lsmail suddenly spun and slapped the observer with his gloved hand. "I am in charge here!" he snapped. "Suleiman is an overrated jackal. Do not speak his name in my presence."
The observer did not cower. His dark eyes flashed with hostility. "You'll kill us all," he said quietly.
"So be it," Ismail hissed, his voice as cold as the snow. "If we die so Hala Kamil can die, the price will be cheap."
"Magnificent," said Pitt.
"Gorgeous, simply gorgeous," Lily murmured.
Giordino nodded in agreement. "A real winner."
They were standing in an antique and classic automobile restoration shop, and their admiring stares were directed toward a 1930 L-29 Cord town car, a model with an open front for the chauffeur. The body was painted burgundy while the fenders were a buff that was matched by the leather-covered roof over the passenger's compartment. Elegantly styled, long and graceful, the car had front-wheel drive that helped to give it a low silhouette. The original coachmaker had stretched the chassis until it measured nearly five-and-a-half meters from front to rear bumper. Almost half the length was hood, beginning with a race-car-type grill and ending with a sharply raked windshield.
It was big and sleek, a thing of beauty that belonged to an era fondly revered by older generations but unknown to those who followed.
The man who had found Pitts car stored in an old garage, hidden under forty years of trash, and had restored it from a mangled hulk, was proud of his handiwork. Robert Esbenson, a tall man with a pixie face and limpid blue eyes, gave the hood a final, loving wipe with a dust cloth and turned the car over to Pitt.
"I hate to see this one go."
"You've done a remarkable job," said Pitt.
"Are you going to ship it home?"
"Not just yet. I'd like to drive it for a few days."
Esbenson nodded. "Okay, let me adjust the carburetor and distributor for our high altitude. Then, when you return to the shop, I'll have it detailed and arrange for an auto transporter to ship it to Washington."
"Can I ride in it?" Lily asked anxiously.
"All the way to Breckenridge," Pitt replied. He turned to Giordino.
"Coming with us, Al?"
"Why not? We can leave the rental car outside in the parking lot."
They switched the luggage, and ten minutes later Pitt turned the Cord onto Interstate 70 and aimed the long hood toward the foothills leading into the snow-peaked Rocky Mountains.
Lily and Al sat warmly in the luxurious passenger compartment separated from Pitt by the divider window. Pitt did not pull out the transformable top that protected the chauffeur's seat, but sat in the open bundled up in a heavy sheepskin coat, savoring the cold air on his face.
for the moment his mind was on his driving, scanning the instruments to make sure the sixty-year-old car was performing as it was designed to do. He held to the right lane, allowing most of the traffic to pass and gawk.
Pitt felt exhilarated and content b
ehind the wheel, listening to the smooth purr of the eight-cylinder engine and the mellow tone of the exhaust. It was as though he had control over a living thing.
if he had had any inkling of the mess he was driving into, he would have turned around and headed straight back to Denver.
Darkness had fallen over the Continental Divide when the Cord rolled into the legendary Colorado mining town turned ski resort. Pitt drove up the main street, whose old buildings retained their historic western flavor. The sidewalks were crowded with people coming from the slopes, carrying their skis and poles over one shoulder.
Pitt parked near the entrance of the Hotel Breckenridge. He signed the register and took two phone messages from the desk clerk. He read both slips of paper and slipped them into a pocket.
"from Dr. Rothberg?" asked Lily.
"Yes, he's invited us for dinner at his condo. It's just across the street from the hotel."
"What time?" Giordino queried.
"Seven-thirty."