“Did we miscalculate, Vladimir?” Antonov asked. “Did we expect to accomplish too much too quickly?”
“Nobody can second-guess the Americans. They don’t behave in predictable ways.”
“Who will be the new President?”
“Alan Moran, Speaker of the House of Representatives.”
“Can we work with him?”
“My sources say he has a devious mind, but can be swayed.”
Antonov stared at a tiny fishing boat far below on the water. “If given the choice, I’d prefer Moran over Vice President Margolin.”
“Most definitely,” Polevoi agreed. “Margolin is a dedicated enemy of our Communist society, and an adamant believer in expanding the American military machine beyond our own.”
“Anything our people can do, discreetly, of course, to assist Moran into the White House?”
Polevoi shook his head. “Very little worth the risk of exposure and adverse propaganda.”
“Where is Margolin?”
“Still in the hands of the Bougainvilles.”
“Any chance that that old Oriental bitch will release him in time to cut out Moran?”
Polevoi shrugged helplessly. “Who can predict her schemes with any accuracy?”
“If you were her, Vladimir, what would you do?”
Polevoi paused thoughtfully, then said, “I’d strike a deal with Moran to dispose of Margolin.”
“Has Moran the guts to accept?”
“If one man who was being held prisoner in an extremely vulnerable situation stood between you and leadership of a superpower, how would you play it?”
Antonov broke into a loud laugh that frightened a nearby bird into flight. “You read through me like glass, old friend. I see your point. I wouldn’t hesitate to remove him.”
“The American news media report that Moran is claiming Margolin committed suicide by drowning.”
“So your theory is on firm ground,” said Antonov. “Maybe the old Steel Lotus will end up doing us a favor after all.”
“At least our deal with her didn’t cost anything.”
“Speaking of cost, what is the status of the gold?”
“Admiral Borchavski has begun salvage operations. He expects to raise every bar within three weeks.”
“That’s good news,” said Antonov. “And what of Dr. Lugovoy? Can he continue his project after the President is cast from office?”
“He can,” Polevoi replied. “Locked inside the President’s head is a vast treasure store of United States secrets. Lugovoy has yet to tap it.”
“Then keep the project going. Provide Lugovoy with an extensive list of delicate political and military subjects we wish explored. All American leaders who leave office are consulted for their experience, regardless of inept handling of their administrations. The capitalist masses have short memories. The knowledge the President now possesses and has yet to learn from briefings by his successors can be of great benefit to us in the future. This time we shall practice patience and probe slowly. The President’s brain may turn out to be a goose that lays golden intelligence eggs for decades to come.”
Polevoi raised his glass. “A toast to the best secret agent we ever recruited.”
Antonov smiled. “Long may he produce.”
Across half a world, Raymond Edgely sat at a console and read the data that unrolled from a paper recorder. He raised his glasses and rubbed his reddened eyes. Despite his seeming tiredness, there was a tightly contained nervous energy about him. His competitive juices were stirred. The opportunity to beat his most esteemed counterpart in a game of psychological intrigue drove him beyond any thought of sleep.
Dr. Harry Greenberg, a respected psychiatric researcher in his own right, lit a curved-stem clay pipe. After stoking the stained yellow bowl to life, he pointed the mouthpiece at the recorder.
“No sense in waiting any longer, Ray. I’m satisfied we have the necessary data to make the switch.”
“I hate to rush in before I’m certain we can fool Aleksei.”
“Do it,” Greenberg urged. “Stop screwing around and go for it.”
Edgely looked around at his ten-member team of psychologists. They stared back at him expectantly. Then he nodded. “Okay, everybody stand by to transfer thought communication from the President’s implant to our central computer.”
Greenberg walked around the room, briefly talking to everyone, double-checking the procedures. Three sat at the computer console, their hands poised over the buttons. The rest studied the display screens and monitored the data.
Edgely nervously wiped his palms on a handkerchief. Greenberg stood slightly off to one side and behind him.
“We don’t want to break in during a thought pattern or in the middle of Lugovoy’s instructions,” Greenberg cautioned.
“I’m aware of that,” Edgely said without taking his eyes from the brainwave translator display. “Our computer transmission also has to match his heart rate and other life functions exactly.”
The programmer punched in the command and waited. They all waited, watching the empty screen that would reveal success or failure. The minutes ticked by, nobody speaking, the only sounds coming from the soft hum of the electronic hardware as the computer poised for the precise millisecond to take command. Then suddenly the display screen read: “COMMUNICATIONS TRANSFER ACCOMPLISHED.”
They all expelled a collective sigh of relief and began talking again, and shaking hands with the enthusiasm of a NASA flight control center after a successful rocket launch.
“Think Aleksei will fall for it?” Edgely asked.
“Don’t worry. No suspicion will ever cross his mind. Aleksei Lugovoy’s ego will never allow him to believe somebody pulled the wool over his eyes.” Greenberg paused to expel a smoke ring. “He’ll swallow everything we hand him and send it off to Moscow as if he was God’s gift to espionage.”
“I hope so,” said Edgely, dabbing at his sweating forehead. “The next step is to get the President over to Walter Reed Hospital and remove the implant.”
“First things first,” said Greenberg, producing a bottle of champagne as a staff member passed out glasses. The cork was popped and the wine poured. Greenberg held up his glass.
“To Doc Edgely,” he said, grinning, “who just set the KGB back ten years.”
Part IV
The Stonewall Jackson
68
Pitt dozed most of the flight while Giordino manned the controls. The afternoon sun blazed from a clear sky as they dropped down over the blue-green waters of Lake Pontchartrain and lined up on the small airport that poked out from the New Orleans shore. The aquamarine-colored NUMA jet touched down on the asphalt landing strip and rolled to a stop near a helicopter with DELTA OIL LTD. painted on the side.
Nearby, a man in a seersucker suit stepped from a parked car and walked over. He removed his sunglasses and held out his hand as Pitt climbed from the Lear jet’s cabin.
“Mr. Pitt?” he inquired, white teeth gleaming in a tanned face.
“I’m Pitt.”
“Clyde Griffin, FBI, special agent in charge of the Louisiana field office.”
Giordino stepped to the ground and Pitt made the introductions.
“What can we do for you, Mr. Griffin?”
“Director Emmett asked me to state officially that the Bureau cannot provide official assistance on your hunt.”
“I don’t recall asking for any,” said Pitt.