"Bass owns and operates a country inn just south of Lexington, Virginia, called Anchorage House. You know the kind — no pets or kids allowed. Fifteen rooms complete with antique plumbing and fourposter beds, all slept in by George Washington."

"Paul, I owe you one."

"Care to let me in on it?"

"Too early."

"You sure it's not some hanky-panky the Bureau should know about?"

"It's not in your jurisdiction."

"That figures."

"Thanks again."

"Okay, buddy. Write when you find work."

Pitt hung up the receiver and took a slow breath and grinned. Another veil of the enigma had been pulled aside. He decided not to contact Abe Steiger, not just yet. He looked up at Folsom.

"Can you cover for me over the weekend?"

Folsom grinned back. 'Tar be it from me to insinuate the boss isn't essential to the operation, but what the hell, I think we can muddle through the next forty-eight hours without your exalted presence. What you got cooking?"

"A thirty-four-year-old mystery," said Pitt. "I'm going to dig out the answers while relaxing in the peace and quiet of a quaint country inn."

Folsom peered at him for several seconds, and then, seeing nothing behind Pitt's green eyes, gave up and turned back to the blackboard.

On the morning fight into Richmond, Pitt looked like any one of a dozen other passengers who seemed to be dozing. His eyes were closed, but his mind was churning over the enigma of the plane in the lake. It was unlike the Air Force to sweep an accident under the rug, he thought. Under normal circumstances, a full-scale investigation would have been launched to determine why the crew had strayed so far off the charted course. Logical answers eluded him and he opened his eyes when the Eastern Airlines jet touched down and began taxiing up to the terminal.

Pitt rented a car and drove through the Virginia countryside. The lovely, rolling landscape imparted mingled aromas of pine and fall rains. just past noon he turned off Interstate Eighty-one and drove into Lexington. Not pausing to enjoy the quaint architecture of the town, he angled south on a narrow state highway. He soon came to a sign picturesquely out of place with the rural surroundings, designed with a nautical anchor welcoming guests and pointing up a gravel road toward the inn.

There was no one behind the desk and Pitt was reluctant to break the silence in the neat and meticulously dusted lobby. He was about to say the hell with it and hit the bell when a tall woman, almost as tall as he in her riding boots, entered carrying a highbacked chair. She looked to be in her early thirties and wore jeans and a matching denim blouse with a red bandana tied over her ash-blond hair. Her skin displayed almost no evidence of a summer tan but had the smoothness of a fashion model's. Something about her unruffled expression at abruptly noticing a stranger suggested to him a woman who was high bred, the kind who is taught to act reserved under any circumstances short of fire and earthquake.

"I'm sorry," she said, setting the chair down beside a beautifully proportioned candle stand. "I didn't hear you drive up."

"That's an interesting chair," he said "Shaker, isn't it?"

She looked at him approvingly. "Yes, made by Elder Henry Blinn, of Canterbury."

"You have many valuable pieces here."

"Admiral Bass, the owner, gets the credit for what you see." She moved behind the desk. "He's quite an authority on antique collecting, you know."

"I wasn't aware of that."

"Do you wish a room?"

"Yes, for tonight only."

"A pity you can't stay longer. A local stock theater opens in our barn the evening after next."

"I've a knack for poor timing," Pitt said, smiling.

Her return smile was thin and formal. She spun the register around for him and he signed it.

"Room fourteen. Up the stairs and three doors to your left, Mr. Pitt." She had read his name upside down as he signed it. "I'm Heidi Milligan. If you need anything, just push the buzzer by your door. I'll get the message sooner or later. I hope you won't mind carrying your own luggage up."

"I'll manage. Is the admiral handy? I'd like to talk to him about… about antiques."

She pointed through a double screen door at the end of the lobby. "You'll find him down by the duck pond, clearing away lily pads."

Pitt nodded and headed in the direction Heidi Milligan had indicated. The door opened onto a footpath that meandered down a gently sloping hill. Admiral Bass had wisely chosen not to landscape Anchorage House. The surrounding grounds had been left to nature and were covered with pines and late-blooming wildflowers. For a moment Pitt forgot his mission and soaked up the scenic quiet that hemmed in the trail to the pond.

He found an elderly man, in hip boots and brandishing a pitchfork, aggressively attacking a circular growth of water lilies about eight feet from shore. The admiral was a big man and he threw the tangled root stocks onto the bank with the ease of someone thirty years younger. He wore no hat under the Virginia sun and the sweat rolled free from his bald head and trickled off the ends of his nose and chin.

"Admiral Walter Bass?" Pitt said., hailing him.

The pitchfork stopped in mid-throw. "Yes, I'm Walter Bass."

"Sir, my name is Dirk Pitt, and I wonder if I might have a word with you?"

"Sure, go right ahead," said Bass, finishing the toss. "Pardon me if I keep after these damned weeds, but I want to clear out as much as I can before dinner. If I didn't do this at least twice a week before winter, they'd choke off the whole pond come spring."

Pitt stepped back as a flying wad of tuberous stems and heart-shaped leaves splattered at his feet. To him, at least, it was an awkward situation, and he wasn't sure how to handle it. The admiral's back was to him, and Pitt hesitated. He took a deep breath and plunged. "I'd like to ask you several questions concerning an aircraft with the code designation Vixen 03."

Bass kept at his labor without a pause, but the whitened knuckles amend the handle of the pitchfork did not go unnoticed by Pitt.

"Vixen 03," he said, and shrugged.

"Doesn't ring a bell. Should it?"

"It was a Military Air Transport Service plane that vanished back in 1954."

"That was a long time ago." Bass stared vacantly at the water. "No, I can't recall any connection with a MATS aircraft," he said finally. "Not surprising, though. I was a surface officer throughout my thirty years in the Navy. Heavy ordnance was my specialty."

"Do you recall ever meeting a major in the Air Force by the name of Vylander?"

"Vylander?" Bass shook his head. "Can't say as I have." Then he looked at Pitt speculatively. "What was your name again? Why are you asking me these questions?"

"My name is Dirk Pitt," he said again.

"I'm with the National Underwater and Marine Agency. I found some old papers that stated you were the officer who authorized Vixen 03's flight orders."

"There must be a mistake."

"Perhaps," said Pitt. "Maybe the mystery will be cleared up when the wreck of the aircraft is raised and thoroughly inspected."

"I thought you said it vanished."

"I discovered the wreckage," Pitt answered.

Pitt studied Bass closely for any discernible reaction. There was none. He decided to leave the admiral alone to collect his thoughts.