Night Probe! (Dirk Pitt 6)

There it was. No coaxing, no intrigue or torture; she simply came out with it.

Shaw did not answer immediately. He chose his reply care fully.

"Yes, I recall running across it."

Heidi looked at him, her mouth half open to speak, but nothing came out.

"You have a strange expression on your face."

"You're familiar with the treaty?" she asked in astonishment. "You've actually seen references to it?"

"I've never actually read the wording. Fact is I've forgotten its purpose. It was of little consequence as I remember. You can find material relating to it in most any archive in London." Shaw had kept his tone nonchalant. He calmly lit a cigarette. "Is the treaty part of your research project?"

"No," Heidi answered. "By chance I stumbled on a brief mention. I pursued it out of curiosity, but turned up nothing that proved it ever truly existed."

"I'll be happy to make a copy and send it to you."

"Don't bother. Just knowing it wasn't a figment of my imagination is enough to soothe my inquisitive soul.

Besides, I turned my notes over to a friend in Washington."

"I'll send them to her."

"She's a he."

"All right, he," he said, trying to mute the impatience in his voice. "What's his name and address?"

"Dirk Pitt. You can reach him at the National Underwater and Marine Agency."

Shaw had what he came for. A dedicated agent would have whisked Heidi back to her ship and rushed aboard the first flight to Washington.

Shaw had never considered himself dedicated in the gung ho sense. There were times it did not pay, and this was one of them. He kissed Heidi hard on the mouth. "So much for research. Now let's go back to bed." And they did.

An early afternoon breeze blew steadily out of the northeast. A cold breeze ful

l of little needles that jabbed exposed skin into numbness. The temperature was three degrees Celsius, but to Pitt, as he stood looking out over the waters of the St. Lawrence River, the wind chill factor made it feel closer to minus ten.

He inhaled the smells of the docks jutting into the little bay a few miles from the Quebec Province city of Rimouski, his nostrils sifting out the distinct tangs of tar, rust and diesel oil. He walked along the aging planks until he came to a gangway that led down to a boat resting comfortably in the oily water. The designer had given it no-nonsense lines, about fifteen meters, spacious flush decks, twin screw and diesel engines. There was no attempt at flashy chrome; the hull was painted black. It was built to be functional, ideal for fishing trips, diving excursions or oil surveys. The topside was squared away and spotless, the sure signs of an affectionate owner.

A man emerged from the wheelhouse. He wore a stocking cap that failed to restrain a thicket of coarse black hair. The face looked as though it had been battered by a hundred storms, but the eyes were sad and watchful as Pitt hesitated before stepping onto the afterdeck.

"My name is Dirk Pitt. I'm looking for Jules Le Mat."

There was a slight pause, and then strong white teeth flashed like a theater marquee in a hearty smile.

"Welcome, Monsieur Pitt. Please come aboard."

"She's a smart boat."

"No beauty, maybe, but like a good wife it's sturdy and loyal." The hand clasp was like a vise. "You've picked a fine day for your visit. The St. Lawrence is cooperating. No fog and only a mild chop over deep water. If you'll give me a hand and cast off, we can get under way."

Le Mat went below and started the diesels as Pitt unwrapped the bow and stern lines from the dock cleats and coiled them on the deck. The green water of the bay slid past the hull almost unwrinkled and slowly altered to an unruly blue as they entered the mainstream of the river. Twenty-eight miles away, the rising hills on the opposite shore were painted white by the winter snows. They passed a fishing boat heading toward the docks with a week's catch, its skipper waving in reply to Le Mat's squawk on the boat's horn. Astern, the spires of Rimouski's picturesque cathedrals stood out in sharp detail under the March sun.

The icy breeze increased its bite as they left the shelter of the land and Pitt ducked into the saloon.

"A cup of tea?" inquired Le Mat.

"Sounds good," said Pitt, smiling.