“It’s a great American pastime.”
They leisurely walked up the path from the cove.
On the shoulder, off to one side of the blacktop, sat a sporty little open-top Mini-Cooper. The British racing green paint on the tiny car was barely visible beneath an outer coating of Thasas dust
“How do you like my smashing Grand Prix racing car?” Teri asked proudly. Pitt laughed; not so much at her exaggerated statement but rather the British use of the word smashing in reference to a car. “By jove, that’s a bit of all right,” he said, mimicking her native terminology. “Is it yours?”
“Yes, I purchased it new in London just last month and drove it all the way from Le Havre.”
“How long will you be staying with your uncle?
“I took a three month holiday so I’ll be here at least another six weeks. Then I’m going to return home by boat. The drive across the continent was fun but far too tiring."
Pitt opened the door for her, and she slid behind the steering wheel. She groped under the front seat for a moment and pulled out a set of keys. She inserted one in the ignition and started the engine. The exhaust coughed once and then blasted forth with a nasty little growl.
He leaned on the dusty door and lightly kissed her.
“I hope your uncle won’t be waiting for me with a shotgun.”
“Don’t worry, he’ll probably talk your arm off. He likes Air Force men. He was a flyer in the First World War.”
“Don’t tell me,” Pitt said sarcastically. “I bet he claims to have flown with Richthofen.”
“Oh no, he was never in France. He fought right here in Greece.”
Pitt’s sarcasm vanished and a cold, eerie feeling came over him. He gripped the doorframe until his knuckles turned white. “Has your uncle ever mentioned . . . Kurt Heibert?
“Many times. They used to fly patrols together.” She shoved the gearshift into first. Then she smiled and waved. “See you tonight. Now don’t be late, cheery bye.”
Before Pitt could say another word, the midget car leapt up the road. He watched it snarl off into the distance toward the north. The dusty green blur passed over a crest of pavement and the last thing he saw was Teri’s black hair whipping in the wind. Already it was beginning to get uncomfortably hot. Idly, he turned and began walking back to the airfield. He stepped on a sharp object with his bare foot and Cursed under his breath while he hopped about on one leg trying to remove a small burr. Jerking it from his heel angrily, he flipped it in a roadside bush. He was carefully watching the ground to avoid another sting when he noticed a set of footprints. Whoever made them had. been wearing hobnailed soles.
Pitt knelt and studied the indentations. He could easily distinguish his and Teri’s prints since they had both been barefoot. His mouth twisted grimly. In several places, the shoe prints covered the bare ones. Someone had followed Teri toward the beach, he reasoned. He raised one hand, and shielded his eyes, looking at the sun. It was still quite early so he decided to pursue the trail. The tracks led half-way down the path and then veered off in the direction of the rocks. Here the trail ended so he scrambled over the hard craggy surface and picked up the scent again on the other side. The tracks angled back to the road, only further away from the path this time. A branch scraped a thorny limb across Pitt’s arm, drawing thin lines of blood, but he was not aware of it. He was beginning to sweat when he stepped back on the road. At last the hobnailed prints ended and heavy tire tracks began. The tire’s tread left a peculiar set of diamond-shaped patterns in the dirt beside the pavement. There was no traffic visible in either direction so Pitt calmly laid the towel down in the center of the road, sat on it and began to re-enact the scene in his mind.
Whoever shadowed Teri had parked here, walked back to her car and then followed her down the path. But before reaching the beach, the stalker must have heard voices so he turned and made his way In the darkness to the rocks where he hid, spying on the girl and Pitt. After it became light from the dawn, the intruder returned to the road, using the rocks to conceal his movements, It was an elementary puzzle, and it fit neatly together, except for the fact that three pieces were missing. Why had Teri been followed and by whom? A thought occurred to Pitt and he smiled to himself. The simple answer was very likely a local peeping tom. If that were the case the observer got more than he bargained for. A knot formed in Pitt’s stomach. It was the third missing piece that bothered him the most. Something in his logical mind would not jell. He looked over at the tire tracks again. They were too large for an ordinary car. They could only come from a more massive vehicle, say a truck. His eyes narrowed, and his brain began to churn. He wouldn’t have heard Teri drive up because he was asleep. And the truck had probably coasted to a stop, noiselessly.
Pitt’s intent gaze turned from the diamond tread tire tracks to the beach. The tide was creeping over the sand and erasing all signs of recent human activity. He gauged the distance from the road to the beach and began to term the problem in the manner of a fifth grade school teacher.
If a truck is at point A, and two people are on the beach 250 feet away at point B, why wouldn’t the two people on the beach hear the truck start its engine in the silence of early morning?
The answer eluded him, so Pitt shrugged and gave up. He shook out the towel and wrapping it around his neck, walked back along the deserted road toward the main gate, whistling, “It’s a Long Road to Tipperary.”
3
The young blond crewman cast off the lines, and the little twenty-six foot double-ended whaleboat surged sluggishly away from the makeshift dock near Brady Field. setting a course over the blue carpet of water toward the First Attempt. The throbbing four-cylinder Buda engine pushed the sturdy boat along at eight knots and cast the familiar nautical stink of diesel fumes over the deck. It was a few minutes to nine now, and the sun was hotter and even a slight breeze from the sea offered no relief.
Pitt stood and watched the shore recede until the dock became a dirty speck on the surf line. Then he hoisted his one hundred and ninety pounds onto the high tubular railing that circled the stern and sat with his buttocks hanging precariously over the boat’s frothing white wake. From his unusual position he could feel the pulsations from the shaft, and by looking straight down, he could see the propeller drill its way through the water. The whaleboat was only a quarter of a mile from the First Attempt when Pitt noticed the young crewman at the helm eyeing him with a mild look of respect.
“Excuse me, sir, but you look like you’ve spent some time in a double-ender.” The blond crewman nodded at Pitt’s seat on the railing. The young man had an academic air about him that implied scientific intelligence. Well tanned from the Aegean sun, he wore Bermuda shorts and nothing else except a long, sparse, yellow beard.
Pitt wrapped a hand around the stern light staff for support and groped in a breast pocket with his other hand for a cigarette. “I used to have one when I was in high school,” he said casually.
“You must have lived near the water,” said the young crewman.
“Newport Beach, California.”
“That’s a great place. I used to drive up there all the time when I was taking post graduate courses at Scripps in LaJolla.” The young crewman cracked a crooked smile, “Man oh man, was that ever a great place for girls. You must have had a ball growing up there.”
“I could think of worse places to go through puberty.” As long as the young man was talking freely, Pitt switched the subject. “Tell me, what sort of trouble have you been having on the project?”