"Another four miles," Pitt said without turning.
"There is an all-night gas station on the outskirts," Jarvis continued. "Pull up at the pay phone."
Minutes later the headlights picked out the Lexington Park city-limits sign. In less than a mile, around a sweeping curve, a brightly lit service station beckoned through the soggy night. Pitt turned in the driveway and parked beside an outside phone booth.
The station attendant sat warm and dry inside the office, his feet propped up on an old oil-burning stove. He put down his magazine and for two or three minutes watched Pitt and Jarvis suspiciously through water-streaked windows. Then, satisfied they weren't acting like holdup men, he returned to his reading. The pay phone's light blinked out and Jarvis hurriedly ducked back into the passenger seat.
"Any late word?" Pitt asked.
Jarvis nodded. "My staff has uncovered a piece of discouraging information."
"Bad news and dismal weather go hand in hand," Pitt said.
"The Iowa was stricken from Navy rolls and auctioned as surplus. The winning bidder was an outfit called the Walvis Bay Investment Corporation."
"I've never heard of it."
"The corporation is a financial front for the African Army of Revolution."
Pitt gave a slight twist of the wheel to avoid a deep puddle in the road. "Is it possible Lusana pulled the rug from under the South African Defence Ministry's pipe dreams by outbidding them for the ship?"
"I doubt it." Jarvis shivered from the damp cold and held his hands over the dashboard's defroster vents. "I'm convinced the South African Defence Ministry bought the Iowa, handling the transaction under the guise of Walvis Bay Investment."
"You don't think Lusana is wise?"
"He has no way of knowing," said Jarvis. "It's common policy to keep the bidders' names confidential upon request."
"Christ," Pitt muttered, "the sale of the warheads by Phalanx Arms to the AAR . . ."
"With a little more digging," Jarvis said, his voice strained, "I'm afraid we'll find that Lusana and the AAR had nothing to do with that deal either."
"That's the Forbes shipyard dead ahead," Pitt said.
The high chain-link fence enclosing the shipyard met and began paralleling the road. At the main gate Pitt braked to a stop in front of a cable that stretched across the entrance. Nothing of the ship could be seen through the falling rain. Even the huge derricks were lost in the blackness. The guard was at Pitt's door almost before he rolled the window down.
"May I help you, gentlemen?" he asked courteously.
Jarvis leaned across Pitt and displayed his credentials. "We'd like to confirm the Iowa's presence in the shipyard."
"You can take it from me, sir, she's down at the dock. Been there refitting close to six months."
Pitt and Jarvis exchanged worried looks at the word "refitting."
"My orders are to admit no one without a pass or proper authority from company officials," the guard continued. "I'm afraid you'll have to wait until morning to take a tour of the ship."
Jarvis's face flushed with anger. But before he could launch an official tirade, another car pulled up and a man wearing a dinner jacket emerged.
"Problems, O'Shea?" he said.
"These gentlemen want to enter the yard," answered the guard, "but they don't have passes."
Jarvis swung out of the car and met the stranger halfway. "My name is Jarvis, director of the National Security Agency. My 74
friend is Dirk Pitt; he's with NUMA. It's a matter of highest priority that we inspect the Iowa."
"At three o'clock in the morning?" muttered the confused man, studying Jarvis's identification under the floodlights. Then he turned to the guard.
"They're okay; let them through." He faced Jarvis again. "The way to the dock is a bit tricky. I'd better come along. By the way, I'm Metz, Lou Metz, superintendent of the shipyard."