“That’s what we would like to know.”
“Something’s going on,” Zavala murmured.
“My reporter’s nose for news says the same thing.”
Zavala got a cold feeling as if one of those slimy tentacles they talked about had tapped him on the shoulder. He recalled the conversation he had had with Austin about the unseen fears that sometimes come beneath the sea. As usual, Kurt’s intuition was on the mark. Zavala’s own instincts were telling him that a big, hungry something lay hidden in the blue shadows, watching and waiting. And its name was Gogstad.
Chapter 23
CIA director Erwin LeGrand beamed proudly as his fourteen-year-old daughter, Katherine, trotted over on the back of her chestnut gelding. She slipped out of the saddle and presented her father with the trophy for first place, English style.
“This is for your office, Dad,” she said with excitement in her cornflower-blue eyes. “It’s for being the best father in the world. You’re the one who bought me Val and paid for all those expensive riding lessons.”
LeGrand took the trophy and put his arm around his daughter’s shoulders, thinking how much she looked like her mother. “Thank you, Katie, but I wasn’t the one who worked so hard to show Valiant who’s boss.” He smiled. “I’ll only take it on the condition that it’s on loan. As soon as I’ve bragged to everyone at the agency, it’s going back in your trophy case with the others.”
LeGrand’s pride was mixed with guilt. True, he had sup ported his daughter’s love for riding financially, but this was the first event he had attended in years. The country club photographer came over, and LeGrand posed with his daughter and her horse, wishing as he did that his wife were still alive to make the picture complete.
Katie led Val back to the stable, and LeGrand ambled across the field, chatting with his assistant, a plain but extremely intelligent woman named Hester Leonard. LeGrand was sometimes likened in press reports to a beardless Lincoln, a comparison based on his reputation for honesty and his resemblance to the sixteenth president. He was tall and homely, but there was no mistaking the character etched into his large features. He had earned a reputation for integrity in running the world’s largest intelligence-gathering organization, and in another age with no TV and sound bites, he would have been considered seriously as a candidate for president.
Leonard’s cell phone buzzed, and she put it to her ear. “Sir,” she said hesitantly, “call for you from Langley.”
LeGrand scowled, muttering under his breath about no peace for the wicked. He made no motion to take the phone. “Didn’t I ask that I not be disturbed for two hours while I was in McLean unless it was extremely urgent?”
“It’s John Rowland, and he says it is of utmost importance.”
“Rowland? Well, in that case… ” He took the phone and stuck it in his ear. “Hello, John,” he said, frown changing to a smile. “No apology needed. You’re just in time to hear the good news. Katie won first place in English riding at the country club…. Thank you. Now, what’s so important that it interrupts possibly the most important moment of Katie’s life?”
LeGrand’s brow furrowed. “No, I’ve never heard of it … yes, of course … wait for me in my office.”
He handed the phone to his aide, looked at the trophy, and shook his head. “Tell the car to come around and pick me up immediately at the stable. We’ve got to get back to Langley immediately. Then put a call in to my office and tell them to render any assistance that John Rowland asks for. I’ve got to say my good-byes and make amends. Hell, this will probably cost me another horse.” He loped off to offer his apologies to his daughter.
Twenty minutes later the black limo squealed to a halt in front of CIA headquarters. LeGrand got out, striding through the lobby on his long legs. An assistant met him inside the door. He snatched the folder from his aide’s hand and scanned the material in the elevator. Moments later he stepped into his office. John Rowland was waiting with a nervous young man he introduced as a fellow analyst named Browning.
Rowland and the director shook hands like the old friends they were. Years before, both were at the same level in the agency. But LeGrand had political ambition and the drive to climb to the top of the ladder. Rowland was content to stay in his post where he was known as a mentor for the young analysts coming through the ranks. LeGrand put unquestioning faith in Rowland, who on more than one occasion had saved his boss from stepping into a cow flap.
“I just read the material you got off the database. What’s your take on it?”
Rowland lost no time outlining his analysis.
“This thing can’t be stopped?” LeGrand said.
“The protocol has been activated. The sanction will be carried out to the end.”
“Damn! Heads are going to roll when I’m through. Who’s the target?”
Rowland handed him a sheet of paper. LeGrand read the name on it, and the color drained from his face.
“Call the Secret Service. Tell them we’ve learned of an assassination plot against the speaker of the House. He needs protection immediately. Dear God,” he said. “Can anyone tell me how something like this happens?”
“We’re going to have to do some digging to get all the de tails,” Rowland said. “We only know that the protocol was triggered by simultaneous queries to the intelligence-gathering community that came from the National Underwater & Marine Agency.”
“NUMA?” The air over LeGrand’s head crackled blue as he gave an impressive demonstration of his renowned skill for inventive expletive. He slammed his big hand down on the desk with enough force to topple the pen from its holder and yelled at the nearest assistant. “Get James Sandecker on the phone.”
Chapter 24
“Were about twenty minutes from Albany,” Buzz Martin said.
Austin looked out the window of Martin’s two-engine Piper Seneca. The visibility was as unlimited as when they had left Baltimore earlier that afternoon. Austin could practically read the names on the boats dotting the upper reaches of the Hudson River.
“Thanks again for the lift. My partner Joe Zavala usually chauffeurs me around on these junkets, but he’s still in California.”
Martin gave Austin a thumbs-up sign. “Hell, I’m the one who should be thanking you. I’m sure you could have got up here on your own.”
“Probably, but my motives are not unselfish. I need you to identify your father.”
Martin glanced off at the Catskill Mountains to the west. “I wonder if I’ll even recognize him after all these years. It’s been a long time. He could have changed a lot.” A cloud passed over his sunny features. “Damn, ever since you called and asked me to fly you up here, I’ve been trying to figure out what I’m going to say to him. I don’t know whether to hug him or hit the old bastard.”
“You might shake his hand for starters. Taking a swing at your long-lost father is no way to start a family reunion.”
Martin chuckled. “Yeah, you’re right. But I can’t stop being angry with him. I want him to tell me why he left my mother and me and why he stayed hidden all these years, making us think he was dead. Good thing my mother is gone. She was an old-fashioned girl, and it would have killed her to think she had married while her first husband was still alive. Hell,” he said with a catch in his voice, “I just hope I don’t start bawling.”
He picked up the microphone and called the Albany control tower for landing instructions. Within minutes they were on the ground.
The car rental counter had no lines, and before long they were driving out of the city in a four-wheel-drive Pathfinder. Austin headed southwest on Route 88 toward Binghamton through rolling hills and small farms. About an hour from Albany he left the main highway and drove north to Cooperstown, an idyllic village whose neat main street looked like a set from a Frank Capra movie. From Cooperstown they headed west on a winding two-lane country road. This was James Fenimore Cooper’s Leatherstocking country, and with a little imagination Austin could picture Hawkeye skulking through the wooded valleys with his Indian companions. Towns and houses grew even farther apart. In this part of the world the cows outnumbered the people.
Even with a map it was hard to find the place they were looking for. Austin stopped at a gas station-general store, and Buzz went in for directions. When he came out he was clearly excited.
“The old-timer in there says he’s known Bucky Martin for years. ‘Nice fella. Pretty much keeps to himself.’ Go up this road a half a mile and turn left. The farm is about five miles from there.”
The road became narrow and bumpy, the tarmac almost an afterthought. The farms alternated with thick
