Odessa Sea (Dirk Pitt 24)

“Do you think he survived?” Summer motioned toward a cloud of smoke around the smashed car.

They exited the Rolls and approached the car, an old black cab whose front end looked like an accordion. The driver’s door was wedged open but the interior was empty. A crowd surrounded the car. There was no sign of a driver.

Examining the car, Dirk noted a racing-type four-point safety harness in the driver’s seat and the absence of a license plate. He scanned the crowd, but whoever was driving had melded into the onlookers, then escaped.

“A missing driver,” Perlmutter said. “That’s odd.”

“Probably wasn’t a registered driver and wished to avoid a jail sentence,” Ravi said, before walking back and examining a long crease on the Rolls’s bumper. Soon the police arrived, an accident report was completed, and they were permitted to leave.

“I hope that concludes the excitement for the day,” Perlmutter said as the Rolls got moving again. “And I hope it doesn’t make us late for lunch.”

“I’m sure the National Archives building has a cafeteria,” Summer said. “We can grab a bite after we meet with Dr. Trehorne.”

“Don’t trifle with me, young lady. There’s a Michelin-rated Korean restaurant near the Archives that I insist we sample.”

She gave him a stern look. “Business before pleasure.”

It was less than a fifteen-minute drive to the National Archives in the west London borough of Richmond upon Thames, where a thousand years of British historical documents were housed. Perlmutter led Dirk and Summer up a flight of steps to the entrance of the modern glass structure and into its atrium. While Dirk eyed an attractive woman in a leather jacket who was studying the floor plan, Perlmutter asked at the front desk about Trehorne.

The receptionist perked up at the mention of his name. “I’m sure Dr. Trehorne is at his usual table in the Document Reading Room. I’ll have someone take you there.”

A research assistant escorted them through a security checkpoint and into the expansive room. “He’s in the far back.” She pointed to a distant corner.

The trio made their way past dozens of students and researchers at small wooden desks, quietly examining ancient documents. Threading their way to the corner, they found Trehorne wedged behind a long table sided by sliding bookshelves. Two thick document files and some loose pages were stacked on the table, but his focus was on a slim blue binder opened before him.

He looked over the top of his reading glasses and smiled. “Good morning, all. You found me without trouble, I hope?”

“That was the least of our difficulties this morning,” Perlmutter said. “You have quite a reputation in these parts.”

“I apologize for troubling you with a visit, but I thought you would like to see the original pages of the documents I found. They are quite fascinating.”

“We’re glad you called,” Summer said. “What is it that you found?”

“I had the papers of Sir Leigh Hunt pulled for the period of 1916 to 1917.” He patted the binder. “It was in his last set of documents that I found—”

His words were cut off by a loud siren.

“Oh, dear,” he said. “That sounds like the fire alarm.”

As people began evacuating the reading room, a woman approached the table. Dirk was surprised to see it was the dark-haired beauty he had noticed in the lobby. She ignored him and addressed Trehorne.

“I’m afraid you must evacuate the building,” Martina said in an authoritative voice. “I must collect the documents you have checked out.”

“Edith in Foreign Service Records provided me these documents,” Trehorne said.

“I’ll need to return them.” Martina slid past Perlmutter to the side of the table.

“This is most unusual,” Trehorne said, setting down the blue binder.

Martina leaned across the table and collected the two thick folders, then the binder. Dirk watched as her leather jacket flapped open, revealing a small automatic pistol tucked into a shoulder holster. He realized that unlike the other library assistants, she wasn’t wearing a name badge.

Standing between Summer and Perlmutter, he elbowed his sister and motioned at a door along the back wall. He discreetly moved his foot to the side and slipped it around Perlmutter’s ankle.

“Forgive me, Julien,” he said, then shoved him toward the woman.

The big man stumbled and fell to the side, colliding hard with the Russian. The documents in her hands went flying across the table as she was knocked to the floor.

“I’m terribly sorry,” Perlmutter said. Catching himself on a chair back, he leaned over and pulled Martina to her feet.