“As near as I could judge by their clothing. They weren’t in any condition to interrogate.”
“Eight civilians,” Sandecker repeated. “And none of them looked remotely familiar to you?”
“I’m not sure their own mothers could identify them,” said Pitt. “Why? Was I supposed to know somebody?”
Sandecker shook his head. “I can’t say.”
Pitt couldn’t recall seeing the admiral so distraught. The iron armor had fallen away. The penetrating, intelligent eyes seemed stricken. Pitt watched for a reaction as he spoke.
“If I had to venture an opinion, I’d say someone’ snuffed the candle on half the Chinese embassy.”
“Chinese?” The eyes suddenly turned as sharp as ice picks. “What are you saying?”
“Seven of the eight civilians were from eastern Asia.”
“Could you be in error?” Sandecker asked, regaining a foothold. “With little or no visibility—”
“Visibility was ten feet. And, I’m well aware of the difference between the eye folds of a Caucasian and an Oriental.”
“Thank God,” Sandecker said, exhaling a deep breath.
“I’d be much obliged if you would inform me just what in hell you expected Al and me to find down there.”
Sandecker’s eyes softened. “I owe you an explanation,” he said, “but I can’t give you one. There are events occurring around us that we have no need to know.”
“I have my own project,” said Pitt, his voice turning cold. “I’m not interested in this one.”
“Yes, Julie Mendoza. I understand.”
Pitt pulled something from under the sleeve of his wet suit. “Here, I almost forgot. I took this from one of the bodies.”
“What is it?”
Pitt held up a soggy leather billfold. On the inside was a waterproof ID card with a man’s photograph. Opposite was a badge in the shape of a shield. “A Secret Service agent’s identification,” Pitt answered. “His name was Brock, Lyle Brock.”
Sandecker took the billfold without comment. He glanced at his watch. “I’ve got to contact Sam Emmett at FBI. This is his problem now.”
“You can’t drop it that easily, Admiral. We both know NUMA will be called on to raise the
“You’re right, of course,” Sandecker said wearily.
“You’re relieved of that project. You do what you have to do. I’ll have Giordino handle the salvage.” He turned and stepped into the wheelhouse to use the ship-to-shore phone.
Pitt stood looking for a long time at the dark forbidding water of the river, reliving the terrible scene below. A line from an old seaman’s poem ran through his head: “A ghostly ship, with a ghostly crew, with no place to go.”
Then as though closing a curtain, he turned his thoughts back to the
On the east bank of the river, concealed in a thicket of ash trees, a man dressed in Vietnam leaf camouflage fatigues pressed his eye to the viewfinder of a video camera. The warm sun and the heavy humidity caused sweat to trickle down his face. He ignored the discomfort and kept taping, zooming in the telephoto lens until Pitt’s upper body filled the miniature viewing screen. Then he panned along the entire length of the clamming boat, holding for a few seconds on each member of the crew.
A half-hour after the divers climbed out of the water, a small fleet of Coast Guard boats descended around the
When the battery of his recording unit died, the hidden cameraman neatly packed away his equipment and slipped into the approaching dusk.
31
Pitt was contemplating a menu when the maitre d’ of Positano Restaurant on Fairmont Avenue steered Loren to his table. She moved with an athletic grace, nodding and exchanging a few words with the Capitol crowd eating lunch amid the restaurant’s murals and wine racks.
Pitt looked up and their eyes met. She returned his appraising stare with an even smile. Then he rose and pulled back her chair.
“Damn, you look ugly today,” he said.
She laughed. “You continue to mystify me.”
“How so?”
“One minute you’re a gentleman, and the next a slob.”
“I was told women crave variety.”
Her eyes, clear and soft, were amused. “I do give you credit, though. You’re the only man I know who doesn’t kiss my fanny.”
Pitt’s face broke into his infectious grin. “That’s because I don’t need any political favors.”
She made a face and opened a menu. “I don’t have time to be made fun of. I have to get back to my office and respond to a ton of constituents’ mail. What looks good?”
“I thought I’d try the
“My scale said I was up a pound this morning. I think I’ll just have a salad.”
The waiter approached.
“A drink?” Pitt asked.
“You order.”
“Two Sazerac cocktails on the rocks, and please ask the bartender to pour rye instead of bourbon.”
“Very good, sir,” the waiter acknowledged.
Loren laid her napkin in her lap. “I’ve phoned for two days. Where’ve you been?”
“The admiral sent me on an emergency salvage job.”
“Was she pretty?” she asked, playing the age-old game.
“A coroner might think so. But drowned bodies never turned me on.”
“Sorry,” she said and went sober and quiet until the drinks were brought. They stirred the ice around the glasses and then sipped the reddish contents.
“One of my aides ran across something that might help you,” she said finally.
“What is it?”
She pulled several stapled sheets of typewritten paper from her attache case and passed them to Pitt. Then she began explaining in a soft undertone.
“Not much meat, I’m afraid, but there’s an interesting report on the CIA’s phantom navy.”
“Didn’t know they had one,” Pitt said, scanning the pages.
“Since 1963 they have accumulated a small fleet of ships that few people inside the government know about. And the few who are aware of the fleet won’t admit it exists. Besides surveillance, its primary function is to carry out clandestine operations involving the transporting of men and supplies for the infiltration of agents or guerrillas into unfriendly countries. Originally it was put together to harass Castro after his takeover of Cuba. Several years later, when it became apparent that Castro was too strong to topple, their activities were curtailed, partly because the Cubans threatened to retaliate against American fishing vessels. From that time on the CIA navy expanded its sphere of operations from Central America to the fighting in Vietnam to Africa and the Middle East. Do you follow?”
“I’m with you, but I have no idea where it’s leading.”
“Just be patient,” she said. “Several years ago an attack cargo transport called the
