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"Granted," Pitt allowed. "But suppose they cut off seven hundred miles?"
"How?" inquired Giordino, his voice a combination of doubt and sarcasm. "By installing wheels and driving it cross-country?"
"No joke," Pitt said seriously. "By towing it through the recently opened Florida Cross State Canal from Jacksonville on the Atlantic to Crystal River on the Gulf of Mexico, shortcutting the entire southern half of the state."
The revelation sparked Giordino. He peered at the chart again, studying the scale. Then, using his thumb and forefinger as a pair of diviners, he roughly measured the reduced distance between Charleston and New Orleans. When he finally turned and looked at Pitt, he wore a sheepish smile.
"It works." Then the smile quickly faded. "So what does it prove?"
"The Bougainvilles must have a heavily guarded dock facility and terminal where they unload their illegal cargoes. It probably sits on the banks of the river somewhere between New Orleans and the entrance to the gulf."
"The Mississippi Delta?" Giordino showed his puzzlement.
"How'd you pull that little number out of the hat?"
"Take a look," Pitt said, pointing to the list of ships on the blackboard and then reading them off. "The Pilottown, Belle Chasse, Buras, Venice, Boothville, Chalmette-all ships under foreign registry but at one time owned by Bougainville Maritime."
"I fail to make the connection."
"Take another look at the chart. Every one of those ships is named after a town along the river delta."
"A symbolic cipher?"
"The only mistake the Bougainvilles ever let slip, using a code to designate their area of covert operations."
Giordino peered closer. "By God, it fits like a girl in tight shorts."
Pitt rapped the chart with his knuckles. "I'll bet my lsottaFraschini against your Bronco that's where we'll find Loren."
"You're on."
"Run over to the NUMA air terminal and sign out a Lear jet. I'll contact the admiral and explain why we're flying to New Orleans."
Giordino was already heading toward the door. "I'll have the plane checked out and ready for takeoff when you get there," he called over his shoulder.
Pitt hurried up the stairs to his apartment and threw some clothes in an overnight bag. He opened a gun cabinet and took out an old Colt Thompson submachine gun, serial number 8545, and two loaded drums of .45-caliber cartridges and lain them in a violin case, Then he picked up the phone and called Sandecker's office.
He identified himself to Sandecker's private secretary and was put through. "Admiral?"
"Dirk?"
"I think I've got the barge area fixed."
"Where?"
"The Mississippi River Delta. Al and I are leaving for there now."
"What makes you think it's in the delta?"
"Half guess, half deduction, but it's the best lead we've got."
Sandecker hesitated before replying. "You'd better hold up," he said quietly.
"Hold up? What are you talking about?"
"Alan Moran is demanding the search be called off."
Pitt was stunned. "What in hell for?"
