"Precisely."

"But why?" asked Pitt. "When there is so much evidence?"

"Archaeologists are a hardheaded bunch," replied Perlmutter. "They're all from Missouri. You have to show them. But because early American cultures did not find a use for the wheel, except for toys, or develop the potter's wheel, they refuse to believe in diffusion."

"There could be any number of reasons. Until the arrival of Cortez and the Spanish, there were no horses or oxen in the Americas. Even I know it took the idea of the wheelbarrow six hundred years to travel from China to Europe."

"What can I say?" Perlmutter sighed. "I'm only a marine history buff who refuses to write treatises on subjects I know little about."

"But you will search your library for any account of underground chambers with indecipherable inscriptions in what would have been remote corners of the world four thousand years ago?"

"I shall do my best."

"Thank you, old friend. I can't ask for more." Pitt had total faith in his old family friend who used to sit Pitt on his lap when he was a little boy and tell him sea stories.

"Is there anything else you haven't told me about this chamber of yours?" queried Perlmutter.

"Only that it came with an artifact."

"You've been holding out on me. What kind of artifact?"

"A life-size skull craved out of pure black obsidian."

Perlmutter let that sink in for a few moments. Finally, he said, "Do you know its significance?"

"None that is obvious," answered Pitt. "All I can tell you is that without modern tools and cutting equipment, the ancient people who cut and smoothed such a large chunk of obsidian must have taken ten generations to produce such an exquisitely finished product."

"You're quite right. Obsidian is a volcanic glass formed by rapid cooling of liquid lava. For many thousands of years, man used it to make arrowheads, knives, and spearheads. Obsidian is very brittle. It's a remarkable feat to have created such an object over the course of a century and a half without shattering or cracking it."

Pitt glanced over at the crate strapped in the seat. "A pity you can't be here to see it, St. Julien."

"No need for that. I already know what it looks like."

Pitt smelled a rat. Perlmutter was famous for toying with his victims when he was about to display his intellectual superiority. Pitt had no choice but to sail into the trap. "You'd have to see it with your own eyes to appreciate its beauty."

"Did I forget to tell you, dear boy," said Perlmutter, his tone dripping with mock innocence, "I know where there is another one?"

The Cessna Ultra V touched down on the east runway of Andrews Air Force Base and taxied to the hangars leased by the Air Force to various governmental agencies. NUMA's aircraft and transportation buildings were located on the northeast part of the base. A NUMA van with two security guards was waiting to take Giordino to his condo in Alexandria, Virginia, and Pat to the safe house where her daughter waited.

Pitt carefully carried the wooden box containing the obsidian skull from the aircraft and set it on the ground. He did not accompany Pat and Giordino, but remained behind.

"You're not coming with us?" asked Pat.

"No, a friend is picking me up."

She gave him a penetrating look. "A girl friend?"

He laughed. "Would you believe my godfather?"

"No, I don't think I would," she said sarcastically. "When will I see you again?"

He gave her a light kiss on the forehead. "Sooner than you think."

Then he closed the door and watched as the van drove off toward the main gate of the base. He relaxed and sat on the ground with his back against one wheel of the landing gear, as the pilot and copilot departed. The spring air of Washington was crisp and clear, with temperatures rising unseasonably into the low sixties. He had waited only ten minutes when a very elegant two-tone green-and-silver automobile rolled whisper-quiet to a stop beside the aircraft.

The chassis of the Rolls Royce Silver Dawn had gone from the factory assembly line to the coach builders of Hooper & Company in 1955, where had been was fitted with a body designed to flow gracefully from the front fenders to the rear, with smooth sides over the fender skirts. The overhead six-cylinder, 263-cubic-inch engine could propel the stately car to a top speed of eighty-seven miles an hour, with only the sound of the rustling from the tires.

Hugo Mulholland, St. Julien Perlmutter's chauffeur, stepped from the driver's side of the car and stuck out his hand. "A pleasure to see you again, Mr. Pitt."

Pitt grinned and shook the chauffeur's hand. The greeting was given without the barest hint of cordiality, but Pitt took no offense. He'd known Hugo for more than twenty years. The chauffeur and able aide to Perlmutter was really warmhearted and considerate, but he had the stone face of a Buster Keaton, and rarely smiled or showed signs of congeniality. He took Pitt's duffel bag and laid it in the trunk of the Rolls, then stepped back as Pitt eased the wooden crate alongside the duffel bag. Then Mulholland opened the rear door and stood aside.

Pitt ducked into the car and settled into the backseat, which was two-thirds taken by Perlmutter's ample bulk. "St. Julien, you look fit as a fiddle."

"More like a bass viol." Perlmutter took Pitt's head between his two hands and kissed him on both cheeks. The huge man wore a Panama hat over his gray hair. His face was red, with a tulip nose complemented by sky-blue eyes. "It's been too long. Not since that pretty little Asian girl with the Naturalization and Immigration Service fixed dinner for us in your hangar apartment."

"Julia Marie Lee. That was about this time last year."

"What became of her?"

"Last I heard, Julia was on assignment in Hong Kong."

"They never stay long, do they?" Perlmutter mused.

"I'm not exactly the kind of guy women take home to meet their mother."

"Nonsense. You'd make a great catch if you'd ever settle down."

Pitt changed the subject. "Do I smell food?"

"When was the last time you ate?"

"I had coffee for breakfast and a soft drink for lunch."

Perlmutter lifted a picnic basket from the floor and set it in his great lap. Then he pulled down the burled walnut trays from their hiding place on the back of the front seat. "I've prepared a small repast for the drive to Fredericksburg."

"Is that where we're going?" asked Pitt, looking forward with great anticipation to the gourmet goodies inside the basket.

Perlmutter simply nodded as he held up a bottle of Yellow Label Veuve Clicquot Ponsardin Brut Champagne. "All right?"

"My favorite," Pitt acknowledged.

After Mulholland was waved through the main gate, he turned left onto the Capital Beltway and drove east across the Potomac River, until he reached Springfield, where he turned south. Inside the rear passenger compartment, Perlmutter laid out silver and china on the trays, then began passing out the various dishes, beginning with crepes filled with mushrooms and sweetbreads, grilled and breaded oysters, several pates and cheeses, and ending with pears poached in red wine.

"This is a real treat, St. Julien. I seldom eat this extravagantly."

"I do," said Perlmutter, patting his huge stomach. "And that's the difference between us."