Deep Six dp-7 Page 13

  “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 on 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 PLO kidnapping operations, the Mexican Zapata Brigade’s hostage activities, and one I’m in the dark about.”

  Emmett 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 Friday 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 coincidence. “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?”

  19

  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 Rene Bougainville three sons. Then the war came and the Japanese overran China and Korea. Rene was killed in a bombing raid 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 far-flung 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 law-enforcement 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 cutting.

  He 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 confidently. “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, addressing 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 aided Lee Tong in the abduction 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 to
o.”

  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 Koryo 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 misguide 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.”

  20

  All identification and wristwatches were taken from the Russians when the Bougainvilles’ men transferred them from the Staten Island ferry in mid-channel. 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 individual 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 laid 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 video 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.

  Lugovoy 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 video 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 functions 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 vivid 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 re-educate 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 accidentally 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.”