Текст книги "Deep Six"

Автор книги: Clive Cussler

Соавторы: Clive Cussler
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61

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 Leonid 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 aide 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 accidentally 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 Leonid 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 Pitt’s 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 Pitt’s 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 Leonid 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. Pitt’s 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 laid a photograph on the table. “I borrowed this from the morgue file of the Washington 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 Leonid Andreyev,and the kidnapping of Congresswoman Loren Smith.”

“Congresswoman Smith’s kidnapping is pure conjecture on your part.”

“Didn’t Congressman Moran explain what occurred on board the ship?” Pitt asked.

“He refuses to be questioned by us,” Mercier answered. “All we know is what he told the press.”

Emmett was becoming angry. He saw Pitt’s revelations as an indictment of FBI fumbling. He leaned across the table with fire in his eyes. “Do you honestly expect us to believe your ridiculous fairy tales?” he demanded in a cracking voice.

“I don’t much care what you believe,” Pitt replied, pinning the FBI director with his stare.

“Can you say how you collared the Bougainvilles?” asked Oates.

“My involvement stems from the death of a friend by Nerve Agent S. I began a hunt for the responsible parties, I admit, purely for revenge. As my investigations gradually centered on Bougainville Maritime, other avenues of their illicit organization suddenly unfolded.”

“And you can prove your accusations?”

“Of course,” Pitt answered. “Computer data describing their hijacking activities, drug business and smuggling operations is in a safe at NUMA.”

Brogan held up a hand. “Wait one moment. You stated the Bougainvilles were also behind the hijacking of the Eagle?”

“I did.”

“And you know who was abducted?”

“I do.”

“Not possible,” Brogan stated flatly.

“Shall I name names, gentlemen?” said Pitt. “Let’s begin with the President, then Vice President Margolin, Senator Larimer and House Speaker Moran. I was with Larimer when he died. Margolin is still alive and held somewhere by the Bougainvilles. Moran is now here in Washington, no doubt conspiring to become the next messiah. The President sits in the White House immune to the political disaster he’s causing, while his brain is wired to the apron strings of a Soviet psychologist whose name is Dr. Aleksei Lugovoy.”

If Oates and the others sat stunned before, they were absolutely petrified now. Brogan looked as if he’d just consumed a bottle of Tabasco sauce.

“You couldn’t know all that!” he gasped.

“Quite obviously, I do,” said Pitt calmly.

“My God, how?” demanded Oates.

“A few hours prior to the holocaust on the Leonid Andreyev,I killed a KGB agent by the name of Paul Suvorov. He was carrying a notebook, which I borrowed. The pages describe his movements after the President was abducted from the Eagle.”

Pitt took the tobacco pouch from under his shirt, opened it, and casually tossed the notebook on the table.

It lay there for several moments until Oates finally reached over and pulled it toward him slowly, as if it might bite his hand. Then he thumbed through the pages.

“That’s odd,” he said after a lapse. “The writing is in English. I would have expected some sort of Russian worded code.”

“Not so strange,” said Brogan. “A good operative will write in the language of the country he’s assigned to. What is unusual is that this Suvorov took notes at all. I can only assume he was keeping an eye on Lugovoy, and the mind-control project was too technical for him to commit to memory, so he recorded his observations.”

“Mr. Pitt,” Fawcett demanded. “Do you have enough evidence for the Justice Department to indict Min Koryo Bougainville?”

“Indict yes, convict no,” Pitt answered. “The government will never put an eighty-six-year-old woman as rich and powerful as Min Koryo behind bars. And if she thought her chances were on the down side, she’d skip the country and move her operations elsewhere.”

“Considering her crimes,” Fawcett mused, “extradition shouldn’t be too tough to negotiate.”

“Min Koryo has strong ties with the North Koreans,” said Pitt. “She goes there and you’ll never see her stand trial.”

Emmett considered that and said stonily, “I think we can take over at this point.” Then he turned to Sandecker as if dismissing Pitt. “Admiral, can you arrange to have Mr. Pitt available for further questioning, and supply us with the computer data he’s accumulated on the Bougainvilles?”

“You can bank on full cooperation from NUMA,” Sandecker said. Then he added caustically, “Always glad to help the FBI off a reef.”

“That’s settled,” said Oates, stepping in as referee. “Mr. Pitt, do you have any idea where they might be holding Vice President Margolin?”

“No, sir. I don’t think Suvorov did either. According to his notes, after he escaped from Lugovoy’s laboratory, he flew over the area in a helicopter but failed to pinpoint the location or building. The only reference he mentions is a river south of Charleston, South Carolina.”

Oates looked from Emmett to Brogan to Mercier. “Well, gentlemen, we have a starting point.”

“I think we owe a round of thanks to Mr. Pitt,” said Fawcett.

“Yes, indeed,” said Mercier. “You’ve been most helpful.”

Christ! Pitt thought to himself. They’re beginning to sound like the Chamber of Commerce expressing their gratitude to a street cleaner who followed a parade.

“That’s all there is?” he asked.

“For the moment,” replied Oates.

“What about Loren Smith and Vince Margolin?”

“We’ll see to their safety,” said Emmett coldly.

Pitt awkwardly struggled to his feet. Sandecker came over and took his arm. Then Pitt placed his hands on the table and leaned toward Emmett, his stare enough to wither cactus.

“You better,” he said with a voice like steel. “You damned well better.”

62

As the Chalmettesteamed toward Florida, communications became hectic. Frantic inquiries flooded the ship’s radio room, and the Koreans found it impossible to comply. They finally gave up and supplied only the names of the survivors on board. All entreaties by the news media demanding detailed information on the Leonid Andreyev’s sinking went unanswered.

Friends and relatives of the passengers, frantic with anxiety, began collecting at the Russian cruise line offices. Here and there around the country flags were flown at half-mast. The tragedy was a subject of conversation in every home. Newspapers and television networks temporarily swept the President’s closing of Congress out of the limelight and devoted special editions and newscasts to covering the disaster.

The Navy began airlifting the people whom their rescue operation had pulled from the water, flying them to naval air stations and hospitals nearest their homes. These were the first to be interviewed, and their conflicting stories blamed the explosion on everything from a floating mine of World War Two, to a cargo of weapons and munitions being smuggled by the Russians into Central America.

The Soviet diplomatic missions across the United States reacted badly by accusing the U.S. Navy of carelessly launching a missile at the Leonid Andreyev:a charge that had good play in the Eastern bloc countries but was generally shrugged off elsewhere as a crude propaganda ploy.

The excitement rose to a crescendo over a human interest story not seen since the sinking of the Andrea Doriain 1956. The continued silence from the Chalmetteinfuriated 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 Chalmetteremained 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 Chalmettewas greeted by a massive crowd of over a hundred thousand people surging against a police cordon blocking the entrance to the pier. A hundred video and film cameras recorded the scene as the giant container ship’s mooring lines were dropped over rusting 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 identities of the surviving passengers and crewmen of the Leonid Andreyev,interrogating each on the whereabouts of Congresswoman Smith, and searching every foot of the ship for any sign of her.

Al Giordino questioned the people whose faces he recalled seeing in the lifeboat. None of them could remember what happened to Loren or the Oriental steward after climbing aboard the Chalmette.One woman thought she saw them led away by the ship’s captain, but she couldn’t be sure. To many of those who had narrowly escaped death, their minds conveniently blanked out much of the catastrophe.

The captain and his crew claimed to know nothing. Photos of Loren provoked no recognition. Interpreters interrogated them in Korean, but their stories were the same. They never saw her. Six hours of in-depth search turned up nothing. At last the reporters were allowed to scramble on board. The crew were acknowledged heroes of the sea. The image harvested by Bougainville Maritime and their courageous employees, who braved a sea of blazing oil to save four hundred souls, was a public relations windfall, and Min Koryo made the most of it.

It was dark and raining when Giordino wearily made his way across the now emptied dock and entered the customs office of the terminal. He sat at a desk for a long time staring out into the rain-soaked murk, his dark eyes mere shadows on his face.

He turned and looked at the telephone as though it was the enemy. Hyping his courage by a drink of brandy from a half-pint bottle in his coat pocket and lighting a cigar he had stolen from Admiral Sandecker, he dialed a number and let it ring, almost hoping no one would answer. Then a voice came on.

Giordino moistened his lips with his tongue and said, “Forgive me, Dirk. We were too late. She was gone.”

The helicopter came in from the south and flashed on its landing lights. The pilot settled his craft into position, and then lowered it onto the roof of the World Trade Center in lower Manhattan. The side door dropped open and Lee Tong stepped out. He swiftly walked over to a privately guarded entrance and took an elevator down to his grandmother’s living quarters.

He bent down and kissed her lightly on the forehead. “How was your day, aunumi?”

“Disastrous,” she said tiredly. “Someone is sabotaging our bank records, shipping transactions, every piece of business that goes through a computer. What was once a study in efficient management procedures is now a mess.”

Lee Tong’s eyes narrowed. “Who can be doing it?”

“Every trail leads to NUMA.”

“Dirk Pitt.”

“He’s the prime suspect.”

“No more,” said Lee Tong reassuringly. “Pitt is dead.”

She looked up, her aged eyes questioning. “You know that for a fact?”

He nodded. “Pitt was on board the Leonid Andreyev.An opportune stroke of luck. I watched him die.”

“Your Caribbean mission was only half favorable. Moran lives.”

“Yes, but Pitt is out of our hair and the Leonid Andreyevevens the score for the Veniceand the gold.”

Min Koryo suddenly lashed out at him. “That slimy scum Antonov tricked us out of one billion dollars in gold and cost us a good ship and crew, and you say the score is even?”

Lee Tong had never seen his grandmother so furious. “I’m enraged too, aunumi,but we’re hardly in a position to declare war on the Soviet Union.”

She leaned forward, her hands clasped so tightly around the armrests of her wheelchair, the knuckles showed through the delicate skin. “The Russians don’t know what it’s like to have terrorists striking at their throats. I want you to mount bombing attacks against their merchant fleet, especially their oil tankers.”

Lee Tong put his arm around her shoulder as he would a hurt child. “The Hebrew eye-for-an-eye proverb may satisfy the vindictive soul, but it never adds to the bank account. Do not blind yourself with anger.”

“What do you expect?” she snapped. “Antonov has the President and the gold where his Navy can salvage it. We allowed Lugovoy and his staff to leave with the President. Years of planning and millions of dollars wasted, and for what?”

“We have not lost our bargaining power,” said Lee Tong. “Vice President Margolin is still secure at the laboratory. And we have an unexpected bonus in Congresswoman Loren Smith.”

“You abducted her?” she asked in surprise.

“She was also on board the cruise ship. After the sinking, I arranged to have her flown off the Chalmetteto the laboratory.”

“She might prove useful,” Min Koryo conceded.

“Don’t be disheartened, aunumi,” said Lee Tong. “We are still in the game. Antonov and his KGB bedfellow Polevoi badly underestimated the Americans’ pathological devotion to individual rights. Instructing the President to close Congress to increase his powers was a stupid blunder. He will be impeached and thrown out of Washington within the week.”

“Not so long as he has the backing of the Pentagon.”

Lee Tong inserted a cigarette in the long silver holder. “The Joint Chiefs are sitting on the fence. They can’t keep the House from meeting forever. Once they’ve voted for impeachment, the generals and admirals won’t waste any time in swinging their support to Congress and the new chief executive.”

“Which will be Alan Moran,” Min Koryo said, as if she had a bad taste in her mouth.

“Unless we release Vincent Margolin.”

“And cut our own throat. We’d be better off making him disappear for good or arrange to have his body found floating in the Potomac River.”

“Listen, aunumi,” said Lee Tong, his black eyes glinting. “We have two options. One, the laboratory is in perfect working order. Lugovoy’s data is still in the computer disks. His mind-control techniques are ours for the taking. We can hire other scientists to program Margolin’s brain. This time it will not be the Russians who control the White House, but Bougainville Maritime.”

“But if Moran is sworn in as President before the brain-control transfer is accomplished, Margolin will be of no use to us.”

“Option two,” said Lee Tong. “Strike a deal with Moran to eliminate Margolin and pave his way to the White House.”

“Can he be bought?”

“Moran is a shrewd manipulator. His political power base is mortared with underhanded financial dealings. Believe me, aunumi,Alan Moran will pay any price for the Presidency.”

Min Koryo looked at her grandson with great respect. He possessed an almost mystical grasp of the abstract. She smiled faintly. Nothing excited her merchant blood more than reversing a failure into a success. “Strike your bargain,” she said.

“I’m happy you agree.”

“You must move the laboratory facility to a safe place,” she said, her mind beginning to shift gears. “At least until we know where we stand. Government investigators will soon fit the pieces together and concentrate their search on the Eastern Seaboard.”

“My thoughts also,” said Lee Tong. “I took the liberty of ordering one of our tugs to move it out of South Carolina waters to our private receiving dock.”

Min Koryo nodded. “An excellent choice.”

“And a practical one,” he replied.

“How do we handle the congresswoman?” Min Koryo asked.

“If she talks to the press she might bring up a number of embarrassing questions for Moran to answer about his presence on board the Leonid Andreyev.He’d be smart to pay for her silence also.”

“Yes, he lied himself into a hole on that one.”

“Or we can run her through the mind-control experiment and send her back to Washington. A servant in Congress could prove a great asset.”

“But if Moran included her in the deal?”

“Then we sink the laboratory along with Margolin and Loren Smith in a hundred fathoms of water.”

Unknown to Lee Tong and Min Koryo, their conversation was transmitted to the roof of a nearby apartment building where a secondary reception dish relayed the radio frequency signals to a voice-activated tape recorder in a dusty, vacant office several blocks away on Hudson Street.

The turn-of-the-century brick building was due to be demolished, and although most of the offices were empty, a few tenants were taking their sweet time about relocating.

Sal Casio had the tenth floor all to himself. He squatted in this particular site because the janitorial crew never bothered to step off the elevator, and the window had a direct line of sight to the secondary receiver. A cot, a sleeping bag and a small electric burner were all he needed to get by, and except for the receiver/recorder, his only other piece of furniture was an old faded and torn lobby chair that he’d salvaged out of a back-alley trash bin.

He turned the lock with his master key and entered, carrying a paper sack containing a corned beef sandwich and three bottles of Herman Joseph beer. The office was hot and stuffy, so he opened a window and stared at the lights across the river in New Jersey.

Casio performed the tedious job of surveillance automatically, welcoming the isolation that gave him a chance to let his mind run loose. He recalled the happy times of his marriage, the growing-up years with his daughter, and he began to feel mellowed. His long quest for retribution had finally threaded the needle and was drawing to a close. All that was left, he mused, was to write the Bougainville epilogue.

He looked down at the recorder while taking a bite out of the sandwich and noted the tape had rolled during his trip to the delicatessen. Morning would be soon enough to rewind and listen to it, he decided. Also, if he was playing back the recording when voices activated the system again, the previous conversation would be erased.

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.”