Night Probe! (Dirk Pitt 6)

"Where'd you find a weapon?"

"I borrowed it from him." Pitt motioned to the mummy that was Clement Massey.

"The treaty?" Giordino asked anxiously.

Pitt slipped a large piece of paper from between the pages of his newspaper and held it in front of the dive light.

"The North American Treaty," he announced. "Except for a charred hole between paragraphs, it's as readable as the day it was signed.

In an anteroom of the Canadian Senate chamber, the President of the United States nervously paced the carpet, his face betraying a deep sense of apprehensiveness. Alan Mercier and Harrison Moon entered and stood silently. "Any word?" asked the President.

Mercier shook his head. "None."

Moon looked strained and gaunt. "Admiral Sandecker's last message indicates that Pitt may have drowned inside the quarry."

The President gripped Mercier's shoulder as if to take strength from him. "I had no right to expect the impossible."

"The stakes were worth the gamble," said Mercier.

The President could not shake the heavy dread in his gut. "Any excuse for failure has a hollow ring."

Secretary of State Oates came through the door. "The Prime Minister and the Governor-General have arrived in the Senate chamber, Mr. President. The ministers are seated and waiting."

The President's eyes were sick with defeat. "It seems time has run out, gentlemen, for us as well as for the United States."

The 291-foot Peace Tower forming the center block of the Parliament building gradually grew larger through the windshield of a Scinletti VTOL aircraft as it banked toward the Ottawa airport. "If we don't get backed up by air traffic," said Jack Westler, "we should land in another five minutes."

"Forget the airport," said Pitt. "Set us down on the lawn in front of Parliament."

Westler's eyes widened. "I can't do that. I'd lose my pilot's license."

"I'll make it easy for you." Pitt slipped the old Mauser pistol out of Richard Essex's travel case and screwed the business end into Westler's ear. "Now take us down."

"Shoot . . . shoot me and we crash," the pilot stammered.

"Who needs you?" Pitt grinned coldly. "I've got more hours in the air than you do."

His facial color bleached brighter than a bedsheet, Westler began the descent.

A crowd of tourists who were photographing a Royal Canadian Mounted Policeman lifted their faces to the sky at the sound of the engines, and then parted like a reverse whirlpool. Pitt dropped the gun in his seat, shoved open the door and leaped out before the landing wheels settled in the turf.

He ducked into the converging onlookers before the astonished Mountie could stop him. The door of the tall Peace Tower was jammed with cordoned lines of tourists waiting to catch a glimpse of the President. Pitt bulled his way through, ignoring the shouts of the guards.

Once inside the memorial hall, he was momentarily confused about which direction to take. Two dozen cables snaked across the floor.

He followed them at a dead run, knowing they would end at the video cameras taping the President's speech. He almost made it to the door of the Senate chamber before a Mountie the size of a small mountain, ablaze in scarlet ceremonial tunic, blocked his way.

"Hold it right there, mister!"

"Take Me to the President, quick!" Pitt demanded. As soon as he spoke he realized the words must have sounded absurd.

The Mountie stared incredulously at Pitt's strange attire.

Pitt had only had time to remove his wet-suit top and borrow Giordino's jacket-two sizes too short-before dashing to Westler's plane. He still wore the wet-suit bottoms and his feet were bare.

Suddenly two more Mounties clutched Pitt from flanking sides.

"Watch him boys. He might have a bomb in that satchel."