Pitt’s left leg ached from the bullet wound, while his right shin was still tender from his boat collision in Chile. He paused and sucked in a deep breath of the night air, cool and crisp from a recent rain shower. Hoisting his duffel bag over his shoulder, he ambled across the tarmac, his tight limbs slowly loosening as he moved.
The whine of engines sounded from across the tarmac as he made his way past a row of private jet hangars toward a little-used section of the airport. He crossed an empty field and approached a lone hangar that looked as if it hadn’t been occupied in fifty years. High weeds surrounded the structure, which was coated in equal parts of rust and dust. A bank of windows beneath the roof’s eaves showed a continuous web of cracks, with shards of glass scattered on the ground near a battered trash can. Only an expert eye examining the building up close could discern that the derelict appearance was in fact a façade designed to deter attention.
Pitt stepped to a side door illuminated by a dim yellow bulb and reached for an industrial-grade light switch. The switch assembly flipped open on a hinge, revealing a concealed keypad. Pitt entered a code that deactivated the alarm system and opened the door’s lock.
He stepped inside, turned on the lights—and was greeted by a fleet of gleaming antique cars parked in rows across the hangar floor, their polished chrome glistening under the overhead illumination. The culmination of a lifelong passion for the fast and the beautiful in automotive design, he had assembled an eclectic collection that spanned the dawn of the twentieth century through the 1950s. The museum-like appearance was augmented by a Ford Trimotor aircraft parked to one side near a beautifully restored Pullman railroad car that his adult kids occasionally used as a temporary apartment.
Pitt drifted across the hangar, patting the fender of a 1930 Packard Speedster 8 Runabout that was parked next to a workbench, the right side of its hood raised. He reached a cast-iron circular staircase and climbed to his second-floor living quarters, which he shared with Loren.
Dropping his duffel on a chair, he pulled a Shiner Bock beer from the refrigerator, then read a note taped to the freezer door.
Dirk,
I’m staying at my Georgetown condo until you get back. Too many automotive ghosts around here! Extended committee hearings will probably keep me on the Hill working late. Missed you.
XXXX,
Loren
Pitt downed the beer and returned to the hangar floor. Something was gnawing at him about the Heiland case, something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. Replaying the recent events had failed to spark a clue, so he slipped on a worn mechanic’s jumpsuit and made his way over to the old Packard. With a careful devotion, he began disassembling its updraft carburetor. By the time he had the mechanism overhauled an hour or so later, he knew exactly what was troubling him.
27
I GUESS IT WAS A GOOD CALL, ENLISTING PITT ON THE case,” Fowler said as he drove away from the airport.
“He’s quite a resourceful man.” Ann stared out the window and considered her impressions of Pitt. “He saved my life twice.”
“He evidently has quite a track record for averting disaster,” Fowler said. “I’m sure he can be trusted, but, just for the record, did he become aware of Heiland’s work and its capabilities?”
“He has the basic idea, but he didn’t press for more. He seemed primarily concerned about the safety of his ship and crew.” Ann reached down and rubbed her ankle. “We really should have told him all the facts in the beginning.”
“Couldn’t be helped. Tom Cerny was firm that discussion of the technology was off-limits. I think we were all surprised by the tenacity of those chasing after it.”
Fowler cleared the gates of the airport and stopped at a red light. “You live in Alexandria, right?”
“Yes, I’m near Old Town, right off King Street. Just take the Jefferson Davis Highway into town.”
Fowler nodded and turned south.
“Any updates from the FBI while we were in the air?” Ann asked.
“Nothing yet. It will probably be several days before we learn anything from the Mexican agencies. And you probably know more than me about the two guys in black from Idaho.”
“They were Latin in appearance. If they are in fact connected to the men in Tijuana, I suspect they may be operatives from Central or South America.”
“Venezuelan rogues?”
“Possibly. There is certainly no shortage of world powers that would like to use that technology. China or Russia probably head the list. Maybe they’ve got a surrogate working for them.”
“Don’t forget the Iranians.” Fowler gunned the car to clear a yellow light. He turned onto King Street, a main drag that bisected Alexandria.
“The attackers were pretty brazen,” Ann said, “and well informed.”
“Yes, it sounds like they were fearless.”
“You thinking what I’m thinking?” Ann asked.
“What’s that?” Fowler said, turning down a side street.
“Inside help. There must be a security leak, possibly at a high level.”
“Possibly, but you know how much classified information winds up in the press. It may not have been that difficult for someone to figure out that Heiland was working on something important. Since he wasn’t working in a secure environment, he made an easy target.”
“You may be right.” Ann pointed down the street. “I’m up ahead on the right, just past the big oak.”
Fowler spotted an empty space at the curb and pulled in behind a car that was idling with its lights off. Ann recognized it as a Chrysler 300 sedan.
“Why don’t you take the day off tomorrow?” Fowler said. “You’ve been through the wringer the last forty-eight hours. You could probably use some rest.”
“Thanks, but I’d go crazy just sitting around. I need to find out who these people are.”
Fowler turned off the car’s engine, and Ann climbed out. As she turned to retrieve her crutches, she was grabbed from behind. She just caught a glimpse of her assailant, a tall black male, who wrapped his hands around her and hurled her onto a small patch of lawn. The heavy man was on her instantly, jamming his knee into the small of her back while mashing her face into the grass with a plate-sized hand. She struggled to break free, then relented when she felt a gun barrel press against her temple.
“Don’t even breathe,” the big man said.
She heard Fowler cry out, followed by the dull thumping of a body being pummeled. A few seconds later, car keys jingled, and the Ford’s trunk was popped open. From the corner of her eye, Ann saw a second man carry something to the backseat of the Chrysler, then jump into the driver’s seat. The thug on her back leaned down and whispered into her face with foul breath. “Now, you lay nice and still for five minutes or else old Clarence will have to come back and hurt you.”
He eased himself off her, loped over to the Chrysler, and climbed casually into the passenger seat. The car shot forward with a chirp of its rear tires and sped down the street. Ann looked up to scan the car’s rear license plate, but it had been temporarily covered with a few strips of duct tape. Pros, she thought. They’d rip the tape off a block away, then meld into traffic, driving safely under the speed limit.
Ann jumped up and limped to the far side of the Taurus, where she found Fowler lying facedown next to the front wheel.
“Dan,” she cried, kneeling beside him.
He pried his eyes open and eased himself to a sitting position.
“I’m okay.” He rubbed his jaw. “Never saw that coming.” His eyes gradually focused on Ann. “Are you hurt?”