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Pitt looked at the admiral like a kid expecting a free ticket to the circus. "I may have overstated my case slightly, but yes, that's the way I see it."
Sandecker puffed meditatively on his cigar. "All right," he finally sighed. "Do your trespassing. But just remember, if you get caught by Dorsett's security people, don't bother to call home. Because nobody will answer the phone."
A Rolls-Royce sedan rolled soundlessly to a stop beside an ancient aircraft hangar that stood in a weed-grown field on the far perimeter of Wash
ington's International Airport. Like an elegant dowager slumming on the wrong side of the tracks, the stately old car seemed out of place on a deserted dirt road during the night. The only illumination came from the dim yellow glow of a weathered streetlight that failed dismally at reflecting the silver and green metallic paint of the car.
The Rolls was a model known as the Silver Dawn. The chassis came out of the factory in 1955 and was fitted with a custom body by the coach-builders Hoopers & Company. The front fenders tapered gracefully into the body at the rear until the skirted wheels and sides were perfectly smooth. The engine was a straight six with overhead valves, which carried the car over the roads as quietly as the ticking of an electric clock. Speed with a Rolls-Royce was never a factor. When questioned about horsepower, the factory merely stated that it was adequate.
St. Julien Perlmutter's chauffeur, a taciturn character by the name of Hugo Mulholand, pulled on the emergency brake, switched off the ignition and turned to his employer, who filled most of the rear seat.
"I have never been comfortable driving you here," he said in a hollow bass voice that went with his bloodhound eyes. He stared at the rusting corrugated roof and walls that hadn't seen paint in forty years.
"I can't see why anyone would want to live in such a disreputable shack."
Perlmutter weighed a solid 181 kilograms. Strangely, none of his body possessed more than a hint of flab. He was remarkably solid for a huge man. He held up the gold knob of a hollow cane that doubled as a brandy flask and rapped it on the walnut table that lowered from the rear of the front seat. "That disreputable shack, as you call it, happens to house a collection of antique automobiles and aircraft worth millions of dollars. The chances of being set upon by bandits are unlikely. They don't usually roam around airfields in the dead of night, and there are enough security systems to guard a Manhattan bank."
Perlmutter paused to point his cane out the window at a tiny red light that was barely visible. "Even as we speak, we're being monitored by a video camera."
Mulholand sighed, stepped around the car and opened the door for Perlmutter. "Shall I wait?"
"No, I'm having dinner here. Enjoy yourself for a few hours. Then return and pick me up at eleven-thirty."
Mulholand helped Perlmutter from the car and escorted him to the entry door of the hangar. The door was stained and layered with dust. The camouflage was well conceived. Anyone who happened to pass the run-down appearing hangar would assume it was simply a deserted building scheduled for demolition.
Perlmutter rapped on the door with his cane. After a few seconds there was an audible click, and the door opened as if pulled by a ghostly hand.
Enjoy your dinner," said Mulholand as he slid a cylindrical package under Perlmutter's arm and held up the handle of a briefcase for him to grasp. Then he turned and walked back to the Rolls.
Perlmutter stepped into another world. Instead of dust, grime and cobwebs, he was in a brilliantly lit, brightly decorated and spotless atmosphere of gleaming paint and chrome. Nearly four dozen classic automobiles, two aircraft and a turn-of-the-century railroad car sat in restored splendor on a highly polished concrete floor. The door closed silently behind him as he walked through the incredible display of exotic machinery.
Pitt stood on a balcony that extended from an apartment and which ran across one end of the hangar a good ten meters above the concrete floor. He gestured at the cylindrical package under Perlmutter's arm.
"Beware of Greeks bearing gifts," he said, smiling.
Perlmutter looked up and gave him a scowl. "I am not Greek and this happens to be a bottle of French Dom Perignon champagne," he said, holding up the package, "vintage 1983, to celebrate your return to civilization. I would imagine it's superior to anything in your cellar."
Pitt laughed. "All right, we'll test it against my Albuquerque, New Mexico, Gruet brut nonvintage sparkling wine."
"You can't be serious. Albuquerque? Gruet?"
"They beat out the best of the California sparkling wines in competition."
"All this talk about wine is making my stomach growl. Send down your lift."
Pitt sent down an antique freight elevator with ornate wrought-iron screens around it. As soon as it jangled to a stop, Perlmutter stepped in. "Will this thing take my weigh?"
"I installed it myself to bring up the furniture. But this will be a true load-capacity test."
"That's a comforting thought," muttered Perlmutter as the elevator easily carried him up to Pitt's apartment.
At the landing they greeted each other like the old friends they were. "Good to see you, Julien."
"Always happy to dine with my tenth son." It was one of Perlmutter's running jokes. He was an old confirmed bachelor, and Pitt was the only son of Senator George Pitt of California.
"There are nine others just like me?" Pitt asked, feigning surprise.
Perlmutter patted his massive stomach. "Before this got in the way, you'd be amazed how many damsels succumbed to my suave manners and honeyed tongue." He paused to sniff the air. "Is that herring I smell?"
