Текст книги "Deep Six"

Автор книги: Clive Cussler

Соавторы: Clive Cussler
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4

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 addict, he still cut a trim figure. He was short and muscular, and his red hair and beard 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 amid 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 seeing 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 youare 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 paid the bill, asked the maître 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 idly 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 hardheaded 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 widened. “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.”

5

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 lines of her mouth held a tenderness that was not there before.

“Augustine Volcano,” she said, unaware that Pitt’s 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 devoid 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 Catawbato 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 drams 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 tidy.”

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 ‘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 Catawbalooming 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 undid 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.

6

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 idly 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 tactic that might move 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’s 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 kidded 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 left-handed 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 aide 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 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 idealist 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 back-stabbing.

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.