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"What brings the Secret Service to Mount Vernon on a weekend?"
"Practice mission," Blackowl replied conversationally. "How about the FBI?"
"Same thing. The Director must have thought we were getting lazy, so he dreamed up a top-priority exercise."
"Looking for anything in particular?" Blackowl asked, feigning indifferent interest.
"Whatever we can determine about the last people who were onboard-identification through fingerprints, where they came from. You know."
Before Blackowl could reply, Ed McGrath stepped onto the dock from the gravel path. His forehead was glistening in sweat and his face was flushed. Blackowl guessed he had been running.
"Excuse me, George," he panted between intakes of breath. "You got a minute?"
"Sure." Blackowl waved to the FBI agent. "Nice talking with YOU."
"Same to you."
As soon as they were out of earshot, Blackowl asked softly, "What's going down, Ed?"
"The FBI guys found something you should see."
"Where?"
"About a hundred and fifty yards upriver, hidden away in trees.
I'll show you."
McGrath led him along a path that bordered the river. When it curved toward the outer estate buildings, they stayed in a straight line across a manicured lawn. Then they climbed a rail fence into the unkempt undergrowth on the other side. Working their way into a dense thicket, they suddenly came upon two FBI investigators who were hunkered down studying two large tanks connected to what looked like electrical generators.
"What in hell are these things?" Blackowl demanded without a greeting.
One of the men looked up. "They're foggers."
Blackowl stared, puzzled. Then his eyes winened. "Foggers!" he blurted out. "Machines that make fog!"
"Yeah, that's right. Fog generators. The Navy used to mount them on destroyers during World War Two for making smokescreens."
"Christ!" Blackowl gasped. "So that's how it was done!" OFFICIAL WASHINGTON TURNS INTO A GHOST TOWN over the weekends. The machinery of government grinds to a halt at five o'clock Frinay evening and hibernates until Monday morning) when it fires to life again with the obstinacy of a cold engine. Once the cleaning crews have come and gone, the huge buildings are as dead as mausoleums.
What is most surprising, the phone systems are shut down.
Only the tourists are out in force, crawling over the Mall, throwing Frisbees and swarming around the Capitol, climbing the endless staircases and staring slack-jawed at the underside of the dome.
Some were peering through the iron fence around the White House around noontime when the President came out, quickstepped across the lawn and gave a jaunty wave before entering a helicopter. He was followed by a small entourage of aides and Secret Service agents. Few of the elite press corps were present. Most were home watching baseball on TV or roaming a golf course.
Fawcett and Lucas stood on the South Portico and watched until the ungainly craft lifted over E Street and dissolved to a speck as it beat its way toward Andrews Air Force Base.
"That was fast work," Fawcett said quietly. "You made the switch in less than five hours."
"My Los Angeles office tracked down Sutton and crammed him into the cockpit of a Navy F-20 fighter forty minutes after they were alerted."
"What about Margolin?"
"One of my agents is a reasonable facsimile. He'll be onboard an executive jet for New Mexico as soon as it's dusk."
"Can your people be trusted not to leak this charade?"
Lucas shot Fawcett a sharp look. "They're trained to keep quiet.
