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Pitt could play the game too. He took his cognac glass and rose from his chair. Picking up a copy of the Washington Post, he noted with mild surprise that the masthead carried that day's date.
"You must have an efficient courier system," he said.
"Sorry?"
"Your newspapers are only a few hours old."
"Five hours, to be exact."
The cognac fairly glowed on Pitt's empty stomach. The awkward consequences of his predicament mellowed after his third drink. He went on the attack.
"Why are you holding Raymond LeBaron?" he asked.
"At the moment he is a house guest."
"That doesn't explain why his existence has been kept quiet for two weeks."
"I don't have to explain anything to you, Mr. Pitt."
"How is it LeBaron receives gourmet dinners in formal dress, while my friends and I are forced to eat and dress like common prisoners."
"Because that is precisely what you all are, Mr. Pitt, common prisoners. Mr. LeBaron is a very wealthy and powerful man whose dialogue is most enlightening. You, on the other hand, are merely an inconvenience. Does that satisfy your curiosity?"
"It doesn't satisfy a thing," Pitt said, yawning.
"How did you destroy the patrol helicopter?" Velikov asked suddenly.
"We threw our shoes at it," Pitt fired back testily. "What did you expect from four civilians, one of whom was a woman, flying in a forty-year-old gas bag?"
"Helicopters don't blow up in midair for no reason."
"Maybe it was struck by lightning."
"Well, then, Mr. Pitt, if you were on a simple search mission to locate a clue to Mr. LeBaron's disappearance and hunt for treasure, how do you explain the report from the captain of the patrol boat, who stated that the blimp's control car was so shattered by shellfire that no one could have survived, and that a streak of light issued from the blimp an instant before the helicopter exploded, and that a thorough search over the crash site showed no signs of survivors? Yet you all appear like magic on this island in the middle of a hurricane, when the security patrols were taking shelter from the winds. Most opportune, wouldn't you say?"
"How do you read it?"
"The blimp was either remote controlled or another crew was killed by the gunners on board the helicopter. You and Mrs. LeBaron were brought close to shore by submarine, but during the landing everyone was thrown onto the rocks and injured."
"You get a passing grade for creativity, General, but you fail accuracy. Only the landing part is correct.
You forgot the most important ingredient, a motive. Why would four unarmed castaways attack whatever it is you've got here?"
"I don't have the answers yet," said Velikov with a disarming smile.
"But you intend to get them."
"I'm not a man who accepts failure, Mr. Pitt. Your story, though imaginative, does not wash." He pressed a button on the desk intercom. "We'll talk again soon."
"When can we expect you to contact our government so they can begin negotiations for our release?"
Velikov gave Pitt a patronizing look. "My apologies. I neglected to mention that your government was notified only an hour ago."
"Of our rescue?"
"No, of your deaths."
For a long second it didn't dawn on Pitt. Then it slowly began to register. His jaw stiffened and his eyes bored into Velikov.
