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  Designed with an old straight-up-and-down bow, the mahogany-trimmed yacht displaced a hundred tons and measured 110 feet in length with a beam of twenty feet. Her draft was five feet and she could slice the water at fourteen knots.

  The Eagle was originally constructed with five master staterooms, four baths and a large glass-enclosed deckhouse, used as a combination dining and living room. A crew of thirteen Coast Guardsmen manned the yacht during a cruise, their quarters and galley located forward.

  Lucas went through the files on the crew, rechecking their personal backgrounds, family histories, personality traits, the results of psychological interviews. He could find nothing that merited any suspicion.

  He sat back and yawned. His watch read 9:20 P.M. The Eagle had been tied up at Mount Vernon for three hours. The President was a night owl and a late riser. He would keep up his guests, Lucas was certain, sitting around the deckhouse, thrashing out government affairs, with little thought given to sleep.

  He twisted sideways and looked out the window. A falling mist was a welcome sight. The reduced visibility eliminated the chances of a sniper, the greatest danger to a President’s life. Lucas persuaded himself that he was chasing ghosts. Every detail that could be covered was covered.

  If there was a threat, its source and method eluded him.

  The mist had not yet reached Mount Vernon. The summer night still sparkled clear and the lights from nearby streets and farms danced on the water. The river at this stretch widened to slightly over a mile, with trees and shrubs lining its sweeping banks. A hundred yards from the shoreline, a Coast Guard cutter stood at anchor, her bow pointing upriver, radar antenna in constant rotation.

  The President was sitting in a lounge chair on the foredeck of the Eagle, earnestly promoting his Eastern European aid program to Marcus Larimer and Alan Moran. Suddenly he came to his feet and stepped to the railing, his head tilted, listening. A small herd of cows were mooing in a nearby pasture. He became momentarily absorbed; the problems of the nation vanished and a country boy surfaced. After several seconds he turned and sat down again.

  “Sorry for the interruption,” he said with a broad smile. “For a minute there I was tempted to find a bucket and squeeze us some fresh milk for breakfast.”

  “The news media would have a field day with a picture of you milking a cow in the dead of night.” Larimer laughed.

  “Better yet,” said Moran sarcastically, “you could sell the milk to the Russians for a fat profit.”

  “Not as farfetched as it sounds,” said Margolin, who was sitting off to one side. “Milk and butter have all but disappeared from Moscow state food stores.”

  “It’s a fact, Mr. President,” said Larimer seriously. “The average Russian is only two hundred calories a day from a starvation diet. The Poles and Hungarians are even worse off. Why, hell, our pigs eat better than they do.”

  “Exactly my point,” said the President in a fervent voice. “We cannot turn our backs on starving women and children simply because they live under Communist domination. Their plight makes my aid plan all the more important to echo the humanitarian generosity of the American people. Think of the benefits such a program will bring in good will from the Third World countries. Think of how such an act could inspire future generations. The potential rewards are incalculable.”

  “I beg to differ,” said Moran coldly. “In my mind what you propose is foolish, a sucker play. The billions of dollars they spend annually propping up their satellite countries have nearly wiped out their financial resources. I’ll take bets the money they save by your proposed bailout plan would go directly into their military budget.”

  “Perhaps, but if their troubles continue unchecked the Soviets will become more dangerous to the U.S.,” the President argued. “Historically, nations with deep economic problems have lashed out in foreign adventures.”

  “Like grabbing control of the Persian Gulf oil?” said Larimer.

  “A gulf takeover is the threat they constantly dangle. But they know damned well the Western nations would intervene with force to keep the lifeblood of their economies flowing. No, Marcus, their sights are set on a far easier target. One that would open up their complete dominance of the Mediterranean.”

  Larimer’s eyebrows raised. “Turkey?”

  “Precisely,” the President answered bluntly.

  “But Turkey is a member of NATO,” Moran protested.

  “Yes, but would France go to war over Turkey? Would England or West Germany? Better yet, ask yourselves if we would send American boys to die there, any more than we would in Afghanistan? The truth is Turkey has few natural resources worth fighting over. Soviet armor could sweep across the country to the Bosporus in a few weeks, and the West would only protest with words.”

  “You’re talking remote possibilities,” said Moran, “not high probabilities.”

  “I agree,” said Larimer. “In my opinion, further Soviet expansionism on the face of their faltering system is extremely remote.”

  The President raised a hand to protest. “But this is far different, Marcus. Any internal upheaval in Russia is certain to spill over her borders, particularly into Western Europe.”

  “I’m not an isolationist, Mr. President. God knows my record in the Senate shows otherwise. But I, for one, am getting damned sick and tired of the United States being constantly twisted in the wind by the whims of the Europeans. We’ve left more than our share of dead in their soil from two wars. I say if the Russians want to eat the rest of Europe, then let them choke on it, and good riddance.”

  Larimer sat back, satisfied. He had gotten the words off his chest that he didn’t dare utter in public. Though the President fervently disagreed, he couldn’t help wondering how many grass-roots Americans shared the same thoughts.

  “Let’s be realistic,” he said quietly. “You know and I know we cannot desert our allies.”

  “Then what about our constituents,” Moran jumped back in. “What do you call it when you take their tax dollars from a budget overburdened with deficit spending and use them to feed and support our enemies?”

  “I call it the humane thing to do,” the President replied wearily. He realized he was fighting a no-win war.

  “Sorry, Mr. President,” Larimer said, rising to his feet. “But I cannot with a clear conscience support your Eastern bloc aid plan. Now if you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll hit the sack.”

  “Me too,” Moran said, yawning. “I can hardly keep my eyes open.”

  “Are you settled in all right?” asked the President.

  “Yes, thank you,” replied Moran.

  “If I haven’t been seasick by now,” said Larimer with a half grin, “I should keep my supper till morning.”

  They bid their good nights and disappeared together down the stairs to their staterooms. As soon as they were out of earshot, the President turned to Margolin.

  “What do you think, Vince?”

  “To be perfectly honest, sir, I think you’re pissing up a rope.”

  “You’re saying it’s hopeless?”

  “Let’s look at another side to this,” Margolin began. “Your plan calls for buying surplus grain and other agricultural products to give to the Communist world for prices lower than our farmers could receive on the export market. Yet, thanks to poor weather conditions during the last two years and the inflationary spiral in diesel fuel costs, farms are going bankrupt at the highest rate since 1934… If you persist in handing out aid money, I respectfully suggest you do it here — not in Russia.”

  “Charity begins at home. Is that it?”

  “What better place? Also, you must consider the fact that you’re rapidly losing party support — and getting murdered in the polls.”

  The President shook his head. “I can’t remain mute while millions of men, women and children die of starvation.”

  “A noble stand, but hardly practical.”

  The President’s features became shrouded with sadness. “Don’t you se
e,” he said, staring out over the dark waters of the river, “if we can show that Marxism has failed, no guerrilla movement anywhere in the world will be justified in using it as a battle cry for revolution.”

  “Which brings us to the final argument,” said Margolin. “The Russians don’t want our help. As you know, I’ve met with Foreign Minister Gromyko. He told me in no uncertain terms that if Congress should pass your aid program, any food shipments will be stopped at the borders.”

  “Still, we must try.”

  Margolin sighed softly to himself. Any argument was a waste of time. The President could not be moved.

  “If you’re tired,” the President said, “please don’t hesitate to go to bed. You don’t have to stay awake just to keep me company.”

  “I’m not really in the mood for sleep.”

  “How about another brandy then?”

  “Sounds good.”

  The President pressed a call button beside his chair and a figure in the white coat of a steward appeared on deck.

  “Yes, Mr. President? What is your pleasure?”

  “Please bring the Vice President and me another brandy.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The steward turned to bring the order, but the President held up his hand.

  “One moment.”

  “Sir?”

  “You’re not Jack Klosner, the regular steward.”

  “No, Mr. President. I’m Seaman First Class Lee Tong. Seaman Klosner was relieved at ten o’clock. I’m on duty until tomorrow morning.”

  The President was one of the few politicians whose ego was attuned to people. He spoke as graciously to an eight-year-old boy as he did to an eighty-year-old woman. He genuinely enjoyed drawing strangers out, calling them by their Christian names as if he’d known them for years.

  “Your family Chinese, Lee?”

  “No, sir. Korean. They immigrated to America in nineteen fifty-two.”

  “Why did you join the Coast Guard?”

  “A love of the sea, I guess.”

  “Do you enjoy catering to old bureaucrats like me?”

  Seaman Tong hesitated, obviously uneasy. “Well… if I had my choice, I’d rather be serving on an icebreaker.”

  “I’m not sure I like coming in second to an icebreaker.” The President laughed good-naturedly. “Remind me in the morning to put in a word to Commandant Collins for a transfer. We’re old friends.”

  “Thank you, Mr. President,” Seaman Tong mumbled excitedly. “I’ll get your brandies right away.”

  Just before Tong turned away he flashed a wide smile that revealed a large gap in the middle of his upper teeth.

  12

  A heavy fog crept over the Eagle, smothering her hull in damp, eerie stillness. Gradually the red warning lights of a radio antenna on the opposite shore blurred and disappeared. Somewhere overhead a gull shrieked, but it was a muted, ghostly sound; impossible to tell where it came from. The teak decks soon bled moisture and took on a dull sheen under the mist-veiled floodlights standing above the pilings of the old creaking pier anchored to the bank.

  A small army of Secret Service agents, stationed at strategic posts around the landscaped slope that gently rose toward George Washington’s elegant colonial home, guarded the nearly invisible yacht. Voice contact was kept by shortwave miniature radios. So that both hands could be free at all times, the agents wore earpiece receivers, battery units on their belts and tiny microphones on their wrists.

  Every hour the agents changed posts, moving on to the next prescheduled security area while their shift leader wandered the grounds checking the efficiency of the surveillance network.

  In a motor home parked in the drive beside the old manor house, agent Blackowl sat scanning a row of television monitors. Another agent manned the communications equipment, while a third eye-balled a series of warning lights wired to an intricate system of alarms spaced around the yacht.

  “You’d think the National Weather Service could give an accurate report ten miles from its forecast office,” Blackowl groused as he sipped his fourth coffee of the night. “They said ‘light mist.’ If this is light mist, I’d like to know what in hell they call fog so thick you can dish it with a spoon?”

  The agent in charge of radio communications turned and lifted the earphones on his headset. “The chase boat says they can’t see beyond their bow. They request permission to come ashore and tie up.”

  “Can’t say I blame them,” said Blackowl. “Tell them affirmative.” He stood and massaged the back of his neck. Then he patted the communications agent on the shoulder. “I’ll take over the radio. You get some sleep.”

  “As advance agent, you should be bedded down yourself.”

  “I’m not tired. Besides, I can’t see crap on the monitors anyway.”

  The agent looked up at a large digital clock on the wall. “Zero one fifty hours. Ten minutes till the next post change.”

  Blackowl nodded and slid into the vacated chair. He had no sooner settled the earphones on his head than a call came from the Coast Guard cutter anchored near the yacht.

  “Control, this is River Watch.”

  “This is Control,” Blackowl replied, recognizing the voice of the cutter’s commander.

  “We’re experiencing a problem with our scanning equipment.”

  “What kind of problem?”

  “A high-energy signal on the same frequency as our radar is fouling reception.”

  A look of concern crossed Blackowl’s face. “Could someone be jamming you?”

  “I don’t think so. It looks like cross traffic. The signal comes and goes as if messages are being transmitted. I suspect that some neighborhood radio freak has plugged onto our frequency by accident.”

  “Do you read any contacts?”

  “Boat traffic this time of night is nil,” answered the commander. “The only blip we’ve seen on the oscilloscope in the last two hours was from a city sanitation tug pushing trash barges out to sea.”

  “What time did it go by?”

  “Didn’t. The blip merged with the riverbank a few hundred yards upstream. The tug’s skipper probably tied up to wait out the fog.”

  “Okay, River Watch, keep me assessed of your radar problem.”

  “Will do, Control. River Watch out.”

  Blackowl sat back and mentally calculated the potential hazards. With river traffic at a standstill, there was little danger of another ship colliding with the Eagle. The Coast Guard cutter’s radar, though operating intermittently, was operating. And any assault from the river side was ruled out because the absence of visibility made it next to impossible to home in on the yacht. The fog, it seemed, was a blessing in disguise.

  Blackowl glanced up at the clock. It read one minute before the post change. He quickly reread the security plan that listed the names of the agents, the areas they were scheduled to patrol and the times. He noted that agent Lyle Brock was due to stand post number seven, the yacht itself, while agent Karl Polaski was slated for post number six, which was the pier.

  He pressed the transmit button and spoke into the tiny microphone attached to his headset. “Attention all stations. Time zero two hundred hours. Move to your next post. Repeat, move to the next post on your schedule.” Then he changed frequencies and uttered the code name of the shift leader. “Cutty Sark, this is Control.”

  A veteran of fifteen years in the service, agent Ed McGrath answered almost immediately. “Cutty Sark here.”

  “Tell posts numbers six and seven to keep a sharp watch on the river.”

  “They won’t see much in this slop.”

  “How bad is it around the dock area?”

  “Let’s just say you should have issued us white canes with red tips.”

  “Do the best you can,” Blackowl said.

  A light blinked and Blackowl cut transmission to McGrath and answered the incoming call.

  “Control.”

  “This is River Watch, Control. Whoever is screwing up our rad
ar signals seems to be transmitting continuously now.”

  “You read nothing?” asked Blackowl.

  “The geographic display on the oscilloscope is forty percent blanked out. Instead of blips we receive a large wedge shape.”

  “Okay, River Watch, let me pass the word to the special agent in charge. Maybe he can track the interference and stop any further transmission.”

  Before he apprised Oscar Lucas at the White House of the radar problem, Blackowl turned and gazed curiously at the television monitors. They reflected no discernible image, only vague shadows wavering in wraithlike undulation.

  Agent Karl Polaski refixed the molded earplug of his Motorola HT-220 radio receiver and wiped the dampness from his Bismarck mustache. Forty minutes into his watch on the pier, he felt damp and downright miserable. He wiped the moisture from his face and thought it odd that it felt oily.

  His eyes wandered to the overhead floodlights. They gave out a dim yellowish halo, but the edges had a prismatic effect and displayed the colors of the rainbow. From where he stood, about midpoint on the thirty-foot dock, the Eagle was completely hidden by the oppressive mist. Not even her deck or mast lights were visible.

  Polaski walked over the weatherworn boards, occasionally stopping and listening. But all he heard was the gentle lapping of the water around the pilings and the soft hum of the yacht’s generators. He was only a few steps from the end of the pier when the Eagle finally materialized from the gray tentacles of the fog.

  He called softly to agent Lyle Brock, who was manning post seven on board the boat. “Hey, Lyle. Can you hear me?”

  A voice replied slightly above a whisper. “What do you want?”

  “How about a cup of coffee from the galley?”

  “The next post change is in twenty minutes. You can get a cup when you come on board and take my place.”

  “I can’t wait twenty minutes,” Polaski protested mildly. “I’m already soaked to the bones.”

  “Tough. You’ll have to suffer.”

  Polaski knew that Brock couldn’t leave the deck under any circumstances, but he goaded the other agent good-naturedly. “Wait till you want a favor from me.”