At two thousand feet Steiger made a slight adjustment in pitch and the Minerva dipped over the Jefferson Memorial and crossed the Tidal Basin on a course along Independence Avenue.
"It's crowded up here," he said, motioning to a bevy of Army helicopters hovering from one end of the Capitol mall to the other like a swarm of mad bees.
Sandecker nodded and said, "Better keep your distance. They're liable to shoot first and ask questions later."
"How long since the Iowa's last shot?"
"Nearly eighteen minutes."
"Maybe that's the end of it, then," said Steiger.
"We won't land until we're sure," Sandecker replied. "How's the fuel?"
"Enough for nearly four more hours' flying time."
Sandecker twisted in his seat to relieve his aching buttocks. "Stay as close as you dare to the National Archives building. If the Iowa cuts loose again, you can bet that's the target."
"I wonder how Pitt made out?"
Sandecker put up an unworried front.
"He knows the score. Pitt is the least of our problems." He turned away and looked out a side window so Steiger couldn't see the lines of worry that creased his face.
"I should have been the one to go in," said Steiger. "This is strictly a military show. A civilian has no business risking his life attempting a job he wasn't trained for."
"And you were, I suppose."
"You must admit my credentials outweigh Parts.''
Sandecker found himself smiling. "Care to bet?"
Steiger caught the admiral's cagey tone. "What are you implying?"
"You've been had, Colonel, pure and simple. 35
"Had? 33
"Pitt carries the rank of major in the Air Force."
Steiger looked over at Sandecker, his eyes squinting. "Are you going to tell me he can fly?"
"Just about every aircraft built, including this helicopter."
"But he claimed…"
"I know what he claimed."
Steiger looked lost. "And you sat back and said nothing?"
"You have a wife and children. Me, I'm too old. Dirk was the logical man to go."
The tenseness went out of Steiger's body and he sagged into his seat. "He better make it," he murmured under his breath. "By God, he better make it."
Pitt would have gladly given the last penny in his savings account to be anyplace but climbing a pitchblack stairway deep inside a ship that at any second might turn into an inferno. His brow was clammy and cold with sweat, as though he were running a fever. Suddenly Fawkes stopped and Pitt ran into him like a blind man against an oak tree.
"Please remain where you stand, gentlemen." The voice came from the lightless landing several steps above. "You cannot see me, but I can see enough of you both to strike your hearts with a bullet."
"This is the captain," Fawkes snapped angrily.
"Ah. Captain Fawkes himself. How convenient. I was beginning to fear I had missed connections. You were not on the bridge, as I supposed."
"Identify yourself!" Fawkes demanded.
"The name is Emma. Not very masculine, I admit, but it serves the purpose."
"Stop this foolishness and let us pass."
Fawkes made a move up two steps when the Hocker-Rodine hissed and a bullet zinged past his neck. He froze in midstep. "Good God, man, what is it you want?"
"I admire a no-nonsense approach, Captain." Emma paused, and then said, "I've been ordered to kill you."
Slowly, unnoticed by Fawkes and, he hoped, by the man on the landing, Pitt slipped down to his stomach on the steps, shielded by the shadowy bulk of the captain. Then, fractionally, he began slithering up the stairs like a snake.
"Ordered, you say," said Fawkes. "By whom?"
"My employer does not matter."
"Then why all the prattle, damn you. Why not shoot me in the chest and be done with it?"
"I do not operate without purpose, Captain Fawkes. You have been deceived. I think you should know that."
"Deceived?" Fawkes thundered. "Your foggy words tell me nothing."
An alarm began to sound in the back of Emma's mind, an alarm honed by a dozen years of cat-and-mouse existence. He stood there silently, not answering the captain's question, his senses probing for a sound or a movement.
"What about the man behind me?" asked Fawkes. "He has no hand in this. No need to murder an innocent bystander."
"Rest easy, Captain," said Emma. "My fee is for only one life. Yours."
With agonizing slowness, Pitt raised his head until he was eye level with the landing. He could see Emma now. Not in detail the light was too dim for that — but he could make out the pale blur of a face and the outline of a figure.
Pitt didn't wait to see more. He could only guess Emma would blast Fawkes in the gut during the middle of a sentence, after lulling him with idle conversation. An old but effective trick. He dug the balls of his feet into the steps, took a breath, and lunged, going for a vicious impact with Emma's legs, his hands clawing for the gun.
The silencer flashed in Pitt's face, and a stabbing pain slammed the right side of his head as he grabbed for Emma's arm. After the haze of sudden shock he swam into unconsciousness and began falling, falling. It seemed to take forever before the abysmal void swallowed him and there was nothing.
64
Goaded on by Pitt's flying tackle, Fawkes charged up the steps like a maddened rhino and threw his great weight against the bodies of both men. Pitt went limp and fell off to one side. Emma struggled to bring the gun to bear, but Fawkes slapped it away as though it were a toy in a child's hands. Then Emma went for Fawkes's crotch, clutched his cock and balls, and squeezed ruthlessly.
It was the wrong move. The captain roared like thunder and reacted by swinging both his massive fists from over his head down upon Emma's upturned face, crushing cartilage and tearing skin. Astoundingly, Emma maintained the pressure.
Though his groin felt as if it were bursting in white-hot agony, Fawkes was wise enough not to try knocking away the hands that held him like a vise. Calmly, purposefully, like a man who knew exactly what he intended to do, he gripped Emma's head an began pounding it into the metal deck landing with every ounce of strength in his tree-trunk arms. Mercifully, the pressure eased, but shrouded in his pain-lashed rage, he kept smashing away until the back of Emma's skull turned to pulp. When his fury was finally spent, he rolled over and gently massaged his groin, cursing.
After a minute or two he rose stiffly to his feet, took the coat collars of the two inert men, and dragged them up the stairway. One more short flight, a few yards down a passageway, and he came to a cargo-loading door in the upper starboard side of the Iowa's hull. He cracked the door enough to let in daylight and examined Pitt's wound.
The bullet had scored Pitt's left temple, causing, at worst, Fawkes figured, a nasty gash and a concussion. Then he checked Emma. What skin that was visible through the mask of blood on the assassin's face was turning blue. Fawkes went through his pockets and found only a spare clip for the Hockey-Rodine pistol. Strapped around a heavy woolen sweater was an inflatable life vest.
"A nonswimmer, hey?" Fawkes said, smiling. "I don't guess you'll be needing this anymore."
He removed the vest from Emma and tied it around Pitt. Reaching into his own coat pocket, Fawkes took out a small notebook and made several notations with the stub of a pencil. Next he took his eelskin tobacco pouch, emptied the contents, inserted the notebook, and tucked the packet snugly under Pitt's shirt. The cord to the C02 bottle was yanked and the vest hissed as it inflated.