Vixen 03

"Where did you come from?" Loren asked.

"Coincidence," Pitt replied. "I was coming to see you and happened to be passing by the Capital steps when I noticed you entering this car. As I drove alongside, I spotted Congressman Daggat in the back."

The chauffeur had lowered the window behind him and was holding a small revolver inches from the back of Pitt's head. Daggat relaxed noticeably. He felt in control again.

"Perhaps it's time we met, Mr. Pitt." He made a slight wave of his hand. The chauffeur nodded and lowered the gun.

"My very thoughts," said Pitt, smiling. "In fact, it saves me a trip to your office."

"You wanted to see me?"

"Yes, I've decided to order some reprints." Pitt produced a small stack of photographs and fa

Loren knotted one hand against her mouth. "You know about those awful pictures? I tried to keep you out of it."

"Let me see," Pitt said., as if Loren hadn't spoken. He began dropping the photographs in Daggat's lap one by one. "I'll take a dozen of these, and five of those — "

"I do not appreciate your pathetic attempt at humor," Daggat said, interrupting him.

Pitt gave him an i

"What's your game, Mr. Pitt?" asked Felicia.

"Game?" Pitt looked amused. "There is no game."

"He can politically ruin your father and me, 53 said Loren. "As long as he holds the negatives of the photographs, he can call the shots."

"Come now," Pitt said, smiling at her. "Congressman Daggat is about to retire from the blackmail profession. He has no talent for it anyway. He wouldn't last ten minutes against a tried and true professional."

"Like yourself?" said Daggat menacingly.

"No, like my father. I believe you know of him. Senator George Pitt. When I explained your little operation, he jokingly asked for a set of photos as a memento. You see, he's never seen his fair-haired boy in action before."

"You're insane," Felicia hissed.

" You told your father?" Daggat murmured. He looked slightly dazed. "I don't believe you."

"The moment of truth." Pitt said, the smile still tugging the corners of his mouth. "Does the name Sam Jackson ring a bell with you?"

Daggat sucked in his breath. "He talked.

The bastard talked."

"Sang like a superstar. Hates your guts, by the way. Sam can't wait to testify against you at the House Ethics Committee hearing."

A trace of fear edged Daggat's voice. "You wouldn't dare expose those pictures to an investigation."

"What in hell have I got to lose?" Pitt said. "My father is getting ready to retire next year anyway. Take my case: once those photos are distributed, I'll probably have to beat half the secretaries in town off with a club."

"You egotistical pig," Felicia said. "You don't care about what happens to Loren."

"I care," Pitt said softly. "Being a woman, she'll suffer embarrassment, but that will be a small price to pay so our friend Daggat here can spend a few years making license plates in the slammer. When he gets paroled, he'll need a new vocation, since his party will want no part of him."

Daggat flushed and leaned threateningly toward Pitt. "Bullshit!" he raged.

Pitt fixed Daggat with a stare that would have frozen a shark. "Congress frowns on scum who pull gutter tactics to pass legislation. There was a time not too many years ago when your scheme might have worked, Congressman, but these days there are enough honest people on Capitol Hill who would boot your ass from the city limits if they got wind of this."

Daggat relaxed. He was beaten and he knew it. "What do you want me to do?"

"Destroy the negatives."

"That's all?"

Pitt nodded.

Daggat's face took on a leery expression. "No pound of flesh., Mr. Pitt?"

"We don't all swim in the same sewer, Congressman. I think Loren will agree it's best for all concerned to drop the whole affair." Pitt opened the door and helped Loren out. "Oh, one more thing: I have Sam Jackson's sworn statement of your dealings with him. I trust it will not be necessary to blow the whistle on further shakedowns by you and your girl friend. If I find you've crossed me, I'll come down hard on you, mister. That's a promise."

Pitt slammed the door and leaned in the chauffeur's window. "Okay. pal, move it."

The two of them stood and watched the limousine until it disappeared in the traffic. Then Loren stood on tiptoe and kissed Pitt's prickly cheek.

"What's that for?" he asked, gri

"A reward for bailing me out of a nasty situation."

"Pitt to the rescue. I always was a pushover for congresswomen in distress." He kissed her on the lips, ignoring the curious stares of passersby. "And that's your reward for playing noble."

"Playing noble?"

"You should have told me about the photographs. I could have saved you many a sleepless night."

"I thought I could handle it," she said, avoiding his eyes. "Women should be able to stand alone."

He put his arm around her and led her to his car. "There are times when even a dedicated feminist needs a chauvinist to lean on."

As Loren slid into the passenger seat, Pitt noticed a small slip of paper under one of his windshield wipers. At first he thought it was only an advertising flyer and was about to throw it away, but curiosity won out and he glanced at it. The message was written in a precise hand.

DEAR MR. PITT,

I would be most grateful if you would call this number (555–597 1) at your earliest convenience.

Thank you. DALE Jarvis

Instinctively Pitt looked up and down the crowded sidewalk, trying vainly to make the mysterious messenger. It was a hopeless chore. There were nearly eighty people within a hundred-yard radius; any one might have slipped the paper onto his car while he was confronting Daggat.

"Do you know a Dale Jarvis?" he asked Loren.

She thought a moment. "Can't say the name is familiar. Why?"

"It appears," Pitt said pensively, "that he left me a love note."

49

The chilly winter air seeped through the seams of the truck bed and stabbed Lusana's skin. He was lying on his stomach, his hands and legs tightly bound to his sides. The metal ribs of the floor jarred his head with every bump the stiffly sprung truck took from the road. Lusana's senses were hardly functioning. The hood over his head closed out all light and left him disoriented, and the loss of circulation had turned his body numb.

His last memory was of the smiling face of the flight captain in the first-class hospitality bar at the airport. The few lucid thoughts he had had since then ended on the same image.

"I'm Captain Mutaapo," the tall, slender pilot had said.

He was a balding middle-aged black man. but his smile made his face youthful. He wore the dark-green uniform of BEZA-Mozambique Airlines, with an abundance of gold braid entwining the lower sleeves. "A representative from my government has requested me to ensure a safe and secure flight for you, Mr. Lusana." "Precautions were necessary for entering the United States," Lusana had said, "but I seriously doubt I am in any danger on a departing flight surrounded by American tourists."