Deep Six (41 page)

Dan Fawcett burst into the Oval Office the next morning, anguish written on his face. “Good God, Mr. President, you can’t do this!”

The President looked up calmly. “You’re referring to my talk last night?”

“Yes, sir, I am,” Fawcett said emotionally. “You as good as went on record as saying you were proceeding with your aid programs without congressional approval.”

“Is that what it sounded like?”

“It did.”

“Good,” said the President, thumping his hand on the desk. “Because that’s exactly what I intend to do.”

Fawcett was astonished. “Not under the Constitution. Executive privilege does not extend that far—”

“God damn it, don’t try and tell me how to run the Presidency,” the President shouted, suddenly furious. “I’m through begging and compromising with those conceited hypocrites on the Hill. The only way I’m going to get anything done, by God, is to put on the gloves and start swinging.”

“You’re setting out on a dangerous course. They’ll band together to freeze out every issue you put before them.”

“No, they won’t!” the President shouted, rising to his feet and coming around the desk to face Fawcett. “Congress will not have a chance to upset my plans.”

Fawcett could only look at him in shock and horror. “You can’t stop them. They’re gathering now, flying in from every state to hold an emergency session to block you.”

“If they think that,” the President said in a morbid voice Fawcett scarcely recognized, “they’re in for a big surprise.”

* * *

The early-morning traffic was spreading thin when three military convoys flowed into the city from different directions. One Army Special Counterterrorist Detachment from Fort Belvoir moved north along Anacostia Freeway while another from Fort Meade came down the Baltimore and Washington Parkway to the south. At the same moment, a Critical Operation Force attached to the Marine Corps base at Quantico advanced over the Rochambeau Bridge from the west.

As the long lines of five-ton personnel carriers converged on the Federal Center, a flight of tilt-rotored assault transports settled onto the grass of the mall in front of the Capitol reflecting pool and disgorged their cargo of crack Marine field troops from Camp Lejeune, North Carolina. The two-thousand-man task force was made up of United Emergency Response teams that were on twenty-four-hour alert.

As they deployed around the federal buildings, they quickly cleared everyone out of the Capitol chambers, the House and Senate offices. Then they took up their positions and sealed off all entrances.

At first the bewildered lawmakers and their aides thought it was a building evacuation due to a terrorist bomb threat. The only other explanation was an unannounced military exercise. When they learned the entire seat of American government was shut down by order of the President, they stood shocked and outraged, conferring in heated indignation in small groups on the grounds east of the Capitol building. Lyndon Johnson had once threatened to lock out Congress, but no one could believe it was actually happening.

Arguments and demands went unheard by the purposeful-looking men dressed in field camouflage and holding M-20 automatic rifles and riot guns. One senator, nationally recognized for his liberal stands, tried to break through the cordon and was dragged back to the street by two grim-faced Marines.

The troops did not surround or close the executive departments or independent agencies. For most of the federal offices it was business as usual. The streets were kept open and traffic directed in an efficient manner local citizens found downright enjoyable.

The press and television media poured onto the Capitol grounds. The grass was nearly buried under a blanket of cables and electronic equipment. Interviews before cameras became so hectic and crowded the senators and congressmen had to stand in line to voice their objections to the President’s unprecedented action.

Surprisingly, reaction from most Americans across the country was one of amusement rather than distaste. They sat in front of their television screens and viewed the event as if it were a circus. The consensus was that the President was throwing a temporary scare into Congress and would order the troops removed in a day or two.

At the State Department, Oates huddled with Emmett, Brogan and Mercier. The atmosphere was heavy with a sense of indecision and suspense.

“The President’s a damned fool if he thinks he’s more important than the constitutional government,” said Oates.

Emmett stared steadily at Mercier. “I can’t see why you didn’t suspect what was going on.”

“He shut me out completely,” said Mercier, his expression sheepish. “He never offered the slightest clue of what was on his mind.”

“Surely Jesse Simmons and General Metcalf weren’t a party to it,” Oates wondered aloud.

Brogan shook his head. “My Pentagon sources say Jesse Simmons flatly refused.”

“Why didn’t he warn us?” asked Emmett.

“After Simmons told the President in no uncertain terms that he was off base, the roof fell in. A military security guard detail escorted him home, where he was placed under house arrest.”

“Jesus,” muttered Oates in exasperation. “It gets worse by the minute.”

“What about General Metcalf?” asked Mercier.

“I’m sure he voiced his objections,” Brogan answered. “But Clayton Metcalf is a spit-and-polish soldier who’s duty-bound to carry out the orders of his commander in chief. He and the President are old, close friends. Metcalf undoubtedly feels his loyalty is to the man who appointed him to be Chief of Staff, and not Congress.”

Oates’s fingers swept an imaginary dust speck off the desktop. “The President disappears for ten days and after his return falls off the deep end.”

“Huckleberry Finn,” Brogan said slowly.

“Judging from the President’s behavioral patterns over the past twenty-four hours,” Mercier said thoughtfully, “the evidence looks pretty conclusive.”

“Has Dr. Lugovoy surfaced yet?” Oates asked.

Emmett shook his head. “He’s still missing.”

“We’ve obtained reports from our people inside Russia on the doctor,” Brogan elucidated. “His specialty for the last fifteen years has been mind transfer. Soviet intelligence ministries have provided enormous funding for the research. Hundreds of Jews and other dissidents who vanished inside KGB-operated mental institutions were his guinea pigs. And he claims to have made a breakthrough in thought interpretation and control.”

“Do we have such a project in progress?” Oates inquired.

Brogan nodded. “Ours is code-named ‘Fathom,’ which is working along the same lines.”

Oates held his head in his hands for a moment, then turned to Emmett. “You still haven’t a lead on Vince Margolin, Larimer and Moran?”

Emmett looked embarrassed. “I regret to say their whereabouts are still unknown.”

“Do you think Lugovoy has performed the mind-transfer experiment on them too?”

“I don’t believe so,” Emmett answered. “If I were in the Russians’ shoes, I’d keep them in reserve in the event the President doesn’t respond to instructions as programmed.”

“His mind could slip out of their grasp and react unpredictably,” Brogan added. “Fooling around with the brain is not an exact science. There’s no way of telling what he’ll do next.”

“Congress isn’t waiting to find out,” said Mercier. “They’re out hustling for a place to convene so they can start impeachment proceedings.”

“The President knows that, and he isn’t stupid,” Oates responded. “Every time the House and Senate members gather for a session, he’ll send in troops to break it up. With the armed forces behind him, it’s a no-win situation.”

“Considering the President is literally being told what to do by an unfriendly foreign power, Metcalf and the other Joint Chiefs can’t continue giving him their support,” said Mercier.

“Metcalf refuses to act until we produce absolute proof of mind control,” Emmett added. “But I suspect he’s only waiting for a ripe excuse to throw his lot in with Congress.”

Brogan looked concerned. “Let’s hope he doesn’t make his move too late.”

“So the situation boils down to the four of us devising a way to neutralize the President,” Oates mused.

“Have you driven past the White House today?” Mercier asked.

Oates shook his head. “No. Why?”

“Looks like an armed camp. The military is crawling over every inch of the grounds. Word has it the President can’t be reached by anybody. I doubt even you, Mr. Secretary, could walk past the front door.”

Brogan thought a moment. “Dan Fawcett is still on the inside.”

“I talked to him over the phone,” Mercier said. “He presented his opposition to the President’s actions a bit too strongly. I gather he’s now persona non grata in the Oval Office.”

“We need someone who has the President’s trust.”

“Oscar Lucas,” Emmett said.

“Good thinking,” Oates snapped, looking up. “As head of the Secret Service, he’s got the run of the place.”

“Someone will have to brief Dan and Oscar face-to-face,” Emmett advised.

“I’ll handle it,” Brogan volunteered.

“You have a plan?” asked Oates.

“Not off the top of my head, but my people will come up with something.”

“Better be good,” said Emmett seriously, “if we’re to avoid the worst fear of our Founding Fathers.”

“And what was that?” asked Oates.

“The unthinkable,” replied Emmett. “A dictator in the White House.”

55

LOREN WAS SWEATING
. She had never sweated so much in her life. Her evening gown was damp and plastered against her body like a second skin. The little windowless cell felt like a sauna and it was an effort just to breathe. A toilet and a bunk were her only creature comforts, and a dim bulb attached to the ceiling in a small cage glowed continuously. The ventilators, she was certain, were turned off to increase her discomfort.

When she was brought to the ship’s brig, she had seen no sign of the man she thought might be Alan Moran. No food or water had been given to her since the crew locked her up, and hunger pangs were gnawing at her stomach. No one had even visited her, and she began to wonder if Captain Pokofsky meant to keep her in solitary confinement until she wasted away.

At last she decided to abandon her attempt at vanity and removed her clinging dress. She began to do stretching exercises to pass the time.

Suddenly she heard the muted sound of footsteps outside in the passageway. Muffled voices spoke in a brief conversation, and then the door was unlatched and swung open.

Loren snatched her dress off the bunk and held it in front of her, shrinking back into a corner of the cell.

A man ducked his head as he passed through the small doorway. He was turned out in a cheap business suit that looked to her several decades out of fashion.

“Congresswoman Smith, please forgive the condition I was forced to put you in.”

“No, I don’t think I will,” she said defiantly. “Who are you?”

“My name is Paul Suvorov. I represent the Soviet government.”

Contempt flooded into Loren’s voice. “Is this an example of the way Communists treat visiting American VIP’s?”

“Not under ordinary circumstances, but you gave us no choice.”

“Please explain,” she demanded, glaring at him.

He gave her an uncertain look. “I believe you know.”

“Why don’t you refresh my memory.”

He paused to light a cigarette, carelessly tossing the match in the toilet. “The other evening when the helicopter arrived, Captain Pokofsky’s first officer observed you standing very close to the landing area.”

“So were several other passengers,” Loren snapped icily.

“Yes, but they were too far away to see a familiar face.”

“And you think I wasn’t.”

“Why can’t you be reasonable, Congresswoman. Surely you can’t deny you recognized your own colleagues.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Congressman Alan Moran and Senator Marcus Larimer,” he said, closely watching her reaction.

Loren’s eyes widened and suddenly she began to shiver in spite of the stifling heat. For the first time since she was made a prisoner, indignation was replaced by despair.

“Moran and Larimer, they’re both here too?”

He nodded. “In the next cell.”

“This must be an insane joke,” she said, stunned.

“No joke,” Suvorov said, smiling. “They are guests of the KGB, same as you.”

Loren shook her head, unbelieving. Life didn’t happen this way, she told herself, except in nightmares. She felt reality drifting slowly from her grasp.

“I have diplomatic immunity,” she said. “I demand to be released.”

“You carry no influence, not here on board the
Leonid Andreyev,”
said Suvorov in a cold, disinterested voice.

“When my government hears of this—”

“They won’t,” he interrupted. “When the ship leaves Jamaica on its return voyage to Miami, Captain Pokof-sky will announce with deep regret and sympathy that Congresswoman Loren Smith was lost overboard and presumed drowned.”

A numbing hopelessness seized Loren. “What will happen to Moran and Larimer?”

“I’m taking them to Russia.”