Vixen 03

Committee as a whole.'

'I understand,' said Lusana.

'Mr. Chairman.'

Daggat turned to Loren. 'Yes, Congresswoman Smith.'

'I must object to the appearance of General Lusana at this hearing on the grounds that he does not represent an established African government.'

An undercurrent of murmurs swept the room.

'It is true,' Lusana said, leveling his gaze at Loren, 'I represent no established government. I do, however, represent the free soul of every black on the African continent.'

'Eloquently put,' said Loren. 'But rules are rules.'

'You cannot turn a deaf ear to the pleas of millions of my people over a technicality.' Lusana sat immobile, his voice almost too soft for those in the back of the room to hear. 'A man's most prized possession is his nationality. Without it he is nothing. In Africa we are in a fight to claim a nationality that rightfully belongs to us. I am here to beg for black dignity. I do not ask for money to buy arms. I do not ask for your soldiers to fight alongside ours. I plead only for the necessary funds to buy food and medical supplies for the thousands who have suffered in their war against inhumanity. '

It was a masterful performance, but Loren was not suckered by it.

'You are a clever man, General. If I argue your appea, I'd be condoning your presence at this hearing. My objection still stands.'

Daggat made an imperceptible nod to one of his aides in the background and turned to Earl Hunt. 'Congresswoman Smith's protest is duly noted. How say you, Congressman Hunt?'

While Daggat was polling Hunt and Roscoe Meyers for their opinions, his aide moved behind Loren and handed her a large white envelope.

'What is this?'

'I was told to tell you it is most urgent that you open the envelope now, ma'am.' Then he hastily turned away and left the chamber through a side door.

Loren undid the unsealed flap of the envelope and eased out one of several eight-by-ten photographs. It had captured her naked body entwined with Pitt's in one of a wild series of orgiastic positions. Quickly, she shoved the photo back in the envelope, her face gone white, reflecting fear and disgust.

Daggat turned to her. 'Congresswoman Smith, we seem to have a hung committee. Congressman Hunt and I agree that General Lusana should be heard. Congressman Meyers stands with you. As chairman of this hearing, may I prevail upon you in the interest of fair play to permit the general to speak his piece.'

Loren felt the hairs on the back of her neck stiffen. Daggat was leering at her. It was all there in his expression: he was no stranger to the contents of the envelope. She struggled to contain the sickness that was rising in her throat, suddenly realizing that Felicia Collins had sold her out to Lusana's cause. Silently she cursed her stupidity in allowing herself to be set up as naively as a teenage runaway with a big-city pimp.

'Congresswoman Smith?' Daggat said, prompting her.

There was no out. Daggat controlled her now. She lowered her eyes and trembled.

'Mr. Chairman,' she said in total defeat, 'I withdraw my objection.'

Barbara Gore, at forty-three, still cut the figure of a Vogue fashion model. She remained trim and had shapely legs, and her high-cheekboned features had yet to flesh with age. She had once had an affair with Dale Jarvis, but that had long since passed through the sexual phase, and now she was simply a good friend as well as his personal secretary.

She sat across from his desk, those beautiful legs crossed at an angle comfortable only to women and showy to the male eye. Jarvis, however, took no notice of them. He sat engrossed in dictation. After a while he abruptly broke off and began probing through a mountainous batch of highly classified reports.

'Perhaps if you tell me what it is you're looking for,' Barbara said patiently, 'I can help you.'

'A status check on all existing battleships. I was promised delivery for today.'

She sighed and reached into the pile and extracted a stapled sheaf of blue papers. 'Been on your desk since eight this morning.' There were times when Barbara was moved to exasperation over Jarvis's sloppy work habits, but she had long ago learned to accept his idiosyncrasies and flow with the tide.

'What does it say?'

'What do you want it to say?' she asked. 'You haven't bothered to tell me what you're after.'

'I want to buy a battleship., of course. Who has one for sale?'

Barbara shot him a dour expression and studied the blue papers. 'I'm afraid you're out of luck. The Soviet Union has one left, which is used to train naval cadets. France has long since scrapped hers. Same with Great Britain, even though she still keeps one on the rolls for the sake of tradition.'

'The United States?'

'Five of them have been preserved as memorials.'

'What are their present locations?'

'They're enshrined in the states they were named after: North Carolina, Texas, Alabama, and Massachusetts.'

'You said five.'

'The Missouri is maintained by the Navy in Bremerton, Washington. Oh, I almost forgot: the Arizona is still sentimentally kept on naval rolls as a commissioned ship.'

Jarvis put his hands behind his head and stared at the ceiling. 'I seem to recall the battlewagons Wisconsin and Iowa were tied up at the Philadelphia Navy Yard a few years back.'

'Good memory,' said Barbar a. 'According to the report, the Wisconsin went to the ship-breakers in 1984.'

'And the Iowa?'

'Sold for scrap.'

Jarvis rose and walked to the window. He looked out, hands in pockets, for several moments. Then he said, 'The Wild Rose folder.'

As if reading his thoughts, Barbara pointed to its cover. 'I have it.'

'Send it over to John Gossard in the Africa Section and tell him the operation made damn fine reading.'

'Is that all?'

Jarvis turned. 'Yes,' he said pensively. 'All things considered, that's all there was to it.'

At the same moment, a small doubleender whaleboat dropped anchor a hundred yards off Walnut Point, Virginia, and swung slowly around until its bow split the incoming tide. Patrick Fawkes unfolded a worn old deck chair and erected it on the narrow stern deck, barely fitting the ends between the bulwarks. Next he propped a fishing pole against the helm and threw its hookless line over the side.

He had just opened a picnic basket and was lifting out a large wedge of Cheshire cheese and a bottle of Cutty Sark when a tub towing three heavily laden trash scows acknowledged him with a passing signal blast from its whistle. Fawkes waved back and braced his feet as the wash from the plodding vessels rocked his little whaleboat. Fawkes noted the time of the tug's passing in a notebook.

The battered deck chair creaked in protest as he lowered his huge body onto its cushioned slats. Then he ate a cut of the Cheshire and took a swig from the bottle.

Every commercial ship or pleasure boat that passed by the seemingly drowsing fisherman was sketched into the notebook. The time of their appearance, heading, and speed were also recorded. One sighting interested Fawkes more than most. He kept a pair of binoculars trained on a Navy missile destroyer until it disappeared beyond the land point, carefully observing the empty missile mounts and the relaxed attitude of the deck crew.

Toward late evening a light shower began to splatter against the scarred and paintcracked deck. Fawkes loved the rain. During storms at sea he'd often stood and faced their furies on his ship's bridge wing, later upbraiding his junior officers who preferred hot tea and the creature comforts of the control room. Even now, Fawkes ignored the shelter of a small cabin and elected to remain on deck, donning a slicker to protect his skin and clothes from the damp.

He felt good; the rain cleansed the air in his lungs, the thick richness of the cheese filled his belly, and the scotch made his veins fairly glow. He allowed his mind to roam free, and soon it began flashing images of his lost