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  He's the only crewman unaccounted for."

  "An impostor," said Brogan. "The real steward was probably murdered and his corpse hidden."

  "What about the others?" queried Emmett.

  "The Asians?"

  "Were they poisoned too?"

  "Yes, but in a different manner. They were all shot."

  "Shot, poisoned, which is it?"

  "They were killed by fragmenting darts loaded with a highly lethal venom that comes from the dorsal spines of the stonefish."

  "No amateurs, these guys," commented Emmett.

  Thornburg nodded in agreement. "The method was very professional, especially the means of penetration. I removed a similar dart two years ago from a Soviet agent brought in by Mr. Brogan's people. As I recall, the poison was injected by a bio-inoculator."

  "I'm not familiar with it," said Lucas.

  "An electrically operated handgun," said Brogan, giving Thornburg an icy stare. "Totally silent, used on occasion by our resident agents."

  "A little loose with your arsenal, aren't you, Martin?" Mercier goaded him good-naturedly.

  "The unit in question was probably stolen from the manufacturer," Brogan said defensively.

  "Has an id been made on any of the Asian bodies?" Lucas asked.

  "They have no records in FBI files," admitted Emmett.

  "Nor with the CIA and Interpol," Brogan anded. "None of the intelligence services of friendly Asian countries have anything on them either."

  Mercier stared inly at the corpse moving out from the interior of the spatial analyzer probe. "It appears, gentlemen, that every time we open a door we walk into an empty room."

  "WHAT KIND OF MONSTERs are we dealing with?" Douglas Oates growled after listening to General Metcalf's report on the autopsies.

  His face wore a chalky pallor and his voice was cold with fury.

  "Twenty-one murders. And for what purpose? Where is the motive?

  Is the President dead or alive? If this is a grand extortion scheme, why haven't we received a ransom demand?"

  Metcalf, Dan Fawcett and Secretary of Defense Jesse Simmons sat in silence in front of Oates's desk.

  "We can't sit on this thing much longer," Oates continued. "Any minute now the news media will become suspicious and stampede into an investigation. Already they're grousing because no presidential interviews have been granted. Press Secretary Thompson has run out of excuses."

  "Why not have the President face the press?" Fawcett suggested.

  Oates looked dubious. "That actor-what's his name-Sutton?

  He would never get away with it."

  "Not up close on a podium under a battery of lights, but in a setting under shadows at a distance of a hundred feet . . . Well, it might work."

  "You got something in mind?" Oates asked.

  "We stage a photo opportunity to enhance the President's image.

  It's done all the time."

  "Like Carter playing softball and Reagan chopping wood," said Oates thoughtfully. "I think I see a down-home scene on the President's farm."

  "Complete with crowing roosters and bleating sheep," allowed Fawcett.

  "And Vice President Margolin? Our double for him can't be faked in shadows at a hundred feet."

  "A few references by Sutton and a friendly wave by the double at a distance should suffice," Fawcett answered, becoming more enthusiastic over his brainstorm.

  Simmons gazed steadily at Fawcett. "How soon can you have everyone ready?"

  "First thing in the morning. Dawn, as a matter of fact.

  Reporters are night owls. They hang around waiting for late news to break, They're not at their best before sun up."

  Oates looked at Metcalf and Simmons. "well, what do you think?"

  We've got to throw the reporters a bone before they become hored and start snooping," answered Simmons. "I vote yes."

  Metcalf nodded. "The only stalling tactic we've got.

  Fawcett came to his feet and peered at his watch. "If I leave for Andrews Air Force Base now, I should arrive at the farm in four hours.

  Plenty of time to arrange the details with Thompson and make an announcement to the press corps."

  Fawcett's hand froze on the doorknob as Oates's voice cut across the room like a bayonet.

  "Don't bungle it, Dan. For God's sake, don't bungle it."

  VLADIMIR POLEVOI CAUGHT up with Antonov as the Soviet leader strolled beneath the outer Kremlin wall with his bodyguards. They were moving past the burial area where heroes of the Soviet Union were interred. The weather was unusually warm and Antonov carried his coat over one arm.

  "Taking advantage of the fine summer day?" ?" Polevoi asked conversationally as he approached. Antonov turned. He was young for a Russian head of state, sixty-two, and he walked with a brisk step.

  "Too pleasant to waste behind a desk," he said with a curt nod.

  They walked for a while in silence as Polevoi waited for a sign or a word that Antonov was ready to talk business. Antonov paused before the small structure marking Stalin's grave site.

  "You know him?" he asked.

  Polevoi shook his head. "I was too far down the party ladder for him to notice me."

  Antonov's expression went stern and he muttered tensely. "You were fortunate." Then he stepped on, dabbing a handkerchief at the perspiration forming on the back of his neck.

  Polevoi could see his chief was in no mood for small talk, so he came to the point. "We may have a break on the Huckleberry Finn Project."

  "We could use one," Antonov said grudgingly.

  "One of our agents in New York who is in charge of security for our United Nations workers has turned up missing."

  "How does that concern Huckleberry Finn?"

  "He disappeared while following Dr. Lugovoy."

  "Any possibility he defected?"

  "I don't think so."

  Antonov stopped in minstep and gave Polevoi a hard stare.

  "we'd have a disaster in the making if he went over to the Americans.

  "I personally vouch for Paul Suvorov," said Polevoi firmly. "I'd stake my reputation on his loyalty."

  "The name is familiar."

  "He is the son of Viktor Suvorov, the agriculture specialist."

  Antonov seemed appeased. "Viktor is a dedicated party member."

  "So is his son," said Polevoi. "If anything, he's overzealous."

  "What do you think happened to him?"

  "I suspect he somehow passed himself off as one of Lugovoy's staff of psychologists and was taken along with them by Madame Bougainville's men."

  "Then we have a security man on the inside."

  "An assumption. We have no proof."

  "did he know anything?"

  "He was aware of nothing," Polevoi said unequivocally. "His involvement is purely coincinental."

  "A mistake to have Dr. Lugovoy watched."

  Polevoi took a deep breath. "The FBI keeps a tight collar on our United Nations delegates. If we had allowed Dr. Lugovoy and his team of psychologists to roam freely about New York without our security agents observing their actions, the Americans would have become suspicious.

  "So they watch us while we watch ours."

  "In the last seven months, three of our people have asked for political asylum. We can't be too careful."

  Antonov threw up his hands in a vague gesture. "I accept your argument."

  "If Suvorov is indeed with Lugovoy, he will no doubt attempt to make contact and disclose the location of the laboratory facility."

  "Yes, but if Suvorov, in his ignorance, makes a stupid move, there is nothing to indicate how that old bitch Bougainville will react."

  "She might raise the ante."

  "Or worse, sell the President and the others to the highest bidder."

  "I can't see that," said Polevoi thoughtfully. "Without Dr. Lugovoy, the project isn't possible."

  Antonov made a thin smile. "Excuse my cautious nature, Comrade Polevoi, but I tend to look on the dark side. That
way I'm seldom taken by surprise."

  "The completion of Lugovoy's experiment is only three days away.

  We should be thinking of how to handle the payment."

  "What are your proposals?"

  "Not to pay her, of course."

  "How?'@ "There are any number of ways. Switching the gold bars after her representative has examined them. Substituting lead that is painted gold or bars of lesser purity."

  "And the old bitch would smell out every one of them."

  "Still, we must try."

  "How will it be transferred?" Antonov asked.

  "One of Madame Bougainville's ships is already docked at Odessa, waiting to load the gold on board."

  "Then we'll do what she least expects."

  "Which is?" Polevoi asked expectantly.

  'Ve hold up our end of the bargain," said Antonov slowly.

  "You mean pay?" Polevoi asked incredulously.

  "Down to the last troy ounce."

  Polevoi was stunned. "I'm sorry, Comrade President, but it was my understanding-"

  "I've changed my mind," Antonov said sharply. "I have a better solution."

  Polevoi waited several moments in silence, but it was apparent Antonov wasn't going to confine in him. He slowly dropped back, finally coming to a halt.

  Surrounded by his entourage, Antonov kept walking, his mind rapidly altering course and dwelling on other matters of state concern.

  Suvorov pressed the switch to his night-light and checked the time on his watch. It read 4:04. Not too bad, he thought. He had programmed his mind to awaken at four in the morning and he'd only missed by four minutes.

  Unable to suppress a yawn, he quickly pulled on a shirt and pair of pants, not bothering with socks or shoes. Stepping into the bathroom, he splashed his face with cold water, then moved across the small bedroom and cracked the door.

  The brightly lit corridor was empty. Except for two psychologists monitoring the subjects, everyone else was asleep. As he walked the carpet in his bare feet, he began measuring the interior dimensions of the facilities and jotting them down in the notebook.

  Between the four outer walls he arrived at 168 feet in length by 33 feet in winth. The ceiling was nearly ten feet high.

  He came to the door of the medical supply room and gently eased open the door. It was never locked, because Lugovoy saw no reason for anyone to steal anything. He stepped inside, closed the door and turned on the light. Moving swiftly, Suvorov found the small bottles containing sedative solutions. He set them in a row on the sink and sucked out their contents with a syringe, emptying the fluin down the drain. Then he refilled the bottles with water and neatly rearranged them on the shelf.

  He returned unseen to his sleeping quarters and slipped into bed once again and stared at the ceiling.

  He was pleased with himself. His moves had gone undetected with no sign of the slightest suspicion. Now all he had to do was wait for the right moment.

  IT WAS A SHADOWY DREAM. The kind he could never remember when he woke up. He was searching for someone in the bowels of a deserted ship. Dust and gloom obscured his vision. Like the dive on the Eagle: green river algae and russet silt.

  His quarry drifted in front of him, blurred, always beyond reach.

  He hesitated and tried to focus through the gloom, but the form taunted him, beckoning him closer.

  Then a high-pitched ringing sound went off in his ear and he floated out of the dream and groped for the telephone.

  "Dirk?",came a cheery voice from a throat he wanted to throttle.

  " Yes.

  "Got some news for you."

  "Huh?"

  "You asleep? This is St. Julien."

  "Perlmutter?"

  "Wake up. I found something."

  Then Pitt switched on the bed light and sat up. "Okay, I'm listening."

  "I've received a written report from my friends in Korea. They went through Korean shipyard records. Guess what? The Belle Chasse was never scrapped."

  Pitt threw back the covers and dropped his feet on the floor.

  "Go on."

  "Sorry I took so long getting back to you, but this is the most incredible maritime puzzle I've ever seen. For thirty years somebody has been playing musical chairs with ships like you wouldn't believe."

  "Try me."

  "First, let me ask you a question," said Perlmutter. "The name on the stern of the ship you found in Alaska?"

  "The Pilottown?"

  "Were the painted letters framed by welded heading?"

  Pitt thought back. "As I recall it was faded paint. The raised edges must have been ground away."

  Perlmutter uttered a heavy sigh of relief over the phone. "I was hoping you'd say that."

  "Why?"

  "Your suspicions are confirmed. The San Marino, the Belle Chasse and the Pilottown are indeed one and the same ship."

  "Damn!" Pitt said, suddenly excited. "How'd you make the link?"

  "By discovering what happened to the genuine Pilottown," said Perlmutter with a dramatic inflection. "My sources found no record of a Belle Chasse being scrapped in the shipyards of Pusan. So I played a hunch and asked them to check out any other yards along the coast.

  They turned up a lead in the port of Inchon. Shipyard foremen are ' interesting guys. They never forget a ship, especially one they've junked. They act hard-nosed about it, but deep down they're sad to see a tired old vessel pulled into their dock for the last time. Anyway, one old retired foreman talked for hours about the good old days. A real gold mine of ship lore."

  "What did he say?" Pitt asked impatiently.

  "He recalled in great detail when he was in charge of the crew who converted the San Marino from a cargo transport into an ore carrier renamed the Belle Chasse."

  "But the shipyard records?"

  "Obviously falsified by the shipyard owners, who, by the way, happened to be our old friends the Sosan Trading Company. The foreman also remembered breaking up the original Pilottown. it looks like Sosan Trading, or the shady outfit behind it, hijacked the San Marino and its cargo and killed the crew. Then they modified the cargo holds to carry ore, documented it under a different name and sent it tramping around the seas."

  "Where does the Pilottown come in?" asked Pitt.

  "She was a legitimate purchase by Sosan Trading. You may be interested to know the International Maritime Crime Center has her listed with ten suspected customs violations. A hell of a high number.

  It's thought she smuggled everything from plutonium to Libya, rebel arms to Argentina, secret American technology to Russia, you name it.

  She sailed under a smart bunch of operators.

  The violations were never proven. On five occasions she was known to have left port with clandestine cargo but was never caught unloading it. When her hull and engines finally wore out, she was conveniently scrapped and all records destroyed."

  "But why claim her as sunk if it was really the San Marino, alias the Belle Chasse, they scuttled?"

  "Because questions might be raised regarding the Belle Chasse's pedigree. The Pilottown had Solid documentation, so they claimed it was she that sank in 1979, along with a nonexistent cargo, and demanded a fat settlement from the insurance companies."

  Pitt glanced down at his toes and wiggled them, "did the old foreman talk about other ship conversions for Sosan Trading?"

  "He mentioned two, a tanker and a container ship," Perlmutter answered. "But they were both refits and not conversions. Their new names were the Boothville and the Venice."

  "What were their former names?"

  "According to my friend's report, the foreman claimed that all previous identification had been removed."

  "Looks like somebody built themselves a fleet out of hijacked ships."

  "A cheap and dirty way of doing business."

  "Anything new on the parent company?" Pitt asked.

  "Still a closed door," Perlmutter replied. "The foreman did say, however, some big shot used to show up to inspect the shi
ps when they were completed and ready to sail."