Deep Six (Dirk Pitt 7)

"Pitt?" Emmett inquired in an official tone.

"My special projects director. He'll head up the search."

"You'll tell him only what's necessary?" It was more an order than a request.

A yellow caution light glimmered in Sandecker's eyes. "That will be at my discretion."

Emmett started to say something but was interrupted by the intercom.

"Admiral?"

"Yes, Sylvia."

"Mr. Pitts line is busy."

"Keep trying until he answers," Sandecker said gruffly. "Better yet, call the operator and cut in on his line. Tell her this is a government priority."

"Will you be able to mount a full-scale search operation by evening?" asked Emmett.

Sandecker's lips parted in an all-devouring grin. "If I know Pitt, he'll have a crew scanning the depths of the Potomac River before lunch."

Pitt was speaking to Hiram Yaeger when the operator broke in.

He cut the conversation short and then dialed the admiral's private line. After listening without doing any talking for several moments, he replaced the receiver in its cradle.

"Well," asked Casio expectantly.

"The money was exchanged, never deposited," Pitt said, looking miserably down at the floor. "That's all. That's all there is. No thread left to pick up."

There was only a flicker of disappointment in Casio's face. He'd been there before. He let out a long sigh and stared at his watch.

He struck Pitt as a man drained of emotional display.

"I appreciate your help," he said quietly. He snapped his briefcase shut and stood up. "I'd better go now. If I don't lag, I can catch the next flight back to L.A."

"I'm sorry I couldn't provide an answer."

Casio shook Pitts hand in a tight grip. "Nobody scores one hundred percent every time. Those responsible for the death of my daughter and your friend have made a mistake. Somewhere, sometime, they overlooked a detail. I'm glad to have you on my side, Mr. Pitt.

It's been a lonely job until now."

Pitt was genuinely moved. "I'll keep digging from my end."

"I couldn't ask for more." Casio nodded and then walked down the stairs. Pitt watched him shuffle across the hangar floor, a proud, hardened old man, battling his own private windmill.

THE President SAT upright in a black leather-cushioned chrome chair, his body held firmly in place by nylon belts. His eyes stared off in the distance, unfocused and vacant. Wireless sensor scans were taped onto his chest and forehead, transmitting the physical signatures of eight different life functions to a computer network.

The operating room was small, no more than a hundred square feet, and crammed with electronic monitoring equipment. Lugovoy and four members of his surgical team were quietly and efficiently preparing for the delicate operation. Paul Suvorov stood in the only empty corner, looking uncomfortable in a green sterile gown.

He watched as one of Lugovoy's technicians, a woman, pressed a small needle into one side of the President's neck and then the other.

"Odd place for an anesthetic," Suvorov remarked.

"For the actual penetration we'll use a local," Lugovoy replied while staring at an image-intensified X ray on a vineo display.

"However, a tiny dose of Amytal into the carotin arteries puts the left and right hemispheres of the brain in a drowsy state. This procedure is to eliminate any conscious memory of the operation."

"Shouldn't you shave his head?" Suvorov asked, gesturing toward the President's hair, which protruded through an opening of a metal helmet encasing his skull.