Vixen 03 (Dirk Pitt 5)

"I am," Lusana answered hoarsely. His voice sounded odd to him. He had not used it in nearly four days.

"You don't know how much I've looked forward to meeting you," the giant said.

"Who are you?"

"Does the name Fawkes mean anything to you?"

"Should it?" Lusana said, determined to resist.

"Aye, it's a terrible thing when you forget the names of the people you've murdered."

A realization mushroomed within Lusana. "Fawkes ... the raid on the Fawkes farm, in Natal."

"My wife and children cut down. My house burned. You even slaughtered my workers. Whole families with the same skin as yours."

"Fawkes . . . you're Fawkes," Lusana repeated, his drugged mind fighting to grasp a bearing.

"I'm satisfied the filthy business was done by the AAR," said Fawkes, a subtle hardening in his voice. "They were your men; you gave the orders."

71

"I was not responsible." The fog was lifting from Lusana's head and he was coming back on balance, inwardly at least. His arms and legs would not respond to command. "I'm sorry for what happened to your family. A tragic bloodletting that had no rhyme or reason. But you will have to look elsewhere to place the blame. My men were innocent."

"Aye, a denial was to be expected."

"What do you intend to do with me?" Lusana asked, his eyes without fear.

Fawkes looked out the bridge windows. It was pitch dark outside and a light mist coated the glass. There was a strange kind of sadness in his eyes.

He turned to Lusana. "We're going to take a little trip, you and I, a trip with no return ticket."

50

The taxi passed through a back gate of the Washington National Airport at precisely nine thirty P.M. and dropped Jarvis behind a solitary hangar that sat on a seldom-used end of the field. Except for a faint glow of light through the dusty glass of a side door, the giant building seemed bleak and cavernous. He pushed open the door and was mildly surprised not to hear it creak. The well-oiled hinges pivoted without a whisper.

The yawning interior was brilliantly illuminated by overhead fluorescent lighting. A venerable old Ford trimotor aircraft sat like a huge goose in the center of the concrete floor, its wings protectively reaching out over several antique automobiles in various stages of restoration. Jarvis walked over to a car that seemed no more than a pile of rusted iron. A pair of feet protruded from beneath the radiator.

"You are Mr. Pitt?" Jarvis inquired.

"And you are Mr. Jarvis?"

"Yes."

Pitt rolled from under the car and sat up. "I see you found my humble abode all right."

Jarvis hesitated, taking in Pitt's greasy coveralls and disheveled appearance. "You live here?"

"I have an apartment upstairs," Pitt said, pointing to a glass-enclosed level above the hangar floor.

"You have a nice collection," said Jarvis, gesturing at the relics. "What is the one over there with the black fenders and silver coach work?"

"A 1936 Maybach-Zeppelin town car," Pitt answered.

"And the one you're working on?"

"A 1912 Renault open-drive landaulette."

" Seems a bit the worse for wear," said Jarvis, wiping a finger through a layer of rust.