"Not so ridiculous," the Senator said in an even voice, when you consider that the instant you open the front door, you'll be shot."
"You sure you want to get out here, buddy?" the cabdriver inquired as he stopped beside what looked like an abandoned hangar on one corner of Washington's International Airport.
"This is the place," replied Pitt.
The driver glanced warily around at the deserted unlit area. This had all the earmarks of a mugging, he thought. He reached under the front seat for a length of pipe he hid for such an occasion. He kept an apprehensive eye on the rearview mirror as Pitt pulled a wallet from his inside coat pocket. The driver relaxed slightly. His fare wasn't acting like a mugger.
"What do I owe you?"
"I got eight-sixty on the meter," the driver replied.
Pitt paid the fare plus tip and exited the cab, waiting for the driver to open the trunk and remove the luggage.
"Hell of a place for a drop," the driver muttered.
"Someone is meeting me."
Pitt stood and watched the cab's taillights dim in the distance before he turned off the hangar's alarm system with a pocket transmitter and entered through a side door. He pressed a code on the transmitter and the interior became bathed in bright fluorescent light.
The hangar was Pitts home. The main floor was lined with a glittering collection of classic and restored automobiles. There were also an old Pullman railroad car and a Ford tri motor airplane. The most bizarre oddity was a cast-iron bathtub with an outboard motor attached to it.
He walked toward his living quarters, which stretched across an upper level against the far wall. Reached by an ornate iron spiral staircase, the door at the top opened onto a living room flanked by a large bedroom and a study on one side and a dining area and kitchen on the other.
He unpacked and entered a shower stall, turning up the hot water and aiming the nozzle against a tiled wall. He lay on his back with his feet stretched upward just below the faucets so he could control the spray temperature with his toes. Then he promptly dozed off.
Forty-five minutes later, Pitt slipped on a robe and turned on the TV
set. He was about to reheat a pot of Texas chili when the buzzer on the intercom sounded. He pressed the door speaker button, half-expecting Al Giordino to answer.
"Yes?"
"Greenland catering," a feminine voice answered.
He laughed and pressed a switch that unlocked the side door. He stepped onto the balcony and stared down.
Lily walked in carrying a large picnic basket. She stopped and gazed in astonishment for several moments, her eyes dazzled by the light reflecting off the sea of chrome and highly polished lacquer paint.
"Admiral Sandecker tried to describe your place to me," she said admiringly, "but he didn't do it justice."
Pitt came down the stairs to meet her. He took the picnic basket and nearly dropped it. "This thing weighs a ton. What's in it?"
"Our late dinner. I stopped off at a delicatessen and picked up a few goodies."
"Smells like a tasty menu."
"We begin with smoked salmon followed by wild mushroom soup, spinach salad with pheasant and walnuts, linguine in oyster sauce and white wine, all washed down with a bottle of Principessa Gavi. for dessert we have coffee chocolate trifle. "
Pitt looked down at Lily and smiled in genuine admiration. Her face was alive and her eyes sparkling. There was a vibrancy he had not noticed before. Her hair was brushed long and straight. She wore a tight-fitting tank dress with a revealing back and black sequins that flashed as she walked. Free of the heavy coat she had worn since Greenland, her breasts loomed larger and her hips more slender than he had pictured them in his imagination. Her legs were long and angled provocatively, and she moved with a sensual vivacity.
After they entered his living room, Pitt dropped the food basket in a chair and reached out and took her hand. "We can eat later," he said softly.
In automatic shyness she dropped her gaze downward, then slowly, as if drawn by an irresistible force, her eyes slowly rose to meet his. Pitts green eyes were so piercing that her legs grew weak and her hands trembled. She began to flush.
This was stupid, Lily thought. She had carried the seduction, down to the right wine, the dress and the alluring black lace bra and panties beneath. And now she was swept by confusion and doubt. She didn't dream things would move so quickly.
Without a word Pitt peeled the straps from Lily's shoulders, allowing the sequined dress to fall in a pool of shimmering light around her high heels. He slipped his hands around her bare waist and under her knees, lifting her body in one flowing motion.
As he carried her into the bedroom she buried her face against his chest. "I feel like a brazen harlot," she whispered.
Pitt tenderly laid her on the bed and looked down. The sight of her body made the fire burn within him.
"Better," he said in a husky voice, "that you act like one."
Yazid entered the dining hall of his villa. He paused and gave a brief nod at the long table covered with plates, serving dishes, eating utensils and goblets, all cast in bronze.
"I trust my friends enjoyed their dinner."
Mohammed alHakim, a scholarly mullah who was Yazid's shadow, pushed back his chair and stood. "Excellent as always, Akhmad. But we missed your enlightened presence."
"Allah does not reveal his wishes to me when my stomach is full," Yazid said with a faint smile. He looked around the room at the five men who had risen to their feet and were acknowledging his authority with varied degrees of respect.
No two were dressed alike. Colonel Naguib Bashir, leader of a clandestine organization of pro-Yazid officers, had worn a loose flowing djellaba with long sleeves and hood to conceal his identity since leaving Cairo. A turban sat like a grotesque lump on the head of alHakim, and his frail body was covered from shoulders to feet in a drab robe of black cotton worn smooth. Mussa Moheidin, a journalist who was Yazid's chief propagandist, was dressed casually in slacks and a sports shirt open at the neck, while the young Turk of the group, Khaled Fawzy, the ramrod of the revolutionary council, wore battle fatigues.
Only Suleiman Ammar was impeccably dressed in a Wlored safari suit.
"You must all be wondering why I called this emergency meeting," Yazid announced, so I won't waste time. Allah has provided me with a plan to rid ourselves of President Hasan and his den of corrupt thieves in one master stroke. Now please be seated and finish your coffee."
He walked over to one wall and pushed a switch. A large colored map slowly dropped toward the floor. Amniar recognized it as a standard Egyptian school map of South America, A blowup of the coastal city of Punta del Este, Uruguay, was circled in red. Taped to the lower half of the map was an enlarged photo of a luxury cruise ship.
The men around the table sat down again, their faces expressionless.
Their interest was hooked. They waited patiently to hear the revelation Allah had bestowed on their religious leader.
Only Ammar veiled his skepticism. He was too much the realist to believe in pious concoctions.
"In six days," Yazid began, "the international economic summit meetings, brought on by the world monetary crisis, will be held in the resort city of Punta del Este, former scene of the Inter-American Economic and Social Council conference which proclaimed the Alliance for Progress.