Vixen 03

"And if the AAR actually possessed the shells, how would Sandecker deal with them?"

"Make them a trade, I suppose, or buy the shells at an inflated price. After all, it's only taxpayer money."

Jarvis sat back and poked his fork at the meringue. He wasn't hungry anymore. "I'd like to talk to Sandecker. Do you mind?"

"Be my guest. You'd probably do better working through his special-projects director, though. He's the guy who's heading up the search."

"What's his name?"

"Dirk Pitt."

"The fellow who raised the Titanic a few months back?"

"The same." Ravenfoot held up his wristwatch and noted the time. "I have to run along. If you get a lead on those shells, I'd appreciate a call. Jim Sandecker is an old friend. I still owe him a favor or two."

"Count on it."

Jarvis sat for several minutes after Ravenfoot left, poking his fork idly at the pie. Then he rose and walked back to his office, lost in thought.

Barbara Gore knew the instant her boss stepped through the door that his intuition was working overtime. She had seen that haunted look of deep concentration too many times not to recognize it. Without waiting to be asked, she picked up her pad and pencil and followed Jarvis into his private office. Then she sat down, crossed her rnagnificent legs, and waited patiently.

He stayed on his feet and stared at the wall. Then he turned slowly and his eyes came back in focus. "Call Gossard and set up a meeting with his Africa Section staff, and tell him I'd like another look at the Operation Wild Rose folder."

"You've changed your mind? There may be something to it after all?"

He didn't answer immediately. "Maybe, just maybe."

"Anything else?"

"Yes, ask the ID department to send up whatever they have on Admiral James Sandecker and a Dirk Pitt."

"Aren't they with NUMA

Jarvis nodded.

Barbara gave him a questioning look. "Surely you don't think there is a co

"Too early to tell," said Jarvis thoughtfully. "You might say that I'm picking up loose threads to see if they run to the same spool."

48

Frederick Daggat and Felicia Collins were waiting in the limousine when Loren came through the portico of the Capitol. They watched as she gracefully skipped down the steps, her ci

Daggat's chauffeur opened the door for her. She slipped beside Felicia as Daggat gallantly took one of the jump seats. "You look lovely, Loren," Daggat said familiarly — too familiarly. "It was obvious the minds of my male colleagues were elsewhere when you stood up on the House floor in that outfit."

"Being a woman has its advantages during debate," she said coolly. "You look stylish, Felicia."

A strange look flashed over Felicia's face. The last thing she expected from Loren was a compliment. She smoothed the skirt of her creamy white jersey dress and avoided Loren's eyes.

"It's good of you to see us," she said quietly.

"Did I have a choice?" Loren's face was a mask of resentment. "I'm afraid to ask what you demand of me this time."

Daggat raised the window behind the chauffeur. "The vote comes up tomorrow on whether or not to grant aid to the African Army of Revolution."

"So you two poked your heads above the slime to see if I was still in the fold," Loren said bitterly.

"You refuse to understand," said Felicia. "There is nothing personal in this. Frederick and I do not stand to gain financially. Our only reward is the advancement of our race."

Loren stared at her. "So you sink to blackmail to further your great moral cause."

"If it means saving countless thousands of lives, yes." Daggat spoke as though he were lecturing a child. "Each day the war continues brings a hundred deaths. The blacks will eventually win in South Africa. A foregone conclusion. It is the ma

"How can you be fool enough to accept the word of a criminal?" asked Loren.

"Hiram Lusana grew up in one of the worst slums in the nation," Daggat continued patiently. "His father deserted his mother and nine children when he was eight. I don't expect you to understand what it's like to pimp for your own sisters in order to put food on the table, Congresswoman Smith. I don't expect you even to imagine living in a fifth-floor tenement with newspapers stuffed in the cracks to keep out owing snow, with overflowing toilets because there is no water, with an army of rats waiting to scavenge when the sun goes down. If crime is your only means to exist, then you embrace it with open arms. Yes, Lusana was a criminal. But when his opportunity came to rise above the filth, he snatched it and turned his energies toward fighting the very circumstances that cursed him."

"Then why play God in Africa?" Loren said defiantly. "Why doesn't he fight to improve conditions for blacks in his own country?"

"Because Hiram fervently believes our race must have a firm base to rise from. The Jews look with pride toward Israel; you Anglo-Saxons have a rich British heritage. Our homeland, on the other hand, is still struggling to emerge from a primitive society. It's no secret the blacks who have taken over most of Africa have made an unholy mess of it. Hiram Lusana is our one hope to steer the black race in the right direction. He is our Moses and South Africa is our Promised Land."

"Aren't you overly optimistic?"

Daggat looked at her. "Optimistic?"

"According to the latest military reports from South Africa, their Defence Forces crossed into Mozambique and destroyed the AAR and its headquarters."

"I read the same reports," said Daggat, "and nothing has changed. A temporary setback, perhaps; nothing more. Hiram Lusana is still alive. He will raise a new army, and I intend to do all in my power to aid him."

"Amen, brother," Felicia added.

The three of them were too wrapped up in their own thoughts to notice a car pulling in front of the limousine and then slowing down. At the next stoplight the driver swung the car to the curb and leaped out. Before Daggat's chauffeur could react, the man ran up to the limousine, jerked open the right rear door, and climbed in.

Daggat's mouth dropped open in surprise. Felicia froze, her mouth tensed. Only Loren seemed mildly puzzled

"Who the hell are you?" Daggat demanded. Over the stranger's shoulder he saw the chauffeur reach into the glove compartment for a gun.

"How unobservant of you not to recognize me from my pictures," the man said, laughing.

Felicia tugged at Daggat's sleeve. "It's him," she whispered.

"Him who?" shouted Daggat, visibly upset.

"Pitt. My name is Dirk Pitt."

Loren looked at Pitt intently. She had not seen him for several days and she scarcely associated this man with the one who had made love to her. His eyes were ringed from lack of sleep and his chin was stubbled with be rd. There were creases in his face she had never noticed before, creases of stress and exhaustion. She reached over and squeezed his hand.