“I’ve just come from the Senate reception room,” Metcalf said. “Secretary Oates is buttonholing members of the President’s party, trying to persuade them to hold off.”
“What are his chances?” asked Sandecker.
“Nil. The Senate is only going through the formality of a trial. Four hours from now, it will all be over.”
Brogan shook his head disgustedly. “I hear Moran has Chief Justice O’Brien standing by to administer the oath.”
“The oily bastard won’t waste a second,” Emmett muttered.
“Any word from Louisiana?” Metcalf asked.
Emmett gave the general a negative look. “Not for an hour. The last report from my agent in charge of the field office said he was making a sweep of a promising dock site.”
“Any concrete reason to believe Margolin is hidden in the delta?”
“Only a stab in the dark by my special projects director,” replied Sandecker.
Metcalf looked at Emmett. “What are you doing about the Bougainvilles?”
“I’ve assigned nearly fifty agents to the case.”
“Can you make an arrest?”
“A waste of time. Min Koryo and Lee Tong would be back on the streets in an hour.”
“Surely there must be enough evidence.”
“Nothing the Attorney General can sink his teeth into. Most of their illegal operations are managed outside our borders in Third World nations that aren’t overly friendly toward the United States—”
The phone buzzed.
“Emmett.”
“Agent Goodman in communications, sir.”
“What is it, Goodman?”
“I have contact with agent Griffin in Louisiana.”
“About time,” Emmett snapped impatiently. “Put me through.”
“Hold on.” There was a pause broken by an audible click, and then Emmett heard the sound of labored breathing. He switched on the speaker amplifer so the others could hear.
“Griffin, this is Sam Emmett, can you hear me?”
“Yes, sir, very clearly.” The words seemed uttered in pain. “We ran… ran into trouble.”
“What happened?”
“We spotted a Bougainville cargo ship tied to a pier beside a barge and towboat about seventy miles below New Orleans. Before my team and I could gain entry for a search, we were fired upon by heavy weapons mounted on the ship. Everyone was hit… I have two killed and seven wounded, including myself. It was a massacre.” The voice choked and went quiet for a few moments. When it came back on the line the tone was noticeably weaker. “Sorry for not making contact sooner, but our communications gear was shot out and I had to walk two miles before I could find a telephone.”
Emmett’s face took on a compassionate look. The thought of a badly wounded man trailing blood for two miles in the scorching heat of summer stirred his normally rock-hard emotions.
Sandecker moved closer to the speaker. “What of Pitt and Giordino?”
“The NUMA people and one of my agents were flying surveillance in our helicopter,” Griffin answered. “They got the hell shot out of them and crashed somewhere upriver. I doubt there were any survivors.”
Sandecker stepped back, his expression gone lifeless.
Emmett leaned over the speaker. “Griffin?”
His only reply was a vague muttering.
“Griffin, listen to me. Can you go on?”
“Yes, sir… I’ll try.”
“The barge, what is the situation with the barge?”
“Tug… tug pushed it away.”
“Pushed it where?”
“Downriver… last seen going toward Head of Passes.”
“Head of Passes?”
“The bottom end of the Mississippi where the river splits into three main channels to the sea,” answered Sandecker. “South Pass, Southwest Pass, and Pass a Loutre. Most major shipping uses the first two.”
“Griffin, how long since the barge left your area?”
There was no answer, no buzzing of a broken connection, no sound at all.
“I think he’s passed out,” said Metcalf.
“Help is on the way. Do you understand, Griffin?”
Still no reply.
“Why move the barge out to sea?” Brogan wondered aloud.
“No reason I can think of,” said Sandecker.
Emmett’s phone buzzed on his interoffice line.
“There’s an urgent call for Admiral Sandecker,” said Don Miller, his deputy director.
Emmett looked up. “A call for you, Admiral. If you wish, you can take it in the outer office.”
Sandecker thanked him and stepped into the anteroom, where Emmett’s private secretary showed him to a telephone at an empty desk.
He punched the blinking white button. “This is Admiral Sandecker.”
“One moment, sir,” came the familiar voice of the NUMA headquarters’ chief operator.
“Hello?”
“Sandecker here. Who’s this?”
“You’re a tough nut to crack, Admiral. If I hadn’t said my call concerned Dirk Pitt, your secretary would never have arranged our connection.”
“Who is this?” Sandecker demanded again.
“My name is Sal Casio. I’m working on the Bougainville case with Dirk.”
Ten minutes later, when Sandecker walked back into Emmett’s office, he appeared stunned and shaken. Brogan instantly sensed something was wrong.
“What is it?” he asked. “You look like you’ve rubbed shoulders with a banshee.”
“The barge,” Sandecker murmured quietly. “The Bougainvilles have struck a deal with Moran. They’re taking it out into the open sea to be scuttled.”
“What are you saying?”
“Loren Smith and Vince Margolin are sentenced to die so Alan Moran can be President. The barge is to be their tomb in a hundred fathoms of water.”
70
“Any sign of pursuit?” the river pilot asked, synchronizing the control levers of the helm console with the finesse of a conductor leading an orchestra.
Lee Tong stepped back from the large open window at the rear of the pilothouse and lowered the binoculars. “Nothing except a strange cloud of black smoke about two or three miles astern.”
“Probably an oil fire.”
“Seems to be following.”
“An illusion. The river has a habit of doing weird things to the eyes. What looks to be a mile away is four. Lights where no lights are supposed to be. Ships approaching in a channel that fade away as you get closer. Yes, the river can fool you when she gets playful.”
Lee Tong gazed up the channel again. He had learned to tune out the pilot’s never-ending commentary on the Mississippi, but he admired his skill and experience.
Captain Kim Pujon was a longtime professional river pilot for Bougainville Maritime Lines, but he still retained his Asian superstitious nature. He seldom took his eyes off the channel and the barge ahead as he expertly balanced the speeds of the four engines generating 12,000 horsepower and delicately guided the towboat’s four forward rudders and six backing rudders. Under his feet the huge diesels pounded over at full power, driving the barge through the water at nearly sixteen miles an hour, straining the cables that held the two vessels together.
They hurtled past an inbound Swedish oil tanker, and Lee Tong braced himself as the barge and towboat swept up and over the wash. “How much further to deep water?”
“Our hull passed from fresh to salt about ten miles back. We should cross the coastal shallows in another fifty minutes.”
“Keep your eyes open for a research ship with a red hull and flying the British blue ensign.”
“We’re boarding a Royal Navy ship after we scuttle?” Pujon asked in surprise.
“A former Norwegian merchantman,” explained Lee Tong. “I purchased her seven years ago and refitted her out as a research and survey vessel — a handy disguise to fool customs authorities and the Coast Guard.”