In the rearview mirror, Pitt saw the camera pole fast approaching. Behind it lay a small clearing where he had turned the car around. Ahead, the truck was closing the small gap, its driver looking determined. If she didn’t catch him before the front gate, she would flatten him against it at the end of the lane.

He looked again in the mirror. He had only one chance.

He held steady until he was less than a hundred feet from the camera pole, then mashed the brakes. The Mini shuddered and skidded under the grip of its antilock brakes, but held a true line as it quickly slowed. Pitt kept one eye on the fast-approaching truck and the other on the camera pole. The pole arrived first.

As it appeared out the side window, Pitt let off the brakes and turned the wheel to the left. The rear end whipped around in the same direction. Pitt instantly returned to the brakes as the Mini slid backward off the road.

The truck arrived a second later, traveling too fast to do anything but veer in Pitt’s direction.

Pitt slid off the road, the truck kissing the front end of the Mini as it passed, ripping off its bumper and sending it into a three-hundred-sixty-degree spin. The blow saved Pitt’s life. Rather than slam backward into the trees, the Mini expended its momentum in the spin, bounding against the side of the truck before sliding to a halt along the road’s shoulder.

As the receptionist tried to bring the truck to a rapid stop, Pitt took stock of his situation. He was uninjured, the car was mostly intact, and the engine was still idling. He shoved the gearshift into drive and floored the gas. The tires spun on the loose soil, and the Mini darted ahead. In his rearview mirror, he saw only the truck’s brake lights as it disappeared over the hill.

Pitt drove with a heavy foot down the dirt road until he reached the paved, lakeside road at Foyers. As he drove slowly through the village in the growing dusk, he eyed a small stone church near the waterfront. He turned down its tiny track and parked behind it. Stepping to a bank of high shrubs along the side of the church, he crouched and watched the roa

d. After ten minutes without sign of pursuing traffic, he returned to his battered Mini.

The shore was just down a short hill, and Pitt noticed a small dock with a skiff tied to it. He studied the opposite shore and located the McKee Manor a short distance to the west. It lay almost directly across the loch from the hidden facility.

He leaned against the Mini’s fender, pulled out a cell phone, and dialed a Washington, D.C., phone number. Al Giordino grunted hello at the other end.

“Al, do we have any NUMA submersibles available in UK waters?”

“Let me check.” Giordino consulted a computer in the NUMA technology lab. “You’re in luck,” he said a minute later. “The Sea Nymph, one of our smaller submersibles, is collecting dust on the deck of the Arctic research ship Norse. The Norse is laid up in a Liverpool dry dock for the next few days to repair her thrusters.”

“How’d you like to hop a plane to Liverpool, load it on a truck, and drive it up to Scotland?”

“It just so happens I have a thing for women in tartan berets, so the answer would be yes. What’s wrong? Your hosts not treating you to a good time?”

“They’ve been very entertaining.” Pitt tapped the Mini’s mangled front end with his foot.

“I should be able to get there in twenty-four hours, give or take.”

“Meet me at a village called Foyers. There’s a small dock behind the local church near the waterfront. It’s on Loch Ness.”

“Are we hunting a monster?”

Pitt gazed across the water at the manor. Yellow ground lights illumined the exterior, casting the residence as a disquieting beacon against the growing dark.

“We may be at that.”

38

Loren felt nauseated, relaxed, and giddy—all at the same time. Must be jet lag mixed with alcohol, she thought, as she swirled a glass of champagne that had been thrust into her hand upon entering the banquet hall.

The largest room in McKee Manor, the high-ceilinged hall was decorated in medieval splendor. Thick marble columns jutted from each corner, dividing walls that were graced with massive paintings of the Scottish Highlands. Far above a rich parquet floor was a ceiling fresco of the Annunciation worthy of Michelangelo. Loren couldn’t help notice that the image of Mary bore a striking resemblance to her host, Evanna McKee.

The hall’s usual banquet tables had been replaced with small high tops, where the governance league’s women congregated with their drinks. Color-changing mood lights flashed from above while relaxing spa music wafted from hidden speakers. Loren detected the scent of lavender as she waded through the energetic crowd toward a small stage in the center of the room.

“Congresswoman Smith?”

A familiar-looking woman with short brown hair waved her to a nearby table.

“I thought that was you.” She spoke with an Australian accent and extended a hand in greeting. “Abigail Brown from the World Bank.”

“Of course, Madame Prime Minister. We met at the International Disaster Relief conference at the UN last year.” Loren felt slightly embarrassed for not recognizing the former Australian prime minister, who now served as CEO of the World Bank.

“Please, call me Abby. You did a splendid job in raising aid for the displaced in Bangladesh after that terrible monsoon flooding.”

Tags: Clive Cussler Dirk Pitt Thriller
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