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They seemed an unlikely group, but there they were, seriously observant in their dark suits and attaché cases amid the casually dressed classic car owners and spectators. The four Japanese men gazed studiously at the cars, scribbling in notebooks and acting as though they were advance men for a Tokyo consortium of collector car buyers.
It was a good front. People noticed them, were bemused by their antics, and turned away, never suspecting they were a highly trained team of undercover operatives and their attaché cases were arsenals of gas grenades and assault weapons.
The Japanese team had not come to admire the automobiles, they came to abduct Loren Smith.
They combed the area around the concours, noting the exits and placement of armed security guards.
Their leader, his dark face glistening in the midday sun, noted that Pitt's Stutz was parked in the center of the field of classic automobiles, making it next to impossible to spirit Loren away without causing an outcry.
He ordered his three men to return to their stretch limousine that was parked by the track while he hung around keeping an eye on Loren's movements. He also followed Pitt, Giordino, and Mancuso for a short distance, examining their clothing for any telltale bulge of a handgun. He saw nothing suspicious and assumed all three were unarmed.
Then he wandered about patiently, knowing the right moment would eventually arrive.
A race steward informed Pitt that he and the Stutz were due on the starting line. With his friends going along for the ride, he drove along the grass aisle between the rows of cars and through a gate onto the asphalt one-mile oval track.
Giordino raised the hood and gave a final check of the engine while Mancuso observed. Loren gave Pitt a long good-luck kiss and then jogged to the side of the track, where she sat on a low wall.
When the Hispano-Suiza pulled alongside, Pitt walked over and introduced himself as the driver stepped from behind the wheel to recheck his hood latches.
"I guess we'll be competing against each other. My name is Dirk Pitt."
The driver of the Hispano, a big man with graying hair, a white beard, and bluegreen eyes, stuck out a hand. "Clive Cussler."
Pitt looked at him strangely. "Do we know each other?"
"It's possible," replied Cussler, smiling. "Your name is familiar, but I can't place your face."
"Perhaps we met at a party or a car club meet."
"Perhaps."
"Good luck," Pitt wished him graciously.
Cussler beamed back. "The same to you."
As he settled behind the big steering wheel, Pitt's eyes scanned the instruments on the dashboard and then locked on the official starter, who was slowly unfurling the green flag. He failed to notice a long white Lincoln limousine pull to a stop in the pit area along the concrete safety wall just in front of Loren.
Nor did he see a man exit the car, walk over to her, and say a few words.
Giordino's attention was focused on the Stutz. Only Mancuso, who was standing several feet away, saw her nod to the man, a Japanese, and accompany him to the limousine.
Giordino lowered the hood and shouted over the windshield, "No oil or water leaks. Don't push her too hard. We may have rebuilt the engine, but she's over sixty years old. And you can't buy spare Stutz parts at Pep Boys."
"I'll keep the rpm's below the red," Pitt promised him. Only then did he miss Loren and glance around.
"What happened to Loren?"
Mancuso leaned over the door and pointed at the white stretch Lincoln. "A Japanese businessman over there in the limo wanted to talk to her. Probably some lobbyist."
"Not like her to miss the race."
"I'll keep an eye on her," said Mancuso.
Giordino reached in and gripped Pitt's shoulder. "Don't miss a shift."
Then he and Mancuso stepped away to the side of the track as the starter positioned himself between the two cars and raised the green flag over his head.
