A half-hour after the divers climbed out of the water, a small fleet of Coast Guard boats descended around the Hoki Jamoki.A derrick on one of the vessels lifted a large red-banded buoy with a flashing light over the side and dropped it beside the wreck of the Eagle.
When the battery of his recording unit died, the hidden cameraman neatly packed away his equipment and slipped into the approaching dusk.
31
Pitt was contemplating a menu when the maitre d’ of Positano Restaurant on Fairmont Avenue steered Loren to his table. She moved with an athletic grace, nodding and exchanging a few words with the Capitol crowd eating lunch amid the restaurant’s murals and wine racks.
Pitt looked up and their eyes met. She returned his appraising stare with an even smile. Then he rose and pulled back her chair.
“Damn, you look ugly today,” he said.
She laughed. “You continue to mystify me.”
“How so?”
“One minute you’re a gentleman, and the next a slob.”
“I was told women crave variety.”
Her eyes, clear and soft, were amused. “I do give you credit, though. You’re the only man I know who doesn’t kiss my fanny.”
Pitt’s face broke into his infectious grin. “That’s because I don’t need any political favors.”
She made a face and opened a menu. “I don’t have time to be made fun of. I have to get back to my office and respond to a ton of constituents’ mail. What looks good?”
“I thought I’d try the zuppa dipesce.”
“My scale said I was up a pound this morning. I think I’ll just have a salad.”
The waiter approached.
“A drink?” Pitt asked.
“You order.”
“Two Sazerac cocktails on the rocks, and please ask the bartender to pour rye instead of bourbon.”
“Very good, sir,” the waiter acknowledged.
Loren laid her napkin in her lap. “I’ve phoned for two days. Where’ve you been?”
“The admiral sent me on an emergency salvage job.”
“Was she pretty?” she asked, playing the age-old game.
“A coroner might think so. But drowned bodies never turned me on.”
“Sorry,” she said and went sober and quiet until the drinks were brought. They stirred the ice around the glasses and then sipped the reddish contents.
“One of my aides ran across something that might help you,” she said finally.
“What is it?”
She pulled several stapled sheets of typewritten paper from her attaché case and passed them to Pitt. Then she began explaining in a soft undertone.
“Not much meat, I’m afraid, but there’s an interesting report on the CIA’s phantom navy.”
“Didn’t know they had one,” Pitt said, scanning the pages.
“Since 1963 they have accumulated a small fleet of ships that few people inside the government know about. And the few who are aware of the fleet won’t admit it exists. Besides surveillance, its primary function is to carry out clandestine operations involving the transporting of men and supplies for the infiltration of agents or guerrillas into unfriendly countries. Originally it was put together to harass Castro after his takeover of Cuba. Several years later, when it became apparent that Castro was too strong to topple, their activities were curtailed, partly because the Cubans threatened to retaliate against American fishing vessels. From that time on the CIA navy expanded its sphere of operations from Central America to the fighting in Vietnam to Africa and the Middle East. Do you follow?”
“I’m with you, but I have no idea where it’s leading.”
“Just be patient,” she said. “Several years ago an attack cargo transport called the Hobsonwas a part of the Navy’s reserve mothball fleet at Philadelphia. She was decommissioned and sold to a commercial shipping company, a cover for the CIA. They spared no expense in rebuilding her to outwardly resemble a common cargo carrier, while her interior was filled with concealed armament, including a new missile system, highly sophisticated communications and listening gear, and a facility for launching fast patrol and landing boats through swinging bow doors.
“She was manned and ready on station during Iran’s disastrous invasion of Kuwait and Saudi Arabia in 1985. Flying the maritime flag of Panama, she secretly sank two Soviet spy ships in the Persian Gulf. The Russians could never prove who did it, because none of our Navy ships were within range. They still think the missiles that destroyed their ships came from the Saudi shore.”
“And you found out about all this?”
“I have my sources,” she informed him.
“Does the Hobsonhave anything to do with the Pilottown?”
“Indirectly,” Loren answered.
“Go on.”
“Three years ago, the Hobsonvanished with all hands off the Pacific Coast of Mexico.”
“So?”
“So three months later the CIA found her again.”
“Sounds familiar,” Pitt mused.
“My thought too.” Loren nodded. “A replay of the San Marinoand the Belle Chasse.”
“Where was the Hobsondiscovered?”
Before Loren could answer, the waiter set their plates on the table. The zuppa di pesce,an Italian bouillabaisse, looked sensational.
As soon as the waiter walked out of earshot he nodded to her. “Go on.”
“I don’t know how the CIA tracked the ship down, but they came on her sitting in a dry dock in Sydney, Australia, where she was undergoing a major face-lift.”
“They find who she was registered to?”
“She flew the Philippine flag under the registry of Samar Exporters. A bogus firm that was incorporated only a few weeks earlier in Manila. Her new name was Buras.”
“Buras,”Pitt echoed. “Must be the name of a person. How’s your salad?”
“The dressing is very tasty. And yours?”
“Excellent,” he answered. “An act of sheer stupidity on the part of the pirates to steal a ship belonging to the CIA.”
“A case of a mugger rolling a drunk and finding out the drunk was an undercover detective.”
“What happened next in Sydney?”
“Nothing. The CIA, working with the Australian branch of the British Secret Service, tried to apprehend the owners of the Burasbut were never able to find them.”
“No leads, no witnesses?”
“The small Korean crew living on board had been recruited in Singapore. They knew little and could only give a description of the captain, who had vanished.”
Pitt took a swallow of water and examined a page of the report. “Not much of an ID. Korean, medium height, one hundred sixty-five pounds, black hair, gap in front teeth. That narrows it down to about five or ten million men,” he said sarcastically. “Well, at least now I don’t feel so bad. If the CIA can’t pin a make on whoever is sailing around the world hijacking ships, I sure as hell can’t.”
“Has St. Julien Perlmutter called you?”
Pitt shook his head. “Haven’t heard a word. Probably lost heart and deserted the cause.”
“I have to desert the cause too,” Loren said gently. “But only for a little while.”
Pitt looked at her sternly a moment, then relaxed and laughed. “How did a nice girl ever become a politician?”
She wrinkled her nose. “Chauvinist.”
“Seriously, where will you be?”
“A short fact-finding junket on a Russian cruise ship sailing the Caribbean.”