Deep Six (37 page)

The floor director moved into Mayo’s eye range, counted down the last three seconds and waved. The red light on the camera blinked on and Mayo stared into the lens, beginning the
B
segment of his news program.

“At the President’s farm in New Mexico there have been rumors that the nation’s chief executive and the Vice President are using look-alike stand-ins.”

As Mayo continued his story line the engineer in the control booth cut to the tape of the President driving the tractor.

“These scenes of the President cutting alfalfa on his farm, when viewed close up, suggest to some that it is not him. Certain famous mannerisms seem exaggerated, different rings are seen on the fingers, the wrist-watch is not the one he usually wears, and there appears to be a casual habit of scratching the chin that has not been noted before.

“John Sutton, the actor who bears a striking resemblance and who often imitates the President on TV shows and commercials, could not be found by reporters in Hollywood for comment. Which raises the question Why would our nation’s leaders require doubles? Is it a secret security procedure, or a deception for darker motives? Could it be the pressures of the job are such that they have to be in two places at the same time? We can only speculate.”

Mayo let the story dangle on a thread of suspicion. The engineer in the booth switched back to the studio camera, and Mayo went into the next story.

“In Miami today, police claimed a breakthrough in a string of drug-related murders. . . .”

After the program, Mayo smiled in grim delight when informed of the hundreds of calls flooding the network news offices asking for more information on the President’s double story. The same reaction, if not far heavier, had to be pouring into White House phone lines. In a spiteful sort of glee, he wondered how the presidential press secretary was taking it.

In New Mexico, Sonny Thompson stared blankly at the TV set long after Mayo left the air. He sat collapsed in his chair, his flesh the consistency of blubber. He envisioned his carefully nurtured world slamming to a rapid end. His peers in the news media were about to crucify him on a cross of sensationalism. When he was proven an accomplice to a conspiracy to deceive the American public, no newspaper or TV network would ever hire him after his looming White House departure.

John Sutton stood in back of him with a drink in one hand. “The vultures are circling,” he said.

“In giant flocks,” Thompson muttered.

“What happens now?”

“That’s for others to decide.”

“I’m not going to jail like Liddy, Colson and those other guys,” Sutton said nastily.

“Nobody’s going to jail,” Thompson said wearily. “This isn’t Watergate. The Justice Department is working with us.”

“No way I’m going to take a fall for a bunch of politicians.” Sutton’s eyes began to take on a greedy gleam. “A guy could make thousands, maybe a few million out of this.”

Thompson looked at him. “How?”

“Interviews, articles, and there’s book rights royalties—the possibilities for making a bundle are endless.”

“And you think you’re going to walk out of here and tell all.”

“Why not?” said Sutton. “Who’s going to stop me?”

It was Thompson’s turn to smile. “You haven’t been told the reasons behind your employment. You have no idea how vital your little act is to our country’s interests.”

“So who cares?” Sutton said indifferently.

“You may not believe it, Mr. Sutton, but there are many decent people in our government who are genuinely concerned about its welfare. They will never allow you to endanger it by speaking your piece for profit.”

“How can those egomaniacs who run the fun house in Washington hurt me? Slap my hand? Draft me into a volunteer army at age sixty-two? Turn me over to the Internal Revenue Service? No sweat on that score. I get audited every year anyway.”

“Nothing so mundane,” said Thompson. “You will simply be taken out.”

“What do you mean, taken out?” demanded Sutton.

“Perhaps I should have said ‘disappear,’ “ Thompson replied, delighting in the realization that grew in Sutton’s eyes. “It goes without saying your body will never be recovered.”

49

FAWCETT FELT NO ENTHUSIASM
for the day ahead. As he scraped the beard from his chin, he occasionally glanced at the stack of newspapers spilling off the bathroom sink. Mayo’s story made front page news across every morning edition in the nation. Suddenly the press began to ask why the President hadn’t been reachable for ten days. Half the editorial columns demanded he step forward and make a statement. The other half asked the question “Where is the real President?”

Wiping the remaining lather away with a towel and slapping his face with a mild after-shave lotion, Fawcett decided his best approach was to play the Washington enigma game and remain silent. He would cover his personal territory, slide artfully into the background and gracefully permit Secretary Oates to carry the brunt of the media onslaught.

Time had slipped from days to a few hours. Soon only minutes would be left. The inner sanctum could stall no longer.

Fawcett couldn’t begin to predict the complications that would arise from the announcement of the abduction. No crime against the government had ever approached this magnitude.

His only conviction was that the great perpetuating bureaucracy would continue to somehow function. The power elite were the ones who were swept in and swept out by the whim of the voters. But the institution endured.

He was determined to do everything within his shrinking realm of influence to make the next President’s transition as painless as possible. With luck, he might even save his job.

He put on a dark suit, left the house and drove to his office, dreading every mile. Oscar Lucas and Alan Mercier were waiting for him as he entered the West Wing.

“Looks grim” was all Lucas said.

“Someone has to make a statement,” said Mercier, whose face looked like it belonged in a coffin.

“Anybody I know draw the short straw?” asked Fawcett.

“Doug Oates thought you’d be the best man to hold a press conference and announce the kidnapping.”

“What about the rest of the Cabinet?” Fawcett asked incredulously.

“They concurred.”

“Screw Oates!” Fawcett said coarsely. “The whole idea is stupid. He’s only trying to save his own ass. I don’t have the credentials to drop the bombshell. As far as the grass-roots voters are concerned, I’m a nonentity. Not one out of a thousand can recall my name or give my position in the administration. You know exactly what would happen. The public would immediately sense their nation’s leaders are floundering in a sinking boat, shrinking behind closed doors to save their political hides, and when it was over, any respect the United States ever had would be wiped out. No, I’m sorry. Oates is the logical choice to make the announcement.”

“But you see,” Mercier said patiently, “if Oates is forced to take the heat and plead ignorance to a lot of embarrassing questions, it might seem he had something to do with the abduction. As next in line for the Presidency, he has the most to gain. Every muckraker in the country will scream ‘conspiracy.’ Remember the public backlash when former Secretary of State Alexander Haig said he had everything under control right after Reagan was shot by Hinckley? Warranted or not, his image as a power seeker mushroomed. The public didn’t like the idea of him running the country. His base of influence eroded until he finally resigned.”

“You’re comparing catsup to mustard,” Fawcett said. “I’m telling you, the people will be incensed if I stand up and state the President, Vice President and the two majority leaders in Congress have mysteriously vanished and are presumed dead. Hell, no one would believe me.”

“We can’t sidestep the main issue,” Mercier said firmly. “Douglas Oates has to go into the White House as pure as the driven snow. He can’t do a decent job of picking up the pieces if he’s surrounded by doubt and malicious rumor.”

“Oates is not a politician. He’s never expressed the slightest interest in attaining the Presidency.”

“He has no choice,” Mercier said. “He must serve in the interim until the next elections.”

“Can I have the Cabinet standing behind me for support during the press conference?”

“No, they won’t agree to that.”

“So I’m to be run out of town on a rail,” said Fawcett bitterly. “Is that the mutual decision?”

“You’re overstating your case,” said Mercier mildly. “You won’t be tarred and feathered. Your job is secure. Doug Oates wants you to remain as White House Chief of Staff.”

“And ask me to resign six months later.”

“We can’t guarantee the future.”

“All right,” Fawcett said, his voice trembling in anger. He pushed past Mercier and Lucas. “Go back and tell Oates he’s got his human sacrifice.”

He never turned back but strode down the hallway and went directly to his office, where he paced the floor, fuming in rage. The bureaucracy, he cursed to himself, its wheels were about to rumble over him. He was so furious he did not even notice the President’s secretary, Megan Blair, enter the room.

“Mercy, I’ve never seen you so agitated,” she said.

Fawcett turned and managed a smile. “Just complaining to the walls.”

“I do that too, especially when my visiting niece drives me mad with her disco recordings. Blasts that awful music all over the house.”

“Can I help you with anything?” he asked impatiently.

“Speaking of complaining,” she said testily, “why wasn’t I told the President had returned from his farm?”

“Must have slipped my mind—” He stopped and gazed at her queerly. “What did you say?”

“The President’s back and no one on your staff warned me.”

Fawcett’s expression turned to abject disbelief. “He’s in New Mexico.”

“Certainly not,” Megan Blair said adamantly. “He’s sitting at his desk this very moment. He chewed me out for coming in late.”

Megan was not a woman who could lie easily. Fawcett looked deeply into her eyes and saw she was telling the truth.

She stared back at him, her head tilted questioningly. “Are you all right?” she asked.

Fawcett didn’t answer. He ran from his office and down the hallway, meeting Lucas and Mercier, who were still conferring in hushed tones. They looked up startled as Fawcett frantically pounded around them.

“Follow me!” he shouted over one shoulder, arms flinging.

They stood stone-still for a moment, blinking in utter confusion. Then Lucas reacted and dashed after Fawcett, with Mercier bringing up the rear.

Fawcett burst into the Oval Office and stopped dead, his face going white.

The President of the United States looked up and smiled. “Good morning, Dan. Ready to go over my appointment schedule?”

Less than a mile away, in a secure room on the top floor of the Russian embassy, Aleksei Lugovoy sat in front of a large monitor and read the deciphered brainwaves of the President. The display screen showed the thoughts in English while a nearby printer produced paper copies translated into Russian.

He sipped a cup of thick black coffee, then stood up, keeping his eyes on the green letters, the heavy bunched eyebrows raised in controlled conceit.

From a distance, the President’s brain transmitted its every thought, speech pattern, and even the words spoken by others nearby as they were received and committed to memory.

The second stage of the Huckleberry Finn Project was a success.

Lugovoy decided to wait a few more days before he entered the final and most critical stage, the issuing of commands. If all went well, he knew with a sinking certainty, his revered project would be taken over by the men in the Kremlin. And then Chairman of the Party Antonov and not the President would direct policy for the United States.

50

THE MOLTEN SUN
slipped below the western edge of the Aegean Sea as the ship cleared the Dardanelles and headed through the maze of Greek islands. The surface rolled under gentle two-foot swells and a hot breeze set in from the African coast to the south. Soon the orange faded from the sky and the sea lost its blue and they melted together into a solid curtain of black. The moon had not yet risen; the only light came from the stars and the sweeping beam of the navigation beacon on the island of Lesbos.