Celtic Empire (Dirk Pitt 25)

“How big a tanker are we talking about?” Giordino asked.

“The Mayweather is just under three hundred feet, a typical Great Lakes tanker.”

“We’d better scour every available salvage resource in the area,” Pitt said, “and get them to Detroit as soon as possible.”

“I’m already on it,” Gunn said.

A pert woman with long fawn-colored hair entered the office, balancing a thick stack of mail. “Welcome back to the fray, boss,” Zerri Pochinski, Pitt’s longtime secretary, said with a warm smile.

“Thanks. But I’m beginning to think I should have stayed in Central America.”

“And leave all the fun to Rudi? By the way, I was reviewing your calendar and see that you have a staff meeting scheduled for three o’clock and an R and D strategy review at four. Shall I reschedule those, in light of the Detroit incident?”

“Yes, they’ll have to wait. And can you leave a message with Loren’s office and ask if she can accompany me to the Ocean Preservation gala tonight?”

“Certainly. You sure you’re up for adding a Washington fund-raiser to your plate?”

Pitt shook his head in mock distress. “Not really. I don’t know which will be worse—attending a charity event filled with venomous politicians or cleaning up a toxic oil spill.”

“They both entail hazardous duty, but I think you ultimately were correct.” She turned with a swivel of her hips to exit the office. “You’d have been better off staying in Central America.”

10

After coordinating initial plans for the Mayweather salvage operation, Pitt borrowed an agency Jeep and drove to Reagan National Airport. He parked next to an abandoned-looking hangar at the edge of the airfield, disabled an alarm, and entered the building.

Its dilapidated exterior stood in sharp contrast to what met Pitt’s eye inside. He flicked on the interior lights and faced a bright, open floor crowded with a gleaming display of transportation from yesteryear. A beautifully restored Pullman railroad car stood on tracks at one side of the building, while a polished aluminum Ford Tri-Motor airplane poked its nose out of a corner. A rare jet-powered Messerschmitt Me 262 sat next to a bathtub rigged with an outboard motor, all mementos of past exploits. But most of the floor space was filled with Pitt’s collection of classic automobiles from the first half of the twentieth century.

Pitt lugged his bags past the marvels of steel and chrome, then lingered a moment by a freshly painted chassis and a stack of primed body parts. Pitt had recently acquired the components of a 1925 Isotta-Fraschini in Bulgaria, and he silently lamented not having more time to restore the cla

ssic Italian auto.

He climbed a spiral staircase to an upper apartment, showered and dressed, and returned to the ground floor. He eyed several vehicles near the door, then plucked a set of keys off a workbench and approached a rakish cream and lime green roadster.

He slipped behind its broad steering wheel and cranked the starter a few times until the engine fired to life. A 1931 Stutz DV-32 Speedster, it had a custom-built body by the coachbuilder Weymann, featuring swoopy low-cut doors and a tapered boattail rear end.

Pitt drove the car outside, locked the building, and raced off across the airport grounds. The Stutz was powered by a 156-horsepower straight-eight engine with dual overhead camshafts and four valves per cylinder, giving the light-bodied car plenty of juice down the road. Pitt easily melded into traffic on the George Washington Parkway and soon crossed the Arlington Memorial Bridge into Washington, D.C. Passing some gawking tourists on the Washington Mall, he motored up to Capitol Hill and pulled to a stop in front of the Rayburn House Office Building.

A security guard eyed the idling car and signaled Pitt to move but was waved aside by an attractive woman who had stepped from the building. “It’s quite all right, Oscar. That’s my ride tonight.”

“Yes, Congresswoman.” The guard tipped his hat. “Nice car, whatever it is.”

With her high cheekbones, violet eyes, and lean figure swathed in a form-fitting Prada dress, Loren Smith-Pitt could still pass for a Vogue model rather than the veteran representative from Colorado.

She rushed to the car, where Pitt gave her a hug and a kiss. “I missed you,” she whispered in his ear.

Though not married long, they had a lengthy romantic history. Juggling the demands of their careers was a challenge, but they always carved out time for each other, and their passion still burned brightly.

She smiled at Pitt as he slipped behind the wheel. “I should have known you’d arrive in something that would devour my hair.”

“We don’t have far to go. Besides, you look sexy windblown.”

He eased the Stutz into gear and roared away from the curb. Just a few blocks down the Mall, Pitt turned into a reserved parking lot for the Smithsonian National Museum of Natural History. Arm in arm, they walked toward the building, where a large gala was under way in the lobby.

“Any news of the killers in El Salvador?” she asked.

“Local authorities believe it was a random incident related to turf wars among local drug gangs.” He neglected to voice his own skepticism.

Loren shook her head. “The Foreign Affairs Committee is up in arms over an attack on U.S. aid workers and is looking for answers.”