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"Something omitted from my report. One lab result that was too controversial to put on paper, too wild to mention outside a looney house."
"What are you talking about?" Sweat demanded.
"The cause of death."
"You said hypothermia."
"True, but I left out the best part. You see, I neglected to state the time of death." Rooney's speech was becoming slurred.
"Could only be within the last few days."
"Oh, no. Those poor guys froze their guts a long time ago."
"How long?"
"Anywhere from one to two years ago."
Sheriff Sweat stared at Rooney, incredulous. But the coroner stood there grinning like a hyena. He was still grinning when he sagged over the side of the boat and threw up.
The home of Dirk Pitt was not on a suburban street or in a high-rise condominium overlooking the jungled treetops of Washington. There was no landscaped yard or next-door neighbors with squealing children and barking dogs. The house was not a house but an old aircraft hangar that stood on the edge of the capital's International Airport.
From the outside it appeared deserted. Weeds surrounded the building and its corrugated walls were weathered and devoid of paint. The only clue remotely suggesting any occupancy was a row of windows running beneath the huge curved roof. Though they were stained and layered with dust, none were shattered like those of an abandoned warehouse.
Pitt thanked the airport maintenance man who had given him a lift from the terminal area. Glancing around to see that he wasn't observed, he took a small transmitter from his coat pocket and issued a series of voice commands that closed down the security systems and opened a side door that looked as if it hadn't swung on its hinges for thirty years.
He entered and stepped onto a polished concrete floor that held nearly three dozen gleaming, classic automobiles, an antique airplane, and a turn-of-the-century railroad car. He paused and stared fondly at the chassis of a French Talbot-Lago sports coupe that was in an early stage of reconstruction. The car had been nearly destroyed in an explosion, and he was determined to restore the twisted remains to their previous elegance and beauty.
He hauled his suitcase and garment bag up a circular staircase to his apartment, elevated against the far wall of the hangar. His watch read 2:15 PM., but his mind and body felt as though it was closer to midnight. After unpacking his luggage, he decided to spend a few hours working on the Talbot-Lago and take a shower later. He had already donned a pair of old coveralls and his hand was pulling open the drawer of a toolbox, when a loud chime echoed through the hangar. He pulled a cordless phone from a deep pocket.
"Hello."
"Mr. Pitt, please," said a female voice.
"Speaking."
"One moment."
After waiting for nearly two minutes, Pitt cut the connection and began rebuilding the Talbot's distributor. Another five minutes passed before the chime sounded again. He opened the line and said nothing.
"Are you still there, sir?" asked the same voice.
"Yes," Pitt replied indifferently, tucking the phone between his shoulder a
nd ear as he kept working with his hands.
"This is Sandra Cabot, Mrs. Jessie LeBaron's personal secretary. Am I talking to Dirk Pitt?"
Pitt took an instant dislike to people who couldn't dial their own phone calls. "You are."
"Mrs. LeBaron wishes to meet with you. Can you come to the house at four o'clock?"
"Pretty fast off the mark, aren't you?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"Sorry, Miss Cabot, but I have to doctor a sick car. Maybe if Mrs. LeBaron cares to drop by my place, we could talk."
