Celtic Empire (Dirk Pitt 25)

Inside, the receptionist stood at the window and watched Pitt drive by. She hurried to her desk and dialed a number, cursing when the phone at the other end went to voicemail. She dialed a second number, which was answered on the first ring.

“A problem with the meeting?”

“No, it went well,” the receptionist said. “He claimed to have a water sample from El Salvador, which we obtained. I’ll send you the video straight away. The problem is Richards. He just departed with the sample to take it to the lab. I think Pitt is following him.”

“Did you try calling Richards?”

“Yes, but he didn’t answer.”

r /> “I see. He should have shown more caution.” A pause. “Position one of the lorries on the lab road from Foyers. Meet him on the way back. And make it look like an accident.”

The receptionist had no opportunity for debate. With a click, the line fell dead.

37

The Volkswagen drove south from Inverness, following Dores Road along the River Ness to the town of the same name. The car passed through the village, then turned onto a smaller road that hugged Loch Ness’s southeastern shore.

Pitt hung back, staying just within sight. He followed the Volkswagen for ten miles, falling in and out of view, until they reached Foyers, a village known for its nearby waterfalls. The paved road turned south past the town and away from the loch. The VW disappeared around a bend, but when Pitt accelerated through the curve, the vehicle had vanished. He noticed a light spray of dust to his right, braked hard, and whipped the Mini onto a one-lane dirt road that snaked into the trees. The Volkswagen appeared for an instant ahead, then was swallowed by a dip.

Pitt slowed, keeping well out of view, as the road passed a pair of quaint Victorian houses, then crossed a narrow wooden bridge across the River Foyers. The road zigzagged through a forested ridge near the lake. The loch’s blue waters flickered through the trees on Pitt’s right as the road paralleled the shoreline. He continued along, noting there was no place the VW could have turned off.

A mile on, Pitt noticed a marker to the side, the first he’d seen on the narrow lane. He pressed the accelerator when he drew closer and saw it was not a marker. It was a camera on a post. After he sped past it, the road curved and dipped down a short hill, then ended at an open arched steel gate. A quick glance revealed a high metal fence ran from the gate to the upper woods on the left, and downhill to the loch on the right.

Pitt hit the brakes and skidded to a stop at the crest of the hill. The thick steel gate slid closed, and the gray Volkswagen pulled into a parking lot, partially concealed by a thick hedge, just beyond. The man posing as Perkins exited the car and disappeared down the paved walkway.

Pitt backed the Mini up and over the hill and turned around in a small clearing behind the roadside camera. There were more cameras mounted above the entry gate. If anybody was watching, someone would soon be sent to investigate.

Pitt didn’t wait for a welcome. He jumped out of the car, sprinted into the trees to his left, then turned and angled his way toward the compound. He approached the fence, a ten-foot-high steel structure topped with concertina wire. Just beyond it were electronic sensors mounted on short poles every few yards. Extreme security, Pitt thought, for an environmental research lab.

He edged toward the fence, remaining concealed, until he had a clear view of the compound. It was dominated by a low-roofed building partially sunk into the ground, like a bunker. It appeared drab and functional, built of concrete, with no apparent windows. Concealed along the lakeside by thick foliage, the entire structure blended with the surroundings.

Pitt ducked back into the trees and retraced his steps so he could approach the complex from the waterfront. The high fence extended to the water’s edge, concealed and anchored by large boulders on the inner side. Past the rocks, a vessel lay moored just off the shore.

It was a small tank barge, similar to ones Pitt had seen on the Mississippi River and in the Gulf of Mexico, used to transport chemicals or fuels, usually along inland waterways. Painted dark gray, the tanker was laced with tire bumpers along its flank that looked like a string of black donuts. No deckhands were visible, as the vessel sat a short distance from shore.

Pitt’s focus was jarred by the hostile barking of a large dog. A brown blur raced from the dock, and he backpedaled away from the fence. By the time the Rottweiler reached the barrier, Pitt was already lost in the trees, returning to his car. He’d seen enough for one day.

Back in the Mini, he accelerated away briskly. He had driven less than a quarter mile when a slow-moving vehicle approached from the opposite direction. It was a large commercial truck with a high cab and a wide, raised bumper that dominated the narrow road. Pitt slowed and pulled to the left, easing the wheels onto the shoulder. Though a tight squeeze, there was enough clearance for the truck to pass.

But the truck had no intention of squeezing past.

Rather than slow and pull to the opposite side, the truck driver upshifted to gain speed. The truck’s prow eased toward the side of the road—Pitt’s side of the road.

With nowhere to go, Pitt jammed the Mini into reverse and stomped on the gas. The little car leaped backward amid a spray of gravel and mud.

Pitt turned the wheel to center the car on the road as the truck loomed through the windshield.

There was no avoiding it. The truck was just too close, Pitt’s acceleration a touch too late. The truck’s grille and bumper engulfed his view as it bashed into the Mini. It wasn’t a crushing blow. By luck, it had struck evenly, pushing the Mini straight back. Pitt maintained his grip on the wheel and kept the accelerator floored.

Pitt shook off the impact, controlling the Mini’s trajectory as its tires regained traction. Holding to the crown of the road, the car continued its rearward acceleration.

The truck’s grille still filled Pitt’s windshield, and it closed once more. This time, it struck only a glancing nudge. The Mini finally reached a higher speed and began to outdistance the truck. As the small car pulled away, Pitt glanced up at the truck’s cab and saw a familiar face behind the wheel.

It was the dark-haired receptionist from the BioRem building, and she tried to bear down on Pitt a third time.

Driving backward at speed, Pitt kept the Mini on the road. There was no room for error—or escape. A tight corridor of trees lined the road all the way to the gate.

The Mini’s engine screamed. The tachometer neared the red line. He couldn’t drive any faster. The pursuing truck quickly approached.