Pitt locked eyes with the thirtyish agent, a pert, attractive woman concealed behind a conservative appearance. Her blond hair, layered short, matched the serious cut of her charcoal business suit. But the effect was softened by her dimpled cheeks and a petite nose that held up a pair of clear-framed reading glasses. She returned Pitt’s gaze through lively aqua-colored eyes, then looked down at the folder in her lap.
“An important research scientist with DARPA, Joseph Eberson, disappeared several days ago in San Diego,” she said. “He was believed to have gone on a fishing excursion aboard a private pleasure craft named Cuttlefish. The bodies of the boat owner and his assistant were found a few miles offshore by a passing sailboat. Local search-and-rescue teams combed the area but failed to locate Eberson or the boat.”
“You suspect foul play?”
“We have no specific reason to think so,” Fowler said, “but Eberson was involved with some of the Navy’s most sensitive research programs. We need closure on what happened to him. We have no reason to suspect that he defected, but an abduction has been viewed as a possibility.”
“What you really want is a body,” Pitt said. “Unfortunately, if the boat sank and he drowned with his buddies, his body could be halfway to Tahiti by now. Or inside the stomach of a great white shark.”
“That’s why we’d like you to help us find the boat,” Ann said, a hint of pleading in her eyes.
“Sounds more like a job for the San Diego Police Department.”
“We’d like to recover the boat so our investigators can try to determine if Eberson was aboard,” Fowler said. “We’re told the waters could be rather deep, so that’s beyond the police department’s capability.”
Pitt turned to Sandecker. “Where’s the Navy in all this?”
“As it happens, the Navy’s West Coast salvage fleet is engaged in a training exercise in Alaska. On top of that, the bodies were found in Mexican territorial waters. Things will be a lot less complicated if an oceanographic research ship handled the search and recovery.”
Sandecker walked to his desk and peered at a memo. “It just so happens that the NUMA survey vessel Drake presently is docked in San Diego, awaiting assignment.”
Pitt shook his head. “I’ve been done in by my own kind.”
Sandecker’s eyes twinkled. “I’ve still got a few friends over in your building.”
“Well, then,” Pitt said, giving Ann a sideways glance, “it would seem that I’m your man.”
“Exactly how will you go about the search?” Cerny asked.
“The Drake has several different sonar systems aboard, as well as a small submersible. We’ll set up a survey grid and perform a thorough sweep of the area with sonar to try and locate the Cuttlefish. Once we find her, we’ll investigate with scuba divers or send down the submersible, depending on the depth. If the boat’s still intact, we’ll see about raising her.”
“Ann will be joining you to observe the operations,” Fowler said. “We would, of course, appreciate an urgent resolution to this matter. How soon do you think you can get started?”
“About as soon as I can find a flight to San Diego . . . and Agent Bennett can rustle up some boat clothes.”
Pitt was thanked for undertaking the project and departed the meeting. After he left the room, Sandecker turned to Cerny.
“I don’t like leaving him in the dark. There’s not a man alive I trust more.”
“Presidential orders,” Cerny said. “It’s best that nobody knows what we’ve potentially lost.”
“Can he do it?” Fowler asked. “Can he find the boat if it sank?”
“It’ll be a piece of cake for Pitt,” Sandecker said, blowing a thick ring of smoke toward the ceiling. “What I’d worry about is what, exactly, he finds aboard.”
10
THE MAN STROLLED ACROSS THE DECK WITH A PAIR of scuba tanks under each arm, showing all the strain of carrying a feather comforter. His arms were almost as thick as his legs, while his chest bulged like an overinflated tractor tire. Al Giordino’s brown eyes and dark curly hair reflected his Italian heritage, while his sharp brows and upturned mouth hinted at his devilish wit.
He broke stride when he spotted Pitt and Bennett approach and met the
m at the gangway, still clutching the dive tanks.
“Greetings, Kemosabe,” he said to Pitt, “welcome back to the salt air. You have a good flight?”
“Quite. The Vice President fixed it so we could hop a Navy Gulfstream that was flying a couple of admirals to Coronado.”
“And I always end up on a Greyhound bus.” Giordino gazed at Bennett and smiled. “Another attempt to add beauty and sophistication to the crew?”