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"Eight civilians," Sandecker repeated. "And none of them looked remotely familiar to you?"
"I'm not sure their own mothers could identify them," said Pitt.
"Why? Was I supposed to know somebody?"
Sandecker shook his head. "I can't say."
Pitt couldn't recall seeing the admiral so distraught. The iron armor had fallen away. The penetrating, intelligent eyes seemed stricken. Pitt watched for a reaction as he spoke.
"If I had to venture an opinion, i'd say someone snuffed the candle on half the Chinese embassy."
"Chinese?" The eyes suddenly turned as sharp as ice picks.
"What are you saying?"
"Seven of the eight civilians were from eastern Asia."
"Could you be in error?" Sandecker asked, regaining a foothold.
"with little or no visibility-"
"Visibility was ten feet. And, I'm well aware of the difference between the eye folds of a Caucasian and an Oriental."
"Thank God," Sandecker said, exhaling a deep breath.
"I'd be much obliged if you would inform me just what in hell you expected Al and me to find down there."
Sandecker's eyes softened. "I owe you an explanation," he said, "but I can't give you one. There are events occurring around us that we have no need to know."
"I have my own project," said Pitt, his voice turning cold. "I'm not interested in this one."
"Yes, Julie Mendoza. I understand."
Pitt pulled something from under the sleeve of his wet suit.
"Here, I almost forgot. I took this from one of the bodies."
"what is it?"
Pitt held up a soggy leather billfold. On the inside was a water proof id card with a man's photograph. Opposit was a badge in the shape of a shield. "A Secret Service agent's identification," Pitt answered. "His name was Brock, Lyle Brock."
Sandecker took the billfold without comment. He glanced at his watch. "I've got to contact Sam Emmett at FBI. This is his problem now."
"You can't drop it that easily, Admiral. We both know NUMA will be called on to raise the Eagle."You're right, of course," Sandecker said wearily. "You're relieved of that project. You do what you have to do. I'll have Girodino handle the salvage." He turned and stepped into the wheelhouse to use the ship-to-shore phone.
Pitt stood looking for a long time at the dark forbinding water of the river, reliving the terrible scene below. A line from an old seaman's poem ran through his head: "A ghostly ship, with a ghostly crew, with no place to go."
Then as though closing a curtain, he turned his thoughts back to the Pilottown.
On the east bank of the river, concealed in a thicket of ash trees, a man dressed in Vietnam leaf camouflage fatigues pressed his eye to the viewfinder of a vineo camera. The warm sun and the heavy huminity caused sweat to trickle down his face. He ignored the discomfort and kept taping, zooming in the telephoto lens until Pitts upper body filled the miniature viewing screen. Then he panned along the entire length of the clamming boat, holding for a few seconds on each member of the crew.
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.
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 amin 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.
