Текст книги "Vixen 03"

Автор книги: Clive Cussler

Соавторы: Clive Cussler
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36

The BEZA-Mozambique overseas airliner pivoted off the main runway onto a seldomused taxi strip and dipped its nose as the pilot applied the brakes. The boarding hatch swung open and a baggage handler wearing white coveralls and a red baseball cap stepped from the evening darkness and attached an aluminum ladder to the fuselage. A figure stooped in the light streaming from the interior of the plane, dropped a large suitcase to the man on the ground, and climbed down after it. Then the hatch closed and the ladder was removed. The engines picked up their whine and the plane rolled off in the direction of the Dulles Airport international terminal.

No conversation was exchanged as the baggage handler passed the stranger a spare set of coveralls, which were quickly donned. They climbed aboard a small tractor that had four empty carrier carts attached to its rear hitch and steered a course to the maintenance section of the field. After a few minutes of dodging parked aircraft, the tractor pulled up to a floodlit gate. A guard leaned out at their approach and, upon recognizing the driver, stifled a yawn and waved them through. The baggage handler waved back and drove to the employees' parking lot, stopping beside a door held open by the chauffeur of a large dark-blue limousine. Still without a word, the man from the airplane stepped into the backseat of the car. The chauffeur took the suitcase, lifted it into the trunk, and the baggage handler drove his empty caravan back toward the cargo terminal.

It wasn't until the car entered the outskirts of Georgetown that Lusana relaxed and slipped out of the coveralls. In past years he would have entered the States like any other traveler coming from overseas. But those were the days before the South African Defence Ministry took him seriously. Lusana's fears of assassination were well founded. With a sense of relief he watched the chauffeur stop in front of a house whose downstairs windows were lit. At least someone was home.

The chauffeur carried his suitcase to the doorstep and silently departed. A faint murmur from the TV set came through the open windows. He pressed the bell.

The porch light came on., the door opened a crack, and a familiar voice said, "Who is it?"

He moved under the light so that it illuminated his face. "It's me, Felicia."

"Hiram?" Her voice was stunned.

"Yes."

The door opened slowly. She was dressed in a sheer and sexy chiffon peasant blouse and a long soft jersey skirt. A knotted bandana covered her hair. She stood motionless, her eyes searching his. She wanted to say something appropriately clever but her mind went blank. All she managed was, "Come in."

He stepped inside and set the suitcase down. "I thought you might be here," he said.

Her dark eyes quickly shifted from surprise to calm composure. "Your timing is right on the money. I just got back from Hollywood. I've cut a new album and auditioned for a part in a TV series."

"I'm happy all goes well for you."

She looked up into his face. "You never should have sent me away with Frederick."

"If it will make you feel any better, I've often regretted my hasty decision."

"I could go back with you to Africa

He shook his head sadly. "Someday, maybe. Not now. You can do more for our cause here."

They turned in unison as Frederick Daggat, casually attired in a paisley-print bathrobe, appeared from the living room. "My God, General Lusana. I thought I recognized your voice." He looked down at the suitcase and his face clouded. "There was no advance word of your arrival. Has there been trouble?"

Lusana grinned wryly. "The world is not safe for revolutionaries. I thought it expedient to return to the Land of the Free as inconspicuously as possible."

"But surely the airlines… customs… someone must have announced your presence."

Lusana shook his head. "I sat in the pilot's cabin on the flight from Africa. Arrangements were made for me to leave the plane after landing and bypass the Dulles terminal."

"We have laws that frown on illegal entry."

"I am a citizen. What difference does it make?"

Daggat's expression softened. He placed his hands on Lusana's shoulders. "If there is any fuss, my staff will take care of it. You're here, and that's all that counts."

"But why all the subterfuge?" asked Felicia.

"For good reason." Lusana's voice was very cold. "My intelligence people have uncovered a sensitive piece of information that can prove highly embarrassing to the South African minority government."

"That's a serious charge," said Daggat.

"It's a serious threat," retorted Lusana.

Daggat's eyes registered a mixture of confusion and curiosity. He nodded toward the living room. "Come in and sit down, General. We have much to talk over."

"Every time I see you it's like looking at an old photograph. You never change."

Felicia returned Loren's admiring look. "Flattery from another woman is flattery indeed." She idly stirred the ice in her drink. "It's amazing how time evaporates. How long has it been – three, maybe four years?"

"The last inaugural ball."

"I remember," Felicia said, smiling. "We went to that little dive down by the river afterward and got smashed. You were with a tall, sad-looking dude with spaniel eyes."

"Congressman Louis Carnady. He was defeated in the next election."

"Poor Louis." Felicia lit a cigarette. "My date was Hiram Lusana."

"I know."

"We parted company only last month in Africa," Felicia said as if Loren had not spoken. "I wonder if my life has been one big downer, chasing after every liberal cause that pops on stage, taking up with any stud who promises to save the human race."

Loren motioned to the waiter to bring them two more drinks. "You can't blame yourself for believing in people."

"I haven't got a hell of a lot to show for it. Every crusade I've ever joined, I screwed up."

"I don't mean to pry, but did you and Lusana have personal differences, or was it political?"

"Strictly personal," Felicia said. She felt her chest tighten as Loren circled the bait. "I no longer mattered to him. His only love was his fight. I think at first, deep inside him, there was a feeling for me, but as the struggle expanded and his pressures grew, he became distant. I know now that he had taken all he ever wanted from me. It was as though I was as expendable as one of his soldiers on the battlefield."

Loren saw the tears start to come to Felicia's eyes. "How you must hate him."

Felicia looked up, surprised. "Hate Hiram? Oh no, you don't understand. I was unfair with him. I let my own desires stand between us. I should have been patient. Perhaps when his war to give majority rule to blacks in South Africa is won, he will look upon me differently."

"I wouldn't hold my breath if I were you. I know his history. Lusana uses people like the rest of us use toothpaste. He squeezes every dab and throws away the empties."

An angered frown crossed Felicia's face. "You only see in Hiram what you want to see. The good outweighs the bad."

Loren sighed and leaned back as the waiter brought their second round. "It's wrong for old friends to argue after being so long apart," she said softly. "Let's change the subject."

"I agree," Felicia said, her mood changing. "What about you, Loren? Are there any men in your life?"

"Two, at the moment."

Felicia laughed. "It's common Washington gossip: one is Phil Sawyer, the President's press secretary. Who's the other?"

"He's a director at NUMA. His name is Dirk Pitt."

"You serious about either one of them?"

"Phil is the sort you marry: loyal, true blue, sets you on a gilded pedestal and wants you to be the mother of his children."

Felicia made a face. "He sounds perfectly mundane. What about this Pitt?"

"Dirk? Sheer animal power. He makes no demands; he comes and goes like an alley cat. Dirk can never be truly owned by a woman, and yet he's always there when you need him. The lover who turns you on but won't stand still long enough for you to grow old with."

"He sounds more my type. Send him my way when the affair crashes." Felicia sipped at her drink. "It must be tricky, maintaining your political purity in front of the voters while seeing a lover on the side."

Loren's cheeks turned crimson. "It is difficult," she admitted. "I never was very good at intrigue."

"You could say to hell with what people think. Most women do these days."

"Most women are not members of Congress."

"The old double standard again. Congressmen can get away with anything as long as it doesn't show up on their expense account."

"Sad, but true.," said Loren. "And in my case, I represent a district that is heavily rural. The voters still believe in the Sears catalogue, Coors' beer. and the Eleven Commandments."

"What's the eleventh?"

"Thy Congresswoman shall not screw around if she expects to win the next election."

"Where do you and Pitt meet?"

"I can't take the chance of a male's being seen leaving my apartment along with the milkman, so we meet at his place or drive to some little out-of-the-way country inn."

"You make it sound like a bus-stop romance."

"As I said, it's difficult."

"I think I can eliminate all the bullshit for YOU."

Loren looked at Felicia quizzically. "How?"

Felicia fished in her purse and came up with a key. She pressed it into Loren's hand. "Here, take this. The address is taped to the top."

"What is it for?"

"A pad I leased over in Arlington. It's yours anytime you get horny."

"But what about you? I can't expect you to get lost on a moment's notice."

"You won't be imposing," Felicia said, smiling. "I'm the houseguest of a dude across town. No more protests. Okay?"

Loren studied the key. "God, I feel like a hooker."

Felicia reached over and folded Loren's hand over the key. "If just thinking about it gives you a deliciously obscene feeling, wait until you take a shot of the upstairs bedroom."

37

"What do you make of it?" asked Daggat. He was seated at his desk. Hiram Lusana stood across the room and leaned over a highbacked chair, his expression anxious.

Dale Jarvis, director of the National Security Agency, pondered a few moments before answering. He looked up with a friendly, almost fatherly face. His brown hair was streaked with gray and he wore it in a crew cut. He was dressed in a tweed suit and a large red bow tie beneath his Adam's apple drooped as though it were melting.

"My guess is that this Operation Wild Rose is a game."

"A game!" Lusana rasped. "That's crap!"

"Not really," Jarvis said calmly. "Every nation with a sophisticated military establishment has a department whose function is solely to dream up what is generally referred to in the trade as 'feasibility games.' Improbable schemes. ultra crepidam,beyond the depth or grasp of likelihood. Strategic and tactical studies invented to combat unforeseen events. Then shelved against the unlikely day they are dusted off and put into action. "

"And that's your opinion of Wild Rose?" Lusana asked with a certain acidity.

"Without knowing all the details, yes," answered Jarvis. "I daresay the South African Defence Ministry has contingency plans for phony insurgent raids on half the nations of the globe."

"Do you really believe that?"

"I do," Jarvis said firmly. "Don't quote me, but nestled in some deep, dark crevasse of our own government you'll find some of the wildest scripts ever devised by man and computer; conspiracies to undermine every nation on the globe, including our Western friendlies; measures to plant nuclear bombs in the ghettos in case of mass uprisings by minorities; battle plots to counter invasions from Mexico and Canada. Not one in ten thousand will ever be utilized, but they're there, waiting, just in case."

"Insurance," said Daggat.

Jarvis nodded. "Insurance against the unthinkable."

"You mean that's all there is to it?" Lusana exploded angrily. "You're just going to write off Operation Wild Rose as an idiot's nightmare?"

"I'm afraid you've taken this thing far too seriously, General." Jarvis sat unmoved by Lusana's outburst. "You've got to face reality. As my grandfather was fond of saying, you've bought yourself a pig in a poke."

"I refuse to accept that," Lusana said stubbornly.

Jarvis casually removed his glasses and inserted them in their case. "You are. of course, free to ask for neutral opinions from other intelligence organizations, General. but I think I can safely say that Wild Rose will get pretty much the same reception wherever you present it."

"I demand you verify De Vaal's intent to set the operation in motion!" Lusana shouted.

Controlling his rising anger, Jarvis rose, buttoned his jacket, and faced Daggat. "Congressman, if you will excuse me, I must get back to my office."

"I understand," Daggat said. He came out from behind his desk and took Jarvis by the arm. "Let me show you to the elevator."

Jarvis nodded at Lusana, diplomatically forcing a friendly expression. "General?"

Lusana stood trembling. his hands clenched tightly, saying nothing. He turned and stared out a window.

As soon as they stepped into the elevator foyer, Daggat said to Jarvis, "I apologize for the general's erratic behavior. But you must understand the tremendous strain he has shouldered these past months. And then there was the long flight from Mozambique last night."

"Jet lag has been known to make men testy." Jarvis arched an eyebrow. "Or could it be he's suffering conscience pangs over his back-door entry."

Daggat moistened dry lips. "You know?"

Jarvis smiled amiably. "Routine. Don't worry, Congressman. Our job is to keep tabs on men like the general. The NSA is not in the business of prosecuting civil violations. What Immigration doesn't know in this case won't hurt them. A piece of advice, though. If I were you, I wouldn't let the general hang around Washington too long. Befriending a radical revolutionary might prove embarrassing to a man of your reputation."

"General Lusana is not a radical."

Jarvis shrugged, unimpressed. "That remains to be seen."

The red "down" light flashed above the elevator. Jarvis started to turn. "There is one more thing," said Daggat. "A favor."

The elevator bell rang and the doors parted. The interior was empty. "If I can," Jarvis said, his eyes shifting from Daggat to his only means of escape.

"Check out Operation Wild Rose. I'm not asking for a maximum effort from your people," Daggat hastened to add. "Only a few probes that may or may not confirm its validity."

The doors began to close. Jarvis held them open, one foot in, one foot still on the foyer floor. "I'll instigate an inquiry," he said. "But I warn you, Congressman, you may not like what we find."

Then the doors clanked shut and he was gone.

It was ten o'clock when Daggat came awake. He was in his office alone. His staff had long since left for home. He looked at his watch and figured he had dozed for nearly an hour. He rubbed his eyes and stretched as he vaguely heard the outeroffice door open and close. He didn't bother to look up, thinking it was the cleaning crew. It was only after he failed to tune in the familiar sounds of wastebaskets being emptied and vacuum cleaners humming that he became aware of a strange presence.

Felicia Collins leaned languidly against the doorway, saying nothing, just staring at Daggat.

A thought triggered in the back of his mind and he rose and made an apologetic gesture. "I'm sorry, time slipped away from me I completely forgot our dinner date."

"You're forgiven," she said.

He reached for his coat. "You must be starved."

"By the fourth martini, all hunger pangs disappeared." She peered around the office. "I figured you and Hiram were probably tied up in conference."

"I turned him over to the State Department this afternoon. They're giving him the usual lukewarm treatment reserved for fourth-class visiting dignitaries."

"Is it safe for him to be out in public?"

"I saw to it that he's provided with round-the-clock security."

"Then he's no longer our houseguest."

"No. he has a suite at the Mayflower, courtesy of the government."

Felicia stretched her opulent body and flowed into the room. "By the way, I met Loren Smith for lunch. She poured out her love life to me."

"She took the bait."

"If you mean the key to your little hideaway in Arlington, the answer is yes."

He took her in his arms. his eyes gentle but smug with satisfaction. "You won't be sorry. Felicia. Only good can come from this."

"Try telling that to Loren Smith," she said, turning away.

He released her. "Did she mention any names?"

"I gather she's teasing Phil Sawyer into marriage while she's screwing some guy from NUMA on the side."

"Did she say who?"

"His name is Dirk Pitt."

Daggat's eyes widened. "You did say Dirk Pitt?"

Felicia nodded.

Daggat's mind raced to make a connection and then he had it. "Son of a bitch! It's perfect! "

"What are you talking about?"

"The revered senior senator from California, George Pitt. Didn't it occur to you? Congresswoman Holier-Than-Thou Smith is shacking with the senator's son."

Felicia shivered as her skin suddenly went cold. "For God's sake, Frederick, drop this stupid scheme of yours before it gets out of hand."

"I don't think so," Daggat said, smiling a sinister smile. "I do what I think best for the country."

"You mean you do what you think best for Frederick Daggat."

He took her by the arm and led her from the office. "When you have time to reconsider, you'll come to find that I was right." He turned off the lights. "Now then, let's grab some dinner, and afterward we'll prepare Loren Smith's love nest for her one and only visit."

38

Admiral James Sandecker was a short, feisty character with flaming red hair and plenty of gall. When his retirement from the Navy was forced upon him, he used his considerable congressional influence to connive his way into the job of chief director of the thenfledgling National Underwater and Marine Agency. It was a match that was ordained for success from the start. In seven short years Sandecker had taken an insignificant eightyperson agency and built it into a massive organization of five thousand scientists and employees supported by an annual budget that exceeded four hundred million dollars.

He was accused by his enemies of being a grandstander, of launching oceanic projects that garnered more publicity than scientific data. His supporters applauded his flair for making the field of oceanography as popular as space science. Whatever his assets or liabilities, Admiral Sandecker was as solidly entrenched at NUMA as J. Edgar Hoover had been at the FBI.

He drained the last swallow from a bottle of Seven-Up, sucked on the stub of a giant cigar, and looked into the unsmiling faces of Admiral Walter Bass, Colonel Abe Steiger, AI Giordino, and Dirk Pitt.

"The part I find hard to swallow," he continued, "is the total lack of interest on the part of the Pentagon. It would seem logical – to me, at any rate – that Colonel Steiger's report on the discovery of Vixen 03 complete with photos would have shocked the hell out of them. And yet the colonel has told us his superiors acted as though the whole episode was best dropped and forgotten."

"There is a bona fide reason behind their indifference," Bass answered impassively. "Generals O'Keefe and Burgdorf are ignorant of the link between Vixen 03 and the QD project because none is recorded."

"How can that be?"

"What was learned after the deaths of Dr. Vetterly and his scientists motivated everyone who knew of QD's ghastly power to bury every scrap of evidence and erase all memories of its existence so that it could not be resurrected ever again."

"You mean you suppressed an entire defense project under the noses of the Joint Chiefs of Staff'?" Sandecker said incredulously.

"By direct order from President Eisenhower I was to state in my reports to the Joint Chiefs that the experiment had backfired and the formulation of QD had died along with Dr. Vetterly."

"And they swallowed the story?"

"They had no reason not to," said Bass. "Besides the President, Secretary of Defense Wilson, and myself and a handful of scientists, no one else knew exactly what Vetterly had discovered. As far as the Joint Chiefs were concerned. the project was simply another low-budget experiment within the ugly realm of chemical-biological warfare. They suffered no qualms; nor did they ask embarrassing questions before writing it off as a failure."

"What was the purpose of circumventing the armed-forces power structure?"

"Eisenhower was an old soldier who abhorred mass-kill weapons." Bass seemed to shrivel in his chair while he collected his thoughts. "I am the last surviving member of the Quick Death Team," he continued slowly. "Unhappily, the secret will not die with me, as I had once hoped. because Mr. Pitt. here, accidentally discovered a longlost source of the disease strain. I did not bare the facts then – nor will I now – to the men who run the Pentagon, for fear that they would consider recovering Vixen 03's cargo and storing it, in the name of national defense, against the day it might be unleashed against a future enemy."

"But surely if it came down to protecting our country…" Sandecker protested.

Bass shook his head. "I don't think you understand the true horror of the Quick Death organism, Admiral. Nothing known can impede its deadly effects. Allow me to cite an illustration: if five ounces of QD were delivered over Manhattan Island, the organism would seek out and kill ninety-eight percent of the population within four hours. And no one, gentlemen, no human, could set foot on the island for over three centuries. Future generations could only stand on the New jersey shore and watch the oncemighty buildings erode and crumble over the bones of their former inhabitants."

The other men around the table paled; their blood ran cold. For a while no one spoke. They sat frozen, visualizing a city entombing three million corpses. It was Pitt who finally broke the uneasy silence.

"The people in Brooklyn and the Bronx – they would not be affected?"

"QD organisms spread in colonies. Strangely, they do not travel by human contact or by the wind. They tend to stay localized. Of course, if enough of the biological agent were delivered by aircraft or rockets, theoretically blanketing all of North America. the entire continent would become barren of all human life until the year 2300."

"Is there nothing that can kill QD?" asked Steiger.

"H-two-oh," answered Bass. "The organism can only exist in an atmosphere with a high gaseous-oxygen content. You might say it suffocates when immersed in water, just as we do."

"It strikes me as odd that Vetterly was the only one who knew how to produce it." This from Pitt.

Bass smiled thinly. "I would have never permitted one man to keep the critical data to himself."

"So you destroyed the doctor's records."

"I also falsified all orders and paperwork I could lay my hands on that related to the project. which included, by the way. the original flight plan of Vixen 03."

Steiger sat back and sighed with apparent relief. "At least that's one part of the puzzle that won't bug me any longer."

"But surely the project left tracks," Sandecker said speculatively.

"Skeletons still lie on Rongelo Island," said Pitt. "And what keeps unsuspecting fishermen or yachtsmen off its beaches?"

"I'll answer your question in reverse," said Bass. "First, all nautical charts of that area designate Rongelo Island as a dumping ground for hydrogen cyanide. The shores are also ringed with buoys warning of danger."

"Hydrogen cyanide," Giordino repeated. "Sounds like bad medicine."

"Truely. It is a blood agent that interferes with all respiration. In certain doses it causes almost immediate death. This is spelled out on the charts and in six languages on signs attached to the buoys." Bass paused and pulled out a handkerchief and patted the sweat that gleamed on his bald head. "Also, what few records that remain dealing with the QD project are lying deep in a Pentagon high-security vault that contains documents classified as FEW'

"FEO?"

" 'Future eyes only,' " Bass explained. "Each file is sealed and marked with a date when it can be opened. Even the President lacks the power to examine a document's contents before the specified time. It has been referred to as the closet where our nation's skeletons are kept. The file on Amelia Earhart, UFOs, the truth behind the government's insistence on the swine-flu shots in the mid-seventies, political scandals that make the old Watergate stories seem like Boy Scout adventures. They're all there. The QD-project file, for example, cannot be opened until the year 2550. By then, President Eisenhower hoped, our descendants would fail to glean its true implications."

The other men in the NUMA conference room had never heard of the Future Eyes Only file, and they were astonished.

"I suppose the next obvious question," said Pitt, "is why, Admiral, are you taking us into your confidence?"

"I requested this meeting to clear the air on Vixen 03 because I find myself in the position of having to trust someone to recover the QD in the aircraft and destroy it."

"You're asking a great deal," Sandecker said. He relit another cigar and puffed it to life. "If the Pentagon gets wind of this, we could all be branded as traitors."

"A disagreeable possibility that cannot be overlooked," admitted Bass. "Our only comfort would be in knowing that public and moral opinion stand on our side."

"Somehow I've never quite been able to picture myself as a savior to mankind," Giordino mumbled.

Steiger looked steadily at Bass. perhaps seeing his Air Force career going up in smoke for the second time in as many weeks. "I get the feeling your choice of accomplices is backed by mad logic, Admiral. Myself, for instance – where do I fit in with the recovery of Vixen 03?"

Bass's tight smile loosened. "Believe it or not, Colonel, you're the critical man on the team. Your report alerted the Air Force to the existence of the aircraft. Fortunately, someone high in government found it inconvenient to pursue the matter further. Your job will be to see that any Pentagon interest remains negative."

There was understanding on Pitt's face now. "Okay, so Admiral Sandecker bankrolls the overall effort with NUMA resources while Giordino and I handle the actual salvage work. How do you intend to destroy QD's lethal properties once we raise the canisters?"

"We deep-six the warheads in the ocean," Bass replied without hesitation. "In time, as their exterior surface erodes, the water will neutralize the disease strain."

Pitt turned to Sandecker and found himself saying, "I can transfer jack Folsom and his crew from the Chenagojob and have them on site at Table Lake with all necessary equipment inside forty-eight hours."

Admiral Sandecker was a realist. His choice was clear. He had known Bass well enough not to write off the old man as an alarmist. Every head angled toward the fiery little director of NUMA. He seemed lost in the blue cigar smoke that curled to the ceiling. Then at last he nodded.

"All right, gentlemen, we go."

"Thank you, James," Bass said, obviously pleased. "I fully realize the gamble you're taking merely on the word of a rusty old sea dog."

"I'd say those were pretty good odds," Sandecker replied.

"A thought just occurred to me," Giordino cut in. "If water kills this QD stuff, why don't we simply leave it on the bottom of thel ake?"

Bass shook his head solemnly. "No thank you. If you found it, so can someone else. It's far better we deposit it for eternity where no human will ever set eyes on it. I can only thank God the canisters have gone undiscovered all these years."

"Which brings up another matter," Pitt said, noting the sudden uneasy lowering of Giordino's and Steiger's eyes.

Sandecker flicked an ash into an abaloneshell tray. "What is that?"

"According to the original flight plan, Vixen 03 departed Buckley Field with a crew of four. Is that correct, Admiral Bass?"

Bass's expression went quizzical. "Yes, there were four."

"Perhaps I should have brought this up sooner," Pitt said, "but I was afraid of complicating the issue at hand."

"You're not the type to beat around the bush," Sandecker said impatiently. "What are you getting at?"

"The fifth skeleton."

"The fifth what?"

"When I dove on the wreckage, I found the bones of a fifth man tied to the floor of the cargo section."

Sandecker looked at Bass. "Have you any idea who he's talking about?"

Bass sat like a man who had been slapped in the face. "A ground maintenance man," he murmured vacantly. "One must have somehow been left on board when the plane took off."

"Won't wash," said Pitt. "Flesh was still evident. The remains haven't been immersed as long as the others."

"You said the canisters were still sealed," replied Bass, snatching at threads.

"Yes, sir, I saw no evidence of tampering," Pitt reassured him.

"My God, my God!" Bass held his hands to his face. "Someone besides ourselves knows about the aircraft. "

"We can't be sure of that," said Steiger.

Bass lowered his hands and stared at Pitt through glazed eyes. "Bring her up, Mr. Pitt. For the sake of humanity, bring up Vixen 03 from the bottom of that lake – and do it quickly."

Pitt could not shake the feeling of dread as he left the meeting and passed through the main entrance of the NUMA building. The Washington night was heavy with humidity, the stickiness adding to his depression. He walked across the deserted parking lot and opened the door to his car. He was halfway behind the wheel before he noticed a small figure on the passenger seat.

Loren was asleep. She was cuddled in a ball and lost to the world. She wore a Grecian-style green dress and calfskin boots under a long fur coat. Pitt leaned over and brushed the hair from her cheeks and gently shook her awake. Her eyes fluttered open and then locked on his. Her lips arched into a feline smile and her face looked strangely pale and young.

"Mmm. Fancy meeting you here."

He leaned over and kissed her. "Are you crazy? A luscious creature all alone in an empty Washington parking lot. It's a miracle you weren't assaulted and gangbanged."