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"Exactly."
"Why me?"
"Because of your L-29 Cord."
"My Cord?"
"The classic car you had restored in Denver. The man you hired called here last week and said to tell you the job is finished and she looks beautiful."
"So I travel to Colorado under a spotlight to pick up my collector car, get in a little ski time on the slopes, and party with Dr. Sharp."
"Exactly," the Senator repeated. "You're to check into the Hotel Breckenridge. A message will be waiting explaining where and when you'll make contact with Dr. Rothberg."
"Remind me never to trade horses with you."
The Senator laughed. "You've been involved, with some pretty devious schemes yourself."
Pitt finished the bourbon, stood, and placed his glass on the mantel.
"Mind if I borrow the family lodge?"
"I'd prefer you stay away from it."
"But my boots and skis are stored in the garage."
"You can rent your equipment."
"That's ridiculous."
"Not so ridiculous," the Senator said in an even voice, when you consider that the instant you open the front door, you'll be shot."
"You sure you want to get out here, buddy?" the cabdriver inquired as he stopped beside what looked like an abandoned hangar on one corner of Washington's International Airport.
"This is the place," replied Pitt.
The driver glanced warily around at the deserted unlit area. This had all the earmarks of a mugging, he thought. He reached under the front seat for a length of pipe he hid for such an occasion. He kept an apprehensive eye on the rearview mirror as Pitt pulled a wallet from his inside coat pocket. The driver relaxed slightly. His fare wasn't acting like a mugger.
"What do I owe you?"
"I got eight-sixty on the meter," the driver replied.
Pitt paid the fare plus tip and exited the cab, waiting for the driver to open the trunk and remove the luggage.
"Hell of a place for a drop," the driver muttered.
"Someone is meeting me."
Pitt stood and watched the cab's taillights dim in the distance before he turned off the hangar's alarm system with a pocket transmitter and entered through a side door. He pressed a code on the transmitter and the interior became bathed in bright fluorescent light.
The hangar was Pitts home. The main floor was lined with a glittering collection of classic and restored automobiles. There were also an old Pullman railroad car and a Ford tri motor airplane. The most bizarre oddity was a cast-iron bathtub with an outboard motor attached to it.
He walked toward his living quarters, which stretched across an upper level against the far wall. Reached by an ornate iron spiral staircase, the door at the top opened onto a living room flanked by a large bedroom and a study on one side and a dining area and kitchen on the other.
He unpacked and entered a shower stall, turning up the hot water and aiming the nozzle against a tiled wall. He lay on his back with his feet stretched upward just below the faucets so he could control the spray temperature with his toes. Then he promptly dozed off.
Forty-five minutes later, Pitt slipped on a robe and turned on the TV
set. He was about to reheat a pot of Texas chili when the buzzer on the intercom sounded. He pressed the door speaker button, half-expecting Al Giordino to answer.
