Deep Six (19 page)

“Dr. Lugovoy?”

Lugovoy’s concentration was interrupted by the strange voice, and he turned, surprised, to see a stocky man with rugged Slavic features and shaggy black hair who seemingly stepped out of a wall.

“Who are you?” he blurted.

The stranger spoke very softly as though he didn’t wish to be overheard. “Suvorov, Paul Suvorov, foreign security.”

Lugovoy paled. “My God, you’re KGB? How did you get here?”

“Pure luck,” Suvorov muttered sarcastically. “You were assigned to my security section for observation from the day you set foot in New York. After your suspicious visit to the Bougainville Maritime offices, I took over your surveillance myself. I was present on the ferryboat when you were contacted by the men who brought you here. Because of the darkness I had no difficulty mingling with your staff and being included for the trip to wherever it is we are. Since our arrival I’ve kept to my room.”

“Do you have any idea what you’ve stuck your nose into?” Lugovoy said, his face flushing with anger.

“Not yet,” Suvorov said, unperturbed. “But it is my duty to find out.”

“This operation originates from the highest level. It is of no concern to the KGB.”

“I’ll be the judge—”

“You’ll be crap in Siberian frost,” Lugovoy hissed, “if you interfere with my work here.”

Suvorov appeared mildly amused at Lugovoy’s irritated tone. It slowly began to dawn on him that he might have overstepped his authority. “Perhaps I could be of help to you.”

“How?”

“You may have need of my special skills.”

“I don’t require the services of an assassin.”

“I was thinking more of escape.”

“There is no reason to escape.”

Suvorov was becoming increasingly annoyed. “You must try to understand my position.”

Lugovoy was in command now. “There are more important problems to occupy my mind than your bureaucratic interference.”

“Like what?” Suvorov swept his hand around the room. “Just what is going on here?”

Lugovoy stared at him consideringly for a long moment before yielding to vanity. “A mind-intervention project.”

Suvorov’s eyebrows rose. “Mind intervention?”

“Brain control if you prefer.”

Suvorov faced the video monitor and nodded at the image. “Is that the reason for the small helmet?”

“On the subject’s head?”

“The same.”

“A microelectronic integrated circuit module containing a hundred and ten probes, measuring internal body functions ranging from common pulse to hormone secretions. It also intercepts data flowing through the subject’s brain and transmits it to the computers here in this room. The brain’s talk, so to speak, is then translated into a comprehensible language.”

“I see no electrode terminals.”

“From a bygone era,” answered Lugovoy. “Everything we wish to record can be telemetered through the atmosphere. We no longer rely on the unnecessary bulk of wires and terminals.”

“You can actually understand what he’s thinking?” asked Suvorov incredulously.

Lugovoy nodded. “The brain speaks a language of its own, and what it says reveals the inner thoughts of its landlord. Night and day, the brain speaks incessantly, providing us with a vivid look into the working mind, how a man thinks and why. The impressions are subliminal, so lightning-quick that only a computer designed to operate in picoseconds can memorize and decipher them.”

“I had no idea brain science had evolved to such a high level.”

“After we establish and chart his brain rhythms,” Lugovoy continued, “we can forecast his intentions and physical movements. We can tell when he is about to say or do something in error. And most important, we can intervene in time to stop him. In less than the blink of an eye the computer can erase his mistaken intent and rephrase his thought.”

Suvorov was awed. “A religious capitalist would accuse you of breaching man’s soul.”

“Like you, I am a loyal member of the Communist Party, Comrade Suvorov. I do not believe in the salvation of souls. However, in this case we can’t tolerate a drastic conversion. There’ll be no disruption of his fundamental thought processes. No change in speech patterns or mannerisms.”

“A form of controlled brainwashing.”

“This is not a crude brainwashing,” Lugovoy replied indignantly. “Our sophistication goes far beyond anything the Chinese invented. They still believe in destroying a subject’s ego in order to re-educate him. Their experiments in drugs and hypnosis have met with little success. Hypnosis is too vague, too slippery to have lasting value. And drugs have proved dangerous by accidentally producing a sudden shift in personality and behavior. When I finish with the subject here, he will re-enter reality and return to his personal lifestyle as though he’d never left it. All I intend to do is alter his political perspective.”

“Who is the subject?”

“Don’t you know? Don’t you recognize him?”

Suvorov studied the video display. Gradually his eyes widened and he moved two steps closer to the screen, his face taut, his mouth working mechanically. “The President?” His voice was an unbelieving whisper. “Is that really the President of the United States?”

“In the flesh.”

“How . . . where . . . ?”

“A gift from our hosts,” Lugovoy explained vaguely.

“He’ll suffer no side effects?” Suvorov asked in a haze.

“None.”

“Will he remember any of this?”

“He will recall only going to bed when he wakes up ten days from now.”

“You can do this thing, really do it?” Suvorov questioned with a security man’s persistence.

“Yes,” Lugovoy said with a confident gleam behind his eyes. “And much more.”

21

A
MAD FLAPPING OF WINGS
broke the early morning stillness as two pheasants broke toward the sky. Soviet President Georgi Antonov snapped the over-and-under Purdey shotgun to his shoulder and pulled the two triggers in quick succession. The twin blasts echoed through the mist-dampened forest. One of the birds suddenly stopped flying and fell to the ground.

Vladimir Polevoi, head of the Committee for State Security, waited an instant until he was sure Antonov had missed the second pheasant before he brought it down with one shot.

Antonov fixed his KGB director with a hard-eyed stare. “Showing up your boss again, Vladimir?”

Polevoi read Antonov’s mock anger correctly. “Your shot was difficult, Comrade President. Mine was quite easy.”

“You should have joined the Foreign Ministry instead of the Secret Police,” Antonov said, laughing. “Your diplomacy ranks with Gromyko’s.” He paused and looked around the forest. “Where is our French host?”

“President L’Estrange is seventy meters to our left.” Polevoi’s statement was punctuated by a volley of gunshots somewhere out of sight beyond the undergrowth.

“Good,” grunted Antonov. “We can have a few minutes of conversation.” He held out the Purdey to Polevoi, who replaced the empty shells and clicked the safety switch.

Polevoi moved in close and spoke in a low tone. “I would caution about speaking too freely. French intelligence has listening probes everywhere.”

“Secrets seldom last long these days,” Antonov said with a sigh.

Polevoi cracked a knowing smile. “Yes, our operatives recorded the meeting between L’Estrange and his Finance Minister last night.”

“Any revelations I should know about?”

“Nothing of value. Most of their conversation centered on persuading you to accept the American President’s financial assistance program.”

“If they’re stupid enough to believe I would not take advantage of the President’s naive generosity, they’re also stupid enough to think I agreed to fly here to discuss it.”

“Rest assured, the French are completely unaware of the true nature of your visit.”

“Any late word from New York?”

“Only that Huckleberry Finn exceeded our projections.” Polevoi’s Russian tongue pronounced Huckleberry as Gulkleberry.

“And all goes well?”

“The trip is under way.”

“So the old bitch accomplished what we thought was impossible.”

“The mystery is how she managed it.”

Antonov stared at him. “We don’t know?”

“No, sir. She refused to take us into her confidence. Her son shielded her operation like the Kremlin wall. So far we haven’t been able to penetrate her security.”

“The Chinese whore,” Antonov snarled. “Who does she think she’s dealing with, empty-headed schoolboys?”

“I believe her ancestry is Korean,” said Polevoi.

“No difference.” Antonov stopped and sat down heavily on a fallen log. “Where is the experiment taking place?”

Polevoi shook his head. “We don’t know that either.”

“Have you no communication with Comrade Lugovoy?”

“He and his staff departed lower Manhattan Island on the Staten Island ferry late Friday night. They never stepped ashore at the landing. We lost all contact.”

“I want to know where they are,” Antonov said evenly. “I want to know the exact location of the experiment.”

“I have our best agents working on it.”

“We can’t allow her to keep us wandering in the dark, especially when there is one billion American dollars’ worth of our gold reserves at stake.”

Polevoi gave the Communist Party Chairman a crafty look. “Do you intend to pay her fee?”

“Does the Volga melt in January?” Antonov replied with a broad grin.

“She won’t be an easy prey to outfox.”

The sound of feet tramping through the underbrush could be heard. Antonov’s eyes flickered to the ground-keepers who were approaching with the downed pheasants and then back to Polevoi.

“Just find Lugovoy,” he said softly, “and the rest will take care of itself.”

Four miles away in a sound truck two men sat in front of a sophisticated microwave receiving set. Beside them two reel-to-reel tape decks were recording Antonov and Polevoi’s conversation in the woods.

The men were electronic surveillance specialists with the SDECE, France’s intelligence service. Both could interpret six languages, including Russian. In unison they lifted their earphones and exchanged curious looks.

“What in hell do you suppose that was all about?” said one.

The second man gave a Gallic shrug. “Who can say? Probably some kind of Russian double-talk.”

“I wonder if an analyst can make anything important out of it?”

“Important or not, we’ll never know.”

The first man paused, held an earphone to his ear for a few moments and then set it down again. “They’re talking with President L’Estrange now. That’s all we’re going to get.”

“Okay, let’s close down shop and get the recordings to Paris. I’ve got a date at six o’clock.”

22

THE SUN WAS
two hours above the eastern edge of the city when Sandecker drove through a back gate of Washington’s National Airport. He stopped the car beside a seemingly deserted hangar standing in a weed-covered part of the field far beyond the airlines’ maintenance area. He walked to a side door whose weathered wood had long since shed its paint and pressed a small button opposite a large rusting padlock. After a few seconds the door silently swung open.

The cavernous interior was painted a glossy white, which brightly reflected the sun’s rays through huge skylights in the curved roof, and had the look of a transportation museum. The polished concrete floor held four long orderly rows of antique and classic automobiles. Most gleamed as elegantly as the day their coachmakers added the finishing touch. A few were in various stages of restoration. Sandecker lingered by a majestic 1921 Rolls-Royce Silver Ghost with coach-work by Park-Ward and a massive red 1925 Isotta-Fraschini with a torpedo body by Sala.

The two centerpieces were an old Ford trimotor aircraft known to aviation enthusiasts as the “tin goose” and an early-twentieth-century railroad Pullman car with the words
MANHATTAN LIMITED
painted in gilded letters on its steel side.

Sandecker made his way up a circular iron stairway to a glass-enclosed apartment that spanned the upper level across one end of the hangar. The living room was decorated in marine antiques. One wall was lined with shelves supporting delicately crafted ship models in glass cases.