Abyss

“Goddamnit, we’ve been down this path before,” Estevez said, but the president held him off.

“Do you have any proof?”

“Gail Newby was chief of security at Hutchinson Island, and she came face-to-face with him just before the explosion. He was only a suspect at that time, and in fact we’d not been able to identify him until a couple of days ago. But he was there on the rig directing the attack and Gail saw him.”

“You say that you identified him?”

“Yes, sir. His name is Brian DeCamp, an ex-South African Defense Force colonel in the Buffalo Battalion. Evidently he turned freelance and apparently worked a number of operations over the past several years. He’s good, just about the best I’ve ever heard of.”

“Now he’s dead, and that part of the problem has been solved,” Lord said. “For that we also offer our thanks.”

“He got away aboard a helicopter from Schlagel’s flotilla.”

The president’s anger spiked. “That’s proof enough for me.”

“No, sir, it’s not that easy,” McGarvey said. “There’s more.”

“There always is.”

“The helicopter came off the yacht Pascagoula Trader, with a crew of six, one of them identified as Anthony Ransom, a top aide to Schlagel. We think he was directing the flotilla. But he and the rest of the crew aboard, along with one of the mercenaries DeCamp left behind to act as a rear guard, were shot to death.”

“How about his other people?”

“All dead.”

“Did you actually see him take off?” Estevez asked.

“Yes, and he was heading west toward the coast of Florida,” McGarvey said.

“Then we have the bastard,” Estevez said. “He must have shown up on someone’s radar.”

“No,” McGarvey said, and in that one word Lord knew this situation had the possibility of turning out even worse than Hutchinson Island, much worse.

“Why do you say that?”

“Because he’s smarter than that. And he’s not a martyr, which means he’d planned his escape from the beginning. My guess is that he made a deal with someone in the Cuban Navy to meet him somewhere inside Cuban waters, or very close, where he ditched the helicopter.”

The president, who’d been standing hunched over his desk, sat down. “You think that it’s not over? He’ll strike again?”

“We saw his face, so I think he’ll go to ground. Maybe plastic surgery, but that would take months, maybe longer.”

“I’m not following you, Mr. McGarvey. Are we out of the woods or will someone else come after Dr. Larsen and her project?”

“And don’t tell us that Saudi intelligence agents are going to try next,” Estevez said. “Because I just don’t believe they’re stupid enough to take that kind of a risk.”

“It won’t be the Saudis,” McGarvey said. “At least not directly. But they funnel money into the IBC in Dubai, which has connections with Marinaccio and Octavio, we know that much for a fact. And no, Mr. President, we are not out of the woods yet, and probably won’t be for a long time.”

“It’s agreed that none of them, especially the Saudi government, can afford to allow Dr. Larsen’s project to succeed,” the president said. “So we can be fairly certain about the why, but you still don’t have proof who hired this mercenary.”

“We’re working on it, and if we do come up with something the ball will be back in your court, Mr. President. You might want to give someone at Justice the heads-up.”

Lord bridled for just a moment, and he almost shot back that he took advice but not orders. Instead he held himself in check. “But somebody else will be coming after her.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Who?”

“Schlagel.”

It was the worst possible news for Lord. While his own numbers in the polls had dropped from an approval rating of 67 percent to a dismal 43, Schlagel’s, even though he had not yet announced his candidacy, had risen from nothing to a respectable 29 percent. And it had begun with the incident at the Hutchinson Island Nuclear Power Plant. The bastard had done nothing but hammer home his message of fear; fear of nukes and especially fear of Dr. Larsen’s God Project, which spilled over to the populist message of fear of all scientists.

“Tinkerers with God’s designs!” Schlagel shouted from his pulpit in McPherson, and just about everywhere else as he crisscrossed the country, all of his appearances as well prepared and stage-managed as the Reverend Billy Graham’s had been at the height of his ministry. But Schlagel was even better than Graham had been; his sermons were more firey, yet simpler and even more real and current. “Americans,” he preached, “are frightened out of their wits, and believe me they have every reason to be.”

“You say that he was personally behind the attack against Dr. Larsen’s project?” Lord said.

“No, but his followers were.”

“Then he’s already won. As long as he keeps his hands clean.”

“Unless he’s pushed,” McGarvey said.

“I’m listening,” Lord said, his interest piqued.

“He’s campaigning for your job, even though he hasn’t come out and said it in so many words yet. So you need to do two things.”

Estevez started to object, but Lord waved him off. “I’m still listening.”

“Campaign back. You’re very good at it. You’re smart, you’re articulate, and you photograph well. Take him on the issues. Green energy will be our ultimate salvation. Give the public Eve Larsen’s message in plain language that everyone — especially Schlagel’s followers — will understand. And he’s right, you know. Americans are frightened and they do have a right to be. So fight back.”

“And the second thing?”

“The media is all over the attack in the Gulf, so you need to hold a news conference as quickly as possible, today or better yet tonight when you can address the nation on all the networks. Your administration will make sure that Vanessa Explorer will be repaired and towed to Hutchinson Island, and Dr. Larsen’s project will get the highest priority.”

“That would certainly put me head-to-head with Schlagel.”

“It’d be risky,” McGarvey admitted. “But not as risky as having someone like him in the White House.”

Lord figured that his advisers would tell him that he was committing political suicide; he could see it already in Estevez’s eyes. But they were talking about his political suicide, not the nation’s.

“In the meantime what will you be doing, Mr. McGarvey?”

“Waiting for Schlagel to make a mistake.”

“Are you so sure that he will?” Lord asked.

“Oh, yes, sir, he’ll have to stick his neck out if he wants to be president, and you already know what that’s like.”

“And then what?”

“I’ll nail him,” McGarvey promised.

It was about what Lord had expected and he exchanged a glance with Estevez. “You understand, Mr. McGarvey, that I can’t become personally involved with an action like that. I can’t sanction it. My critics would have a field day.”

Estevez nodded his approval.

“We never discussed this aspect, Mr. President,” McGarvey said.

SEVENTY-TWO