He identified himself to Sandecker’s private secretary and was put through. “Admiral?”
“Dirk?”
“I think I’ve got the barge area fixed.”
“Where?”
“The Mississippi River Delta. Al and I are leaving for there now.”
“What makes you think it’s in the delta?”
“Half guess, half deduction, but it’s the best lead we’ve got.”
Sandecker hesitated before replying. “You’d better hold up,” he said quietly.
“Hold up? What are you talking about?”
“Alan Moran is demanding the search be called off.”
Pitt was stunned. “What in hell for?”
“He says it’s a waste of time and taxpayers’ money to continue, because Vince Margolin is dead.”
“Moran is full of crap.”
“He has the clothes Margolin was wearing the night they all disappeared to back up his claim.”
“We still have Loren to think about.”
“Moran says she’s dead too.”
Pitt felt like he was sinking in quicksand. “He’s a damned liar!”
“Maybe so, but if he’s right about Margolin, you’re defaming the next President of the United States.”
“The day that little creep takes the oath is the day I turn in my citizenship.”
“You probably won’t be alone,” Sandecker said sourly. “But your personal feelings don’t alter the situation.”
Pitt stood unbudging. “I’ll call you from Louisiana.”
“I was hoping you’d say that. Stay in close contact. I’ll do everything I can to help from this end.”
“Thanks, you old fraud.”
“Get your ass in gear and tell Giordino to stop swiping my cigars.”
Pitt grinned and hung up. He finished packing and hurried from the hangar. Three minutes after he drove off, his phone began to ring.
Two hundred miles away an ashen-faced Sal Casio despairingly waited in vain for an answer.
67
Ten minutes after twelve noon, Alan Moran walked through the main corridor of the Capitol, down a narrow staircase and opened the door to an out-of-the-way office he kept for privacy. Most men in his position were constantly surrounded by a hive of aides, but Moran preferred to travel a solitary trail, unhindered by inane conversation.
He always wore the wary look of an antelope scanning the African plain for predators. He had the expressionless eyes of a man whose only love was power, power attained by whatever means, at whatever cost. To achieve his prestigious position in Congress, Moran had carefully nurtured a billboard image. In his public life he oozed a religious fervor, the personification of the friendly shy man with a warm sense of humor, the appeal of the neighbor next door, ever ready to lend his lawn mower, and the past of a man born underprivileged, self-made.
His private life couldn’t have been more at odds. He was a closet atheist who looked on his constituents and the general public as ignorant rabble whose chronic complaints led to an open license to twist and control for his own advantage. Never married, with no close friends, he lived frugally like a penitent monk in a small rented apartment. Every dollar over and above subsistence level went into his secret corporation in Chicago, where it was added to funds obtained through illegal contributions, bribes and other corrupt investments. Then it was spread and sown to increase his power base until there were few men and women with top positions in business and government who weren’t tied to his coattails by political favors and influence.
Douglas Oates, Sam Emmett, Martin Brogan, Alan Mercier and Jesse Simmons, who was recently released from house arrest, were seated in Moran’s office as he entered. They all rose as he took his place behind a desk. There was an air of smugness about him that was obvious to his visitors. He had summoned them to his private territory and they had no choice but to respond.
“Thank you for meeting with me, gentlemen,” he said with a false smile. “I assume you know the purpose.”
“To discuss your possible succession to the Presidency,” Oates replied.
“There is no
“Aren’t you jumping the gun?” asked Simmons.
“Not if it means stopping the President from any more outrageous actions.”
Oates looked dubious. “Some people might interpret your undue reaction, at least until Vince Margolin is proven dead, as an improper attempt to usurp power, especially when considering your part in motivating the President’s ouster.”
Moran glared at Oates and shifted his stare to Emmett. “You have the Vice President’s clothing that was found in the river.”
“My FBI lab has identified the clothing as belonging to Margolin,” acknowledged Emmett. “But it shows no indication of being immersed in water for two weeks.”
“Most likely it washed onshore and dried out.”
“You say the fisherman who came to your office with the evidence stated he snagged it in the middle of the Potomac River.”
“You’re the Director of the FBI,” snapped Moran angrily. “You figure it out. I’m not on trial here.”
“Perhaps it would be in the best interests of everyone present,” Oates said quietly, “to continue the search for Margolin.”
“I’m in total agreement,” said Brogan. “We can’t write him off until we find his body.”
“Questions will most certainly arise,” added Mercier. “For example, how did he die?”
“Obviously he drowned,” Moran answered. “Probably when the
“Also,” Mercier continued, “you never satisfactorily explained when and how you and Marcus Larimer disembarked from the
“I’ll be happy to answer any questions before a congressional investigating committee,” said Moran. “Certainly not here and now in front of people who are in opposition to me.”
“You must understand, in spite of his mistakes, our loyalties lie with the President,” said Oates.
“I don’t doubt it for a minute,” said Moran. “That’s why I summoned you here this morning. Ten minutes after the Senate votes, I will be sworn in as President. My first official act will be to announce either your resignations or firings; you have your choice. As of midnight tonight, none of you will be working for the United States government.”
The narrow paved road snaked through the high hills that dropped steeply into the Black Sea. In the rear seat of a Cadillac Seville stretch limousine, Vladimir Polevoi sat reading the latest report from Aleksei Lugovoy. Every once in a while he looked up and gazed at the dawn sun creeping past the horizon.
The limousine turned heads wherever it rolled. Custom built with inlaid wood cabinets, color TV, electric divider, liquor bar and overhead stereo console, it had been ordered purchased by Polevoi and transported to Moscow under the guise of studying its mechanical technology. Shortly after its arrival he’d commandeered it as his own.
The long car climbed around the forested edge of a craggy cliff until the road ended at a huge wooden door hinged to a high brick wall. A uniformed officer saluted the KGB chief and pressed a switch. The door silently swung open to a vast garden that blazed with flowers, and the car was driven in and parked beside a spreading one-story
