"Very well, suppose you tell me about the doodlebug."
"Doodlebug?" The admiral gave a faint tilt to his head-a movement equivalent to stunned surprise in any other man. "A fascinating instrument. I assume you're familiar with its purpose."
"Why don't you tell me?"
Sandecker shrugged. "I guess you could say it's a kind of water dowser."
"Water dowsers don't cost six hundred and eighty million taxpayer dollars."
"What exactly do you want to know?""
"Does such an exotic instrument exist?"
"The Doodlebug Project is a reality, and a damned successful one, I might add."
"Are you prepared to explain its operation and account for the money spent on its development?"
"When?"
"At the earliest opportunity."
"Give me two weeks and I'll lay the doodlebug in your lap neatly wrapped and packaged."
Mercier was not to be taken in. "Two days."
"I know what you'
re thinking," said Sandecker earnestly. "But I promise you there is no fear of scandal, far from it. Trust me for at least a week. I simply can't put it together in less."
"I'm beginning to feel like an accomplice in a con game."
"Please, one week."
Mercier looked into Sandecker's eyes. My God, he thought, the man is actually begging. It was hardly what he expected. He motioned to his driver who was parked a short distance away and nodded.
"Okay, Admiral, you've got your week."
"You drive a tough bargain," said Sandecker, with a sly grin.
Without another word the admiral turned and resumed his morning jog to NUMA headquarters.
Mercier watched the little man grow even smaller in the distance. He seemed not to notice his driver standing patiently beside the car, holding the door open.
Mercier stood rooted, a maddening certainty growing within him that he'd been had.
It had been an exhausting day for Sandecker. After his unexpected meeting with Mercier he fenced with a congressional budget committee until eight in the evening, hawking the goals and accomplishments of NUMA, appealing for, and in a few cases, demanding additional funding for his agency's operations. It was a bureaucratic chore he detested.
After a light dinner at the Army and Navy Club, he entered his apartment at the Watergate and poured himself a glass of buttermilk.
He took off his shoes and was beginning to unwind when the phone rang. He would have ignored it if he hadn't turned to see which line held the incoming call. The red light on the direct circuit to NUMA blinked ominously. "Sandecker."
"Ramon King here, Admiral. We've got a problem on the Doodlebug."
"A malfunction?"
"No such luck," replied King. "Our sweep systems have picked up an intruder."
"Is he closing with our vessel?"