“I’ve got proof that says otherwise. Enough to use it as a news item. I release this and every muckraker between here and Seattle will crawl over the White House like an army of killer ants.”
“Do that and you’ll have a dozen eggs on your face when the President stands as close to you as I am and denies it.”
“Not if I find out what sort of mischief he’s been up to while a double played hide-and-seek down on the farm.”
“I won’t wish you luck, because the whole idea is outlandish.”
“Level with me, Dan. Something big is going down.”
“Trust me, Curt. Nothing off limits is happening. The President will be back in a couple of days. You can ask him yourself.”
“What about the sudden burst of secret Cabinet meetings at all hours?”
“No comment.”
“It’s true, isn’t it?”
“Who’s your source for that little gem?”
“Somebody who’s seen a lot of unmarked cars entering the sub-basement of the Treasury Department in the dead of night.”
“So the Treasury people are burning the midnight oil.”
“No lights go on in the building. My guess is they’re sneaking into the White House through the utility tunnel and congregating in the Situation Room.”
“Think what you like, but you’re dead wrong. That’s all I have to say on the subject.”
“I’m not going to drop it,” Mayo said defiantly.
“Suit yourself,” Fawcett replied indifferently. “It’s your funeral.”
Mayo dropped back and watched as Fawcett walked through the security gate. The presidential adviser had put up a good front, he thought, but that’s all it was, a front. Any doubts Mayo might have entertained about sinister maneuvers emanating behind the walls of the nation’s executive branch were swept away.
He was more determined than ever to damn well find out what was going on.
Fawcett slid the cassette into a videotape recorder and sat down in front of the TV screen. He ran the tape three times, examining every detail until he knew what Mayo had caught.
Wearily he picked up a phone and asked for a secure line to the State Department. After a few moments the voice of Doug Oates answered through the earpiece.
“Yes, Dan, what is it?”
“We have a new development.”
“News of the President?”
“No, sir. I’ve just had a talk with Curtis Mayo of CNN News. He’s onto us.”
There was a taut pause. “What can we do?”
“Nothing,” said Fawcett somberly, “absolutely nothing.”
Sam Emmett left the FBI building in downtown Washington and drove over to CIA headquarters in Langley, Virginia. A summer shower passed overhead, moistening the forested grounds of the intelligence complex and leaving behind the sweet smell of dampened greenery.
Martin Brogan was standing outside his office when Emmett walked through the anteroom door. The tall ex-college professor offered an outstretched hand. “Thank you for taking time from your busy schedule to drive over.”
Emmett smiled as he took his hand. Brogan was one of the few men around the President he genuinely admired. “Not at all. I’m not a desk man. I jump at any excuse to get off my butt and move around.”
They entered Brogan’s office and sat down. “Coffee or a drink?” Brogan asked.
“Nothing, thanks.” Emmett opened his briefcase and laid a bound report on the CIA Director’s desk. “This spells out the Bureau’s findings until an hour ago on the President’s disappearance.”
Brogan handed him a similarly bound report. “Likewise from Central Intelligence. Damned little to add since our last meeting, I’m sorry to say.”
“You’re not alone. We’re miles from a breakthrough too.”
Brogan paused to light a ropelike Toscanini cigar. It seemed oddly out of place with his Brooks Brothers suit and vest. Together the men began reading. After nearly ten minutes of quiet, Brogan’s expression softened from deep concentration to curious interest, and he tapped a page of Emmett’s report.
“This section about a missing Soviet psychologist.”
“I thought that would interest you.”
“He and his entire United Nations staff vanished the same night as the
“Yes, to date none of them have turned up. Could be merely an intriguing coincidence, but I felt it shouldn’t be ignored.”
“The first thought that crossed my mind is that this”—Brogan glanced at the report again—”Lugovoy, Dr. Aleksei Lugovoy, may have been assigned by the KGB to use his psychological knowledge to pry national secrets from the abducted men.”
“A theory we can’t afford to dismiss.”
“The name,” Brogan said vacantly. “It strikes a chord.”
“You’ve heard it before?”
Suddenly Brogan’s brows raised and his eyes widened ever so slightly and he reached for his intercom. “Send up the latest file from the French Internal Security Agency.”
“You think you’ve got something?”
“A recorded conversation between President Antonov and his KGB chief Vladimir Polevoi. I believe Lugovoy was mentioned.”
“From French intelligence?” Emmett asked.
“Antonov was on a state visit. Our friendly rivals in Paris are quietly cooperative about passing along information they don’t consider sensitive to their national interests.”
In less than a minute, Brogan’s private secretary knocked on the door and gave him a transcription of the secret tape recording. He quickly consumed its contents.
“This is most encouraging,” he said. “Read between the lines and you can invent all sorts of Machiavellian schemes. According to Polevoi, the UN psychologist disappeared off the Staten Island ferry in New York and all contact was severed.”
“The KGB lost several sheep from their herd at one time?” Emmett asked in mild astonishment. “That’s a new twist. They must be getting sloppy.”
“Polevoi’s own statement.” Brogan held out the transcript papers. “See for yourself.”
Emmett read the typed print and reread it. When he looked up, a trace of triumph brightened his eyes. “So the Russians
Brogan nodded in agreement. “From all appearances, but they can’t be in it alone. Not if they’re ignorant of Lugovoy’s whereabouts. Another source is working with them, someone here in the United States with the power to dictate the operation.”
“You?” Emmett asked wolfishly.
Brogan laughed. “No, and you?”
Emmett shook his head. “If the KGB, the CIA and the FBI are all kept in the dark, then who’s dealing the cards?”
“The person they refer to as the ‘old bitch’ and ‘Chinese whore.’ “
“No gentlemen these Communists.”
“The code word for their operation must be Huckleberry Finn.”
Emmett stretched out his legs, crossing them at the ankles, and sagged comfortably in his chair. “Huckleberry Finn,” he repeated, enunciating every syllable. “Our counterpart in Moscow has a dark sense of humor. But what’s important, he’s unwittingly given us an eye to shove a sharp stick into.”
No one paid any attention to the two men seated comfortably in a pickup truck parked in a loading zone by
