Deep Six (25 page)

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.

Seeing nothing of interest, they threaded their way down a stairway into the lounge area of the deckhouse. In the fluid 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 amid 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.

30

PITT REELED BACKWARD
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 added 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 ladder and out of the engine room. Once free of the morbid 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
Jamoki.

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 waterproof ID card with a man’s photograph. Opposite 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 Giordino 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 forbidding 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 video camera. The warm sun and the heavy humidity caused sweat to trickle down his face. He ignored the discomfort and kept taping, zooming in the telephoto lens until Pitt’s 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.

31

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 amid 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.”

Pitt’s 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 dipesce.”

“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 laid her napkin in her lap. “I’ve phoned for two days. Where’ve you been?”