booked on an evening flight that departs in three hours.”
Pitt shook his head. The fatigue of the past few days showed on his face, but his eyes remained determined. There was no sense of accomplishment on the salvage operation, which had been completed faster than anyone anticipated. The only thought on Pitt’s mind was the loss of Cruz.
He retrieved his gear. “I’d like to take a last look at the site.” Pitt gazed at the river before stepping to the dive platform.
“I’ll see that the rest of the equipment is stowed,” Giordino said. He could tell his old friend wasn’t looking for company.
Pitt entered the water with the scooter, dropped to the bottom, and propelled himself upriver. He reached the flattened section of riverbed where the Mayweather’s stern had rested and began to cruise back and forth, letting the current push him downriver. The visibility was marginally better, allowing him to hover five feet off the bottom.
He passed over the area where the bow had rested, then continued downriver. His mind began to wander as he stared at the featureless bottom, drifting over discarded tires, beer cans, and other debris. After a few minutes, he turned upriver and accelerated the scooter against the current.
He was about to adjust his path toward the barge when he eased off the throttle. A bright-colored item caught his attention. It wasn’t just another piece of discarded junk. It was a familiar object that had been lost very recently. Pitt paused a moment, then plucked it from the sand and returned to the barge.
14
Senator Bradshaw gazed out the window at the Washington Monument, watching the red aviation warning lights atop its apex twinkle in the approaching dusk. He had to admit, the Thomas Jefferson Suite at the Willard InterContinental hotel offered an impressive view of the monuments along the National Mall and beyond. Taking a sip of iced bourbon, he turned from the suite’s picture window and faced his host.
Evanna McKee, seated on a red sofa, studied a bound report with an official seal on its cover. “This is the committee’s approved bill?”
“Yes, the Senate Environment and Public Works Committee. We’ll still have to confer with the House when they pass their version.”
“I’m counting on your influence there.”
“I’ll do what I can,” Bradshaw said. “Representative Smith, whom you met the other evening, heads the subcommittee reviewing the proposed legislation. Unfortunately, she’s a tough nut to crack. But the bill is written in a muted manner. It’s only deep within the fine print that you’ll find the language that opens the door for unlimited use of your bioremediation products in U.S. waters. It’s what you asked for.”
“And what you’re getting paid for. Tell me more about this congresswoman.”
“Loren Smith—or Smith-Pitt, as she now goes by—is a long-term representative from Colorado. She chairs the House subcommittees on Environment and Water, Power, and Oceans, and she also sits on the Foreign Affairs Committee. She’s widely respected for her knowledge on legislative matters—and for her high ethics and nonpartisanship. She’s authored several high-profile pieces of legislation promoting veterans’ care and women’s rights. Unfortunately, she’s not known for succumbing to the usual congressional backroom dealmaking.”
“I see,” McKee said. “It would appear I may need to exert some additional influence. I will call her directly and invite her again to my conference in Scotland. Given the right sway, she could become an important ally.” She set the report on a coffee table. “Thank you for pressing the EPA for approval in the Detroit incident. There will be something for you in your Dubai bank account.”
Bradshaw finished his bourbon and bowed to McKee—as gracefully as an aged, overweight, tipsy senator could muster. “Thank you, Mrs. McKee. As always, it’s a pleasure doing business with you.”
“Rachel will show you out.”
The large woman he’d seen at the charity event entered the sitting room and nodded at him. The senator followed the broad-shouldered woman to the door.
A few seconds later, Audrey McKee entered from a back bedroom. She’d arrived from Detroit an hour earlier and was freshly showered and dressed in a blouse and slacks. “How can you stand to do business with that pig?” she asked.
“Because he will do anything for money. I prefer to hire people who will sell their soul for money, and let them do my bidding.”
“He’s still a pig.”
“As are all men. Some serve our purpose, as muscle or marionettes. With his help, we will soon be able to operate throughout the U.S.”
Audrey nodded. “We’ve already begun infiltrating the world’s