"If only you hadn't interfered in our affairs."
"I didn't come here to debate Middle eastern policy, Hala. I came to ask your help."
She shook her head and turned away. "I'm sorry. I can't go on record with a lie."
Schiller looked at her with compassion in his eyes. He didn't push her, but thought it better to back off.
"I'll tell the President of your response," he said, picking up his attache case and making for the doorway. "He'll be most disappointed."
"Wait!"
He turned expectantly.
Hala rose and came to him. "Prove to me that your people have a positive lead to the location of the Library artifacts and not a foggy clue, and I'll do as the White House wishes."
"You'll make the announcement?"
"Yes.
"Four days until your address is not much time."
"Those are my terms," Hala said bluntly. Schiller nodded gravely
"Accepted."
Then he turned and walked out the door.
Muhammad Ismail watched Schiller's limousine come off the private road leading to Senator Pitts lodge and Turn onto Highway 9 toward the ski town of Breckenridge. He did not see who was seated in the rear seat, and he did not care.
The sight of the official car, men patrolling the grounds who spoke into radio transmitters at regular intervals, and the two armed guards inside a Dodge van at the road's enumce were all he needed to confirm the information purchased by Yazid's agents in Washington.
Ismail leaned casually against a large Mercedes-Benz diesel sedan, shielding a man sitting inside peeling out an open window through a pair of binoculars. A rack on the roof held several sets of skis. lsmail was dressed in a white ski suit. A matching ski mask hid his perpetually scowling face.
"Seen enough?" he asked while seemingly adjusting the ski rack.
"Another minute," answered the observer. He was staring at the lodge, which was partially visible through the trees. All that could be seen around the binoculars was a heavy black beard and a mass of uncombed hair.
"Make it quick. I'm freezing out here just standing around."
"Bear with me another minute."
"How does it look?" asked Ismail.
"No more than a five-man detail. Three in the house. Two in the van.
Only one man patrols around the grounds at a time, not a second more than thirty minutes. They don't dally. The cold gets to them too. They walk the same trail through the snow. No sign of TV cameras, but they probably have one mounted in the van that is monitored inside the house."
"We'll move in two groups," said Ismail. "One takes the house, the other kills the guard patrolling outside and destroys the van from the road, where they least expect an attack."
The observer dropped the glasses. "Do you plan to move in tonight, Muhammad?"
"No," answered ismail. "Tomorrow, when the American pigs are stuffing their mouths with their morning meal."
"A daylight raid will be dangerous."
"We will not sneak around in the dark like women."
"But our only escape route to the airport is through the center of town," the observer protested. "The streets will be crowded with traffic and hundreds of skiers. Suleiman Ammar would not risk such an adventure."
lsmail suddenly spun and slapped the observer with his gloved hand. "I am in charge here!" he snapped. "Suleiman is an overrated jackal. Do not speak his name in my presence."
The observer did not cower. His dark eyes flashed with hostility. "You'll kill us all," he said quietly.
"So be it," Ismail hissed, his voice as cold as the snow. "If we die so Hala Kamil can die, the price will be cheap."
"Magnificent," said Pitt.
"Gorgeous, simply gorgeous," Lily murmured.
Giordino nodded in agreement. "A real winner."
They were standing in an antique and classic automobile restoration shop, and their admiring stares were directed toward a 1930 L-29 Cord town car, a model with an open front for the chauffeur. The body was painted burgundy while the fenders were a buff that was matched by the leather-covered roof over the passenger's compartment. Elegantly styled, long and graceful, the car had front-wheel drive that helped to give it a low silhouette. The original coachmaker had stretched the chassis until it measured nearly five-and-a-half meters from front to rear bumper. Almost half the length was hood, beginning with a race-car-type grill and ending with a sharply raked windshield.
It was big and sleek, a thing of beauty that belonged to an era fondly revered by older generations but unknown to those who followed.
The man who had found Pitts car stored in an old garage, hidden under forty years of trash, and had restored it from a mangled hulk, was proud of his handiwork. Robert Esbenson, a tall man with a pixie face and limpid blue eyes, gave the hood a final, loving wipe with a dust cloth and turned the car over to Pitt.
"I hate to see this one go."
"You've done a remarkable job," said Pitt.
"Are you going to ship it home?"
"Not just yet. I'd like to drive it for a few days."
Esbenson nodded. "Okay, let me adjust the carburetor and distributor for our high altitude. Then, when you return to the shop, I'll have it detailed and arrange for an auto transporter to ship it to Washington."
"Can I ride in it?" Lily asked anxiously.
"All the way to Breckenridge," Pitt replied. He turned to Giordino.
"Coming with us, Al?"
"Why not? We can leave the rental car outside in the parking lot."
They switched the luggage, and ten minutes later Pitt turned the Cord onto Interstate 70 and aimed the long hood toward the foothills leading into the snow-peaked Rocky Mountains.
Lily and Al sat warmly in the luxurious passenger compartment separated from Pitt by the divider window. Pitt did not pull out the transformable top that protected the chauffeur's seat, but sat in the open bundled up in a heavy sheepskin coat, savoring the cold air on his face.
for the moment his mind was on his driving, scanning the instruments to make sure the sixty-year-old car was performing as it was designed to do. He held to the right lane, allowing most of the traffic to pass and gawk.
Pitt felt exhilarated and content behind the wheel, listening to the smooth purr of the eight-cylinder engine and the mellow tone of the exhaust. It was as though he had control over a living thing.
if he had had any inkling of the mess he was driving into, he would have turned around and headed straight back to Denver.
Darkness had fallen over the Continental Divide when the Cord rolled into the legendary Colorado mining town turned ski resort. Pitt drove up the main street, whose old buildings retained their historic western flavor. The sidewalks were crowded with people coming from the slopes, carrying their skis and poles over one shoulder.
Pitt parked near the entrance of the Hotel Breckenridge. He signed the register and took two phone messages from the desk clerk. He read both slips of paper and slipped them into a pocket.
"from Dr. Rothberg?" asked Lily.
"Yes, he's invited us for dinner at his condo. It's just across the street from the hotel."
"What time?" Giordino queried.
"Seven-thirty."
Lily glanced at her watch. "Only forty minutes to shower and do my hair. I'd better get with it."
Pitt gave her the room key. "You're in two twenty-one. Al and I have rooms adjoining yours on each side."
As soon as Lily disappeared with the porter into an elevator, Pitt motioned Giordino into the cocktail lounge. He waited until the barmaid took their drink order before passing the second message across the table.
Giordino read it aloud softly. " 'Your library project takes top priority. Most urgent you find a permanent address for Alex in the next four days. Luck, Dad."
" He looked up, utterly confused. "Do I read this right? We have only four days to identify the location?"
Pitt nodded positively. "I read panic between the lines and smell something rumbling in Washington power circles."
"They might as well ask us to invent a common cure for herpes, AIDS and acne," Giordino grumbled. "We can kiss off our skiing trip."