Deep Six Read online

Pitt stood up. "What else?"

  "That's about it."

  "There has to be something, a physical description, a name, something."

  "Wait a minute while I check through the report again."

  Pitt could hear the rustle of papers and Perhnutter mumbling to himself. "Okay, here it is. 'The VIP always arrived in a big black limousine.' No make mentioned. 'He was tall for a Korean-"' "Korean?"

  "That's what it says," replied Perlmutter. "'And he spoke Korean with an American accent."' The shadowed figure in Pitts dream moved a step closer. "St. Julien, you do good work."

  "Sorry I couldn't take it all the way."

  "You bought us a first down."

  "Nail the bastard, Dirk."

  "I intend to."

  "If you need me, I'm more than willing."

  "Thank you, St. Julien."

  Pitt walked to the closet, threw on a brief kimono and knotted the sash, Then he padded into the kitchen, treated himself to a glass of guava juice laced with dark rum and dialed a number on the phone.

  After several rings an indifferent voice answered: "Yeah?"

  "Hiram, crank up your computer. I've got a new problem for you.

  THE TENSION WAS LIKE A TWISTING KNOT in the pit of Suvorov's stomach. For most of the evening he had sat in the monitoring room making small talk with the two psychologists who manned the telemetry equipment, telling jokes and bringing them coffee from the kitchen.

  They failed to notice that Suvorov's eyes seldom strayed from the digital clock on one wall.

  Lugovoy entered the room at 11:20 P.m. and made his routine examination of the analogous data on the President. At 11:38 he turned to Suvorov. "Join me in a glass of port, Captain?"

  "Not tonight," Suvorov said, making a pained face. "I have a heavy case of indigestion. I'll settle for a glass of milk later."

  "As you wish," Lugovoy said agreeably. "See you at breakfast."

  Ten minutes after Lugovoy left, Suvorov noticed a small movement on one of the TV monitors. It was almost imperceptible at first, but then it was caught by one of the psychologists.

  "What in hell!" he gasped.

  "Something wrong?" asked the other.

  "Senator Larimer-he's waking up."

  "Can't be."

  "I don't see anything," said Suvorov, moving closer.

  "His alpha activity is a clear nine-to-ten-cycle-per-second set of waves that shouldn't be there if he was in his programmed sleep stage."

  "Vice President Margolin's waves are increasing too."

  "We'd better call Dr. Lugovoy-" The words hardly escaped his mouth when Suvorov cut him down with a savage judo chop to the base of the skull. In almost the same gesture, Suvorov swung a crosscut with the palm of the other hand into the throat of the second psychologist, crushing the man's windpipe.

  Even before his victims hit the floor, Suvorov coldly gazed at the clock. The blinking red numbers displayed 11:49-eleven minutes before Lugovoy was scheduled to exit the laboratory in the elevator. Suvorov had practiced his movements many times, allowing no more than two minutes for unpredictable delays.

  He stepped over the lifeless bodies and ran from the monitor room into the chamber containing the subjects in their soundproofed cocoons.

  He unlatched the top of the third one, threw back the cover and peered inside.

  Senator Marcus Larimer stared back at him. "What is this place?

  Who the hell are you?" the senator mumbled.

  "A friend," answered Suvorov, lifting Larimer out of the cocoon and half carrying, half dragging him to a chair.

  "What's going on?"

  "Be quiet and trust me."

  Suvorov took a syringe from his pocket and injected Larimer with a stimulant. He repeated the process with Vice President Margolin, who looked around dazedly and offered no resistance. They were naked, and Suvorov brusquely threw them blankets, "Wrap yourselves in these," he ordered.

  Congressman Alan Moran had not yet awakened. Suvorov lifted him out of the cocoon and lain him on the floor. Then he turned and walked over to the unit enclosing the President. The American leader was still unconscious. The latch mechanism was different from the other cocoons, and Suvorov wasted precious seconds trying to pry open the cover. His fingers seemed to lose all feeling and he fought to control them. He began to sense the first prickle of fear.

  His watch read 11:57- He was beyond his timetable; his two minute reserve evaporated. Panic was replacing fear. He reached down and snatched a Colt Woodsman .22-caliber automatic from a holster strapped to his right calf. He screwed on a four-inch suppressor; and for a brief instant he was not himself, a man outside himself, a man whose only code of duty and unleashed emotion blinded his perception. He aimed the gun at the President's forehead on the other side of the transparent cover, Through the mist of his drugged mind, Margolin recognized what Suvorov was about to do. He staggered across the cocoon chamber and lurched into the Russian agent, grabbing for the gun.

  Suvorov just sidestepped and pushed him against the wall. Somehow Margolin remained on his feet. His vision was blurred and distorted, and a wave of sudden nausea threatened to gag him. He flung himself forward in another attempt to save the President's life.

  Suvorov smashed the barrel of the gun against Margolin's temple and the Vice President dropped limply in a heap, blood streaming down the side of his face. For a moment Suvorov stood rooted.

  His well-rehearsed plan was cracking and crumbling apart. Time had run out.

  His last fleeting hope lay in salvaging the pieces. He forgot the President, kicked Margolin out of the way and shoved Larimer through the door. Heaving the still unconscious Moran over his shoulder, he herded the uncomprehending senator down the corridor to the elevator.

  They stumbled around the final corner just as the concealed doors parted and Lugovoy was about to step inside.

  "Stop right where you are, Doctor."

  Lugovoy whirled and stared dumbly. The Colt was held rocksteady in Suvorov's hand. The eyes of the KGB agent blazed with a contemptuous disdain.

  "You fool!" Lugovoy blurted as the full realization of what was happening struck him. "You bloody fool!"

  "Shut up!" Suvorov snapped.

  "And step back out of the way."

  "You don't know what you're doing."

  "I'm only doing my duty as a good Russian."

  "You're ruining years of planning," Lugovoy said angrily.

  "President Antonov will have you shot."

  "No more of your lies, Doctor. Your insane project has placed our government in extreme jeopardy. It is you who will be executed. It is you who is the traitor."

  "Wrong," Lugovoy said in near shock. "Can't you see the truth?"

  "I see you working for the Koreans. Most likely the South Koreans who have bought you off."

  "For God's sake, listen to me."

  "A good Communist has no God but the party," said Suvorov, roughly elbowing Lugovoy aside and shoving the unprotesting Americans into the elevator. "I have no more time to argue."

  A wave of despair swept Lugovoy. "Please, you can't do this," he pleaded.

  Suvorov did not reply. He turned and glared malevolently as the elevator doors closed and blocked him from view.

  ASTHE ELEVATOR ROSE, Suvorov reversed the gun and smashed out the overhead light with the butt. Moran moaned and went through the motions of coming to, rubbing his eyes and shaking his head to clear the fog. Larimer became sick and vomited in a corner, his breath coming in great croaking heaves.

  The elevator eased to a smooth stop and the doors automatically opened to a smothering rush of warm air. The only light came from three dim yellow bulbs that hung suspended on a wire like ailing glowworms. The air was dank and heavy and smelled of diesel oil and rotting vegetation.

  Two men stood about ten feet away, engaged in conversation, waiting for Lugovoy to make his scheduled progress report. They turned and glared questioningly into the darkened elevator. One of them bels an attache' case. The only other
detail Suvorov noted before he shot them each twice in the chest was the Oriental fold of their eyes.

  He slung his free arm under Moran's waist and hauled him across what seemed like a rusting iron floor. He kicked Larimer ahead of him as he would a remorseful dog that had run away from home. The senator reeled like a drunk, too sick to speak, too stunned to resist. Suvorov pushed the gun inside his belt and took Larimer's arm, guining him.

  The skin under his hand felt goosefleshed and clammy. Suvorov hoped the old legislator's heart wasn't about to give out.

  Suvorov cursed as he stumbled over a large chain. Then he stopped and peered down an enclosed ramp that stretched into the dark. He felt as if he were inside a sauna; his clothes were turning damp with sweat and his hair was plastered down his forehead and temples. He tripped and almost fell, regaining his balance just before he was about to sprawl on the cross slats of the ramp.

  Moran's dead weight was becoming increasingly burdensome, and Suvorov realized his strength was ebbing. He doubted whether he could lug the congressman another fifty yards.

  At last they left the tunnel-like ramp and staggered out into the night. He looked up and was vastly relieved to see a diamondclear sky carpeted with stars. Beneath his feet the ground felt like a graveled road and there were no lights to be seen anywhere. In the shadows off to his left he dimly recognized the outline of a car.

  Pulling Larimer into a ditch beside the road, he gratefully dropped Moran like a bag of sand and cautiously circled around, approaching the car from the rear.

  He froze into immobility, rigin against the shadowless landscape, and listened. The engine was running and music was playing on the radio. The windows were tightly rolled up and Suvorov right

  assumed the air conditioner was on.

  Silent as a cat, he crouched and moved in closer, keeping low and out of any reflection in the side-view mirror on the door. The inside was too dark to make out more than one vague form behind the wheel. If there were others, Suvorov's only ally was the element of surprise.

  The car was a stretch-bodied limousine, and to Suvorov it seemed as long as a city block. From the raised letters on the rear'of the trunk, he identified it as a Cadillac. He'd never driven one and hoped he would have no trouble finding the right switches and controls.

  His groping fingers found the door handle. He took a deep breath and tore open the door. The interior light flicked on and the man in the front seat twisted his head around, his mouth opening to shout.

  Suvorov shot him twice, the silver-tip hollow-point bullets tearing through the rib cage under the armpit.

  Almost before the blood began to spurt, Suvorov jerked the driver's body out of the car and rolled it away from the wheels. Then he roughly crowded Larimer and Moran into the back seat. Both men had lost their blankets, but they were too deeply gripped by shock to even notice or care. No longer the power brokers of Capitol Hill, they were as helpless as children lost in the forest.

  Suvorov dropped the shift lever into drive and jammed the accelerator to the floor mat so fiercely, the rear tires spun and sprayed gravel for fifty yards before finally gaining traction. Only then did Suvorov's fumbling hand find the headlight switch and pull it on.

  He sagged in relief at discovering the big car was hurtling down the precise middle of a rutted country road.

  As he threw the heavy, softly sprung limousine over three miles of choppy washboard, he began to take stock of his surroundings.

  Cypress trees bordering the road had great tentacles of moss hanging from their limbs. This and the heavy atmosphere suggested they were somewhere in the Southern United States. He spotted a narrow paved crossroad ahead and slin to a stop in a swirling cloud of dust.

  On the corner stood a deserted building, more of a shack actually, with a decrepit sign illuminated by the headlights: GLOVER CULPEPPER. GAS & GROCERIES. Apparently Glover had packed up and moved on many years before.

  The intersection had no marker, so he mentally flipped a coin and turned left. The cypress gave way to groves of pine and soon he began passing an occasional farmhouse. Traffic was scarce at this hour of morning. Only one car and a pickup truck passed him, both going in the opposite direction. He came to a winer road and spotted a bent sign on a leaning post designating it as State Highway 700. The number meant nothing to him, so he made another left turn and continued on.

  Throughout the drive, Suvorov's mind remained cold and riginly alert. Larimer and Moran sat silently watchful, blindly putting their faith in the man at the wheel.

  Suvorov relaxed and eased his foot from the gas pedal. No following headlights showed in the rearview mirror, and as long as he maintained the posted speed limit his chances of being stopped by a local sheriff were remote. He wondered what state he was in.

  Georgia, Alabama, Louisiana? It could be any one of a dozen. He watched for some clue as the roadside became more heavily populated; darkened buildings and houses squatted under increasing numbers of overhead floodlights.

  After another half-hour he came to a bridge spanning a waterway called the Stono River. He'd never heard of it. From the high point of the bridge, the lights of a large city blinked in the distance. Off to his right the lights suddenly halted and the entire horizon went pure black. A seaport, he swiftly calculated. Then the headlights fell on a large black-and-white directional sign. The top line read CHARLEsTON 5 miles.

  "Charleston!" Suvorov said aloud in a sudden burst of jubilation, sifting through his knowledge of American geography. "I'm in Charleston, South Carolina."

  Two miles further he found an all-night drugstore with a public telephone. Keeping a wary eye on Larimer and Moran, he dialed the long-distance operator and made a collect call.

  A LONE CLOUD WAS DRIFTING overhead, scattering a few drops of moisture when Pitt slipped the Talbot beside the passenger departure doors of Washington's Dulles International Airport. The morning sun roasted the capital city, and the rain steamed and evaporated almost as soon as it struck the ground. He lifted Loren's suitcase out of the car and passed it to a waiting porter.

  Loren unwound her long legs from the cramped sports car, demurely keeping her knees together, and climbed out.

  The porter stapled the luggage claim check to the flight ticket and Pitt handed it to her.

  "I'll park the car and baby-sit you until boarding time."

  "No need," she said, standing close. "I've some pending legislation to scan. You head back to the office."

  He nodded at the briefcase clamped in her left hand. "Your crutch. You'd be lost without it."

  "I've noticed you never carry one."

  "Not the type."

  "afraid you might be taken for a business executive?"

  "This is Washington; you mean bureaucrat."

  "You are one, you know. The government pays your salary, same as me.

  Pitt laughed. "We all carry a curse."

  She set the briefcase on the ground and pressed her hands against his chest. "I'll miss you."

  He circled his arms around her waist and gave a gentle squeeze.

  "Beware of dashing Russian officers, bugged staterooms and vodka hangovers."

  "I will," she said, smiling. "You'll be here when I return?"

  "Your flight and arrival time are duly memorized."

  She tilted her head up and kissed him. He seemed to want to say something more, but finally he released her and stood back. She slowly entered the terminal through the automatic slining glass doors. A few steps into the lobby she turned to wave, but the blue Talbot was pulling away.

  On the President's farm, thirty miles south of Raton, New Mexico, members of the White House press corps were spaced along a barbed-wire fence, their cameras trained on an adjoining field of alfalfa. It was seven in the morning, Mountain Daylight-Saving Time, and they were drinking black coffee and complaining about the early hour, the high-plains heat, the watery scrambled eggs and burned bacon catered by a highway truck stop, and any other discontents, real or imagined.

>   Presidential Press Secretary Jacob (Sonny) Thompson walked briskly through the dusty press camp prepping the bleary-eyed correspondents like a high school cheerleader and assuring them of great unrehearsed homespun pictures of the President working the soil.

  The press secretary's charm was artfully contrived-bright white teeth capped with precision, long sleek black hair, tinted gray at the temples, dark eyes with the tightened look of cosmetic surgery.

  No second chin. No visible sign of a potbelly. He moved and gestured with a bouncy enthusiasm that didn't sit well with journalists, whose major physical activities consisted of pounding typewriters, punching word processors and lifting cigarettes.