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Pitt gazed at Shaw over the top of the paper, his green eyes inscrutable. "You assume correctly."
Shaw slipped his hand from a pocket and aimed the .25 caliber Beretta. "Then I'm afraid you must give it to me."
"So you can burn it?"
Shaw nodded silently.
"Sorry," Pitt said calmly.
"I don't think you fully comprehend the situation."
"It's obvious you have a gun."
"And you haven't," Shaw said confidently.
Pitt shrugged. "I admit it didn't occur to me to bring one."
"The treaty, Mr. Pitt, if you please."
"Finders keepers, Mr. Shaw."
Shaw exhaled a breath in a long silent sigh. "I owe you my life, so it would be most inconsiderate of me to kill you. However, the treaty copy means far more to my country than the personal debt between us."
"Your copy was destroyed on the Empress of Ireland," Pitt said slowly. "This one belongs to the United States."
"Perhaps, but Canada belongs to Britain. And we don't intend to give it up."
"The empire can't last forever."
"India, Egypt and Burma, to name a few, were never ours to keep," said Shaw. "But Canada was settled and built by the British."
"You forget your history, Shaw. The French were there first. Then the British. After you came the immigrants: the Germans, the Poles, the Scandinavians and even the Americans who moved north into the western provinces. Your government held the reins by maintaining a power structure run by people who were either born or educated in England. The same is true of your Commonwealth countries. Local government and large corporations may be managed by native employees, but the men who make the major decisions are sent out by London."
"A system that has proven most efficient."
"Geography and distance will eventually defeat that system," said Pitt. "No government can indefinitely rule another thousands of miles away."
"If Canada leaves the Commonwealth, so might Australia or New Zealand, or even Scotland and Wales.
I can think of nothing more distressing."
"Who can say where national boundaries will lie a thousand years from now. Better yet, who the hell cares?"
"I care, Mr. Pitt. Please hand over the treaty." Pitt did not respond, but turned his head, listening. The sounds of voices faintly echoed from one of the tunnels. "Your friends have followed me down the air vent," said Shaw. "Time has run out."
"You kill me, and they'll kill you."
"Forgive me, Mr. Pitt." The gun muzzle pointed directly between Pitt's eyes.
A deafening, ringing clap shattered the silent glo
om of the cavern. Not the sharp, cracking report of a small-caliber Beretta, but rather the booming bark of a 7.63 Mauser automatic. Shaw's head snapped to one side and he hung limp in his chair.
Pitt regarded the smoldering hole in the center of his newspaper for a moment, then rose to his feet, laid the Mauser on the table and eased Shaw to a prone position on the floor.
He looked up as Giordino charged through the door like a bull in heat, an assault rifle held out in front of him. Giordino jerked to a halt and stared fascinated at the derby still perched on Pitt's head. Then he noticed Shaw. "Dead?"
"My bullet creased his skull. The old guy is tough. After a nasty headache and couple of stitches, he'll probably come gunning for my hide."
