Cyclops (Dirk Pitt 8)

"I'm afraid that won't do. She's holding a formal cocktail party in the greenhouse later in the evening that will be attended by the Secretary of State. She can't possibly break away."

"Some other time then."

There was an icy silence, then Miss Cabot said, "You don't understand."

"You're right, I don't understand."

"Doesn't the name LeBaron mean anything to you?"

"No more than Shagnasty, Quagmire, or Smith," Pitt lied fiendishly.

She seemed lost for a moment. "Mr. LeBaron--"

"We can cut the fun and games," Pitt interrupted. "I'm quite aware of Raymond LeBaron's reputation.

And I can save us both time by saying I have nothing to add to the mystery surrounding his disappearance and death. Tell Mrs. LeBaron she has my condolences. That's all I can offer."

Cabot took a deep breath and exhaled. "Please, Mr. Pitt, I know she would be most grateful if you could see her."

Pitt could almost see her speaking the word "please" through clenched teeth. "All right," he said. "I guess I can make it. What's the address?"

The arrogance quickly returned to her tone. "I'll send the chauffeur to pick you up."

"If it's all the same to you, I'd prefer to drive my own car. I get claustrophobic in limousines."

"If you insist," she said stiffly. "You'll find the house at the end of Beacon Drive in Great Falls Estates."

"I'll check a street map."

"By the way, what kind of car do you drive?"

"Why do you want to know?"

"To inform the guard at the gate."

Pitt hesitated and looked across the hangar floor at a car parked by the main door. "An old convertible."

"Old?"

"Yes, a 1951."

"Then would you be so kind to park in the lot by the servants' house. It's to the right as you come up the drive."

"Aren't you ever ashamed of the way you dictate to people?"

"I don't have to be ashamed of anything, Mr. Pitt. We'll expect you at four."

"Will you be through with me before the guests arrive?" asked Pitt, his voice heavy with sarcasm. "I wouldn't want to embarrass anyone by having them see my old junk car littering the grounds."

"Not to worry," she replied testily. "The party doesn't begin until eight. Goodbye."

After Sandra Cabot hung up, Pitt walked over to the convertible, staring at it for several moments. He removed the floorboards under the rear seat and clipped on the cables of a battery charger. Then he returned to the Talbot-Lago and calmly took up where he left off.

At precisely eight-thirty, the security guard at the LeBaron estate's front gate greeted a young couple driving a yellow Ferrari, checked their names on the party list, and waved them through. Next came a Chrysler limousine carrying the President's chief adviser, Daniel Fawcett, and his wife.

The guard was immune to the exotic cars and their celebrity occupants. He raised his hands over his head in a bored stretch and yawned. Then his hands froze in midair and his mouth snapped shut as he found himself staring at the largest car he'd ever seen.

The car was a veritable monster, measuring nearly twenty-two feet from bumper to bumper and weighing well over three tons. The hood and doors were silver-gray and the fenders a metallic maroon. A convertible, its top was completely hidden from view when folded down. The body lines were smooth and elegant in the grand manner, an example of flawless craftsmanship seldom equaled.