"Any reference to a North American Treaty."

She felt there was more she needed to know, but Beaseley had already turned his back and was poring through a huge leather binder that held reams of yellowed official documents and department memoranda. She resigned herself to the inevitable and tackled the first volume of April 1914, wrinkling her nose at the musty odor.

After four hours, to the accompaniment of Miss Gosset's protesting stomach, they had turned up nothing. Beaseley replaced the binders and looked thoughtful.

"Excuse me, Mr. Beaseley, but about lunch?" He looked at his watch. "I'm dreadfully sorry. I paid no attention to the time. Will you allow me to make that dinner?"

"I gratefully accept," sighed Miss Gosset.

They were signing out when Beaseley suddenly turned to the commissionaire.

"I'd like to examine the official secrets vault," he said. "My clearance allows me entry."

"But not the young lady," said the uniformed commissionaire, smiling politely. "Her pass only covers the library."

Beaseley patted Miss Gosset on the shoulder. "Please be patient a little longer. This shouldn't take but a few minutes."

He followed the commissionaire down three flights of stairs to the basement and up to a large iron door in a concrete wall. He watched as a pair of heavy brass keys turned the oiled tumblers of two immense antique padlocks without the least sound. The commissionaire pushed the door open and stood aside.

"I'll have to lock you in, sir," he said, parroting the book of regulations. "There is a telephone on the wall. Just ring three two when you wish to leave."

"I'm aware of the procedure, thank you."

The file containing classified matter from the spring of 1914 was only forty pages thick and held no earth-shattering revelations. Beaseley was reinserting it in its slot when he noticed something odd.

Several of the files on each side protruded nearly half an inch from the rest of the neatly spaced row. He pulled them out.

Another file had somehow been shoved behind the others, keeping them from fitting evenly. He opened the cover. Across the title page of what looked to be a report were the words "North American Treaty."

He sat down at a metal table and began to read.

Ten minutes later, Beaseley had the look of a man who had been tapped on the shoulder in a cemetery at midnight. His trembling hands could scarcely punch out the correct telephone call buttons.

Heidi checked her boarding pass and looked up at the television monitor displaying the departure time of her flight.

"Another forty minutes to kill," she said.

"Time enough for a farewell drink" Pitt replied.

He steered her across the busy lobby of Dulles Airport to the cocktail lounge. Businessmen with loosened collars and wrinkled suits packed every corner. Pitt scrounged a small table and ordered from a passing waitress. "I wish I could stay," she said wistfully.

"What's to stop you?"

"The navy frowns on officers who jump ship."

"When is your leave up?"

"I have to report to the Naval Communications Station in San Diego by noon tomorrow for assignment to sea duty."

He looked into her eyes. "It seems our romance is a victim of geography."

"We didn't give it much chance, did we?"

"Perhaps it was never meant to be," said Pitt.

Heidi stared at him. "That's what he said!"

"Who?"

"President Wilson in a letter."

Pitt laughed. "I'm afraid you've lost me."

"I'm sorry." She waved away the thought. "It was nothing."

"Sounds to me like your research is getting to you."

"Complications," she said. "I was sidetracked. It happens in research. You delve into one subject and find a fascinating bit of information that takes you on a totally different course."

The drinks came and Pitt paid the waitress. "You're sure you can't request an extension."

She shook her head. "If only I could. But I've used up all my accumulated leave time. It will be six months before I'm eligible again" Then suddenly her eyes came alive. "Why don't you come with me? We could have a few days together before I sail."

Pitt took her hand. "Sorry, dear heart, but my schedule won't permit it. I'm leaving myself, for a project in the Labrador Sea."

"How long will you be gone?"

"A month, maybe six weeks."

"Will we see each other again?" Her voice became soft.

"I'm a firm believer that good memories should be relived."

Twenty minutes later, after finishing their second drink, Pitt escorted Heidi to her boarding gate. Already the waiting area had cleared and the attendant behind the check-in counter was announcing the final call.

She set her purse and cosmetic case on a vacant chair and looked up at him through expectant eyes. He responded by kissing her. Then he tilted back his head and grinned. "There goes my macho reputation."

"How so?"

"As soon as word gets around that I was seen kissing a sailor, I'm through."

"You clown." She pulled his head down and kissed him long and hard. Finally she released him and blinked back the tears. "Goodbye, Dirk Pitt."

"Goodbye, Heidi Milligan."

She picked up her bags and walked toward the boarding ramp. Then she paused as though remembering something and returned. Fishing in her purse, she pulled out an envelope and pushed it into his hand.

"Listen! Read these papers," she said urgently. "They explain what's been sidetracking me. And…... Dirk…... There may be something here. Something important. See what you think. If you feel it's worth pursuing, call me in San Diego." Before Pitt could reply, she had turned and was gone.

They say that after death, there is no more idyllic setting in which to await eternity than the graveyard of an English village. Nestled about the parish church in timeless tranquillity, the headstones stand moss-covered and mute, their carved names and dates eroded and seldom readable farther back than the nineteenth century.

Outside of London, in the tucked-away village of Manuden, a solitary bell tolled for a funeral. It was a chilly but beautiful day, the sun skirting rolling masses of pearl-tinted clouds.

Fifty or sixty people clustered about a flag-draped military coffin as the local vicar delivered the eulogy.

A regal- looking woman in her early sixties heard none of it. Her attention was focused on a man who stood alone, several paces away from the outer edge of the mourners.

He must be sixty-six, she thought. His black, carelessly brushed hair was sprinkled with gray and had receded slightly. The face was still handsome, but the ruthless look had softened. With a slight tinge of envy she noted that he maintained a trim and fit shape, while she had tended to spread. His eyes were aimed at the church steeple, his thoughts distant.

Only after the coffin was lowered into the ground and the crowd had dispersed did he step forward and stare into the grave as though piercing a window to the past.

"The years have treated you well," she said, coming up behind him.

He turned and recognized her presence for the first time. Then he smiled the old engaging smile she recalled so well and kissed her on the cheek.

"How incredibly, you look even more sensuous than I remembered."

"You haven't changed," she laughed, self-consciously patting her gray hair with its few remaining sandy strands. "The same old flatterer."