Celtic Empire (Dirk Pitt 25)

An imposing black woman in a gray suit appeared at McKee’s side and whispered in her ear.

“I’m sorry, but I must excuse myself to take an international call. It was lovely to meet you both.” She turned to Loren. “I’ll look forward to seeing you in Scotland.”

Pitt watched as she strode away with practiced elegance to a private office in the museum.

“Lovely woman,” Loren said.

“Yes, and quite persuasive,” the senator said. “You’d be wise to join her group. She’s very influential.”

“I may just do that.”

Loren and Pitt excused themselves from the senator as the chairman of the foundation took to a stage to introduce a short movie. It showed dramatic footage of polluted seas and ailing marine life, followed by news of research taking place to preserve the oceans. As the credits rolled, Pitt noticed it had been produced by BioRem Global.

They mingled with a few of the charities’ board members before Pitt steered his wife toward the exit.

“There now, that wasn’t too painful, was it?” Loren gripped Pitt’s hand as they walked to the parking lot.

“Life did improve, once we lost the senator. It does seem a worthy foundation. And well-supported, it would appear, by your new Scottish friend.”

“One of the board members said her company had made a substantial donation to the foundation and looks to be a partner going forward. It’s obviously good publicity, but I’m sure gaining entry into the U.S. market has a lot to do with it.”

“What do you know of this McKee woman?”

“Just that she inherited the company from her late husband, supposedly a brilliant microbiologist. I’m more familiar with her influence on women’s rights. She’s active in global legislation to protect women from violence and injustice, and in promoting women to positions of political leadership. But I don’t know much about the Women’s Governance League. I’ve heard rumors it’s some sort of female trilateral commission, filled with women of power, and all very hush-hush.”

“I guess this means if you join, you won’t be sharing the secret handshake with me.”

Loren laughed. “Of course not.” She squeezed his hand. “You’re not one to be trusted.”

“I should have known . . . So, are you in for the Scotland trip?”

“The House goes on recess in a week. If you’re still tied up in Detroit, I think I will go. And if you’re done in Detroit . . . Well, the fishing is supposed to be marvelous.”

They reached the Stutz and drove out of the lot, turning west onto Constitution Avenue. It was an unusually warm May evening, and the scent of lingering cherry blossoms filled the air as they circled past the Lincoln Memorial. At that late hour, Pitt raced the car across the Arlington Bridge through minimal traffic. Finally free of the day’s obligations, Loren smiled as the wind blew through her hair.

“Nice evening,” Pitt said. “Care to go for an extended drive?”

“You’re leaving tomorrow. I’d rather spend the time at home in other activities.” She snuggled close to him on the bench seat.

Pitt gave a faint nod and steered toward the hangar while gently pressing the accelerator to the floor.

11

The square white blockhouse of the Mayweather stood out from the surface of the river like a cheap roadside hotel. Pitt eyed a swirl of waves breaking on the back of the structure as the waters of the Detroit River barreled into it. While the hull of the ship was hidden underwater, the shallow river hadn’t been deep enough to swallow the ship’s tall bridge housing.

“I guess we won’t have to worry about any decompression dive stops,” Giordino said. He was steering a small runabout they had picked up at Detroit’s Harbor Hill Marina. Guiding the boat around the tanker’s sunken stern, he headed for a large work barge moored in the river to the east.

“The charts show maximum depth is only thirty feet in this section of the river,” Pitt said. “Aside from the current, life doesn’t look so bad.”

“Except for the Capitol Hill firing squads that will have us in their sights if we don’t get it cleaned up quick.”

“Since when are you worried about political fallout?”

“Since I looked at my pension fund and realized I need to work another twenty years before I can retire comfortably in Bora Bora.”

Giordino pulled alongside the barge, which lay within spitting distance of an empty tanker moored upriver. A bearded, bear-sized man in a NUMA ball cap tied off the boat’s lines and helped them up onto the barge.

“Welcome to Camp Maui,” Michael Cruz said. A marine engineer and salvage expert with NUMA, Cruz had led the advance team.