles in the scorching heat of summer

stirred his normally rock-hard emotions.

Sandecker moved closer to the speaker.  "What of Pitt and Giordino?"

"The NUMA people and one of my agents were flying surveillance in our

helicopter," Griffin answered.  "They got the hell shot out of them and

crashed somewhere upriver.  I doubt there were any survivors."

Sandecker stepped back, his expression gone lifeless.

Emmett leaned over the speaker.  "Griffin?"

His only reply was a vague muttering.

"Griffin, listen to me.  Can you go on?"

"Yes, sir.  . . . I'll try."

"The barge, what is the situation with the barge?"

"Tug .  . . tug pushed it away."

"Pushed it where?"

"Downriver .  . . last seen going toward Head of Passes."

"Head of Passes?"

"The bottom end of the Mississippi where the river splits into three

main channels to the sea," answered Sandecker.  "South Pass, Southwest

Pass, and Pass a Loutre.  Most major shipping uses the first two."

"Griffin, how long since the barge left your area?"

There was no answer, no buzzing of a broken connection, no sound at all.

"I think he's passed out," said Metcalf.

"Help is on the way.  Do you understand, Griffin?"

Still no reply.

"Why move the barge out to sea?"  Brogan wondered aloud.

"No reason I can think of," said Sandecker.

Emmett's phone buzzed on his interoffice line.

"There's an urgent call for Admiral Sandecker," said Don Miller, his

deputy director.

Emmett looked up.  "A call for you, Admiral, if you wish, you can take

it in the outer office."

Sandecker thanked him and stepped into the anteroom, where Emmett's

private secretary showed him to a telephone at an empty desk.

He punched the blinking white button.  "This is Admiral Sandecker."

"One moment, sir," came the familiar voice of the NUMA headquarters'

chief operator.

"Hello?"

"Sandecker here.  Who's this?"

"You're a tough nut to crack, Admiral.  If I hadn't said my call

concerned Dirk Pitt, your secretary would never have arranged our

connection.

"who is this?"  Sandecker demanded again.

"My name is Sal Casio.  I'm working on the Bougainville case with Dirk."

Ten minutes later, when Sandecker walked back into Emmett's office, he

appeared stunned and shaken.  Brogan instantly sensed something was

wrong.

"What is it?"  he asked.  "You look like you've rubbed shoulders with a

banshee."

"The barge," Sandecker murmured quietly.  "The Bougainvilles have struck

a deal with Moran.  They're taking it out into the open sea to be

scuttled."

"What are you saying?"

"Loren Smith and Vince Margolin are sentenced to die so Alan Moran can

be President.  The barge is to be their tomb in 70 fathoms of water."

"ANY SIGN OF PURSUIT?"  the river pilot asked, synchronizing the control

levers of the helm console with the finesse of a conductor leading an

orchestra.

Lee Tong stepped back from the large open window at the rear of the

pilothouse and lowered the binoculars.  "Nothing except a strange cloud

of black smoke about two or three miles astern."

"Probably an oil fire."

"Seems to be following."

"An illusion.  The river has a habit of doing weird things to the eyes.

What looks to be a mile away is four.  Lights where no lights are

supposed to be.  Ships approaching in a channel that fade away as you

get closer.  Yes, the river can fool you when she gets playful."

Lee Tong gazed up the channel again.  He had learned to tune out the

pilot's never-ending commentary on the Mississippi, but he admired his

skill and experience.

Captain Kim Puion was a longtime professional river pilot for

Bougainville Maritime Lines, but he still retained his Asian

superstitious nature.  He seldom took his eyes off the channel and the

barge ahead as he expertly balanced the speeds of the four engines

generating 12,000 horsepower and delicately guided the towboat's four

forward rudders and six backing rudders.  Under his feet the huge

diesels pounded over at full power, driving the barge through the water

at nearly sixteen miles an hour, straining the cables that held the two

vessels together.

They hurtled past an inbound Swedish oil tanker, and Lee Tong braced

himself as the barge and towboat swept up and over the wash.

"How much further to deep water?"

"Our hull passed from fresh to salt about ten miles back.  We should

cross the coastal shallows in another fifty minutes."

"Keep your eyes open for a research ship with a red hull and flying the

British blue ensign."

"We're boarding a Royal Navy ship after we scuttle?"  Pujon asked in

surprise.

"A former Norwegian merchantman," explained Lee Tong.  "i purchased her

seven years ago and refitted her out as a research and survey vessel-a

handy disguise to fool customs authorities and the Coast Guard."

"Let us hope it fools whoever chases after us."

Lee Tong grunted.  "Why not?   Any American search force will be told we

were picked up and are under lock and key by the finest English accent

money can buy.  Before the research ship docks in New Orleans, you, I

and our crew will be long gone."

Pujon pointed.  "The Port Eads light coming up.  We'll be in open water

soon."

Lee Tong nodded in grim satisfaction.  "If they couldn't stop us by now,

they're too late, far too late."

General Metcalf, laying his long and distinguished career on the line,

ignored Moran's threats and ordered a military alert throughout the Gulf

Coast states.  At Eglin Air Force Base and Hurlburt Field in Florida,

tactical fighter wings and special operations gunships scrambled and

thundered west while attack squadrons rose from Corpus Christi Naval Air

Station in Texas and swept toward the east.

He and Sandecker raced by car to the Pentagon to direct the rescue

operation from the war room.  Once the vast machine was set into motion,

they could do little but listen to reports and stare at an enormous

satellite photomap thrown on the screen by a rear projector.

Metcalf failed to conceal his apprehension.  He stood uneasily rubbing

his palms together, peering at the lights on the map indicating the

progress of the air strike as the planes converged on a circle lit in

red.

"How soon before the first planes arrive?"  asked Sandecker.

"Ten, no more than twelve minutes."

"Surface craft?"

"Not less than an hour," replied Metcalf bitterly.  "We were caught

short.  No naval craft are in the immediate area except a nuclear sub

sixty miles out in the gulf."

"Coast Guard?"

"There's an armed rescue-response cutter off Grand Island.  it might

make it in time."

Sandecker studied the photomap.  "Doubtful.  it's thirty miles away."

Metcalf wiped his hands with a handkerchief.  "The situation looks

grim," he said.  "Except for scare tactics the air mission is useless.

We can't send in planes to strike the towboat without endangering the

barge.  One is practically on top of the other."

"Bougainville would quickly scuttle the barge in any case."

"If only we had a surface craft in the area.  At least we might attempt

a boarding."

"And rescue Smith and Margolin alive."

Metcalf sank into a chair.  "We might pull it off yet.  A Navy special

warfare SEAL attachment is due to arrive by helicopter in a few

minutes."

"After what happened to those FBI agents, they could be going to a

slaughter."

"Our last hope," Metcalf said helplessly.  "If they can't save them,

nobody can."

The first aircraft to arrive on the scene was not a screaming jet

fighter but a Navy four-engined reconnaissance plane that had been

diverted from weather patrol.  The pilot, a boyish-faced man in his

middle twenties, tapped his co-pilot on the arm and pointed down to his

left.

"A towboat pushing one barge.  She must be what all the fuss is about."

"What do we do now?"  asked the co-pilot, a narrow-jawed slightly older

man with bushy red hair.

"Notify base with the cheery news.  Unless, of course, you want to keep

it a secret."

Less than a minute after the sighting report was given, a gruff voice

came over the radio.  "Who is the aircraft commander?"

"I am."

"I am, who?"

"You go first."

"This is General Clayton Metcalf of the Joint Chiefs."

The pilot smiled and made a circular motion around the side of his head

with an index finger.  "Are you crazy or is this a gag?"

"My sanity is not an issue here, and no, this is not a gag.  Your name

and rank, please."

"You won't believe it?"

"I'll be the judge."

"Lieutenant Ulysses S. Grant."

"Why should I doubt you?"  Metcalf laughed.  "There was a great third

baseman by that name."

"My father," Grant said in awe.  "You remember him?"

"They don't hand out four stars for bad memories," said Metcalf.

"Do you have television equipment onboard, Lieutenant?"

"Yes .  . . yes, sir,' Grant stammered as he realized who he was really

talking to.  "We tape storms close-on for the meteorologists."

"I'll have my communications officer give your vineo operator the

frequency for satellite transmission to the Pentagon.  Keep your camera

trained on the towboat."

Grant turned to his co-pilot.  "My God, what do you make of that?"

THE TOWBOAT SUIRGED PAST THE LOOKOUT at the South Pass pilot station,

the last outpost of the muddy Mississippi, and swept into the open sea.

Captain Pujon said, "Thirty miles to deep water."

Lee Tong nodded as his eyes studied the circling weather plane.

Then he picked up his binoculars and scanned the sea.  The only ship in

sight was his counterfeit research vessel approaching from the east

about eight miles off the port bow.

"We've beaten them," he said confidently.

"They can still blow us out of the water from the air."

"And risk sinking the barge?   I don't think so.  They want the Vice

President alive."

"How can they know he's onboard?"

"They don't, at least not for certain.  One more reason they won't

attack what might be an innocent towboat unloading a trash barge at

sea."

A crewman scrambled up the steps to the pilothouse and stepped through

the door.  "Sir," he said, pointing, "an aircraft coming up astern."

Lee Tong swung the binoculars in the direction of the crewman's

outstretched arm.  A U.S. Navy helicopter was beating its way toward the

towboat only fifteen feet above the waves.

He frowned and said, "Alert the men."

The crewman threw a salute and hurried off.

"A gunship?"  Pujon asked uneasily.  "It could hover and blast us to

bits without scratchinl, the barLe."

"Fortunately no.  She's an assault transport.  Probably carrying a team

of Navy SEALS.  They mean to assault the towboat."

Lieutenant Homer Dodds stuck his head out the side jump door of the

chopper and peered down.  The two vessels looked peaceful enough, he

thought as a crewman stepped from the pilothouse and waved a greeting.

Nothing unusual or suspicious.  The armament he had been warned about

was not visible.

He spoke into a microphone.  "Have you established radio contact?"

" We've hailed on every marine frequency in the book and they don't

answer," replied the pilot from the cockpit.

"Okay, drop us over the barge.

Roger.

Dodds picked up a bullhorn and spoke into the mouthpiece.

"Ahoy, the towboat.  This is the U.S. Navy.  Reduce speed and slow to a

stop.  We are coming aboard."

Below, the crewman cupped hands to his ears and shook his head,

signaling he couldn't hear above the exhaust whine of the helicopter's

turbines.  Dodds repeated the message and the crewman made an inviting

wave of his arm.  By now Dodds was close enough to see he was an

Oriental.

The speed of the towboat and barge dropped off, and they began to roll

in the swells.  The pilot of the helicopter played the wind and hovered

over the flat deck of the barge in preparation for Dodds's assault team

to jump the final three or four feet.

Dodds turned and took a final look at his men.  They were lean and hard,

and probably the toughest, raunchiest, meanest bunch of multipurpose

killers in the Navy.  They were the only group of men Dobbs ever

commanded who genuinely liked combat.  They were eager, their weapons at

the ready and prepared for anything.

Except, perhaps, for total surprise.

The copter was only ten feet above the barge when trapdoors were sprung

on the towboat, hatch covers thrown back and twenty crewmen opened up

with Steyr-Mannlichef AUG assault carbines ' The .223-caliber shells

flew into the SEALS from all directions; smoke and the grunts of men

being hit erupted simultaneously.

Dodds and his men reacted savagely, cutting down any towboat crewman who

exposed himself, but bullets sprayed into their cramped compartment as

if concentrated out of a firehose and turned it into a slaughter den.

There was no escape.  They were as helpless as if their backs were

against the wall of a dead-end alley.

The noise of the concentrated firepower drowned out the sound of the

helicopter's exhaust.  The pilot was hit in the first burst, which

exploded the canopy, hurling bits of metal and Plexiglas throughout the

cockpit.  The chopper shuddered and veered sharply around on its axis.

The co-pilot wrestled with the controls but they had lost all response.

The Air Force fighters arrived and instantly appraised the situation.

Their squadron leader gave hurried instructions and dived, skimming low

over the stern of the towboat in an attempt to draw fire away from the

battered and smoking helicopter.  But the ploy didn't work.  They were

ignored by Lee Tong's gunners.  With growing frustration at the orders

not to attack, their passes became ever lower until one pilot clipped

off the towboat's radar antenna.

Too badly mauled to remain in the air any longer, the crippled chopper

and its pitiful cargo of dead and wounded finally gave up the struggle

to remain airborne and fell into the sea beside the barge.

Sandecker and Metcalf sat in shock as the vineo camera on board the

weather plane recorded the drama.  The war room became deadly quiet and

nobody spoke as they watched and waited for the camera to reveal signs

of survivors.  Six heads were all they could count in the blue of the

sea.

"The end of the game," Metcalf said with chilly finality.

Sandecker didn't answer.  He turned away from the screen and sat heavily

in a chair beside the long conference table, the pepper-and-vinegar

spirit gone out of him.

Metcalf listened without reaction to the voices of the pilots over the

speakers.  Their anger at not being able to pound the towboat turned

vehement.  Not told of the people held captive inside the barge, they

voiced their anger at the high command, unaware their heated words were

heard and recorded at the Pentagon a thousand miles away.

A shadow of a smile touched Sandecker's face.  He could not help but

sympathize with them.

Then a friendly voice cut in.  "Lieutenant Grant calling.  Is it okay to

call you direct, General?"

"It's all right, son," said Metcalf quietly.  "Go ahead."

"I have two ships approaching the area, sir.  Stand by for a picture of

the first one."

With a new shred of hope, their eyes locked on the screen.  At first the

image was small and indistinct.  Then the weather plane's cameraman

zoomed in on a red-hulled vessel.

"From up here I'd judge her to be a survey ship," reported Grant.

A gust of wind caught the flag on the ensign staff and stretched out

its blue colors.

"British," announced Metcalf dejectedly.  "We don't dare ask foreign

nationals to die for our sake."

"You're right, of course.  I've never known an oceanographic scientist

to carry an automatic rifle."

Metcalf turned and said, "Grant?"

I Sir?"

:Contact the British research vessel and request they pick up survivors

from the helicopter."

Before Grant could acknowledge, the vineo image distorted and the screen

went black.

"We've lost your picture, Grant."

" One moment, General.  My crewman manning the camera informs me the

battery pack on the recorder went dead.  He'll have it replaced in a

minute."

"What's the situation with the towboat?"

"She and the barge are under way again, only more slowly than before."

Metcalf turned to Sandecker.  "Luck just isn't on our side, is it?"

"No, Clayton.  We've had none at all."  He hesitated.  "Unless, of

course, the second ship is an armed Coast Guard cutter."

"Grant?"  Metcalf boomed.

"Won't be long, sir."

"Never mind that.  What type vessel is the second ship you'reported?

Coast Guard or Navy?"

"Neither.  Strictly civilian."

Metcalf dissolved in defeat, but a spark stirred within Sandecker.

He leaned over the microphone.

"Grant, this is Admiral James Sandecker.  Can you describe her?"

"She's nothing like you'd expect to see on the ocean."

"What's her nationality?"

"Nationality?"

"Her flag, man.  What flag is she flying?"

"You won't believe me."

I, spit it out."

"Well, Admiral, I was born and raised in Montana, but I've read enough

history books to recognize a Confederate States flag when I see one."

OUT OF A WORLD ALL Bur VANISHED, her brass steam whistle splitting the

air, the seawater frothing white beneath her churning pandle wheels, and

spewing black smoke from her towering twin stacks, the Stonewall Jackson

pitched toward the towboat with the awkward grace of a pregnant Southern

belle hoisting her hooped skirts while crossing a mud puddle.

Shrieking gulls rode the wind above a giant stern flag displaying the

crossed bars and stars of the Confederacy, while on the roof of the

texas deck, a man furiously pounded out the old South's national hymn,

"Dixie," on the keyboard of an old-fashioned steam calliope.  The sight

of the old riverboat charging across the sea stirred the souls of the

men flying above.  They knew they were witnessing an adventure none

would see again.

In the ornate pilothouse, Pitt and Giordino stared at the barge and

towboat that loomed closer with every revolution of the thirty-foot

pandle wheels.

"The man was right," Giordino shouted above the steam whistle and

calliope.

"What man?"  Pitt asked loudly.

"The one who said, "Save your Confederate money; the South will rise

again.

"Lucky for us it has," Pitt said, smiling"We're gaining."  This from a

wiry little man who twisted the six-foot helm with both hands.

"They've lost speed," Pitt concurred.

"If the boilers don't blow, and the sweet old darling' holds together in

these damned waves .  . ."  The man at the wheel paused in minsentence,

made an imperceptible turn of his big whitebearded head and let fly a

spurt of tobacco juice with deadly accuracy into a brass cuspinor before

continuing.  "We ought to overtake 'em in the next two miles."

Captain Melvin Belcheron had skippered the Stonewall Jackson for thirty

of his sixty-two years.  He knew every buoy, bend, sandbar and riverbank

light from St.  Louis to New Orleans by heart.

But this was the first time he'd ever taken his boat into the open sea.

The "sweet old darling"' was built in 1915 at Columbus, Kentucky, on the

Ohio River.  Her like was the last to stoke the fires of imagination

during the golden years of steamboating, and her like would never be

seen again.  The smell of burning coal, the swish of the steam engine,

and the rhythmic splash of the pandle wheels would soon belong only in

the history books.

Her shallow wooden hull was long and beamy, measuring 270 feet by

forty-four.  Her horizontal noncondensing engines ran at about forty

revolutions per minute.  She was rated at slightly over one thousand

tons, yet despite her bulk, she walked the water with a draft of just

thirty-two inches.

Down below on the main deck, four men, sweat-streaked and blackened with

soot, furiously shoveled coal into the furnaces under four high-pressure

boilers.  When the pressure began to creep into the red, the chief

engineer, a crusty old Scot by the name of McGeen, hung his hat over the

steam gauge.

McGeen was the first man to vote for pursuit after Pitt crashlanded the

helicopter in shallow water near Fort Jackson, waded ashore with

Giordino and Hogan, and described the situation.  At first there was

undisguised disbelief, but after seeing their wounds, the bullet-riddled

aircraft, and then hearing a deputy sheriff describe the dead and

injured FBi agents a few miles down river, McGeen stoked up his boilers,

Belcheron rounded up his deck crew and forty men from the Sixth

Louisiana Regiment tramped onboard hooting and hollering and dragging

along two ancient field cannons.

"Pour on the coal, boys," McGeen pressed his black gang.  He looked like

the devil with his trimmed goatee and brushed-up eyebrows in the

flickering glare of the open furnace doors.  "If we mean to save the

Vice President, we've got to have more steam."

The Stonewall Jackson thrashed after the towboat and barge, almost as if

sensing the urgency of her mission.  When new, her top speed was rated

at fifteen miles an hour, but in the past forty years she was never

called on to provide more than twelve." She thrust down river with the

current at fourteen, then fifteen .  . . sixteen .  . . eighteen miles

an hour.  When she burst from the South Pass Channel, she was driving

through the water at twenty, smoke and sparks exploding through the

flared capitals atop her stacks.

The men of the Sixth Louisiana Regiment-the dentists, plumbers,

accountants who marched and refought battles of the Civil War as a

hobby-grunted and sweated in the nondescript woolen gray and butternut

uniforms that once clothed the Army of the Confederate States of

America.  Under the command of a major, they heaved huge cotton bales

into place as breastworks.  The two Napoleon twelve-pounder cannon from

Fort Jackson were wheeled into position on the bow, their smoothbore

barrels loaded with ball bearings scrounged from McGeen's engine-room

supply locker.

Pitt stared down at the growing fortress of wired bales.  Cotton against

steel, he mused, single-shot muskets against automatic rifles.

It was going to be an interesting fight.

Lieutenant Grant tore his eyes from the incredible sight under his wings

and radioed the ship flying the British flag.

"This is Air Force Weather Recon zero-four-zero calling oceanographic

research vessel.  Do you'read?"

"Righto, Yank.  Hear you clearly," came back a cheery voice fresh off a

cricket field.  "This is Her Majesty's Ship Pathfinder.

What can we do for you, zero-four-zero?"

"A chopper went into the drink about three miles west of you.

Can you effect a rescue of survivors, Pathfinder?"

"We bloody well better.  Can't allow the poor chaps to drown, can we?"

"I'll circle the crash sector, Pathfinder.  Home in on me."

"Jolly good.  We're on our way.  Out."

Grant took up a position over the struggling men in the water.

The gulf current was warm, so there was no fear of their succumbing to

exposure, but any bleeding wounds were certain to attract sharks.

"You don't carry much influence," said his co-pilot.

"What do you mean?"  asked Grant.

Speed on inland waterways is rated in miles per hour, never in knots.

"The Limey ship isn't responding.  She's turned away."

Grant leaned forward and banked the plane to see out the opposite

cockpit window.  His co-pilot was right.  The Pathfinder's bow had come

around on a course away from the helicopter's survivors and was aimed

toward the Stonewall Jackson.

"Pathfinder, this is zero-four-zero," Grant called.  "What is your

problem?   Repeat.  What is your problem?"

There was no reply.

"Unless I'm suffering one hell of a hallucination," Metcalf said,

staring in wonder at the vineo transmission, "That old relic from Tom

Sawyer intends to attack the towboat."

"She's giving every indication," Sandecker agreed.

"Where do you suppose she came from?"

Sandecker stood with his arms crossed in front of him, his face

radiating an elated expression.  "Pitt," he muttered under his breath,

"you wily, irrepressible son of a bitch."

"You say something?"

"Just speculating to myself."

"What can they possibly hope to accomplish?"

"I think they mean to ram and board."

"Insanity, sheer insanity," snorted Metcalf gloomily.  "The gunners on

the towboat will cut them to pieces."

Suddenly Sandecker tensed, seeing something in the background on the

screen.  Metcalf didn't catch it; no one else watching caught it either.

The admiral grasped Metcalf by the arm.  "The British vessel!" Metcalf

looked up, startled.  "What about it?"

"Good God, man, see for yourself.  She's going to run down the

steamboat."

Metcalf saw the distance between the two ships rapidly narrowing, saw

the wake of the Pathfinder turn to foam as she surged ahead at full

speed.

"Grant!" he bellowed.

"Here, sir."

"The Limey ship, why isn't she headed toward the men in the water?"

"I can't say, General.  Her skipper acknowledged my request for rescue,

but chased after the old pandleboat instead.  I haven't been able to

raise him again.  He appears to be ignoring my transmissions."

"Take them out!" Sandecker demanded.  "Call in an air strike and take

the bastards out!" Metcalf hesitated, torn by indecision.  "But she's

flying the British flag, for Christ's sake."

"I'll stake my rank she's a Bougainville ship, and the flag is a decoy."

"You can't know that."

"Maybe But I do know that if she crushes the steamboat into firewood,

our last chance to save Vince Margolin is gone."

IN THE PILOTHOUSE of the towboat a burst of fire from the SEALS had

shattered the inner workings of the command console, fouling the rudder

controls.  Captain Pujon had no option but to reduce speed and steer by

jockeying the throttle levers.

Lee Tong did not spare him a glance.  He was busy issuing orders over

the radio to the commander of the Pathfinder, while keeping a wary eye

on the wallowing steamboat.

Finally he turned to Pujon.  "Can't you'regain our top speed?"

"Eight miles is the best I can do if we want to maintain a straight

course."

"How far?"  he asked for the tenth time that hour.

"According to the depth sounder, the bottom's beginning to drop off.

Another two miles should do it."

"Two miles," Lee Tong repeated thoughtfully.  "Time to set the

detonators."

"I'll alert you by blowing the airborn when we come over a hundred

fathoms," said Pujon.

Lee Tong stared across the dark sea, stained by the runoff from the

Mississippi River.  The masquerading research ship was only a few

hundred yards away from slicing through the brittle sides of the

Stonewall Jackson.  He could hear the haunting wail of the calliope

drifting with the wind.  He shook his head in disbelief, wondering who

was responsible for the old riverboaes sudden appearance.

He was about to leave the pilothouse and cross over to the barge when he

noticed one of the milling aircraft overhead abruptly sline out of

formation and dive toward the sea.

A ghost-white F/A21 Navy strike aircraft leveled off two hundred feet

above the wave tops and unleased two anti-ship missiles.

Lee Tong watched in numbed horror as the laser-controlled warheads

skimmed across the water and slammed into the red-hulled decoy ship,

stopping her dead in her tracks with a blast that turned the entire

upper works into a grotesque tangle of shattered steel.

Then came a second, even stronger explosion that enveloped the ship in a

ball of flame.  For an instant she seemed to hang suspended as if locked

in time.

Lee Tong stood tensed in despair as the broken vessel slowly rolled over

and died, falling to the floor of the gulf and sealing all hope of his

escape.

Fiery fragments of the Pathfinder rained down around the Stonewall

Jackson, igniting several small fires that were quickly extinguished by

the crew.  The sea surface over the sunken ship turned black with oily

bubbles as a hissing cloud of steam and smoke spiraled into the sky.

"Christ in heaven!"  Captain Belcheron gasped in astonishment.

"Will you look at that.  Those Navy boys mean business."

"Somebody is watching over us," Pitt commented thankfully.  His eyes

returned to the barge.  His face was expressionless; but for the swaying

of his body to compensate for the roll of the boat, he might have been

sculpted from Solid teak.  The gap had closed to three quarters of a

mile, and he could make out the tiny figure of a man scrambling across

the bow of the towboat onto the barge before disappearing down a deck

hatch.

An enormous man with the stout build of an Oliver Hardy barreled up the

lander from the texas deck and came through the door.

He wore the gray uniform and gold brain of a Confederate major.

The shirt under the unbuttoned coat was damp with perspiration, and he

was panting from exertion.  He stood there a moment, wiping his forehead

with a sleeve ' catching his breath.

At last he said, "Doggone, I don't know if I'd rather die by a bullet in

the head, by drowning or a heart attack."

Leroy Laroche operated a travel agency by day, functioned as a loving

husband and father by night, and acted as commander of the Sixth

Louisiana Regiment of the Confederate States Army on weekends.  He was

popular among his men and was re-elected every year to lead the regiment

in battlefield re-enactments around the country.  The fact that he was

about to engage in the real thing didn't seem to faze him.

"Lucky for us you had those cotton bales on board," he said to the

captain.

Belcheron smiled.  "We keep them on deck as historic examples of the

sweet old darling's maritime heritage."

Pitt looked at Laroche.  "Your men in position, Major?"

"Loaded, primed full of Dixie beer and rarin' to right," Laroche

replied.

"What sort of weapons do they own?"

"Fifty-eight-caliber Springfield muskets, which most rebels carried late

in the war.  Shoots a mime' ball five hundred yards."

"How fast can they fire?"

"Most of my boys can get off three rounds a minute, a few can do four.

But I'm putting the best shots on the barricade while the others load."

"And the cannon?   Do they actually fire?"

"You bet.  They can bit a tree with a can of cement at half a mile."

"Can of cement?"

"Cheaper to make than real cannon shot."

Pitt considered that and grinned.  "Good luck, Major.  Tell your men to

keep their heads down.  Muzzle loaders take more time to aim than

machine guns."

"I reckon they know how to duck," said Laroche.  "When do you want us to

open fire?"

"I leave that to you."

"Excuse me, Major," Giordino cut in.  "did any of your men happen to

carry a spare weapon?"

Laroche unsnapped the leather holster on his belt and passed Giordino a

large pistol.  "ALe Mat revolver," he said "Shoots nine

forty-two-caliber shells through a rifled barrel.  But if you'll notice,

there's a big smoothbore barrel underneath that holds a charge of

buckshot.  Take good care of it.  My great-granddaddy carried it from

Bull Run to Appomattox."

Giordino was genuinely impressed.  "I don't want to leave you unarmed."

Laroche pulled his saber from its scabbard.  "This will do me just fine.

Well, I best get back to my men."

After the big jovial major left the pilothouse, Pitt bent down and

opened the violin case, lifted out the Thompson and inserted a full

drum.  He held his side with one hand and cautiously straightened, his

lips pressed tight from the pain that speared his chest.

"You be all right up here?"  he asked Belcheron.

"Don't pay no mind to me," the captain answered.  He nodded at a

cast-iron potbellied stove.  "I'll have my own armor when the fireworks

start."

"Thank God for that," exclaimed Metcalf.

"what is it?"  Sandecker asked.

Metcalf held up a paper.  "A reply from the British Admiralty in London.

The only Pathfinder on duty with the Royal Navy is a missile destroyer.

They have no research ship by that name, nor is there any in the gulf

area."  He gave Sandecker a thankful look.

"You called a good play, Jim."

"We had a bit of luck after all."

"The poor bastards on that steamboat are the ones who need it now."

"Any more we can do?   Anything we've overlooked?"

Metcalf shook his head.  "Not from this end.  The Coast Guard cutter is

only fifteen minutes away and the nuclear sub is not far behind."

"Neither will arrive in time."

"Perhaps the people on the steamboat can somehow stall the tugboat until

.  . ."  Metcalf didn't finish.

"You don't really believe in miracles, do you, Clayton?"

"No, I guess I don't."

A MAELSTROM OF AUTOMATIC WEAPONS FIRE lashed into the Stonewall Jackson

as Lee Tong's crew opened up at three hundred yards.  Bullets hummed and

whistled, splintering the gleaming white wood and gingerbread carvings

on the rails and deck cabins, clanging and ricocheting off the ship's

bronze bell.  The huge unglazed window in the pilothouse disintegrated

into silvery fragments.  Inside, Captain Belcheron was stunned by a

shell that grazed the top of his head and turned his white hair red. His

vision blurred and went double, but he hung on to the spokes of the

great wheel with savage determination while hawking tobacco juice out

the broken window.

The calliope player, protected by a forest of brass plumbing, began

playing "Yellow Rose of Texas," which fell on several flat tones as

holes suddenly appeared in his steam whistles.

On the main deck, Major Laroche and his regiment, along with Pitt and

Giordino, crouched out of sight.  The cotton bales made strong defensive

works, and no bullets penetrated.  The open boiler area behind the main

staircase caught the worst of it.  Two of McGeen's stokers were hit and

the overhead tubing was penetrated, allowing steam to escape in scalding

streams.  McGeen took his hat off the pressure gauge.  It was pegged in

the red.  He expelled a long sigh.  A miracle nothing had burst, he

thought.  The rivets were straining on the boilers.  He quickly began

spinning relief valves to let off the immense pressure in preparation

for the coming collision.

The Stonewall Jackson's pandle wheels were still driving her at twenty

miles an hour.  If she had to die, she was not going to end up like her

former sisters, rotting away in some forgotten bayou or broken up for

wharf wood.  She was going out a legend and ending her life on the water

in style.

Brushing aside the waves that pounded her bow, shrugging off the

frightful torrent of lead that shredded her flimsy superstructure, she

forged ahead.

Lee Tong watched in bitter fascination as the steamboat came on

steadily.  He stood in an open hatch on the barge and poured a stream of

bullets at her, hoping to hit a vital part and slow her down.  But he

might as well have been shooting air pellets at a rampaging elephant.

He set aside his Steyr-Mannlicher carbine and raised the binoculars.

None of the crew was visible behind the barricade of cotton bales.  Even

the sieved pilothouse looked deserted.  The gold letters of the smashed

nameplate were visible, but all he could make out was the name JACKSON.

The flat bow was pointed square for the towboat's port side.  It was a

stupid, futile gesture, he reasoned, a stalling technique, nothing more.

In spite of its superior size, the wooden pandle steamer could not

expect to damage the towboat's steel bull.

He retrieved the Steyr-Mannlicher, inserted another ammo clip and

concentrated his fire into the pilothouse in an attempt to damage the

helm.

Sandecker and Metcalf watched too.

They sat captivated by the hopeless, irresistible magnificence of it

all.  Radio contact was attempted with the steamboat, but there was no

response.  Captain Belcheron had been too busy to answer, and the old

river rat didn't think he had anything worth saying anyway.

Metcalf called Lieutenant Grant.  "Spiral in closer," he ordered.

Grant acknowledged and made a series of tight banks over the vessels

below.  The detail of the towboat was quite sharp.  They could pick out

nearly thirty men blasting away across the water.

The steamboat, however, was obscured by the smoke shooting from her

stacks and great clouds of exhaust steam spurting out of the "scape

pipes" aft of the pilothouse.

"She'll bash herself to bits when she strikes," said Sandecker.

"It's glorious but meaningless," Metcalf muttered.

"Give them credit.  They're doing more than we can."

Metcalf nodded slowly.  "Yes, we can't take that away from them."

Sandecker came out of his chair and pointed.  "Look there, on the

steamboat where the wind has blown the smoke off to the side."

"What is it?"

"Isn't that a pair of cannons?"

Metcalf came alert.  "By God, you're right.  They look like old

monuments from a town park."

At two hundred yards Laroche raised his sword and yelled, "Batteries one

and two, train and prime your guns."

"Battery one primed and aimed," shouted back a man in antique wire

spectacles.

"Battery two ready, Major."

"Then fire!" The lanyards were jerked and the two antique cannon belched

their loads of ballbearing grapeshot from their muzzles in earsplitting

claps.  The first shot actually penetrated the side of the towboat,

crashing into the galley and mangling the ovens.  The second soared into

the pilothouse, taking off Captain Pujon's head and carrying away the

wheel.  Dazed by the unexpected barrage, Lee Tong's men slackened their

fire for several seconds, recovered and opened up with renewed ferocity,

concentrating on the narrow slits between the cotton bales where the

cannon barrels protruded.

Now the smoothbores were run back while the artillery men quickly rammed

home the sponges and began reloading.  Bullets whined over their heads

and shoulders, and one man was struck in the neck.  But in less than a

minute the old Napoleons were ready to blast again.

"Aim for the cables!" Pitt shouted.  "Cut the barge away!"

Laroche nodded and relayed Pitts orders.  The guns were run out and the

next broadside swept the towboat's bow, causing an explosion of coiled

rope and cable, but the tenacious grip on the barge remained unbroken.

Coldly, almost contemptuous of the deadly blitz that swept the Stonewall

Jackson, the make-believe soldiers lined up the sights on their

single-shot muskets and waited for the command to fire.

Only two hundred yards separated the vessels when Laroche raised his

sword again.  "Firing ranktake aim.  Okay, boys, give 'em hell.

Fire!" The front of the steamboat exploded in a tremendous torrent of

fire and smoke.  The towboat was raked with a seemingly Solid wall of

mime' bullets.  The effect was devastating.  Glass dissolved in every

port and window, paint chips flew off the bulkheads and bodies began

falling, deluging the decks with blood.

Before Lee Tong's gunners could recover, Pitt stitched the towboat from

bow to stern with a steady stream of fire from the Thompson.

Giordino hunched against the cotton barricade, waiting for the range to

close to fire the revolver, watching in rapt interest as the second and

third ranks ran through the dozen cumbersome procedures of rearming a

muzzle-loading musket.

The Confederates lain down a killing fire.  Volley after volley followed

in succession, almost every other shot striking flesh and bone.  The

smoke and shatt6ring sounds were punctuated by the cries of the wounded.

Laroche, swept away by the carnage and commotion, thundered and swore at

the top of his lungs, prodding his sharpshooters to aim true, exhorting

the loaders to move more rapidly.

One minute passed, two, then three, as the fighting reached a savage

pitch.  Fire broke out on the Jackson and flames soared up her wooden

sides.  In the pilothouse, Captain Belcheron yanked on the steam whistle

cord and shouted into the voice tube leading to McGeen in the engine

area.  The riflemen ceased their fire and everyone braced themselves for

the approaching collision.

A strange, unearthly silence fell over the steamboat as the crack of the

guns faded and the haunting wail of the calliope died away.

She was like a boxer who had taken a fearful beating from a far stronger

adversary and could take no more, but had somehow reached deep into her

exhausted reserves for one last knockout punch.

She struck the towboat square aminships with a rumbling unch that

knocked over the cotton-bale barricade, crushing back cr her bow by six

feet as planks and beams gave way like laths.  Both stacks fell forward,

throwing sparks and smoke over the battle that rapidly resumed its

intensity.  Guns fired at point-blank range.  The support ropes burned

through and the landing stages dropped onto the towboat's decks like

great claws gripping the two vessels fast together.

"Fix bayonets!" Laroche boomed.

Someone broke out the regiment's battle flag and began waving it wildly

in the air.  Muskets were reloaded and bayonets attached.

The calliope player had returned to his post and was pounding out

"Dixie" once again.  Pitt was amazed that no one showed any sign of

fear.  Instead, there was a general feeling of uncontrolled delirium.

He couldn't help thinking he'd somehow crossed a time barrier into the

past.

Laroche whipped off his officer's hat, hung it on the tip of his sword

and raised it into the air.  "Sixth Louisiana!"  he cried.  "Go git 'em

I " Screaming the rebel yell like demons emerging from the center of the

earth, the men in gray stormed onboard the towboat.

Laroche was struck in the chin and one knee, but hobbled and pressed on.

Pitt lain down a covering fire until the last cartridge poured from the

Thompson.  Then he lain the gun on a cotton bale and charged after

Giordino, who hopped across a landing stage, favoring his injured leg

and firing the revolver like a wild man.

McGeen and his boiler crew followed, wielding their shovels like clubs.

Bougainville's men bore no resemblance to their attackers.  They were

hired killers, ruthless men who offered no mercy nor expected it, but

they were not prepared for the incredible onslaught of the Southerners

and made the mistake of leaping from the protected steel bulkheads and

meeting the surge head-on.

The Stonewall Jackson was wreathed in fire.  The artillery men fired one

last volley at the towboat, aiming forward of the men fighting

aminships, their shot sweeping away the cables attached to the barge.

Shoved sideways by the continued momentum of the steamboat, the two

steel vessels jackknifed around her crushed bow.

The Sixth Louisiana overran the decks, lunging with their bayonets, but

keeping up a deadly rate of fire.  There were a score of individual

hand-to-hand struggles, the five-foot Springfield musket and two-foot

bayonet making a nasty close-in weapon.  None of the weekend soldiers

paused; they fought with a strange kind of recklessness, too caught up

in the unimaginable did and excitement to be afraid.

Giordino didn't feel the blow.  He was steadily advancing into the

crew's quarters, firing at any Oriental face that showed itself when

suddenly he was flat on his face, a bullet breaking the calf bone of his

good leg.

Pitt lifted Giordino under the arms and dragged him into an empty

passageway.  "You're not armor-plated, you know."

"Where in hell have you been?"  Giordino's voice tensed as the pain

increased.

"Staying out of the way," Pitt replied.  "I'm not armed."

Giordino handed him the Le Mat revolver.  "Take this.  I'm through for

the day anyway."

Pitt gave his friend a half-smile.  "Sorry to leave you, but I've got to

get inside the barge."

Giordino opened his mouth to make an offhand reply, but Pitt was already

gone.  Ten seconds and he was snaking through the debris on the

towboat's bow.  He was almost too late.  Free of its hold, the barge had

drifted twenty feet away.  A head and pair of shoulders raised from a

hatch and fired off a burst.  Pitt felt the passing bullets fan his hair

and cheek.  He dropped to the railing and rolled over the side into the

sea.

Further aft, the Bougainville crew grimly hung on, obstinately giving

way until they were finally overwhelmed by gray uniforms.

The shouting and the gunfire slackened and went silent.  The Confederate

battle flag was run up the towboat's radio mast and the fight was over.

The amateur soldiers of the Sixth Louisiana Regiment had handled

themselves well.  Surprisingly, none had been killed in the melee.

Eighteen were wounded, only two seriously.  Laroche staggered from the

minst of his cheering men and sagged to the deck beside Giordino. He

reached over and the two bleeding men solemnly shook hands.

"Congratulations, Major," Giordino said.  "You just made the playoffs."

A big grin spread across Laroche's bloodied face.  "By God, we

whipped'em good, didn't we?"

Lee Tong emptied his weapon at the figure on the bow of the towboat,

observing it fall into the water.  Then he slumped against the edge of

the hatch and watched the Confederate battle flag flutter in the gulf

breeze.

With a kind of detachment, he accepted the unexpected disaster which had

overtaken his carefully conceived operation.  His crew was either dead

or prisoner, and his escape ship was destroyed.

Yet he was not ready to oblige his unknown opponents by surrendering, He

was determined to carry out his grandmother's bargain with Moran and

take his chances on escaping later.

He dropped down the side ladder of the elevator shaft into the

laboratory quarters and ran along the main corridor until he came to the

door of the chamber that held the isolation cocoons.  He entered and

peered through the insulated plastic lin at the body within the first

one.  Vince Margolin stared back, his body too numb to respond, his mind

too drugged to comprehend.

Lee Tong moved to the next cocoon and looked down at the serene,

sleeping face of Loren Smith.  She was heavily sedated and in a deep

state of unconsciousness.  Her death would be a waste, he thought.  But

she could not be allowed to live and testify.  He leaned over and opened

the cover and stroked her hair, staring at her through half-open eyes.

He had killed countless men, their features forgotten less than seconds

after their death.  But the faces of the women lingered.

He remembered the first, so many years ago on a tramp steamer in the

middle of the Pacific Ocean: her haunting expression of bewilderment as

her chained nude body was dropped over the side.

"Nice place you have here," came a voice from the doorway, "but your

elevator is out of order."

Lee Tong spun around and gaped at the man who stood wet and dripping,

pointing a strange antique revolver at his chest.

"You!"  he gasped.

Pitts face-tired, haggard and dark with heard stubble-lit up in a smile.

"Lee Tong Bougainville.  What a coincinence."

"You're alive!"

"A trite observation."

"And responsible for all this: those mad men in the old uniforms, the

riverboat .  . ."

"The best I could arrange on the spur of the moment," Pitt said

apologetically.

Lee Tong's moment of utter confusion passed and he slowly curled his

finger around the trigger of the Steyr-Mannlicher that hung loosely in

one hand, muzzle aimed at the carpeted deck.

"Why have you pursued my grandmother and me, Mr.  Pitt?"  he demanded,

stalling.  "Why have you set out to wreck Bougainville Maritime?"

"That's like Hitler asking why the Allies invaded Europe.  In my case,

you were responsible for the death of a friend."

"Who?"

"It doesn't matter," said Pitt indifferently.  "You never met her."

Lee Tong swung up the barrel of his carbine and pulled the trigger.

Pitt was faster, but Giordino had used up the last cartridge and the

revolver's hammer fell on an empty cylinder.  He stiffened, expecting

the impact of a bullet.

It never came.

Lee Tong had forgotten to insert a new clip after firing his final round

at Pitt on the towboat.  He lowered the carbine, his lips stretched into

an inscrutable smile.  "It seems we have a standoff, Mr. Pitt."

"Only temporary," said Pitt, recocking the hammer and keeping the

revolver raised and aimed.  "My people will be coming aboard any minute

now."

Lee Tong sighed and relaxed.  "Then I can do little else but surrender

and wait for arrest."

"You'll never stand trial."

The smile turned into a sneer.  "That's not for you to decide.

Besides, you're hardly in a position to-" Suddenly he flipped the

carbine around, gripping the barrel and raising it as a club.  The rifle

butt was on a vicious downswing when Pitt squeezed the trigger and

blasted Lee Tong in the throat with the barrel loaded with buckshot. The

carbine poised in minair and then fell from his hand as he stumbled

backward until striking the wall and dropping heavily to the deck.

Pitt left him where he lay and threw off the cover over Loren's cocoon.

He gently lifted her out and carried her to the open elevator.

He checked the circuit breakers and found them on, but there was still

no response from the lift motors when he pressed the "up" button.

He had no way of knowing the generators that provided electricity to the

barge had run out of fuel and shut down, leaving only the emergency

battery power to illuminate the overhead lighting.

Scrounging through a supply locker, he found a rope, which he tied under

Loren's arms.  Then he pulled himself through the elevator roof's

trapdoor and scaled the shaft lander to the top deck of the barge.

Slowly, gently, he eased Loren's body upward until she lay on the

rusting deck.  Winded, he took a minute to catch his breath and look

around.  The Stonewall Jackson was still burning fiercely, but the

flames were being fought with firehoses from the towboat.

About two miles to the west a white Coast Guard cutter was driving

through the light swells toward their position, while to the south he

could just make out the sail tower of a nuclear submarine.

Taking a short length of the rope, Pitt tied Loren loosely to a cleat

so she wouldn't roll into the sea, then he returned below.

When he entered the isolation chamber again, Lee Tong was gone.

A trail of blood led up the corridor and ended at an open hatch to a

storage deck below.  He saw no reason to waste time on a dying murderer

and turned to rescue the Vice President.  , Before he took two steps, a

tremendous blast lifted him off his feet and hurled him face downward

twenty feet away.  The impact from the concussion drove the breath from

his lungs and the ringing in his ears prevented him from hearing the sea

rush in through a gaping hole torn in the hull of the barge.

Pitt awkwardly raised himself to his hands and knees and tried to orient

himself.  Then slowly, as the haze before his eyes melted away, he

realized what had happened and what was coming.  Lee Tong had detonated

an explosive charge before he died and already the water was flowing

across a corridor deck.

Pitt pushed himself to his feet and reeled drunkenly into the isolation

chamber again.  The Vice President looked up at him and tried to say

something, but before he could utter a sound, Pitt had hoisted him over

a shoulder and was lurching toward the elevator.

The water was surging around Pitts knees now, splashing up the walls. He

knew only seconds were left before the barge began its dive to the

seabed.  By the time he reached the open elevator, the sea was up to his

chest and he half walked, half swam inside.

It was too late to repeat the rope lift procedure.  Furiously he

manhandled Margolin through the ceiling trapdoor, clasped him under the

chest and began climbing the iron lander to the tiny square patch of

blue sky that seemed miles away.

He remembered then that he had tied Loren to the upper deck to keep her

from rolling into the sea.  The sickening thought coursed through him

that she would be pulled to her death when the barge sank.

Beyond fear lies desperation, and beyond that a raging drive to survive

that cuts across the boundaries of suffering and exhaustion.

Some men yield to hopelessness, some try to sidestep its existence,

while a very few accept and face it head-on.

Watching the froth tedaciously dog his rise up the elevator shaft, Pitt

fought with every shred of his will to save the lives of Margolin and

Loren.  His arms felt as if they were tearing from their sockets.

White spots burst before his eyes and the strain on his cracked ribs

passed from mere pain to grinding agony.

His grip loosened on flakes of rust and he almost fell backward into the

water boiling at his heels.  It would have been so easy to surrender, to

let go and drop into oblivion and release the torture that racked his

body.  But he hung on.  Rung by rung, he struggled upward, Margolin's

dead weight becoming heavier with each step.

His ears regained a partial sense of hearing and picked up a strange

thumping sound, which Pitt wrote off as blood pounding in his head.  The

sea rose above his feet now, and the barge shuddered; it was about to go

under.

A nightmare world closed in on him.  A black shape loomed above, and

then his hand reached out and clasped another hand.

SPEAKER ALAN MORAN, his face wreathed in a confinent smile, circulated

around the East Room of the White House conversing with his aides and

inner circle of advisers while awaiting final word of the trial taking

place on the floor of the Senate.

He greeted a small group of party leaders and then turned and excused

himself as Secretary of State Douglas Oates and Defense Secretary Jesse

Simmons entered the room.  Moran came over and held out his hand, which

Oates ignored.

Moran shrugged off the snub.  He could well afford to.  "Well, it seems

you're not of a mind to praise Caesar, but you haven't a prayer of

burying him either."

"You've just reminded me of an old gangster movie I saw when I was a

boy," Oates said icily.  "The title fits you perfectly."

"Oh, really?   What movie was that?"

"Little Caesar."

Moran's smile turned into a sinister glare.  "Have you come with your

resignation?"

Oates pulled an envelope partway out of his inside breast pocket.

"I have it right here."

"Keep it!" Moran snarled.  "I won't give you the satisfaction of bowing

out gracefully.  Ten minutes after I take the oath I'm holding a press

conference.  Besides assuring the nation of a smooth succession. I

intend to announce that you and the rest of the President's Cabinet

planned a conspiracy to set up a dictatorship, and my first order as

chief executive is to fire the whole rotten lot of you.

"We expected no less.  Integrity was never one of your character

traits."

"There was no conspiracy and you know it," Simmons said angrily.

"The President was the victim of a Soviet plot to control the White

House."

"No matter," Moran replied nastily.  "By the time the truth comes out,

the damage to your precious reputations will have been done.

You'll never work in Washington again."

Before Oates and Simmons could retort, an aid rushed up and spoke softly

in Moran's ear.  He dismissed his enemies with a snide look and turned

away.  Then he stepped to the center of the room and raised his hands

for silence.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he announced.  "I've just been informed that the

Senate has voted for conviction by the required twothirds.

Our beleaguered President is no longer in office and the Vice Presidency

is vacant.  The time has come for us to put our house in order and begin

anew."

As if on cue, Chief justice Nelson O'Brien rose from a chair, smoothed

his black robes and cleared his throat.  Everyone crowded around Moran

as his secretary held what was dubiously touted as his family Bible.

just then Sam Emmett and Dan Fawcett came through the doorway and

paused.  Then they spied Oates and Simmons and approached.

"Any word?"  Oates asked anxiously.

Emett shook his head.  "None.  General Metcalf ordered a communications

blackout.  I haven't been able to reach him at the Pentagon to find out

why."

"Then it's all over."

No one replied as they all turned in unison and stood in powerless

frustration as Moran raised his right hand to take the oath of office as

President, his left hand on the Bible.  ' "Repeat after me," Chief

justice O'Brien intoned like a drum roll.  "I, Alan Robert Morando

solemnly swear "I, Alan Robert Morando solemnly swear "' ' ' that I will

faithfully execute the office of the President of the United States,"

O'Brien droned on.

Suddenly the room behind Oates went quiet.  The prompting of the oath by

the Chief justice went unanswered by Moran.  Curious, Oates turned

around and looked at the crowd.  They were all staring in frozen wonder

at Vice President Vincent Margolin, who walked through the doorway

preceded by Oscar Lucas and flanked by General Metcalf and Admiral

Sandecker.

Moran's upraised arm slowly fell and his face turned ashen.  The silence

smothered the room like an insulating cloud as Margolin stepped up to

the Chief justice, the stunned audience parting for him.  He gave Moran

a frigin look and then smiled at the rest.

"Thank you for the rehearsal," he said warmly.  "But I think I can take

over from here."

August 13, 1989

New York City SAL CASIO WAS waiting in the vast lobby of the World Trade

Center when Pitt came slowly through the entrance.  Casio looked at him

in stark appraisal.  He couldn't remember when he'd seen any man so near

the edge of physical collapse.

Pitt moved with the tired shuffle of a man who had endured too much.  He

wore a borrowed foul-weather jacket two sizes too small.  His right arm

hung slack while his left was pressed against his chest, as if holding

it together, and his face was etched in a strange blending of suffering

and triumph.  The eyes burned with a sinister glow that Casio recognized

as the fires of revenge.

"I'm glad you could make it," Casio said without referring to Pitts

haggard appearance.

"It's your show," said Pitt.  "I'm only along for the ride."

"Only fitting and proper we be together at the finish."

"I appreciate the courtesy.  Thank you."

Casio turned and guided Pitt over to a private elevator.  Pulling a

small push-button transmitter from his pocket, he punched the correct

code and the doors opened.  Inside was an unconscious guard who was

bound with laundry cord.  Casio stepped over him and opened a polished

brass door to a circuit panel with the words LIFTONIC ELEVATOR Qw-607

engraved on it.  He made an adjustment in the settings and then pushed

the button that read "100."

The elevator rose like a rocket and Pitts ears popped three times before

it slowed and the doors finally opened onto the richly furnished

anteroom of Bougainville Maritime Lines inc.

Before he stepped out, Casio paused and reprogrammed the elevator

circuitry with his transmitter.  Then he turned and stepped out onto the

thick carpet.

"We're here to speak with Min Koryo," Casio announced mundanely.

The woman eyed them suspiciously, particularly Pitt, and opened a

leather-bound journal.  "I see nothing in Madame Bougainville's schedule

that shows any appointments this evening."

Casio's face furrowed into his best hurt look.  "Are you sure?"

he asked, leaning over the desk and peering at the appointment book.

She pointed at the blank page.  "Nothing is written in-" Casio chopped

her across the nape of the neck with the edge of his palm, and she fell

forward, head and shoulders striking the desktop.  Then he reached

inside her blouse and extracted a vestpocket .25-caliber automatic

pistol.

"Never know it to look at her," he explained, "but she's a security

guard."

Casio tossed the gun to Pitt and took off down a corridor hung with

paintings of the Bougainville Maritime fleet.  Pitt recognized the

Pilottown, and his weary expression hardened.  He followed the brawny

private investigator up an intricately carved rosewood circular

staircase to the living quarters above.  At the top of the landing Casio

met another ravishing Asian woman who was leaving a bathroom.

She was wearing silk lounging pajamas with a kimono top.

Her eyes winened and in a lightning reflex she lashed out with one foot

at Casio's groin.  He anticipated the thrust and shifted his weight ever

so slightly, catching the blow on the side of his thigh.

Then she flashed into the classic judo position and hurled several rapid

cuts at his head.

She would have done more damage to an oak tree.  Casio shook off her

attack, crouched and sprung like an offensive back coming off the line.

She spun to her left in an impressive display of feline grace but was

knocked off balance by his shoulder.  Then Casio straightened and

smashed through her defense with a vicious left hook that nearly tore

off her head.  Her feet left the floor and she flew into a

five-foot-high Sung Dynasty vase, breaking it into dust.

"You certainly have a way with women," Pitt remarked casually.

"Lucky for us there's still a few things we can do better than they

can."

Casio motioned toward a large double door carved with dragons and

quietly opened it.  Min Koryo was propped up in her spacious bed,

browsing through a pile of audit reports.  For a moment the two men

stood mute and unmoving, waiting for her to look up and acknowledge

their intrusion.  She looked so pathetic, so fragile, that any other

trespassers might have wavered.  But not Pitt and Casio.

Finally she lifted her reading glasses and gazed at them, showing no

apprehension or fright.  Her eyes were fixed in frank curiosity.

"Who are you?"  she asked simply.

"My name is Sal Casio.  I'm a private investigator."

"And the other man?"

Pitt stepped from the shadows and stood under the glow from the

spotlights above the bed.  "I believe you know me."

There was a faint flicker of surprise in her voice, but nothing else.

"Mr.  Dirk Pitt."

"Yes."

"Why have you come?"

"You are a slimy parasite who sucked the life out of untold innocent

people to build your filthy empire.  You're responsible for the death of

a personal friend of mine and also for that of Sal's daughter.  You

tried to kill me, and you ask why I'm here?"

" You are mistaken, Mr.  Pitt.  I am guilty of nothing so criminal.

My hands are unstained."

" A play on words.  You live in your museum of Oriental artifacts,

shielded from the outside world, while your grandson did your dirty work

for you."

:'You say I am the cause of your friend's death?"

"She was killed by the nerve agent you stole from the government and

left on the Pilottown."

"I'm sorry for your loss," she said gently.  The politeness and sympathy

were without a trace of irony.  "And you, Mr.  Casio.

How am I to blame for your daughter?"

" She was murdered along with the crew of the same ship, only then it

was called the San Marino."

"Yes, I recall," said Min Koryo, dropping all pretense.  "The girl with

the stolen money."

Pitt stared into the old woman's face, examining it.  The blue eyes were

bright and glistening, and the skin was smooth, with only a bare hint of

aging lines.  She must have truly been a beautiful woman once.  But

beneath the veneer Pitt detected ugliness, a cesspool locked in ice.

There was a black malignity inside her that filled him with contempt.

"I suppose you've smashed so many lives," he said, "you've become immune

to human suffering.  The mystery is how you got away with it for so

long."

"You have come to arrest me?"  she asked.

"No," Casio answered stonily.  "To kill you."

The piercing eyes blazed briefly.  "My security people will come through

the door any second."

"We've already eliminated the guard at the receptionist's desk and the

one outside your door.  As to others"-Casio paused and pointed a finger

at a TV camera mounted above her bed-"I've reprogrammed the tapes.  Your

guards at the monitors are watching whatever occurred in your bedroom a

week ago last night."

"My grandson will hunt you both down, and your punishment will not be

quick."

"Lee Tong is dead," Pitt informed her, relishing every syllable.

The face altered.  Now the blood flowed out of it and it became a pale

yellow.  But not with the emotions of shock and hurt, Pitt thought.  She

was waiting, waiting for something.  Then the flicker of expectancy

vanished as quickly as it had come.

"I do not believe you," she said at last.

"He sank with the laboratory barge after I shot him."

Casio moved around to the side of the bed.  "You must come with us now."

"May I ask where you're taking me?"  The voice was still soft and

gracious.  The blue eyes remained set.

They didn't notice her right hand move beneath the covers.

Pitt never really accounted for the instinctive move that saved his

life.  Maybe it was the sudden realization that the TV camera was not

exactly shaped like a camera.  Maybe it was the complete absence of fear

in Min Koryo, or the aura that she was in firm command, but as the beam

of light stabbed out from above her bed, he pitched himself to the

floor.

Pitt rolled to his side, tugging the automatic from his coat.  Out of

the corner of his eye he saw the laser beam sweep the room, cutting

through furniture, scorching the draperies and wallpaper with a

needle-thin spear of energy.  The gun was in his hands, blasting away at

the electron amplifier.  At his fourth shot, the beam blinked out.

Casio was still standing.  He reached out toward Pitt and then stumbled

and fell.  The laser had cut through his stomach as neatly as a

surgeon's scalpel.  He twisted over on his back and stared up.

Casio was seconds away from death.  Pitt wanted to say something, but he

couldn't get the words out.

The case-hardened old investigator raised his head; his voice came in a

rasping whisper.  "The elevator .  . . code four-one-onesix."  And then

his eyes went sightless and his breathing ceased.

Pitt took the transmitter from Casio's pocket, rose and trained the

automatic just ten inches from Min Koryo's heart.  Her face was locked

in a fearless smile.  Then Pitt lowered the gun and reached under the

covers and silently lifted her out of the bed into her wheelchair.

She made no move to resist, spoke no words of defiance.  She sat,

wizened and mute, as Pitt pushed her into the corridor and onto a small

lift that lowered them to the office floor.  When they reached the

reception lobby, she noted the unconscious security guard and looked up

at him.

"What now, Mr.  Pitt?"

"The final curtain for Bougainville Maritime," he said.  "Tomorrow your

rotten business will be no more.  Your Oriental art objects will be

given away to museums.  A new tenant will come in and redecorate your

offices and living quarters.  In fact, your entire fleet of ships will

be sold off.  From now on the name of Bougainville will be nothing but a

distant memory in newspaper microfilm files.  No friends or relatives

will mourn you, and I'll personally see that you're buried in a potter's

field with no marker."

At last he had broken through and her face revealed a searing hate. "And

your future, Mr.  Pitt?"

He grinned.  "I'm going to rebuild the car you blew up."

She weakly lifted herself from the wheelchair and spat at him.

Pitt made no move to wipe away the spittle.  He simply stood there and

grinned wickedly, looked down and saw the evil viciousness erupt as she

cursed him in Korean.

Pitt pressed the code numbers Casio had given him into the transmitter

and watched as the doors to Liftonic QW-607 opened.

But there was no elevator, only an empty shaft.

"Bon voyage, you diabolic old crone."

Then he shoved the wheelchair into the vacant opening and stood

listening as it clattered like a pebble down a well, echoing off the

sides of the shaft until there was the faint sound of impact a hundred

stories below.

Loren was sitting on a bench in the concourse as he came through the

main door of the Trade Center.  She came toward him and they met and

embraced.  They clung together without saying anything for a few

moments.

She could feel the fatigue and the pain in him.  And she sensed

something more.  A strange inner peace that she had never known was

there.  She kissed him lightly several times.  Then she took his arm and

led him to a waiting taxi.

"Sal Casio?"  she asked.

"With his daughter."

"And Min Koryo Bougainville?"

"In hell."

She caught the distant look in his eyes.  "You need rest.  I'd better

check you into a hospital."

Suddenly the old devilish look flashed on his face.  "I had something

else in mind."

"What?"

"The next week in a suite in the best hotel in Manhattan.

Champagne, gourmet dinners sent up by room service, you making love to

me."

A coquettish expression gleamed in her eyes.  "Why do I have to do all

the work?"

"Obviously I'm in no condition to take command."

She held on to him comfortingly.  "I suppose it's the least I can do

after you saved my life."

"Semper Paratus," he said.

"Semper what?"

"The Coast Guard motto.  Always Ready.  If their rescue helicopter

hadn't arrived over the barge when it did, we'd both be lying on the

bottom of the Gulf of Mexico."

They reached the taxi and Loren held on to Pitt as he stiffly entered

and sank into the seat.  She eased in beside him and kissed his hand

while the driver sat patiently looking out his windshield.

"Where to?"  the driver asked.

"The Helmsley Palace Hotel," Pitt answered.

Loren looked at him.  "You're getting a suite at the Helmsley?" she

said.

"A penthouse suite," he corrected her.

"And who's going to pay for this opulent interlude?"

Pitt looked down at her in mock astonishment.  "Why, the government, of

course.  Who else?"