“For someone who hasn’t been home for four months, you sure travel light.” Yaeger laughed.

“My luggage lies with the fishes,” Pitt mumbled through halfclosed eyes.

“I’d love to see your car collection again, but I have to get home.”

“It’s bed for me. Thanks for the lift. And thank you for this afternoon. A fine job as always.”

“Love doing it. Finding the key to your brain twisters beats solving the mysteries of the universe any day.” Yaeger waved, rolled up his window against the cold night air, and drove off into the darkness.

Pitt took a spare transmitter from his pants pocket that he kept in his NUMA office and punched in a series of codes that shut down the hangar’s security system and turned on the interior lights.

He unlocked the old, badly weathered side door and entered. The polished concrete floor of the hangar looked like a transportation museum. An old Ford trimotor airplane was parked in one corner next to a turn-of-the-century railroad Pullman car. Over fifty automobiles covered the remaining 10,000 square meters. European exotica such as a Hispano-Suiza, a Mercedes-Benz 540K, and a beautiful blue Talbot-Lago were sitting across from magnificent American classics like a Cord L-29, a Pierce-Arrow, and a stunning turquoise-green Stutz town car. The only piece that seemed oddly out of place was an old cast-iron bathtub with an outboard motor attached to the backrest.

He tiredly walked up a circular iron stairway to his apartment overlooking the collection. What had once been an office, he had redecorated into a comfortable one-bedroom apartment with a large combination living room-study whose shelves were filled with books and glass-encased models of ships Pitt had discovered and surveyed.

An appetizing aroma drifted from the kitchen. He found a note hanging on a bird of paradise rising from a vase on the dining table. A smile crossed his face as he read it.

Heard you had sneaked back into town. Cleaned out the alien slime that invaded your refrigerator a month after you were gone. Thought you might be hungry. A salad is on ice and the bouillabaisse is warming in a pot on the stove. Sorry I couldn’t be there to greet you, but must attend a dinner at the White House.

Love.

L

He stood for a moment trying to urge his sleep-fogged mind to’ come to a decision. Should he eat and then take a shower? Or jump in the shower first? He decided a hot shower would knock him out and he’d never make it back to the table. He undressed and slipped on a short robe. He ate the salad, a Waldorf, and almost the entire pot of bouillabaisse along with two glasses of Smothers Brothers 1983 Cabernet Sauvignon from a bottle that came from a closet wine rack.

He finished and was rinsing the dishes in the sink when the phone rang.

“Hello?”

“Mr. Pitt?”

“Yes, Mr. Jordan,” Pitt answered, recognizing the voice. “What can I do for you?”

“I hope I didn’t interrupt your sleep.”

“My head is still ten minutes away from the pillow.”

“I wanted to call and learn if you heard from AI.”

“Yes, he called right after he talked to you.”

“Despite your unauthorized project, the information was quite useful.”

“I know I shouldn’t have stepped out of bounds, but I wanted to play out a hunch.”

“You’re not much of a team player, are you, Dirk?” said Jordan, using Pitt’s given name for the first time. “You’d rather play your own game.

” ‘Wisdom denotes the pursuing of the best ends by the best means.’ “

“Your words?”

“No, they belong to Francis Hutcheson, a Scot philosopher.”

“I give you credit for quoting in the exact form,” said Jordan. “Most of official Washington would have plagiarized the original and quoted ‘The ends justifies the means.’ “

“What do you want?” asked Pitt, desperately eyeing his bed.

“I thought you’d also like to know that we found the bomb carriers.”

“All six cars?” Pitt asked, astonished.

“Yes, they’re hidden in a Japanese bank building in downtown Washington. Sealed in an underground basement until the day they’re dusted off and driven to their scheduled targets and detonated.”

“That was fast work.”

“You have your methods, we have ours.”

“Have you placed them under surveillance?”

“Yes, but we have to tread softly. We don’t dare tip our hand yet, not before we terminate those responsible for this horror and destroy their command center,” said Jordan. “As it was, Giordino came within a hair of blowing the operation this afternoon. Somebody at Murmoto Distributors was scared. We got in and out of their accounting system only minutes before they erased their imported shipping data.”

“The data led you to the cars?”

“We were able to track and penetrate a known Japanese owned freight company whose trucks picked them up. They programmed no mention of destination in their records, of course, but we did manage to ‘borrow’ a copy of the driver’s delivery log. It revealed the number of kilometers the truck traveled after leaving the dockyard. The rest involved solid investigation and fancy footwork.”

“Like breaking and entering.”

“We never break when we enter,” said Jordan.

“Should it leak out that our good citizens are sitting on nuclear bombs belonging to a foreign power, the country will be torn apart by panic.”

“Not a healthy situation, I agree. The public uproar and the demand for revenge might scare the Japs into moving the cars to strategic positions and pressing the ‘fire’ button before we can find and neutralize them.”

“An across-the-board search could take twenty years to find them all.”

“I don’t think so,” said Jordan calmly. “We know how they do it, and thanks to you and Giordino, we know what to look for. The Japanese are not half the pros we are in the intelligence business. I’ll bet we’ll find every Murmoto and its bomb within thirty days.”

“I applaud optimism,” said Pitt. “But what about our allies and the Russians? The Japanese may have hidden bombs under them too. Is the President going to warn their leaders of the possibility?”

“Not yet. The NATO nations can’t be trusted not to leak a secret this critical. On the other hand, the President may feel that letting the Kremlin in on it might tighten relations. Think about it. We’re both in the same boat now, both threatened suddenly by another superpower.”

“There is one other frightening threat.

“There’s so many, what have I missed?”

“Suppose Japan set off a few of the bombs in either the U.S. or Russia? We’d each think one attacked the other, go to war, and leave the crumbs for the wily Japs to pick over.”

“I don’t want to go to bed with that in my head,” said Jordan uneasily. “Let’s just take things as they come. If our operation is successful, then it’s in the hands of the politicians again.”

“Your last thought,” said Pitt, feigning apprehension, “would keep anyone awake nights.”

He was just dozing off when the security chime alerted him to the presence of someone trying to enter the hangar. Forcing himself from his comfortable bed, he walked into the study and turned on a small TV monitoring system.

Stacy Fox was standing at the side entrance door staring up and smiling into what Pitt thought was his well-camouflaged hidden security camera.

He pressed a switch, and the door opened. Then he walked out and stood on the stairway balcony.

She stepped into the hangar looking sexy yet demure in a blue collarless jacket, a matching slim skirt, and a jewel-neck white blouse. She moved slowly amid the array of grand machinery in reverent amazement. She stopped at a beautiful 1948 metallic blue Talbot-Lago Grand Sport coupe with special coachwork by a French body maker known as Saoutchik and lightly ran her fingers over one fender.