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"For what purpose?" asked Pitt. "Nearly ninety percent of our oil comes from foreign producers. It's no secret that American producers can't compete on the cost of a barrel of oil."
"True," acknowledged Loren. "We cannot afford to produce the oil we need internally. With foreign producers playing a dangerous game by dropping production to drive up prices, every country in the world could find itself faced with severe shortages. What makes the situation even worse is that U.S. oil stockpiles and inventories have virtually dried up. Domestic producers are only too happy to sell their leases and fields to Cerberus and stick to refining the crude oil that is shipped from overseas. There's a long supply chain from the ground to storage to supertankers to storage again and finally to the refineries. Once this supply line is drained because of decreased production, it will take three to five months to bring it up to full flow again."
"You're talking about an economic disaster of epic proportions."
Loren's lips tightened. "Fuel prices will soar out of sight. Airlines will have to raise fares through the roof. Prices at the gas pump will skyrocket. Inflation will quadruple. We could be talking about an oil-price swing as high as eighty dollars a barrel."
"I can't conceive of five dollars a gallon or more for gas," said Pitt.
"We're staring it in the face."
"Wouldn't that hurt the foreign producers as well?" asked Pitt.
"Not with them cutting costly production while profits nearly triple. OPEC, for one, is angry over the way the West has manipulated them through the years. They're going to play hardball in the future and turn their backs on pleas for increased production at lower prices. Ignore our threats, too."
Pitt gazed out the window at the small boats sailing on the Potomac River. "Which brings us back to Cerberus. What's their angle in all this? If they're playing for a domestic monopoly on crude oil, why not take over and control the refineries, too?"
Loren made a mystified gesture with her hands. "It's entirely possible they've been in secret negotiations with the refinery owners to buy them out. If I were in their position, I'd cover every base."
"They must have a motive, and a big one, or they wouldn't go around leaving a trail of dead bodies."
Following Giordino's directions, Kelly turned through the gate on the end corner of Ronald Reagan International Airport and drove the old Packard down the dirt road that stopped at Pitt's old aircraft hangar. Pitt rolled down the divider window and spoke to Giordino.
"Why don't you drop the ladies off at Loren's town house and go on to your place to clean up? Then pick us all up around seven o'clock. I'll make reservations for dinner."
"Sounds wonderful," said Kelly. She turned in her seat and smiled at Loren. "I hope I'm not causing you any trouble."
"Not at all," Loren said graciously. "I have a spare guest bedroom, and you're welcome to it."
Then Kelly gazed at Pitt, her eyes aglow. "I just love driving this car."
"Just don't become too attached," he said, grinning at her. "I want it back."
As the Packard town car moved silently down the road, Pitt punched the security code on his remote, entered the hangar, dropped off his luggage and checked his Doxa watch. The hands indicated two-thirty. He reached in the open window of a NUMA Jeep SUV and made a call on its cell phone.
A deep, musical voice with a distinguished cadence answered, "I'm here."
"St. Julien."
"Dirk!" roared St. Julien Perlmutter, raconteur, gourmand and renowned maritime historian. "I was hoping I'd hear from you. Good to hear your voice. I received a report that you were on the Golden Marlin."
"I was."
"Congratulations on a narrow escape."
"St. Julien, I wonder if you have time for a little research job?"
"I always have time for my favorite godson."
"May I come over?"
"Yes, indeed. I want to try out a new sixty-year-old port that I ordered from Portugal. I hope you'll join me."
"I'll be there in fifteen minutes."
37
Pitt drove down a tree-lined street in Georgetown filled with fashionable old houses built at the turn of the twentieth century, and turned into a driveway. The driveway ran past a huge brick home with ivy-covered walls and ended at a spacious carriage house in front of a roofed-over courtyard in the rear. What had once housed the manor's horse-drawn buggies and, later, automobiles had been expanded into a large home with a two-story basement that ho
