Deep Six (53 page)

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 added 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,” added Mercier. “For example, how did he die?”

“Obviously he drowned,” Moran answered. “Probably 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 inlaid wood cabinets, color TV, electric divider, 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 commandeered 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 suicide 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.

Edgely nervously wiped his palms on a handkerchief. Greenberg stood slightly 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.”

Part IV

The
Stonewall Jackson

68