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  “You’re comparing catsup to mustard,” Fawcett said. “I’m telling you, the people will be incensed if I stand up and state the President, Vice President and the two majority leaders in Congress have mysteriously vanished and are presumed dead. Hell, no one would believe me.”

  “We can’t sidestep the main issue,” Mercier said firmly. “Douglas Oates has to go into the White House as pure as the driven snow. He can’t do a decent job of picking up the pieces if he’s surrounded by doubt and malicious rumor.”

  “Oates is not a politician. He’s never expressed the slightest interest in attaining the Presidency.”

  “He has no choice,” Mercier said. “He must serve in the interim until the next elections.”

  “Can I have the Cabinet standing behind me for support during the press conference?”

  “No, they won’t agree to that.”

  “So I’m to be run out of town on a rail,” said Fawcett bitterly. “Is that the mutual decision?”

  “You’re overstating your case,” said Mercier mildly. “You won’t be tarred and feathered. Your job is secure. Doug Oates wants you to remain as White House Chief of Staff.”

  “And ask me to resign six months later.”

  “We can’t guarantee the future.”

  “All right,” Fawcett said, his voice trembling in anger. He pushed past Mercier and Lucas. “Go back and tell Oates he’s got his human sacrifice.”

  He never turned back but strode down the hallway and went directly to his office, where he paced the floor, fuming in rage. The bureaucracy, he cursed to himself, its wheels were about to rumble over him. He was so furious he did not even notice the President’s secretary, Megan Blair, enter the room.

  “Mercy, I’ve never seen you so agitated,” she said.

  Fawcett turned and managed a smile. “Just complaining to the walls.”

  “I do that too, especially when my visiting niece drives me mad with her disco recordings. Blasts that awful music all over the house.”

  “Can I help you with anything?” he asked impatiently.

  “Speaking of complaining,” she said testily, “why wasn’t I told the President had returned from his farm?”

  “Must have slipped my mind—” He stopped and gazed at her queerly. “What did you say?”

  “The President’s back and no one on your staff warned me.”

  Fawcett’s expression turned to abject disbelief. “He’s in New Mexico.”

  “Certainly not,” Megan Blair said adamantly. “He’s sitting at his desk this very moment. He chewed me out for coming in late.”

  Megan was not a woman who could lie easily. Fawcett looked deeply into her eyes and saw she was telling the truth.

  She stared back at him, her head tilted questioningly. “Are you all right?” she asked.

  Fawcett didn’t answer. He ran from his office and down the hallway, meeting Lucas and Mercier, who were still conferring in hushed tones. They looked up startled as Fawcett frantically pounded around them.

  “Follow me!” he shouted over one shoulder, arms flinging.

  They stood stone-still for a moment, blinking in utter confusion. Then Lucas reacted and dashed after Fawcett, with Mercier bringing up the rear.

  Fawcett burst into the Oval Office and stopped dead, his face going white.

  The President of the United States looked up and smiled. “Good morning, Dan. Ready to go over my appointment schedule?”

  Less than a mile away, in a secure room on the top floor of the Russian embassy, Aleksei Lugovoy sat in front of a large monitor and read the deciphered brainwaves of the President. The display screen showed the thoughts in English while a nearby printer produced paper copies translated into Russian.

  He sipped a cup of thick black coffee, then stood up, keeping his eyes on the green letters, the heavy bunched eyebrows raised in controlled conceit.

  From a distance, the President’s brain transmitted its every thought, speech pattern, and even the words spoken by others nearby as they were received and committed to memory.

  The second stage of the Huckleberry Finn Project was a success.

  Lugovoy decided to wait a few more days before he entered the final and most critical stage, the issuing of commands. If all went well, he knew with a sinking certainty, his revered project would be taken over by the men in the Kremlin. And then Chairman of the Party Antonov and not the President would direct policy for the United States.

  50

  The molten sun slipped below the western edge of the Aegean Sea as the ship cleared the Dardanelles and headed through the maze of Greek islands. The surface rolled under gentle two-foot swells and a hot breeze set in from the African coast to the south. Soon the orange faded from the sky and the sea lost its blue and they melted together into a solid curtain of black. The moon had not yet risen; the only light came from the stars and the sweeping beam of the navigation beacon on the island of Lesbos.

  Captain James Mangyai, master of the 540-foot bulk freighter Venice, stood on the bridge and kept a close watch over the bow. He gave a cursory glance to the radar display and stared out the window again, relieved that the sea was empty of other shipping.

  Since departing the Russian port of Odessa in the Black Sea, six hundred nautical miles behind, he had been extremely restless. Now he began to breathe easier. There were few tricks the Russians would dare attempt in Greek waters.

  The Venice was in ballast — her only cargo was the gold shipment transferred from the Soviet government to Madame Bougainville — and her hull rode high in the water. Her destination was Genoa, where the gold was to be secretly unloaded and shipped to Lucerne, Switzerland, for storage.

  Captain Mangyai heard footsteps behind him on the teak deck and recognized his first officer, Kim Chao, in the reflection on the window.

  “How does it look to you, Mr. Chao?” he said without turning.

  Chao read over the hour-by-hour meteorological report from the automated data system. “Calm sailing for the next twelve hours,” he said in an unhurried voice. “Extended forecast looks good too. We’re fortunate. The southerly winds are usually much stronger this time of year.”

  “We’ll need a smooth sea if we’re to dock in Genoa under Madame Bougainville’s schedule.”

  “Why the hurry?” asked Chao. “Another twelve hours of sailing won’t matter.”

  “It matters to our employer,” said Mangyai dryly. “She doesn’t wish our cargo in transit any longer than necessary.”

  “The chief engineer is making more wind than a typhoon. He claims he can’t keep up this speed for the whole voyage without burning up the engines.”

  “He always sees black clouds.”

  “You haven’t left the bridge since Odessa, Captain. Let me spell you.”

  Mangyai nodded gratefully. “I could use a short rest. But first I should look in on our passenger.”

  He turned over the bridge watch to Chao and walked down three decks to a heavy steel door at the end of an alleyway amidships. He pressed a transmit button on a speaker bolted to the bulkhead.

  “Mr. Hong, this is Captain Mangyai.”

  He was answered by the gentle creak of the massive door as it was pulled open. A small moon-faced man with thick-lensed spectacles peered cautiously around the edge. “Ah, yes, Captain. Please come in.”

  “Can I get you anything, Mr. Hong?”

  “No, I’m quite comfortable, thank you.”

  Hong’s idea of comfort was considerably different from Mangyai’s. The only suggestion of human habitation was a suitcase neatly stowed under a canvas folding cot, one blanket, a small electric burner with a pot of tea, and a desk hanging from a bulkhead, its surface hidden under a pile of chemical analysis equipment. The rest of the compartment was packed with wooden crates and gold bars. The gold was stacked thirty high and ten deep in several rows. Some bars were scattered on the deck next to the open crates, the unsanded sides stenciled with the disclosure:

  HANDLE WITH CARE<
br />
  MERCURY IN GLASS

  SUZAKA CHEMICAL COMPANY LIMITED

  KYOTO, JAPAN

  “How are you coming?” Mangyai asked.

  “I should have it all examined and crated by the time we reach port.”

  “How many gilded lead bars did the Russians slip in?”

  “None,” said Hong, shaking his head. “The count tallies, and every bar I’ve checked so far is pure.”

  “Strange they were so accommodating. The shipment arrived at the preset hour. Their dockworkers loaded it on board without incident. And we were cleared to depart without the usual administrative hassle. I’ve never experienced such efficiency in any of my previous dealings with Soviet port authorities.”

  “Perhaps Madame Bougainville has great influence in the Kremlin.”

  “Perhaps,” said Mangyai skeptically. He looked curiously at the piles of gleaming yellow metal. “I wonder what was behind the transaction?”

  “I’m not about to ask,” said Hong, carefully wrapping a bar in wadding and placing it in a crate.

  Before Mangyai could answer, a voice came over the speaker. “Captain, are you in there?”

  He walked over and cracked the heavy door. The ship’s communications officer was standing outside in the alleyway.

  “Yes, what is it?”

  “I thought you should know, Captain, someone is jamming our communications.”

  “You know this for a fact?”

  “Yes, sir,” said the young officer. “I managed to get a fix on it. The source is less than three miles off our port bow.”

  Mangyai excused himself to Hong and hurried to the bridge. First Officer Chao was calmly sitting in a high swivel chair studying the instruments on the ship’s computerized control panel.

  “Do you have any ship contacts in, Mr. Chao?” asked Mangyai.

  If Chao was surprised at the captain’s sudden reappearance, he didn’t show it. “Nothing visual, nothing on radar, sir.”

  “What is our depth?”

  Chao checked the reading on the depth sounder. “Fifty meters, or about a hundred and sixty feet.”

  The awful truth struck Mangyai’s mind like a hammer. He leaned over the chart table and plotted their course. The keel of the Venice was passing over the Tzonston Bank, one of many areas in the middle of the Aegean where the seabed rose to within a hundred feet of the surface. Deep enough for a ship’s safe passage, but shallow enough for a routine salvage operation.

  “Steer for deep water!” he shouted.

  Chao stared at the captain, hesitating in bewilderment. “Sir?”

  Mangyai opened his mouth to repeat the order but the words froze in his throat. At that instant, two sound-tracking torpedoes homed in on the freighter’s engine room and exploded with devastating effect. Her bottom torn in gaping holes, the sea rushed into her innards. The Venice shuddered and entered her death throes.

  She took only eight minutes to die, going down by the stern and disappearing beneath the indifferent swells forever.

  The Venice was hardly gone when a submarine surfaced nearby and began playing her searchlight on the fragmented floating wreckage. The pitifully few survivors, clinging to the flotsam, were coldly machine-gunned until their shredded bodies sank out of sight. Boats were sent out, guided by the darting shaft of light. After searching for several hours until all the debris was pulled aboard, they returned to their ship.

  Then the light was killed and the sub returned to the darkness.

  51

  The President sat at the center of the oval mahogany conference table in the White House Cabinet Room. There were eleven men seated there besides himself. A bemused expression shone in his eyes as he surveyed the somber faces around the table.

  “I know you gentlemen are curious about where I’ve been for the last ten days, and about the status of Vince Margolin, Al Moran and Marcus Larimer. Let me put this fear to rest. Our temporary disappearance was an event planned by me.”

  “You alone?” Douglas Oates put to him.

  “Not entirely. President Antonov of the Soviet Union was also involved.”

  For several moments, stunned and disbelieving, the President’s top advisers stared at him.

  “You held a secret meeting with Antonov without the knowledge of anyone in this room?” Oates said. His face paled in dismay.

  “Yes,” the President admitted. “A face-to-face talk minus outside interference and preconceived notions, without the international news media second-guessing every word and unbound by policy. Just our top four people against his.” He paused and his eyes swept the men before him. “An unorthodox way of negotiating, but one I believe the electorate will accept when they see the results.”

  “Would you mind telling us how and where this talk was held, Mr. President?” asked Dan Fawcett.

  “After the exchange of yachts, we transferred to a civilian helicopter and flew to a small airport outside of Baltimore. From there we took a private airliner belonging to an old friend of mine and crossed the Atlantic to an abandoned airstrip deep in the desert east of Atar, Mauritania. Antonov and his people were waiting when we arrived.”

  “I thought… rather it was reported,” Jesse Simmons said hesitatingly, “that Antonov was in Paris last week.”

  “Georgi stopped over in Paris for a brief conference with President L’Estrange before continuing to Atar.” He turned and looked at Fawcett. “By the way, Dan, that was a brilliant masquerade.”

  “We came within a hair of getting caught.”

  “For the time being, I’ll deny the rumors of a double as too absurd to comment on. Everything will be explained to the press, but not before I’m ready.”

  Sam Emmett placed his elbows on the table and leaned toward the President. “Were you informed, sir, that the Eagle was sunk and its crew drowned?”

  The President stared quizzically for a few moments. Then his eyes sharpened and he shook his head. “No, I wasn’t aware of it. I’d appreciate a full report, Sam, as soon as possible.”

  Emmett nodded. “It will be on your desk when we adjourn.”

  Oates struggled to keep his emotions in rein. That a high-level meeting of such enormous consequences to world foreign policy had taken place behind the back of the State Department was unthinkable. It was without precedent in anyone’s memory.

  “I think we’d all be interested in knowing what you and Georgi Antonov discussed,” he said stiffly.

  “A very productive give-and-take,” answered the President. “The most pressing item on the agenda was disarmament. Antonov and I hammered out an agreement to halt all missile production and start up a dismantling program. We arrived at a complicated formula that in simple terms means they break down a nuclear missile and we match them on a one-for-one basis with on-site inspection teams overseeing the operation.”

  “France and England will never buy such a proposal,” said Oates. “Their nuclear arsenals are independent from ours.”

  “We will begin with the long-range warheads and work down,” the President said, undaunted. “Europe will eventually follow.”

  General Clayton Metcalf shook his head. “On the face of it, I’d have to say the proposal sounds incredibly naive.”

  “It’s a beginning,” said the President adamantly. “I believe Antonov is sincere in his offer, and I intend to show good faith by pursuing the dismantling program.”

  “I’ll reserve judgment until I’ve had a chance to study the formula,” said Simmons.

  “Fair enough.”

  “What else did you discuss?” asked Fawcett.

  “A trade agreement,” answered the President. “Briefly explained, if we allow the Russians to transport their agricultural purchases in their own merchant ships, Antonov promised to pay our farmers top world prices and, most important, not to buy from any other nation unless we fail to provide the goods as ordered. In other words, American farmers are now the exclusive suppliers of Soviet imported farm products.”

  “Anton
ov bought your package?” Oates asked incredulously. “I can’t believe the old bear capable of giving away an exclusive license to any nation.”

  “I have his assurance in writing.”

  “It sounds great,” said Martin Brogan. “But I’d like someone to explain how Russia can afford to make wholesale agricultural purchases. Their East bloc satellites have defaulted on massive loans to the West. The Soviet economy is in disastrous shape. They can’t even pay their armed forces and government workers in anything but scrip good only for food and clothing. What are they going to use for money? Our farmers aren’t about to go in hock for Communists. They need immediate payment to clear their own yearly debts.”

  “There is a way out,” the President said.

  “Your East bloc bailout theory?” said Fawcett, anticipating him.

  The President nodded. “Antonov agreed in principle to accept my economic assistance plan.”

  “If you’ll excuse me, Mr. President,” said Oates, his hands clutched to keep them from visibly trembling, “your plan solves nothing. What you’re proposing is that we give billions of dollars in financial aid to the Communist nations so they can turn around and buy from our own farming community. I see that as a ‘rob Peter to pay Paul’ sucker game, with our taxpayers footing the bill.”

  “I’m with Doug,” said Brogan. “What’s in it for us?”

  The President looked around the table, his face set in determination. “I made up my mind that this is the only way to show the world once and for all that, in spite of her monstrous military machine, Russia’s system of government is a failure not to be envied or copied. If we do this thing, no country in the world can ever again accuse us of imperialist aggression, and no Soviet propaganda or disinformation campaigns against us will be taken seriously. Think of it, the United States helped its enemies back on their feet after World War Two. And now we can do the same for a nation that has made a crusade out of condemning our democratic principles. I devoutly believe no greater opportunity will be laid on our doorstep to set humanity on a straight course into the future.”