boss, unlike other chief executives, served up cocktails before five o'clock. The second Rob Roy tasted even better than the first, though it didn't exactly complement the Salisbury steak.
'The latest intelligence says the Russians have moved another division up to the Indian border. That makes ten, enough for an invasion force.'
The President wolfed down a boiled potato. 'The boys in the Kremlin burned their fingers by overrunning Afghanistan and Pakistan. And now they've got a full-fledged Muslim uprising on their hands that has spilled into Mother Russia. I wish they would invade India. It's more than we could hope for.'
'We couldn't sit on the sidelines and not become militarily involved.'
'Oh, we'd rattle our sabers and make fiery speeches in the United Nations denouncing another example of Communist aggression. Send a few aircraft carriers into the Indian Ocean. Launch another trade embargo.'
Mercier picked at his salad. 'In other words, the same reaction as we've always given. Stand by and watch-'
'- the Soviets dig their own grave,' interrupted the President. 'Marching on seven hundred million people who live in poverty would be like General Motors buying a vast welfare department. Believe me, the Russians would lose by winning.'
Mercier did not agree with the President, but deep down he knew the nation's leader was probably right. He dropped the subject and turned to a problem closer to home.
'The Quebec referendum for total independence comes up next week. After going down to defeat in '80 and '86, it looks like the third time may be the lucky charm.'
The President appeared unconcerned as he scooped up a forkful of peas. 'If the French think full sovereignty leads to utopia, they're in for a rude awakening.'
Mercier put out a feeler. 'We could stop it with a show of force.'
'You never give up, do you, Alan?'
'The honeymoon is over, Mr. President. It's only a question of time before congressional opposition and the news media begin labeling you an indecisive leader. The very opposite of what you promised during the campaign.'
'All because I won't go to war over the Middle East or send troops into Canada?'
'There are other measures, less drastic, to show a determined front.'
'There is no reason to lose one American life over a dwindling oil field in the desert. As for Canada, things will work themselves out.'
Mercier came straight out with it. 'Why do you want to see a divided Canada, Mr. President?'
The chief executive looked across the table at him coolly. 'Is that what you think? That I want to see a neighboring country torn apart and turned into chaos?'
'What else am I to believe?'
'Believe in me, Alan.' The President's expression turned cordial. 'Believe in what I am about to do.'
'How can I?' asked a confused Mercier, 'when I don't know what it is?'
'The answer is simple,' replied the President with a trace of sadness in his voice. 'I'm making a desperate play to save a critically ill United States.'
It had to be bad news. From the sour look on Harrison Moon's face, the President knew it couldn't be anything else. He laid aside the speech he was editing and sat back in his chair. 'You look like a man with a problem, Harrison.'
Moon laid a folder on the desk. 'I'm afraid the British have tagged the game.'
The President opened the file and found himself staring at an eight-by-ten glossy of a man who gazed back at the camera.
'This was just flown in from the Ocean Venturer,' explained Moon. 'An underwater survey vehicle was probing the wreck when it was ripped off by a pair of unknown divers. Before communications were broken, this face appeared on the monitors.'
'Who is he?'
'For the last twenty-five years he's been living under the name of Brian Shaw. As you can see in the report, he's a former British secret agent. His record makes interesting reading. Achieved quite a bit of notoriety back in the fifties and early sixties. He became too well known to operate; couldn't step on the sidewalk without a Soviet agent from their SMERSH assassination unit waiting to cut him down. His cover, as they say in the intelligence circles, was blown. Forced his secluded retirement. Their secret service buried his old identity by listing him as killed on duty in the West Indies.'
'How did you put a make on him so fast?'
'Commander Milligan is on board the Ocean Venturer. She recognized him from the monitors. The CIA tracked down his true identity in their files.'
'She knew Shaw?' the President asked incredulously.
Moon nodded. 'Met him at a party in Los Angeles a month ago.'
'I thought she was shipped out to sea.'
'A foul- up. It never occurred to anyone to check out the fact that her ship was ordered to lay over three days in Long Beach for modifications. Also, nothing was said about not allowing her on shore.'
'Their meeting? Could it have been a setup?'
'Seems so. The FBI spotted Shaw when he arrived from Britain. A usual procedure when embassy staff members greet overseas visitors. Shaw was escorted to a plane bound for LA. There the party was thrown by Graham Humberly, a well known jet setter on the payroll of British intelligence.'
'So Commander Milligan spilled her knowledge of the treaty.
Moon shrugged. 'She had no instructions to keep her mouth shut.'
'But how did they get wind of our knowledge of the treaty in the first place?'
'We don't know,' Moon admitted.
The President read through the report on Shaw. 'Odd that the British would trust an assignment of such magnitude to a man crowding seventy.'
'At first glance it seems MI6 has given our treaty search low priority. But when you think about it, Shaw might well be the perfect choice to operate undercover. If Commander Milligan hadn't recognized his face, I doubt if we'd have tied him to British intelligence.'
'Times have changed since Shaw was on the active list. He may be out of his element on this one.'
'I wouldn't bet on it,' Moon said. 'The guy is no slouch. He's pegged us every step of the way.'
The President sat very still for a moment. 'It would appear that our neatly hatched concept has been penetrated.'
'Yes, sir,' Moon nodded somberly. 'It's only a question of days, maybe hours, before the Ocean Venturer is ordered off the St. Lawrence. The stakes are too high for the British to gamble on us not finding the treaty.'
'Then we write off the Empress of Ireland as a lost cause.
'Unless…...' Moon said as if thinking out loud. 'Unless Dirk Pitt can find the treaty in what precious time he has left.'
Pitt scanned the screens, which showed the salvage team going about their business on the hulk below. Like two moon creatures cavorting in slow motion, the JIM suits and their human occupants carefully placed the Pyroxpne on the upper superstructure. The men worked comfortably under the surface equal atmosphere within their articulated enclosures. While outside, the bodies of the scuba divers were squeezed by seventy-five pounds of pressure per square inch. Pitt turned to Doug Hoker, who was fine-tuning a monitor.
'Where's the submersible?'
Hoker turned and studied a chart unreeling from a sonar recorder. 'The Sappho I is cruising twenty meters off the port bow of the Empress. Until we're ready to begin removing debris, I've ordered its crew to patrol a quarter- mile perimeter around the wreck.'
'Good thinking,' said Pitt. 'Any sign of trespassers?'
'Negative.'
'At least we'll be ready for them this time.'
Hoker made a dubious gesture. 'I can't give you a perfect detection system. Visibility is too lousy for the cameras to see very far.'
'What about side-scan sonar?'
