Zero Hour (NUMA Files 11)

“Like sunlight reflecting off glass?”

“Yeah,” Bradshaw said slowly. “Yeah, I think I did.”

Kurt nodded. He was no closer to an answer. But he was pretty sure that whatever happened to Bradshaw had also happened to Joe. Maybe Thero had more than one weapon at his disposal.

He grabbed the file and stood. “I’ll send the nurse in.”

“I’ll rest better when I know you’re on the case,” the ASIO chief grunted.

“Then I’ll let you know as soon as I can.”

FOURTEEN

Washington, D.C., 2200 hours

Under the soft light of antique chandeliers, a crowd of ambassadors, congressmen, and other dignitaries mingled in the East Room of the White House. They spoke quietly, accompanied by the subdued tones of the gilded Steinway piano that graced the room.

At the conclusion of a state dinner for the Prime Minister of India, the attendees were given the chance to talk, network, and discuss ideas unencumbered by the constraints of long-held official positions. It had been said that more business was done after business hours than during all the official meetings, negotiation sessions, and carefully orchestrated mediations of the world’s governments combined.

Dirk Pitt didn’t doubt it.

As he moved through the room, he overheard deals being closed, wiggle room in treaties being discussed, and myriad other activities. As Director of NUMA, he’d used such occasions himself, putting a bug in the right ear or two. Tonight, however, he was on hand mainly as a favor to an old friend.

Tall and rugged, with the weathered good looks of an outdoorsman, Pitt was a man of action and a decisive leader who exhibited the greatest sense of calm amid the worst types of chaos. Were an explosion to go off down the hall and others begin racing for the exits, Dirk Pitt might assess the situation, finish his drink, and then calmly find the closest fire extinguisher.

With that mind-set, he moved slowly around the room, looking for the only potential flash point he expected to find that evening: his good friend James Sandecker, NUMA’s former director and the current Vice President of the United States.

Pitt found him, standing proudly on the far edge of the reception. Sandecker’s red hair was now partially gray, but his bantamweight frame still taut and fit. He stood with his hands clasped behind his back, presumably to discourage anyone from attempting to shake them. That stance and the scowl on his face seemed enough to warn most of the spurious human traffic to steer well clear.

Most but not all.

“How many senators does it take to screw in a lightbulb?” a stocky, red-faced congressman asked him between swigs of a scotch on the rocks.

Dirk Pitt watched the exchange with amusement. He pegged the odds of a profanity-laced reply somewhere around fifty-fifty. They would have been higher, but they were in the White House after all.

“How many?” the Vice President said curtly.

The congressman began laughing at himself. “No one knows, but if you like we can form a blue-ribbon committee, study the issue, and get back to you in a year or two.”

Sandecker offered a fleeting smile, but the scowl returned almost instantaneously. “Interesting,” he said, offering nothing more.

The congressman’s laugh faded and then stopped cold. He seemed confused by Sandecker’s response and unnerved by it all at the same time. He took another sip of his drink, gave a polite wave, and walked off, glancing back once or twice with a bewildered look on his face.

“I do believe you’re mellowing,” Pitt said, easing up beside the Vice President. “It’s a testament to your self-control that you didn’t slug that guy.”

At that moment, the shrill beeping of an alert tone sounded in one of their pockets.

“You or me?” Sandecker asked.

Pitt was already reaching for his phone. “I believe it’s me.”

He pulled the phone from his jacket pocket and typed in a code. The screen lit up with the words PRIORITY 1 MESSAGE.

Sandecker offered a serious look. “I remember the days before cell phones and pagers,” he began, “when some poor soul had to actually come running like the dickens to tell you bad news.”

“Times have changed,” Pitt said, waiting for the message to download.

“Not for the better,” Sandecker suggested. “Shooting the messenger isn’t half the fun when it’s nothing but a damned machine. What’s the word?”