where their tax dollars are spent. And you can’t blame them for not wanting to support a government managed by inept leaders and rip-off artists. You get five million people out there who tear up their tax forms come next April fifteenth, and the federal machinery as we know it will cease to function.”
The four men sat in the trailer office like frozen figures in a painting. The fantasy of their conjecture was not implausible. Nothing like this had ever happened before. The prospects of surviving the storm unscathed seemed remote.
At last Brogan said, “We’re lost without Vince Margolin.”
“That fellow Pitt over at NUMA gave us our first tangible lead,” said Brogan.
“So what have you got?” asked Metcalf.
“Pitt deduced that the mind control laboratory where Margolin is held is inside a river barge.”
“A what?” Metcalf asked as if he hadn’t heard right.
“River barge,” Emmett repeated. “Moored God knows where along the inland water route.”
“Are you searching?”
“With every available agent Martin and I can spare from both our agencies.”
“If you give me a few more details and come up with a quick plan to coordinate our efforts, I’ll throw in whatever forces the Defense Department can muster in the search areas.”
“That would certainly help, General,” said Oates. “Thank you.”
The phone rang and Oates picked it up. After listening silently for a moment, he set it down. “Crap!”
Emmett had never heard Oates use such an expletive before. “Who was that?”
“One of my aides reporting from the House of Representatives.”
“What did he say?”
“Moran just railroaded through passage of the impeachment vote.”
“Then nothing stands between him and the Presidency except trial by the Senate,” Brogan said.
“He’s moved up the timetable by a good ten hours,” said Metcalf.
“If we can’t produce the Vice President by this time tomorrow,” Emmett said, “we can kiss the United States goodbye.”
66
Giordino found Pitt in his hangar, sitting comfortably in the back seat of an immense open touring car, his feet propped sideways on a rear door. Giordino couldn’t help admiring the classic lines of the tourer. Italian built in 1925, with coachwork by Cesare Sala, the red torpedo-bodied Isotta-Fraschini sported long, flared fenders, a disappearing top and a coiled cobra on the radiator cap.
Pitt was contemplating a blackboard mounted on a tripod about ten feet from the car. A large nautical chart depicting the entire inland water route was tacked to the outer frame. Across the board he had written several notations and what appeared to Giordino as a list of ships.
“I’ve just come from the admiral’s office,” Giordino said.
“What’s the latest?” Pitt asked, his eyes never leaving the blackboard.
“The Joint Chiefs of Staff have thrown the armed forces into the hunt. Combined with agents from the FBI and CIA, they should be able to cover every inch of shoreline by tomorrow evening.”
“On the ground, by the sea and in the air,” Pitt murmured uninterestedly. “From Maine to Florida.”
“Why the sour grapes?”
“A damned waste of time. The barge isn’t there,” Pitt said, flipping a piece of chalk in the air.
Giordino shot him a quizzical look. “What are you babbling about? The barge has to be in there somewhere.”
“Not necessarily.”
“You saying they’re searching in the wrong place?”
“If you were the Bougainvilles, you’d expect an exhaustive, whole-hog hunt, right?”
“Elementary reasoning,” Giordino said loftily. “Me, I’d be more inclined to camouflage the barge under a grove of trees, hide it inside an enclosed waterfront warehouse, or alter the exterior to look like a giant chicken coop or whatever. Seems to me concealment is the logical way to go.”
Pitt laughed. “Your chicken coop brainstorm, now that’s class.”
“You got a better idea?”
Pitt stepped out of the Isotta, went to the blackboard and folded over the inland waterway chart, revealing another chart showing the coastline along the Gulf of Mexico. “As it happens, yes, I do.” He tapped his finger on a spot circled in red ink. “The barge holding Margolin and Loren captive is somewhere around here.”
Giordino moved closer and examined the marked area. Then he looked at Pitt with an expression usually reserved for people who held signs announcing the end of the world.
“New Orleans?”
“Below New Orleans,” Pitt corrected. “I judge it to be moored there now.”
Giordino shook his head. “I think your brakes went out. You’re telling me Bougainville towed a barge from Charleston, around the tip of Florida and across the gulf to the Mississippi River, almost seventeen hundred miles in less than four days? Sorry, pal, the tug isn’t built that can push a barge that fast.”
“Granted,” Pitt allowed. “But suppose they cut off seven hundred miles?”
“How?” inquired Giordino, his voice a combination of doubt and sarcasm. “By installing wheels and driving it cross-country?”
“No joke,” Pitt said seriously. “By towing it through the recently opened Florida Cross State Canal from Jacksonville on the Atlantic to Crystal River on the Gulf of Mexico, shortcutting the entire southern half of the state.”
The revelation sparked Giordino. He peered at the chart again, studying the scale. Then, using his thumb and forefinger as a pair of dividers, he roughly measured the reduced distance between Charleston and New Orleans. When he finally turned and looked at Pitt, he wore a sheepish smile.
“It works.” Then the smile quickly faded. “So what does it prove?”
“The Bougainvilles must have a heavily guarded dock facility and terminal where they unload their illegal cargoes. It probably sits on the banks of the river somewhere between New Orleans and the entrance to the gulf.”
“The Mississippi Delta?” Giordino showed his puzzlement. “How’d you pull that little number out of the hat?”
“Take a look,” Pitt said, pointing to the list of ships on the blackboard and then reading them off. “The
“I fail to make the connection.”
“Take another look at the chart. Every one of those ships is named after a town along the river delta.”
“A symbolic cipher?”
“The only mistake the Bougainvilles ever let slip, using a code to designate their area of covert operations.”
Giordino peered closer. “By God, it fits like a girl in tight shorts.”
Pitt rapped the chart with his knuckles. “I’ll bet my Isotta-Fraschini against your Bronco that’s where we’ll find Loren.”
“You’re on.”
“Run over to the NUMA air terminal and sign out a Lear jet. I’ll contact the admiral and explain why we’re flying to New Orleans.”
Giordino was already heading toward the door. “I’ll have the plane checked out and ready for takeoff when you get there,” he called over his shoulder.
Pitt hurried up the stairs to his apartment and threw some clothes in an overnight bag. He opened a gun cabinet and took out an old Colt Thompson submachine serial number 8545, and two loaded drums of.45-caliber cartridges and laid them in a violin case. Then he picked up the phone and called Sandecker’s office.
