taken their places in the pleasure boat. He also knew full well the captain would not resume the cruise until the ship was scoured and the congressmen apprehended.
He left the railing and mingled with the other passengers, who soon returned to their deck chairs and tables around the swimming pools and cocktail bars. He took the elevator down to his deck. As the doors opened and he stepped out into the passageway, he rubbed shoulders with a steward who was entering.
Pitt idly noticed the steward was Asian, probably Mongolian if he was serving on a Russian ship. He brushed past and continued to his cabin.
The steward stared at Pitt curiously. Then his expression turned to blank astonishment as he watched Pitt walk away. He was still standing there gawking when the door closed and the elevator rose without him.
Pitt rounded the corner of the passageway and spied a ship’s officer with several crewmen waiting outside a cabin three down and across from his. None of them displayed their usual shipboard conviviality. Their expressions looked deadly earnest. He fished in his pocket for the cabin key while watching out of the corner of one eye. In a few moments, a stewardess came out and said a few words in Russian to the officer and shook her head. Then they moved toward the next cabin and knocked.
Pitt quickly entered and closed the door. The tiny enclosure looked like a scene out of a Marx Brothers movie. Loren was perched on the upper pullman bunk while Moran and Larimer shared the lower. All three were ravenously attacking a tray of hors d’oeuvres that Giordino had smuggled from the dining-room buffet table.
Giordino, seated on a small chair, half in the bathroom, threw an offhand wave. “See anything interesting?”
“The Cuban connection arrived,” Pitt answered. “They’re drifting alongside, standing by to exchange passengers.”
“The bastards will have a long wait,” said Giordino.
“Try four minutes. That’s how long before we’ll all be chained and tossed on a boat bound for Havana.”
“They can’t help but find us,” Larimer uttered in a hollow voice. Pitt had seen many such washed-out men — the waxen skin, the eyes that once blazed with authority now empty, the vagrant thoughts. Despite his age and long years of self-indulgent living amid the political arena, Larimer was still a powerfully built man. But the heart and circulation were no longer up to the stress and dangers of staying alive in a hostile situation. Pitt didn’t require an internship to recognize a man who was in dire need of medical treatment.
“A Russian search party is just across the hall,” Pitt explained.
“We can’t let them imprison us again,” Moran shouted, springing to his feet and looking around wildly. “We must run!”
“You wouldn’t make the elevator,” snapped Pitt, grabbing him by the arm as he would a child throwing a tantrum. He didn’t much care for Moran. The Speaker of the House struck him as an oily weasel.
“There’s no place to hide,” said Loren, her voice not quite steady.
Pitt didn’t answer her but brushed past Giordino and went into the bathroom. He pulled back the shower curtain and turned on the hot water. Less than a minute later clouds of steam billowed into the cramped quarters.
“Okay,” Pitt directed, “everybody in the shower.”
Nobody moved. They all stared at him, standing wraithlike in the mist-filled doorway, as though he was from another earth.
“Move!” he said sharply. “They’ll be here any second.”
Giordino shook his head in bewilderment. “How are you going to get three people in that stall shower? It’s hardly big enough for one.”
“Get your wig on. You’re going in too.”
“The four of us?” Loren muttered incredulously.
“Either that or a free trip to Moscow. Besides, college kids cram entire fraternities in phone booths all the time.”
Giordino slipped the wig over his head as Pitt reentered the bathroom and turned the water to lukewarm. He placed a trembling Moran in a squatting position between Giordino’s legs. Larimer pressed his heavy body against the far corner of the stall as Loren climbed on Giordino’s back. At last they were jammed awkwardly into the stall, drenched by the flow from the shower head. Pitt was in the act of turning on the hot water in the sink to increase the steam cloud when he heard a knock on the door.
He hurried over and opened it so there was no suspicious hesitation. The ship’s first officer bowed slightly and smiled.
“Mr. Gruber, is it? Very sorry to bother you, but we’re making a routine inspection of the fire sprinklers. Do you mind if we enter?”
“Why, sure,” Pitt said obligingly. “No problem with me, but my wife’s in the shower.”
The officer nodded to the stewardess who eased past Pitt and made a show of checking the overhead sprinkler heads. Then she pointed to the bathroom door. “May I?”
“Go on in,” said Pitt good-naturedly. “She won’t mind.”
The stewardess opened the door and was enveloped in a cloud of steam. Pitt went over and leaned in the bathroom. “Hey, luv, our steward lady wants to check the fire sprinkler. All right with you?”
As the cloud began dissipating through the door, the stewardess saw a huge stringy mop of hair and a pair of heavy browed eyes peeking around the shower curtain.
“All right by me,” came Loren’s voice. “And could you bring us a couple of extra towels when you think of it?”
The stewardess simply nodded and said, “I’ll be back with the towels shortly.”
Pitt casually munched on a canape and offered one to the first officer, who gave a polite shake of his head.
“Does my heart good to see you people so interested in the safety of the passengers,” said Pitt.
“Merely doing our duty,” said the first officer, looking curiously at the half-eaten stack of hors d’oeuvres. “I see you also enjoy our shipboard cuisine.”
“My wife and I love appetizers,” said Pitt. “We’d rather eat these than a main course.”
The stewardess came out of the bathroom and said something to the first officer. The only word Pitt made out was
“Sorry to have troubled you,” said the first officer courteously.
“Any time,” replied Pitt.
As soon as the door lock clicked, Pitt rushed to the bathroom. “Everybody stay just as you are,” he ordered. “Don’t move.” Then he reclined on a bunk and stuffed his mouth with caviar on thin toast.
Two minutes later the door suddenly popped open and the stewardess burst through like a bulldozer, her eyes darting around the cabin.
“Can I help you?” Pitt mumbled with a full mouth.
“I brought the towels,” she said.
“Just throw them on the bathroom sink,” Pitt said indifferently.
She did precisely that and left the cabin, throwing Pitt a smile that was genuine and devoid of any suspicion.
He waited another two minutes, then opened the door a crack and peered into the passageway. The search crew was entering a cabin near the end of the passageway. He returned to the bathroom, reached in and turned off the water.
Whoever coined the phrase They look like drowned rats must have had the poor souls huddled together in that pocket-sized shower in mind. Their fingertips were beginning to shrivel and all their clothing was soaked through.
Giordino came out first and hurled his sopping wig in the sink. Loren climbed off his back and immediately began drying her hair. Pitt helped Moran to his feet and half carried Larimer to a bunk.
“A wise move,” said Pitt to Loren, kissing her on the nape of the neck. “Asking for more towels.”
“It struck me as the thing to do.”
“Are we safe now?” asked Moran. “Will they be back?”
“We won’t be in the clear till we’re off the ship,” said Pitt. “And we can count on their paying an encore visit. When they come up dry on this search, they’ll redouble their efforts for a second.”
