“Yes, hemlock was very popular during classical times. Best remembered as the drink given to Socrates. Seldom used these days, but still easy to come by and quite lethal. A large enough dose will paralyze the respiratory organs.”
“How was it administered?” Sam Emmett inquired.
“According to SAP, the poison was ingested by this particular victim along with peppermint ice cream.”
“Death for dessert,” Mercier muttered philosophically.
“Of the Coast Guard crewmen we identified,” Thornburg continued, “eight took the hemlock with the ice cream, four with coffee, and one with a diet soft drink.”
“SAP could tell all that from bodies immersed in water for five days?” asked Lucas.
“Decay starts immediately at death,” explained Thornburg, “and travels outward from the intestines and other organs containing body bacteria. The process develops rapidly in the presence of air. But when the body is underwater, where the oxygen content is low, decay proceeds very slowly. The preservation factor that worked in our favor was the confinement of the bodies. A drowning victim, for example, will float to the surface after a few days as the decomposition gases begin to expand, thereby hastening decay from air exposure. The bodies you brought in, however, had been totally submerged until an hour before we began the autopsies.”
“The chef was a busy man,” noted Metcalf.
Lucas shook his head. “Not the chef, but the dining-room steward. He’s the only crewman unaccounted for.”
“An impostor,” said Brogan. “The real steward was probably murdered and his corpse hidden.”
“What about the others?” queried Emmett.
“The Asians?”
“Were they poisoned too?”
“Yes, but in a different manner. They were all shot.”
“Shot, poisoned, which is it?”
“They were killed by fragmenting darts loaded with a highly lethal venom that comes from the dorsal spines of the stonefish.”
“No amateurs, these guys,” commented Emmett.
Thornburg nodded in agreement. “The method was very professional, especially the means of penetration. I removed a similar dart two years ago from a Soviet agent brought in by Mr. Brogan’s people. As I recall, the poison was injected by a bio-inoculator.”
“I’m not familiar with it,” said Lucas.
“An electrically operated handgun,” said Brogan, giving Thornburg an icy stare. “Totally silent, used on occasion by our resident agents.”
“A little loose with your arsenal, aren’t you, Martin?” Mercier goaded him good-naturedly.
“The unit in question was probably stolen from the manufacturer,” Brogan said defensively.
“Has an ID been made on any of the Asian bodies?” Lucas asked.
“They have no records in FBI files,” admitted Emmett.
“Nor with the CIA and Interpol,” Brogan added. “None of the intelligence services of friendly Asian countries have anything on them either.”
Mercier stared idly at the corpse moving out from the interior of the spatial analyzer probe. “It appears, gentlemen, that every time we open a door we walk into an empty room.”
35
“What kind of monsters are we dealing with?” Douglas Oates growled after listening to General Metcalf’s report on the autopsies. His face wore a chalky pallor and his voice was cold with fury. “Twenty-one murders. And for what purpose? Where is the motive? Is the President dead or alive? If this is a grand extortion scheme, why haven’t we received a ransom demand?”
Metcalf, Dan Fawcett and Secretary of Defense Jesse Simmons sat in silence in front of Oates’s desk.
“We can’t sit on this thing much longer,” Oates continued. “Any minute now the news media will become suspicious and stampede into an investigation. Already they’re grousing because no presidential interviews have been granted. Press Secretary Thompson has run out of excuses.”
“Why not have the President face the press?” Fawcett suggested.
Oates looked dubious. “That actor — what’s his name — Sutton? He would never get away with it.”
“Not up close on a podium under a battery of lights, but in a setting under shadows at a distance of a hundred feet… Well, it might work.”
“You got something in mind?” Oates asked.
“We stage a photo opportunity to enhance the President’s image. It’s done all the time.”
“Like Carter playing softball and Reagan chopping wood,” said Oates thoughtfully. “I think I see a down- home scene on the President’s farm.”
“Complete with crowing roosters and bleating sheep,” allowed Fawcett.
“And Vice President Margolin? Our double for him can’t be faked in shadows at a hundred feet.”
“A few references by Sutton and a friendly wave by the double at a distance should suffice,” Fawcett answered, becoming more enthusiastic over his brainstorm.
Simmons gazed steadily at Fawcett. “How soon can you have everyone ready?”
“First thing in the morning. Dawn, as a matter of fact. Reporters are night owls. They hang around waiting for late news to break. They’re not at their best before sunup.”
Oates looked at Metcalf and Simmons. “Well, what do you think?”
“We’ve got to throw the reporters a bone before they become bored and start snooping,” answered Simmons. “I vote yes.”
Metcalf nodded. “The only stalling tactic we’ve got.”
Fawcett came to his feet and peered at his watch. “If I leave for Andrews Air Force Base now, I should arrive at the farm in four hours. Plenty of time to arrange the details with Thompson and make an announcement to the press corps.”
Fawcett’s hand froze on the doorknob as Oates’s voice cut across the room like a bayonet.
“Don’t bungle it, Dan. For God’s sake, don’t bungle it.”
36
Vladimir Polevoi caught up with Antonov as the Soviet leader strolled beneath the outer Kremlin wall with his bodyguards. They were moving past the burial area where heroes of the Soviet Union were interred. The weather was unusually warm and Antonov carried his coat over one arm.
“Taking advantage of the fine summer day?” Polevoi asked conversationally as he approached.
Antonov turned. He was young for a Russian head of state, sixty-two, and he walked with a brisk step. “Too pleasant to waste behind a desk,” he said with a curt nod.
They walked for a while in silence as Polevoi waited for a sign or a word that Antonov was ready to talk business. Antonov paused before the small structure marking Stalin’s gravesite.
“You know him?” he asked.
Polevoi shook his head. “I was too far down the party ladder for him to notice me.”
Antonov’s expression went stern and he muttered tensely. “You were fortunate.” Then he stepped on, dabbing a handkerchief at the perspiration forming on the back of his neck.
Polevoi could see his chief was in no mood for small talk, so he came to the point. “We may have a break on the Huckleberry Finn Project.”
“We could use one,” Antonov said grudgingly.
“One of our agents in New York who is in charge of security for our United Nations workers has turned up
