Night Probe!

"Mr. Shaw had a bit of a tumble."

"You Macklin?" asked Shaw, getting his breath back. A set of teeth gleamed brightly.

"Can't you tell?"

"Under that minstrel makeup you all look alike to me."

"Sorry about that."

"Have you accounted for your men?"

"All fourteen of us, sound and fit. Which is quite something for a jump in the dark."

"I'll need you to look for a portal into the hill. Some sign of excavation or depression in the earth. Begin at the base of the hill and work toward the summit on the north side."

Macklin turned to Bentley. "Sergeant, gather the men and have them form a search line ten feet apart."

"Yes, sir." Bentley took four steps and was swallowed up in the thicket.

"I was wondering," Macklin said idly.

"What?" asked Shaw.

"The Americans. How will they react when they find an armed force of Royal Marine paratroopers entrenched in upstate New York?"

"Hard to say. The Americans have a good sense of humor."

"They won't be laughing if we have to shoot a few of them."

"When was the last time?" Shaw muttered in thought.

"You mean since British men-at-arms invaded the United States?"

"Something like that."

"I believe it was in eighteen hundred and fourteen when Sir Edward Parkenham attacked New Orleans."

"We lost that one."

"The Yanks were angry because we burned Washington."

Suddenly they both tensed. They heard the roaring protest of a car engine as it was shifted into a lower gear. Then a pair of headlights turned off the nearby road onto the abandoned rail spur. Shaw and Macklin automatically dropped to a crouch and peered through the grass that grew on the lip of the ravine.

They watched the car bump over the uneven ground and come to a stop where the track bed disappeared under the slope of the hill. The engine went quiet and a man got out and walked in front of the headlights.

Shaw wondered what he would do when he met up with Pitt again. Should he kill the man? A hushed command to Macklin, even a hand signal, and Pitt would go down under a dozen knife thrusts from men who were trained in the art of silent murder.

Pitt stood for a long minute, staring up at the hill as if challenging it. He picked up a rock and threw it into the darkness of the slope. Then he turned and climbed back behind the steering wheel. The engine came to life and the car made a U-turn. Only when the taillights became dim red specks did Shaw and Macklin stand up.

"I thought for a moment that you were going to order me to snuff the beggar," said Macklin.

"The thought crossed my mind," reed Shaw. "No sense in prodding a hornet's nest. Things should get warm enough come daylight. "Who do you suppose he was?"

"That," said Shaw slowly, "was the enemy."

It was good to capture a moment of togetherness. Danielle looked radiant in a bareback dinner dress of green shadow-print silk chiffon. Her hair was center-parted and swept back with a comb of gilded flowers decorating one side. A gold spiral choker adorned her throat. The candlelight glinted in her eyes when she glanced across the table.

As the maid cleared the dishes, Sarveux leaned over and kissed her softly on one hand.

"Must you go?"

"I'm afraid so," she said, pouring him a brandy. "My new fall wardrobe is ready at Vivonnes, and I made an early appointment for tomorrow morning to have my final fittings."

"Why must you always fly to Quebec? Why can't you find a dressmaker in Ottawa?" Danielle gave a little laugh and stroked his hair.

"Because I prefer the fashion designers in Quebec to the dressmakers of Ottawa."

"We never seem to have a moment alone."

"You're always busy running the country."

"I can't argue the point. However, when I do make time for you, you're always committed elsewhere."

"I'm the wife of the Prime Minister," she smiled. "I can't close my eyes and turn my back on the duties expected of me."

"Don't go," he said tonelessly.

"Surely you want me to look nice for our social engagements," she pouted.

"Where will you be staying?"

"Where I always stay when I spend the night in Quebec City at Nanci Soult's townhouse."

"I'd feel better if you returned home in the evening."

"Nothing will happen, Charles." She bent down and kissed him lukewarmly on the cheek. "I'll be back tomorrow afternoon. We'll talk then."

"I love you, Danielle," he said quietly. "My dearest wish is to grow old with you by my side. I want you to know that." Her only reply was the sound of a door shutting.

The townhouse was in Nanci Soult's name, a fact that was unknown to Nanci herself.

A best- selling novelist and a native Canadian, she lived in Ireland to beat the staggering taxes brought on by inflation. Her visits to family and friends in Vancouver were infrequent, and she had not set foot in Quebec in over twenty years.

The routine never varied.

As soon as the official car dropped Danielle at the townhouse and a Mountie was stationed outside the entrance gate, she went from room to room slamming doors, flushing the toilet and setting the FM radio dial on a station that broadcast soothing music.

When her presence was secure, she walked into a closet and parted the clothes, revealing a door that led into a seldom used stairwell in the adjoining building.

She hurried down the steps to a single-car, interior garage that opened on a back alley. Henri Villon waited punctually in his Mercedes-Benz. He reached over and embraced her as she leaned across the front seat.

Danielle relaxed for the automatic response of his kiss. But the show of affection was fleeting. He pushed her back and his expression turned businesslike.

"I hope this is important," he said. "It's becoming more difficult to break away."

"Can this be the same man who recklessly made love to me in the Prime Minister's mansion?"

"I wasn't about to be elected President of Quebec then."

She withdrew to her side of the car and sighed. She could sense that the excitement and passion of their clandestine meetings was fading. There was no illusion to be shattered. She had never kidded herself into believing their special relationship could go on forever. All that was left now was to bury the hurt and remain cordial, if not intimate friends. "Shall we go somewhere?" he saidlbreaking her reverie. "No, just drive around."

He pressed the button to the electric garage door opener and backed into the alley. The traffic was light as he drove down to the riverfront and joined a short line of cars waiting to board the ferry to the east shore.

Nothing more was said between them until Villon steered the Mercedes up the ramp and parked near the bow, where they had a view of the lights dancing on the St. Lawrence. "We have a crisis on our hands," she said finally. "Does it concern you and me or Quebec?"

"All three." "You sound grim."

"I mean to be," she paused. "Charles is going to resign as Prime Minister of Canada and run for President of Quebec."

He turned and stared at her. "Repeat that."

"My husband is going to announce his candidacy for President of Quebec."

Villon shook his head in exasperation. "I can't believe he'd do it. That's the dumbest thing I've ever heard. Why? There's no rhyme or reason for such a stupid decision."

"I think it stems from anger."

"He hates me that much?"

She lowered her eyes. "I think he suspects something between us. Perhaps even knows. He may be out for revenge."

"Not Charles. He's not given to childish reactions."

"I was always so careful. He must have had me followed. How else could he have caught on?"

Villon tilted his head back and laughed. "Because I as good as told him."

"You didn't!" she gasped.

"To hell with that fastidious little toad. Let him stew in righteous self-pity for all I care. There's no way the sniffling bastard can win the election. Charles Sarveux has few friends in the Parti quebecois. The mainstream of support belongs to me."

The ferry dock was only a hundred meters away when a man got out of the fifth car behind Villon's Mercedes sedan and joined the passengers returning to the parking deck after lining the railings to enjoy the view.

Through the rear window he could see two profiles in conversation, muffled voices seeping from the rolled-up windows.

Casually he moved alongside the Mercedes, pulled open the rear door as if he owned the car, and slipped into the back seat.

"Madame Sarveux, Monsieur Villon, good evening."

Confusion swept Danielle's and Villon's faces, replaced with disbelieving shock, then fear when they saw the.44 magnum revolver held in a rocklike hand, slowly wavering from one head to the other and back again.

Villon had genuine reason for his astonishment.

He felt as though he was staring in a mirror.

The man in the rear seat was his exact double, a twin, a clone. He could see every detail of the face from the spotlights on the landing dock that shone through the windshield.

Danielle let out a low moan that would have worked its way into a hysterical scream if the gun barrel hadn't whipped across her cheek.

The blood sprang from the gash in her otherwise flawless skin and she sucked in her breath at the instant agony.

"I have no qualms about striking a woman, so please spare yourself any senseless resistance." The voice was a precise imitation of Villon's.

"Who are you?" Villon demanded. "What do you want?"

"I'm flattered -the original cannot tell the fake." The voice took on a new inflection, one that Villon recognized in a horror stricken flash. "I'm Foss Gly, and I intend to kill you both."

A light drizzle began to fall and Villon turned on the windshield wipers. The gun muzzle was pressed into the nape of his neck, the pressure never easing since they left the ferryboat.

Danielle sat beside him, holding a blood-soaked handkerchief to her face. Every few minutes she made little strange noises in her throat. She looked like a woman lost in a nightmare, a woman numbed by terror.

All questions and pleas had been met by icy silence. Gly opened his mouth only to issue driving directions. They were rolling through a rural area now, marked by the lights of an occasional farmhouse. Villon had no recourse but to do as he was told. He could only hope and wait for an opportunity to act, to somehow gain the attention of a passing motorist, or with luck, a cruising policeman.

"Slow down," Gly ordered. "A dirt road is coming up on your left. Take it."

With a sinking dread, Villon turned off the highway. The road had been recently graded, and it appeared well traveled by heavy construction equipment.

"I thought you were dead," Villon said, trying for a response. Gly did not answer.

"That British intelligence agent Brian Shaw said you crashed a stolen boat into the side of a Japanese cargo ship."

"Did he tell you my body was never found?" At last he had Gly in a talking mood. That was a start.

"Yes, there was an explosion…..."

"Tied down the helm, set the throttles to FULL and jumped clear five miles before the collision. With all the traffic on the St. Lawrence, I figured it was only a question of time before the boat struck another vessel."

"Why are you made up to look like me?"

"Isn't it obvious? After you're dead, I'm going to take your place. I, and not you, will be the new President of Quebec."

Five seconds passed before the staggering disclosure penetrated Villon's mind. "In God's name, that's madness!"

"Madness? Not really. Smart brains, I'd call it."

"You'll never get away with such a crazy scheme."

"Ah, but I already have." Gly's tone was calm, conversational. "How do you think I walked through Jules Guerrier's front door, past his bodyguard up to his room and murdered him? I've sat at your desk, met most of your friends, discussed political differences with Charles Sarveux, made an appearance on the floor of the House of Commons. Why, hell, I've even slept with your wife and with your mistress up there on the front seat.

Villon was dazed. "Not true…... not true…... not my wife."

"Yes, Henri, it's all true. I can even describe her anatomy, beginning with…..."

"No!" Villon cried. He slammed on the brakes and snapped the steering wheel to the right.

The fates turned their backs on Villon. The tires failed to grip the damp earth, and the violent reaction he expected, he hoped for, never happened. There was no savage body-snapping motion from centrifugal force. Instead, the car slid slowly around in lazy circles.

Keeping his balance, his aim only slightly diverted, Gly pulled the trigger.

The.44 magnum shell shattered Villon's collarbone and passed through the windshield.

A scream poured from Danielle's mouth, and then died away into terror-choked sobbing.

The car gradually came to a gentle stop in the wet grass beside the road. Villon's hands jerked from the steering wheel. He threw his head against the backrest of the seat, tightly gripped the gaping wound and clenched his teeth in pain.

Gly stepped outside and pulled open the driver's door. He roughly shoved Villon toward Danielle and climbed in.

"I'll take it from here," he snarled. He crammed the gun barrel into Villon's side under the armpit. "Don't get cute again."

To Danielle it looked as if half of Villon's upper shoulder had been blown away. She turned and vomited on the door panel.

Gly made a U-turn and returned to the road. In half a mile a huge yellow-painted earthmover appeared in the headlights. Beside it was an excavated ditch ten feet deep and fifteen feet across. A high mound of earth was piled up along the opposite side. As Gly drove along the edge, Danielle could make out a large concrete pipe that stretched along the bottom of the ditch.

They passed a silent row of trucks and earth moving equipment. The engineer's office, a battered old converted house trailer, sat dark and empty. The construction crew had gone home for the night.

Gly pulled up at a place where the new drainage line was being covered over. He braked, judging the angle of the incline down to the roof of the pipe. Then he gunned the engine and drove the Mercedes into the ditch.

The front bumper struck the circular concrete and sprayed sparks. The rear end slewed around until the car came to rest on its side, the headlights on a slight angle upward.

Gly took two pairs of handcuffs from his coat pocket. He clamped one to the steering column and Villon's left hand. He repeated the process on Danielle with the other set.

"What are you doing?" Danielle asked in a hoarse whisper.

He paused to stare at her. The raven hair was messed and the beautiful features were marred by the bloody tears. The eyes were those of a doe paralyzed with fright.

A hideous grin spread across his face. "I'm fixing it so you and your lover can spend eternity together."

"No reason to murder her," Villon groaned through the agony. "For God'ssake, let her go free."

"Sorry," said Gly callously. "She's part of the bargain."

"What bargain?"

There was no answer. Gly slammed the door and began climbing up the sloping embankment. He rapidly reached the top and disappeared into the darkness. A few minutes later they heard the sound of a heavy diesel engine knocking to life.

The engine began to strain as though it was working under a heavy load. The throaty roar of the exhaust drew closer and then a huge silver scoop crept out over the rim of the ditch. Suddenly it tilted downward and three-and-a-half cubic yards of dirt rained down around the roof of the Mercedes. Danielle let out a pitiful cry.

"Oh, Mary, mother of Jesus…... he's going to bury us alive oh, no, please no!"

Gly coldly ignored the pitiful plea and shifted the front-end loader into reverse, angling the bucket for the next bite of earth. He knew the position of every lever, their use and how to activate them. For two nights he had practiced, filling sections of the ditch so expertly that the dirt-moving crew had never noticed that an extra twenty feet of the open pipeline had been filled for them between work shifts.

Danielle fought frantically to break the chain on her handcuffs. The flesh around her wrists was quickly chafed into bloody shreds.

"Henri!" Her cry had become a gagging whimper now. "Don't let me die, not like this."

Villon did not seem to hear. The end would come sooner for him. He knew he was only a few seconds away from bleeding to death.

"Odd," he whispered. "Odd that the last man to die for Quebec liberty is me. Who would have ever thought." His voice faded away.

The car was almost completely covered. The only parts that still showed were a portion of the shattered windshield, the three-cornered star emblem on the hood and one headlight.

A figure moved to the edge of the embankment and stood in the light. It was not Foss Gly, but another man. He looked down: his face was frozen in deep sorrow, and tears glistened on his cheeks.

For a brief instant, Danielle stared at him in horror. Her color turned ghastly. She placed her free hand against the glass in a pleading gesture. Then slowly, her eyes mirrored an understanding look, and her mouth formed the words "Forgive me'.

The bucket was tipped again, the dirt fell and all sight of the car was blotted out.

At last the ditch was filled to ground level, and the exhaust of the front-end loader died into the night.

Only then did a saddened Charles Sarveux turn and walk away.

The airfield at Lac St. Joseph, deep in the hills northeast of Quebec City, was one of several belonging to the Royal Canadian Air Force that had been shut down because of budget cuts. Its two-mile runway was off limits to commercial aircraft, but was still used by the military for training and emergency landings.

Henri Villon's plane stood in front of a weathered metal hangar. A fuel truck was parked beside it and two men in raincoats were making a preflight check. Inside, in an office bare of furniture except for a rusting metal workbench, Charles Sarveux and Commissioner Finn stood in silence and watched the proceedings through a dirty window. The earlier drizzle had turned into a driving rain that leaked through the roof of the hangar in a dozen places.

Foss Gly was stretched out comfortably on a blanket. His hands were clasped behind his head and he was oblivious to the water that splashed beside him on the cement floor. There was an air of smugness about him, of complacency almost, as he gazed up at the metal-beamed ceiling. The Villon disguise was gone and he was himself again. Outside, the pilot jumped from the wing to the ground and dog-trotted to the hangar. He poked his head in the office door.

"Ready when you are," he announced.

Gly came to a sitting position. "What did you find?"

"Nothing. We inspected every system, every square inch, even the quality of the gas and oil. Nobody's tampered with it. It's clean."

"Okay, start up the engines."

The pilot nodded and ducked back into the rain.

"Well, gentlemen," said Gly, "I guess I'll be on my way."

Sarveux silently nodded to Commissioner Finn. The Mountie set two large suitcases on the workbench and opened them.

"Thirty million well-worn Canadian dollars," said Finn, his face deadpan.

Gly pulled a jeweler's eyepiece from his pocket and began studying a random sampling of bills. After nearly ten minutes he re pocketed the eyepiece and closed the suitcases.

"You weren't joking when you said 'well-worn.' Most of these bills are so wallet-battered you can hardly read the denominations."

As per your instructions," Finn said testily. "It was no simple matter scraping up that much used currency on such short notice. I think you'll find them all negotiable."

Gly walked over to Sarveux and held out his hand. "Nice doing business with you, Prime Minister."

Sarveux rebuffed Gly's gesture. "I'm only happy we caught onto your imposter scheme in time."

Gly shrugged and withdrew his empty hand. "Who's to say? I might have made a damned good President, better maybe than Villon."

"Pure luck on my part that you didn't," said Sarveux. "If Commissioner Finn hadn't known Henri's exact whereabouts when you brazenly walked into my office, you might never have been apprehended. As it is, my sad regret is that I can't have your neck stretched on the gallows."

"A good reason why I keep records for insurance," Gly said contemptuously. "A chronological journal of my actions on behalf of the Free Quebec Society, tape recordings of my conversations with Villon, videotapes of your wife in wild postures with your minister of internal affairs. The stuff major scandals are made of. I'd say that's a fair exchange for my life."

"When will I get them?" Sarveux demanded.

"I'll send you directions to their hiding place after I'm safely out of your reach."

"What assurances do I have? How can I trust you not to keep blackmailing me?" Gly grinned fiendishly. "None, none at all."

"You're filth," Sarveux hissed angrily. "The excretion of the earth.

"Are you any better?" Gly snapped back. "You stood mute in all your sanctity and watched while I wasted your political rival and your cheating wife. And then you had the gall to pay for the job with government funds. You stink even worse than I do, Sarveux. The best of the bargain was yours. So save your insults and sermons for the mirror."

Sarveux trembled, the rage seething inside him. "I think you better get out get out of Canada."

"Gladly."

Sarveux got a mental hold on himself. "Goodbye, Mr. Gly, perhaps we'll meet in hell."

"We already have," grunted Gly.

He snapped the suitcases shut, carried them outside and entered the airplane. As the pilot taxied to the end of the runway, he relaxed in the main cabin and poured himself a drink.

Not bad, he thought, thirty million bucks and a jet airplane. Nothing like making an exit in style.

The phone on the bar buzzed and he picked it up. It was the pilot.

"We're ready for takeoff. Would you care to give me flight instructions now?"

"Head due south for the United States. Stay low to avoid radar. A hundred miles over the border, come to cruising altitude and set a course for Montserrat."

"Never heard of it."

"One of the Leeward Islands in the Lesser Antilles, southeast of Puerto Rico. Wake me when we get there."

"Sweet dreams, boss."

Gly slumped in his seat, not bothering to fasten the safety belt. At that moment he felt immortal. He grinned to himself as he gazed through the cabin window at The two figures silhouetted against the lights of the hangar.

Sarveux was a fool, he thought. If he had been in the Prime Minister's shoes he would have hidden a bomb in the plane, rigged it to crash, or perhaps ordered the air force to shoot it down. The latter was still a possibility, though a slim one.

But there was no bomb and all the flight controls checked out from nose to tail. He had done it. He was home free.

As the aircraft picked up speed and disappeared into the rainy night, Sarveux turned to Finn.

"How will it happen?"

"The automatic pilot. Once it's engaged the plane will begin a very gradual climb. The altimeters have been set to register no higher than 11,000 feet. The pressurization system and the emergency oxygen will not come on. By the time the pilot realizes something is wrong, it will be too late."

"Can't he disengage the autopilot?"

Finn shook his head. "The circuitry has been reset. He could beat the unit with an ax, but it would do no good. It is impossible for him to regain control of the aircraft."

"So they lose consciousness from loss of oxygen."

"And eventually come down in the ocean when they run out of fuel."

"They could crash on land."

"A calculated gamble," Finn explained. "Figuring the plane's range on full fuel tanks, and assuming Gly intends to fly as far away as possible before landing, it's eight to one they hit water."

Sarveux looked pensive for a moment. "The press releases?" he asked. "Written and waiting to be handed to the wire services."

Commissioner Finn raised an umbrella and they began walking to the Prime Minister's limousine. Puddles were forming in the low spots of the taxi strip. One of Finn's men turned off the lights to the hangar and runway.

At the car Sarveux paused and looked up into the ebony sky as the last hum of the jet engines melted into the rain.

"Too bad Gly will never know how he was outsmarted. I think he would have appreciated that."

The next morning, the following story ran on the international wire services.

OTTAWA, 6110 (Special)- A plane carrying Danielle Sarveux and Henri Villon crashed in the Atlantic Ocean this morning 200 miles northeast of Cayenne, French Guiana.

The wife of Canada's Prime Minister and the presidential candidate for newly independent Quebec took off from Ottawa for a flight to Quebec City last night, and when they failed to make their scheduled landing the alert was given.

Villon was piloting his own plane and Madame Sarveux was the only passenger on board. All radio contact went unanswered.

Because Canadian air controllers did not immediately suspect the twin jet Albatross had flown into the United States, hours were lost on a fruitless search between Quebec and Ottawa. Not until an Air France Concorde reported an aircraft flying erratically south of Bermuda at 55,000 feet, 8000 feet above the maximum altitude for which Villon's Albatross was certified, did anyone begin to make a connection.

U.S. Navy jets were scrambled from the carrier Kitty Hawk near Cuba. Lieutenant Arthur Hancock was the first to spot the Albatross and reported seeing a man motionless at the controls. He followed until the plane went into a slow spiral dive and plunged into the ocean.

"We have no firm grasp on the cause," Ian Stone, a spokesman for Canadian Air Authority, said. "The only theory that makes any sort of sense is that Madame Sarveux and Mr. Villon became unconscious from lack of oxygen and that the plane, on autopilot, had flown itself over 3000 miles off course before running out of fuel and crashing." A search revealed no sign of wreckage.

Prime Minister Charles Sarveux remained in seclusion during the ordeal and had no comment.

An early morning mist quilted the Hudson Valley, cutting visibility to fifty yards. On the opposite side of the hill from the covered entrance of the quarry, Pitt had set up a command post in a motor home borrowed from a nearby fruit farmer. Ironically, neither he nor Shaw was aware of the other's exact location, although they were separated by only a mile of heavily forested hillside.

Pitt felt groggy from too much coffee and too little sleep. He longed for a healthy slug of brandy to clear the cobwebs, but he knew that would be a mistake. As inviting as it sounded, he was afraid it would cause a reverse reaction and slow his thinking, and that was the last thing he needed now.

He stood in the doorway of the motor home and watched Nicholas Riley and the diving team from the De Soto unload their gear while Glen Chase and Al Giordino hovered over a heavy iron grating that was embedded in a rock-walled side of the hill. There was a popping sound when they lit an acetylene torch, followed by a spray of sparks as the blue flame attacked the rusted bars.

"I won't guarantee that opening behind the grating is an escape shaft," said Jerry Lubin. "But I'd have to say it's a safe bet.

Lubin had arrived a few hours earlier from Washington and was accompanied by Admiral Sandecker. A mining consultant with the Federal Resources Agency, Lubin was a small, humorous man with a pawnbroker nose and bloodhound eyes.

Pitt turned and looked at him. "We found it where you said it'd be."

"An educated guess," said Lubin. "If I had been mine superintendent, that's where I would have put it."

"Somebody went to a lot of work to keep people out," said Sandecker.

"The farmer who once owned the land." This from Heidi, who was perched on an overhead bunk.

"Where did you come by that tidbit?" asked Lubin.

"A kindly editor, a female I might add, got out of her boyfriend's bed to open local newspaper files for me. The story is that about thirty years ago, three scuba divers drowned inside the shaft. Two of their bodies were never found. The farmer sealed up the entrance to keep people from killing themselves on his property."

"Did you find anything about the landslide?" Pitt asked her.

"A dead end. All files prior to nineteen forty-six were destroyed by a fire."

Sandecker pulled at his red beard thoughtfully. "I wonder how far those poor. bastards got before they drowned."

"Probably made it to the main quarry and ran out of air on the return trip," Pitt speculated.

Heidi spoke the same thought that suddenly crossed everyone's mind. "Then they must have seen whatever is in there."

Sandecker gave Pitt a worried look. "I don't want you to make the same mistake."

"The victims were undoubtedly weekend divers, untrained and under equipped "I'd feel better if there was an easier way."

"The air vent is a possibility," said Lubin.

"Of course!" Sandecker exclaimed. "Any underground mine needs air ventilation."

"I didn't mention it before because it would take forever to find it in this fog. Besides, whenever a mine is closed, the air portal is filled in and covered over. There's always the hazard of a cow or a human, especially a child, falling in and vanishing."

A knowing look crossed Pitt's face. "I have a feeling that's where we'll find our friend Brian Shaw." Lubin stared quizzically. "Who's he?"

"A competitor," said Pitt. "He wants to get inside that hill as badly as we do."

Lubin gave an offhand shrug. "Then I don't envy him. Digging through a portal shaft the width of a man's shoulders is a bitch of a job."

Lubin would have got no argument from the British.

One of Lieutenant Macklin's men had literally stumbled and fallen on the scar in the earth that hid the ventilator shaft. Since midnight the paratroops had been feverishly laboring to clear the rubble-filled passage.

The work was backbreaking. Only one man at a time could dig in the narrow confines. Cave-in was a constant threat. Buckets hastily stolen from a neighboring orchard were filled and pulled to the surface by ropes. Then they were emptied and dropped for the next load. The mole dug as fast and as hard as he could. When he was ready to drop from exhaustion, he was quickly replaced. The excavation went on without pause. "What depth are we?" asked Shaw. "About forty feet," replied Caldweiler. "How much further?"

The Welshman furrowed his brow thoughtfully. "I judge we should strike the main quarry in another hundred and twenty feet. How deep the ventilator was filled, I can't say. We could break through in the next foot or we might have to fight to the last inch."

"I'll settle for the next foot," said Macklin. "This mist isn't going to shield us much longer."

"Any sign of the Americans?"

"Only the sound of vehicles somewhere behind the hill."

Shaw lit another of his special cigarettes. It was his last one. "I should have thought they'd be swarming over the hillside before now."

"They'll get a jolly hot reception when they show," said Macklin, almost cheerfully.

"I hear American jails are overcrowded," Caldweiler muttered. "I don't relisly spending the rest of my life in one."

Shaw grinned. "Should be a piece of cake for a man of your experience to tunnel out."

Caldweiler knocked the ashes out of his pipe. "Nothing like looking at the fun side. Though in all seriousness, I can't help wondering what in bloody hell I'm doing here."

"You volunteered like the rest of us," Macklin said.

Shaw exhaled a lungful of smoke. "If you live long enough to return to England, the Prime Minister himself will pin a medal on you." All for tearing up a scrap of paper?"

"That scrap of paper is more important than you'll ever know."

"For what it's going to cost us in blood and sweat, it'd damned well better be," groused Caldweiler.

A small convoy of armored personnel carriers rolled to a stop. An officer in battle dress leaped from the lead vehicle and shouted an order. A stream of marines, clutching automatic weapons, poured to the ground and began assembling in squads.

The officer, who had an eye for authority, walked straight up to the admiral.

"Admiral Sandecker?"

Sandecker fairly beamed at the recognition. "At your service."

"Lieutenant Sanchez." The arm snapped in a salute. "Third Marine Force Reconnaissance."

"Glad to see you." Sandecker returned the salute.

"My orders were unclear as to our deployment."

"How many men do you have?"

"Three squads. Forty including myself."

"All right, one squad to cordon off the immediate area, two to patrol the woods around the hill."

"Yes, sir."

"And Lieutenant. We don't know what to expect. Tell your men to tread with a light foot."

Sandecker turned and walked to the escape shaft. The last bar of the grating had been cut away. The diving team stood ready to pierce the heart of the hill. A curious silence fell over everyone. They all stared at the black opening as though it was a sinister doorway to hell.

Pitt had donned an exposure suit and was cinching the harness of his air tank. When he was satisfied everything was in order, he nodded to Riley and the dive team. "Okay. Let's make a night probe."

Sandecker looked at him. "A night probe?"

"An old diver's term for exploring the dark of underwater caves."

Sandecker looked grim. "Take no chances and stay healthy…..."

"Keep your fingers crossed I hope you find the treaty in there."

"Both hands. The other is in case Shaw gets in before you do."

"Yes," said Pitt wryly. "There is always that."

Then he entered the beckoning portal and was swallowed up in blackness.

The old escape route from the main quarry sloped downward into the bowels of the hill. The walls were seven feet high and showed the scars from the miners' picks. The air was moist with the faint but ominous smell of a mausoleum. After about twenty yards, the passageway curved and all light was lost from the outside.

The dive lights were switched on, and Pitt, followed by Riley and three men, continued on, their footsteps echoing into the eternal darkness ahead.

They passed an empty ore car, its small iron wheels joined in rusting bond to narrow rails. Several picks and shovels stood neatly stacked in a chiseled niche as though waiting for calloused hands to grasp their handles again. Nearby were other artifacts: a broken miner's lamp, a sledgehammer and the faded, stuck-together pages of a Montgomery Ward catalog. The pages were frozen open on advertisements displaying upright player pianos.

Ajumble of fallen rocks blocked their way for twenty minutes until they cleared a path. Everyone kept a suspicious eye trained on the rotting timbers that sagged under the weight of the crumbling roof No word was spoken while they worked. The un communicated fear of being crushed by a cave-in chilled their minds. Finally they wormed their way past the barrier and found the tunnel floor covered by several inches of water.

When their knees became submerged, Pitt stopped and held up a hand. "The water level will be over our heads before long," he said. "I think the safety team better set up operations here."

Riley nodded. "I agree."

The three divers, who were to remain behind in case of an emergency, began stacking the reserve air tanks and securing the end of an orange fluorescent cord that was wound around a large reel. As they arranged the gear, the dive lights danced spasmodically on the passage walls, and their voices seemed alien and magnified.

When Pitt and Riley had removed their hiking boots and replaced them with swim fins, they grabbed hold of the reel and continued on, unwinding the safety line as they went.

The water soon came to their waists. They halted to adjust their face masks and clamp their teeth on the mouthpieces of the air regulators. Then they dropped into the liquid void.

Below the surface it was cold and gloomy. Visibility was amazingly sharp, and Pitt felt a shiver of almost superstitious awe when he spied a tiny salamander whose eyes had degenerated to the point of total blindness. He marveled that any kind of life form could exist in such entombed isolation.

The quarry's escape shaft seemed to stretch downward like a great sloping, bottomless pit. There was something malignant about it, as though some cursed and unmentionable force lurked in the shadowy depths beyond the beams of the dive lights.

After ten minutes by Pitt's dive watch they stopped and took stock. Their depth gauges registered 105 feet. From beneath his face mask Pitt's eyes studied Riley. The dive master made a brief check of his air pressure gauge and then nodded an okay to keep going.

The shaft began to widen into a cavern and the sides turned a dirty gold color. They had finally passed into a gallery of the limestone quarry. The floor leveled out and Pitt noted that the depth had slowly risen to sixty feet. He aimed his light upward. The beam reflected on what looked like a blanket of quicksilver. He ascended like a ghost in flight and suddenly broke into air.

He had surfaced in an air pocket below the ceiling of a large domed chamber. A crowd of stalactites fell around him like icicles, their conical tips ending inches above the water. Too late, Pitt ducked under to warn Riley.

Unable to see because of the surface reflection, Riley rammed his face mask into the tip of a stalactite, shattering the glass. The bridge of his nose was gashed and his eyelids were sliced. He would not know until later that the lens of his left eye was gone.

Pitt threaded his way through the cone-shaped trunks and gripped Riley under the arms.

"What happened?" Riley mumbled. "Why are the lights out?"

"You met the wrong end of a stalactite," said Pitt. "Your dive light is broken. I lost mine."

Riley did not buy the lie. He removed a glove and felt his face. "I'm blind," he said matter-of-factly.

"Nothing of the sort." Pitt eased off Riley's mask and gently picked away the larger glass fragments. The dive master skin was so numb from the icy water that he felt no pain. "What rotten luck. Why me?"

"Stop complaining. A couple of stitches and your ugly mug will be as good as new."

"Sorry to screw things up. I guess this is as far as we go."

"You go."

"You're not heading back?"

"No, I'm pushing on."

"How's your air?"

"Ample."

"You can't kid an old pro, buddy. There's barely enough left to reach the backup team. You keep going and you forfeit your round-trip ticket to the surface."

Pitt tied the safety line around a stalactite. Then he clamped Riley's hand on it.

"Just follow the yellow brick road, and mind your head.

"A comedian you ain't. What do I tell the admiral? He'll castrate me when he learns I left you here."

"Tell him," Pitt said with a tight grin, "I had to catch a train."

Corporal Richard Willapa felt right at home stalking the damp woods of New York. A direct descendant of the Chinook Indians of the Pacific Northwest, he had spent much of his youth tracking game in the rain forests of Washington State, honing the skills that enabled him to approach within twenty feet of a wild deer before the animal sensed his presence and darted away.

His experience came in handy as he read the signs of recent human passage. The footprints had been made by a short man, he judged, wearing a size seven combat boot similar to his own. Moisture from the mist had not yet redampened the impressions, an indication to Willapa's trained eye that they were no more than half an hour old.

The tracks came from the direction of a thicket and stopped at a tree, then they returned. Willapa noted with amusement the thin wisp of vapor that rose from the tree trunk. Someone had walked from the thicket, relieved himself and walked back again.

He looked around at his flanks, but none of his squad was visible. His sergeant had sent him out to scout ahead and the rest had not caught up yet.

Willapa stealthily climbed into the crotch of a tree and peered into the thicket. From his vantage point in height he could see the outline of a head and shoulders hunched over a fallen log.

"All right," he shouted, "I know you're in there. Come out with your hands up."

Willapa's answer was a hail of bullets that flayed the bark off the tree below him.

"Christ almighty!" he muttered in astonishment. No one had told him he might be shot at.

He aimed his weapon, pulled the trigger and sprayed the thicket.

The firing on the hill intensified and echoed through the valley. Lieutenant Sanchez snatched up a field radio. "Sergeant Ryan, do you read?"

Ryan answered almost immediately. "Ryan here, go ahead, sir."

"What in hell is going on up there?"

"We stumbled on a hornet's nest," Ryan replied jerkily. "It's like the Battle of the Bulge. I've already taken three casualties."

Sanchez was stunned by the appalling news. "Who's firing on you?"

"They ain't no farmers with pitchforks. We're up against an elite outfit."

"Explain."

"We're being hit with assault rifles by guys who damn well know how to use them."

"We're in for it now," Shaw shouted, ducking his head as a continuous burst of fire raked the leaves above. "They're coming at us from the rear."

"No amateurs, those Yanks," Macklin yelled back. "They're biding their time and whittling us down."

"The longer they wait, the better." Shaw crawled over to the pit where Caldweiler and three others were still frantically digging, oblivious to the battle going on around them. "Any chance of breaking through?"

"You'll be the first to know when we do," the Welshman grunted. The sweat was pouring down his face as he hauled up a bucket containing a large boulder. "We're near seventy feet down. I can't tell you any more than that."

Shaw ducked suddenly as a bullet ricocheted off the rock in Caldweiler's hands and took away the left heel of his boot.

"You better lay low till I call you," Caldweiler said calmly, as though remarking about the weather.

Shaw got the message. He dropped down into the shelter of a shallow depression beside Burton-Angus, who looked to be enjoying himself returning the fire that blasted out of the surrounding woods.

"Hit anything?" asked Shaw.

"Sneaky bastards never show themselves," said Burton Angus "They learned their lessons in Vietnam."

He rose to his knees and fired a long leisurely burst into a dense undergrowth. His answer was a rain of bullets that hammered into the ground around him. He abruptly jerked upright and fell back without a sound.

Shaw crouched over him. Blood was beginning to seep from three evenly spaced holes across his chest. He looked up at Shaw, the brown eyes beginning to dull, the face already turning pale.

"Bloomin' queer," he rasped. "Getting shot on American soil. Who would have believed it." The eyes went unseeing and he was gone.

Sergeant Bentley slipped through the brush and looked down, his expression granite. "Too many good men are dying today," he said slowly. Then his face hardened and he cautiously peered over the top of the embankment. The fire that killed Burton Angus he judged, came from an elevation. He spotted a perceptible movement high in the leaves. He set his rifle on semiautomatic fire, took careful aim and ripped off six shots.

He watched with grim satisfaction as a body slipped slowly out of a tree and crumpled to the moist ground.

Corporal Richard Willapa would never again stalk the deer of his native rain forest.

Soon after the shooting had broken out, Admiral San decker put in an emergency radio call for doctors and ambulances from the local hospitals. The response was almost immediate. Sirens were soon heard approaching in the distance as the first of the walking wounded began filtering down from the hillside.

Heidi limped from man to man applying temporary first aid, offering words of comfort while fighting back the tears. The worst thing was their incredible youth. None of them looked as if they had seen their twentieth birthdays. Their faces were pale with shock. They had never expected to bleed or even die on their home ground, fighting an enemy they had yet to even see.

She happened to look up as Riley came out of the escape portal, led by two members of the diving team, his face masked in blood. A sickening fear rose within her when she saw no sign of Pitt.

Dear God, she thought wildly, he's dead.

Sandecker and Giordino noticed them at the same time and rushed over.

"Where's Pitt?" Sandecker asked, fearful of the answer.

"Still in there somewhere," Riley mumbled. "He refused to turn back. I tried, Admiral. Honest to God, I tried to talk him out of going on, but he wouldn't listen."

"I would have expected no less of him," Sandecker said lifelessly.

"Pitt is not the kind of man to die." Giordino's expression was set, his tone resolute.

"He had a message for you, Admiral."

"What message?"

"He said to tell you he had a train to catch."

"Maybe he made it into the main quarry," Giordino said, suddenly hopeful.

"Not a chance," said Riley, putting a dampener on any optimism. "His air must be gone by now. He's surely drowned.

Death in the stygian blackness of a cavern deep inside the earth is something nobody cares to think about. The idea is too foreign, too horrible to dwell on. Lost and trapped divers have been known to have literally shredded their fingertips to the bone, trying to claw their way through a mile of rock. Others simply gave up, believing they had re-entered the womb.

The last thing on Pitt's mind was dying. The mere thought was enough to instill panic. He concentrated on conserving his air and fighting against disorientation, the ever-present specter of cave divers.

The needle on his air pressure gauge quivered on the final mark before EMPTY. How much time did he have? One minute, two, perhaps three before he inhaled on a dry tank?

His fin accidentally kicked up a blinding cloud of silt that effectively smothered the beam of his light. He hung motionless, barely making out the direction of his air bubbles past the face mask. He followed them upward until he emerged into clear water again, and then began fly-walking across the ceiling of the cavern, pulling himself along with his fingertips. It was a strange sensation, almost as if gravity didn't exist.

A fork in the passage loomed out of the darkness. He could not afford the luxury of a time-consuming decision. He rolled over and kicked into the one on the left. Suddenly the light ray fell on a torn and rotting wet suit lying in the silt. He moved toward it cautiously. At first glance it appeared wrinkled and collapsed, as if its owner had discarded it. The light traveled up the legs and across the sunken chest area and stopped at the face mask, still strapped around the hood. A pair of empty eye sockets in a skull stared back at Pitt.

Startled, he began pedaling backward from the gruesome sight. The body of one of the lost divers had saved his life, or at least extended it for a brief space in time. The passage had to be a dead end. The bones of the second diver were probably somewhere deep within the gloom.

At the fork again, Pitt rechecked his compass. It was a wasted gesture. There was no place to go but to his right. He had already dropped the cumbersome safety reel. His air time was long past the point of no return.

He tried to contain his breathing, conserving his air, but already he could sense the lessening pressure. There were only a few precious breaths left now.

His mouth was very dry. He found he could not swallow, and he became very cold. He had been in the frigid water a long time and he recognized the initial symptoms of hypothermia. A strange calm settled over him as he swam deeper into the beckoning gloom.

Pitt accepted the last intake of air as inevitable and shrugged off the useless air bottles, letting them drop into the silt. He did not feel the pain when he bashed his knee on a pile of rock. A minute was all that was left to him. That was as far as the air in his lungs would take him. An abhorrence of ending up like the divers in the other passage flooded his mind. A vision of the empty skull loomed ahead, taunting him.

His lungs ached savagely, his head began to feel as if a fire was raging inside. He swam on, not daring to stop until his brain ceased to function.

Something glinted up the passage in the light. It seemed miles away. Darkness crept into the fringes of his vision. His heart pounded in his ears and his chest felt as though it was being crushed. Every atom of oxygen in his lungs was gone.

The final desperate moments closed in on him. His night probe had ended.

Slowly but relentlessly the net tightened as Macklin's dwindling force fought on. The bodies of the dead and wounded lay amid a sea of spent cartridge casings.

The sun had burned away the mist. They could see their targets better now, but so could the men surrounding them. There was no fear. They knew their chances of escape were impossible from the start. Fighting far from the shores of their island fortress was nothing new to British fighting men.

Macklin hobbled over to Shaw. The lieutenant had his left arm in a bloodstained sling and a foot wrapped in an equally bloody bandage. "I'm afraid we've run our course, old man. We can't keep them back much longer."

"You and your men have done a glorious job," said Shaw. "Far more than anyone expected."

"They're good boys, they did their best," Macklin said wearily. "Any chance of breaking through that bloody hole?"

"If I ask Caldweiler one more time how he's doing, he'll probably bash my brains out with a shovel."

"Might as well toss a charge down there and forget it."

Shaw stared at him thoughtfully for a moment. Then suddenly he scrambled over to the edge of the pit. The men hauling up the buckets looked as if they were ready to drop from exhaustion. They were drenched in sweat and their breath came in great heaves.

"Where's Caldweiler?" asked Shaw.

"He went down himself. Said no one could dig faster than him."

Shaw leaned over the edge. The air shaft had curved and the Welshman was out of sight. Shaw yelled his name. A lump of dirt shaped like a man came into view far below. "What now, damn it?"

"Our time has run out," Shaw's voice reverberated down the shaft. "Any chance of blowing through with explosives?"

"No good," Caldweiler shouted up. "The walls will cave in."

"We've got to risk it."

Caldweiler sank to his knees in total exhaustion. "All right," he said hoarsely. "Throw down a charge. I'll give it a try."

A minute later, Sergeant Bentley lowered a satchel containing plastic explosives. Caldweiler gently tapped the pliable charges into deep probe holes, set the fuses and signaled to be pulled to the surface. When he came into reach, Shaw took him under the arms and dragged him free of the pit entrance.

Caldweiler was appalled by the scene of carnage around him. Out of Macklin's original force, only four men were unwounded, yet they still kept up a vicious fire into the woods.

The ground suddenly rumbled beneath them and a cloud of dust spewed from the air shaft. Caldweiler immediately went back in. Shaw could hear him coughing, but his eyes could not penetrate the swirling haze.

"Did the walls hold?" Shaw yelled.

There was no answer. Then he felt a tug on the rope and he began pulling like a madman. His arms felt as if they were about to drop off when Caldweiler's dust-encrusted head popped up.

He sputtered incoherently for a moment and finally cleared his throat. "We're in," he gasped. "We've broken through. Hurry, man, before you get yourself shot."

Macklin was there now. He shook Shaw's hand. "If we don't see each other again, all the best."

"Same to you."

Sergeant Bentley handed him a flashlight. "You'll need this, sir."

Caldweiler had knotted three ropes together, increasing the length. "This should see you to the floor of the quarry," he said. "Now, in you go."

Shaw dropped into the pit and began his descent. He paused briefly and looked up.

The dust from the explosion had not settled, and all view of the anxious faces above was obscured.

On the perimeter's rim, Lieutenant Sanchez' men still crouched behind trees and rocks, maintaining an intense rate of fire into the thicket-covered gully. Since the first shots he had lost one dead and eight wounded. He also had been hit, a bullet passing through his thigh and out again. He tore off his battle jacket and wrapped the entry and exit holes with his undershirt.

"Their fire has slackened," commented Sergeant Hooper, between spits of tobacco.

"It's a miracle any of them are still alive in there," Sanchez said.

"Nobody fights that hard but fanatical terrorists."

"They're well trained. I have to hand them that." He hesitated, listening. Then he scratched an ear and peered between two large boulders that shielded him. "Listen!"

Hooper's brow furrowed. "Sir?"

"They've stopped firing."

"Could be a trick to sucker us in."

"I don't think so," said Sanchez. "Pass the word to cease fire."

Soon a strange silence settled over the battle-scarred woods. Then slowly a man rose out of the thicket, his rifle held high over his head.

"Son of a bitch," Hooper muttered. "He's wearing full battle dress."

"Probably bought it at war surplus."

"Smug- looking bastard."

Sanchez rose to his feet and casually lit a cigarette. "I'm going in. If he so much as picks his nose, cut him in two."

"Stay off to the side, sir, so we have a direct line of fire."

Sanchez nodded and walked forward. He stopped a yard or two away from Sergeant Bentley and looked him over. He noted the blackened face, the netted helmet with the twigs sticking out of it and the enlisted man's insignia. There was no trace of fear in the face. In fact, there was a spreading smile. "Good morning to you, sir," greeted Bentley. "You in charge here?"

"No, sir. If you will please follow me, I'll take you to him."

"Are you surrendering?"

Bentley nodded. "Yes, sir."

Sanchez leveled his rifle. "Okay, after you."

They stepped through the bushes djefoliated by bullets and into the gully. Sanchez' eyes took in the scattered bodies, the gore-sopped earth. The wounded stared back at him with indifferent interest. Three men who looked unscathed snapped to attention.

"Straighten up the line, lads," said Bentley sternly.

Sanchez was at a loss. These men didn't fit the picture of terrorists, not any he'd seen or heard about. They appeared to be uniformed soldiers, highly disciplined and trained for combat. Bentley led him up to two men resting beside an excavated hole in the ground. The one who looked like he'd been rolling in dirt for a detergent commercial was bent over the other, cutting away a boot that was filled with blood. The man stretched beside him on the ground gazed up at Sanchez' approach and threw ajaunty salute.

"Good morning."

A cheerful lot, thought Sanchez. "Are you in command here?"

"Yes indeed," replied Macklin. "May I have the honor of your name, sir?"

"Lieutenant Richard Sanchez, United States Marine Corps."

"Then it's diamond cut diamond. I'm Lieutenant Digby Macklin of Her Majesty's Royal Marines."

Sanchez stood there open-mouthed. All he could think of to mumble was "Well, I'll be damned."

The first thing Shaw noticed as he eased himself down the ventilator shaft was the dank and musty stench that welled up to meet him. After about twenty yards he could no longer reach out with his feet and touch the encircling earth walls. He clutched the rope in a near death grip and beamed his light into the dark.

Shaw had dropped into a vast cavern, at least forty feet from floor to ceiling. It was empty except for a large pile of debris in one corner. The rope ended twelve feet from the ground. He shoved the flashlight under his armpit, took a deep breath and released his grip.

He fell like a pebble falling down a well through the blackness, a frightening experience he would never care to repeat.

A gasp was squeezed from his lungs when he landed. He should have struck clean, his legs taking most of the impact. But when he fell to one side, his outflung wrist smashed against something hard, and he heard the sickening crack as it fractured.

Shaw sat there for two or three minutes, lips tightened in agony, feeling sorry for himself. Finally, he snapped abruptly to his senses, realizing it was only a question of minutes before the Americans would be coming down the air shaft and struggled to a sitting position.

Groping in his waist for the flashlight, he pushed the switch. Thank God, it still worked.

He found himself next to railroad tracks of a narrow gauge that ran from the cavern into a tunnel carved at one end.

Awkwardly he one-handedly slipped off his belt and made a crude sling, then rose to his feet and struck out along the track into the tunnel.

He walked between the rails, careful not to trip on the raised ties. The tracks ran level for fifty yards and then started to slant up a slight incline. After a while he stopped and played the beam into the darkness ahead.

What seemed like two monstrous red eyes reflected back at him.

Cautiously he moved forward, stubbed his toe against something solid, looked down and saw another set of rails. They were spiked at a much wider gauge, even wider than the ones British trains ran on, Shaw judged. He came out of the tunnel into another cavern.

But this was not an ordinary cavern. This was an immense crypt filled with dead.

The red eyes were two lanterns mounted on the rear of a railroad car. On the observation platform were two bodies, mummies really, still fully clothed, their blackened skulls staring into the eternal dark.

The hair on the back of Shaw's head raised and he forgot about the stabbing ache in his wrist. Pitt had been right. The underground quarry had yielded the secret of the Manhattan Limited.

He glanced around, half expecting to see a shrouded figure holding a scythe, beckoning with a bony finger, beckoning for Shaw. He passed alongside the coach, noting that it was surprisingly free of rust. At the boarding steps, where the next car was coupled, another grotesque bundle lay, its head propped against the six-wheeled truck. Out of morbid curiosity, Shaw stopped and studied it.

Under the flashlight the skin showed a dark brownish-gray color and had the consistency of leather. As the months and years passed, the body had desiccated and hardened and become naturally mummified by the dry air of the quarry. The round visored cap still resting on the head indicated that this map had been the conductor.

There were others, scores of them, scattered around the train, frozen in the final posture of death. Most had died sitting up; a few were lying outstretched. Their clothing was in a remarkable state of preservation and Shaw had no trouble telling the men from the women.

Several of the dead were stiffened in warped positions below the open door to the baggage car. In front of them a jumbled stack of wooden crates sat partly loaded into an ore car. One of the mummies had pried open a crate and was holding a rectangular-shaped block against his chest. Shaw rubbed away the grime on the object and was stunned to see the smear turn the color of gold.

My God, he thought. By today's prices there must be over three hundred million dollars' worth of the stuff lying about.

Tempting as it was to linger and contemplate the riches, Shaw forced himself to push on. Sweat was soaking his clothes, yet he felt as if he were in a refrigerator.

The engineer had chosen to die in the cab of his locomotive. The great iron monster was blanketed under a century of dust, but Shaw could still decipher the fancy gold numerals "88" and the red stripe that ran down the side.

Thirty feet in front of the cowcatcher there was a massive fall of rock that had buried the main entrance of the quarry. More dead were strewn about here; having dug frantically with their final breath, their gnarled hands still clutched around picks and shovels. They had actually moved several tons of stone, but it had been only an exercise in futility. A hundred men couldn't have dug through that mountain of rubble in a month.

How did it all happen? Shaw trembled unconsciously. There was an undeniable horror about the place. Helplessly trapped in a cold and dark underground prison, what tortures of the mind had they all endured before death ended their sufferings.

He continued around the locomotive and coal tender, then mounted the steps of the first Pullman car and walked down the aisle. The first sight he saw there was a woman lying in a berth, her arms embracing two small children. Shaw turned away and kept moving.

He rummaged through any and all hand cases that remotely looked like they might contain the North American Treaty. The search went with frustrating slowness. He began to rush as the cold fingers of panic touched his mind. The flashlight was dimming, the batteries would not last but a few minutes longer.

The seventh and last Pullman car, the one with the grisly occupants on the observation platform, bore the emblem of the American eagle on the door. Shaw cursed himself under his breath for not starting here. He laid his hand on the knob, turned it and passed inside. For an instant he was taken back by the opulence of the private coach. They certainly don't make them like they used to, he mused.

A figure wearing a derby hat with a yellowed newspaper covering his features was sprawled in a red velvet revolving chair. Two of his companions sat folded over a mahogany dining table, their heads in their arms. One was dressed in what Shaw identified as an English-cut coat and trousers. The other wore a tropical worsted suit. It was the second who grabbed Shaw's interest. A withered hand clutched the grip of a small travel case.

Almost as if he was afraid of waking its owner, Shaw painstakingly removed the case from under the rigid fingers.

Suddenly he froze. Out of the corner of his eye he thought he caught an imperceptible movement. But it had to be an illusion. The wavering shadows on the walls were causing his inborn fears to run wild. If it was left to his imagination, the feeble light could make anything come alive.

Then his heart stopped. A cardiologist would say that's impossible. But his heart stopped as he stared paralyzed at a reflection in the window.

Behind him, the cadaver with the derby in the revolving chair was straightening to a stiff-backed position. Then the hideous thing lowered the newspaper from its face and smiled at Shaw.

"You won't find what you're looking for in there," Dirk Pitt said, nodding at the travel bag.

Shaw would never deny that he'd been rattled out of his wits. He sagged into a chair, waiting for his heart to pump again. He could see now that Pitt wore an old coat over a black wet suit. When he finally collected his senses, he said, "You have a disconcerting way of announcing your presence."

Pitt added to the dim illumination by turning on his dive light and then nonchalantly turned his attention back to the old newspaper. "I always knew I was born eighty years too late. Here's a used Stutz Bearcat Speedster with low mileage for only six hundred and seventy-five dollars."

Shaw had used up all his emotional reactions in the past twelve hours and was hardly in the mood for idle levity. "How did you manage to get in here?" he demanded more than asked.

Pitt continued to study the classified automobile ads as he answered. "Swam in through the escape shaft. Ran out of air and almost drowned, Would have too if I hadn't lucked onto a pocket of stale air under an old submerged rock crusher. One more breath enabled me to break into a side tunnel."

Shaw motioned around the coach. "What happened here?"

Pitt pointed toward the two men at the table. "The man with the travel case is, or rather was, Richard Essex, undersecretary of state. The other man was Clement Massey. Beside Massey is a farewell letter to his wife. It tells the whole tragic story."

Shaw picked up the letter and squinted at the faded ink. "So this fellow Massey here was a train robber."

"Yes, he was after a gold shipment."

"I saw it. Enough there to buy the Bank of England."

"Massey's plan was incredibly complex for its time. He and his men flagged the train at an abandoned junction called Mondragon Hook. There they forced the engineer to switch the Manhattan Limited onto an old rail spur and into the quarry before any of the passengers realized what was happening."

"Judging by this, he got more than he bargained for."

"In more ways than one," Pitt agreed. "Overpowering the guards went off without a hitch. That part of the plan had been well rehearsed. But the four army security guards who were escorting Essex and the treaty to Washington came as a rude surprise. When the gunfire died away, the guards were all dead or wounded and Massey was minus three of his own men."

"Apparently it didn't stop him," said Shaw, reading on.

"No, he went ahead and faked the Deauville-Hudson bridge accident; then he returned to the quarry and set off black powder charges that sealed off the entrance. Now he had all the time in the world to unload the gold and flee out the escape exit."

"How was that possible if it was filled with water?"

"The best laid plans, etcetera," said Pitt. "The escape shaft runs on a higher level than the deep end of the quarry where the original flooding occurred. When Massey hijacked the Manhattan Limited, the way out was still dry. But after he blew the entrance, the shock waves opened underground fissures and water seepage gushed into the shaft and cut off any chance of escape, condemning everyone to a slow, horrifying death."

"The poor devils," said Shaw. "Must have taken them weeks to perish from cold and starvation."

"Strange how Massey and Essex sat down at the same table to die together," Pitt mused aloud. "I wonder what they found in common at the end?"

Shaw set his flashlight so that its beam illuminated Pitt. "Tell me, Mr. Pitt. Did you come alone?"

"Yes, my diving partner turned back."

"I must assume you have the treaty."

Pitt gazed at Shaw over the top of the paper, his green eyes inscrutable. "You assume correctly."

Shaw slipped his hand from a pocket and aimed the.25 caliber Beretta. "Then I'm afraid you must give it to me."

"So you can burn it?"

Shaw nodded silently.

"Sorry," Pitt said calmly.

"I don't think you fully comprehend the situation."

"It's obvious you have a gun."

"And you haven't," Shaw said confidently.

Pitt shrugged. "I admit it didn't occur to me to bring one."

"The treaty, Mr. Pitt, if you please."

"Finders keepers, Mr. Shaw."

Shaw exhaled a breath in a long silent sigh. "I owe you my life, so it would be most inconsiderate of me to kill you. However, the treaty copy means far more to my country than the personal debt between us."

"Your copy was destroyed on the Empress of Ireland," Pitt said slowly. "This one belongs to the United States."

"Perhaps, but Canada belongs to Britain. And we don't intend to give it up."

"The empire can't last forever."

"India, Egypt and Burma, to name a few, were never ours to keep," said Shaw. "But Canada was settled and built by the British."

"You forget your history, Shaw. The French were there first. Then the British. After you came the immigrants: the Germans, the Poles, the Scandinavians and even the Americans who moved north into the western provinces. Your government held the reins by maintaining a power structure run by people who were either born or educated in England. The same is true of your Commonwealth countries. Local government and large corporations may be managed by native employees, but the men who make the major decisions are sent out by London."

"A system that has proven most efficient."

"Geography and distance will eventually defeat that system," said Pitt. "No government can indefinitely rule another thousands of miles away."

"If Canada leaves the Commonwealth, so might Australia or New Zealand, or even Scotland and Wales. I can think of nothing more distressing."

"Who can say where national boundaries will lie a thousand years from now. Better yet, who the hell cares?"

"I care, Mr. Pitt. Please hand over the treaty." Pitt did not respond, but turned his head, listening. The sounds of voices faintly echoed from one of the tunnels. "Your friends have followed me down the air vent," said Shaw. "Time has run out."

"You kill me, and they'll kill you."

"Forgive me, Mr. Pitt." The gun muzzle pointed directly between Pitt's eyes.

A deafening, ringing clap shattered the silent gloom of the cavern. Not the sharp, cracking report of a small-caliber Beretta, but rather the booming bark of a 7.63 Mauser automatic. Shaw's head snapped to one side and he hung limp in his chair.

Pitt regarded the smoldering hole in the center of his newspaper for a moment, then rose to his feet, laid the Mauser on the table and eased Shaw to a prone position on the floor.

He looked up as Giordino charged through the door like a bull in heat, an assault rifle held out in front of him. Giordino jerked to a halt and stared fascinated at the derby still perched on Pitt's head. Then he noticed Shaw. "Dead?"

"My bullet creased his skull. The old guy is tough. After a nasty headache and couple of stitches, he'll probably come gunning for my hide."

"Where'd you find a weapon?"

"I borrowed it from him." Pitt motioned to the mummy that was Clement Massey.

"The treaty?" Giordino asked anxiously.

Pitt slipped a large piece of paper from between the pages of his newspaper and held it in front of the dive light.

"The North American Treaty," he announced. "Except for a charred hole between paragraphs, it's as readable as the day it was signed.

In an anteroom of the Canadian Senate chamber, the President of the United States nervously paced the carpet, his face betraying a deep sense of apprehensiveness. Alan Mercier and Harrison Moon entered and stood silently. "Any word?" asked the President.

Mercier shook his head. "None."

Moon looked strained and gaunt. "Admiral Sandecker's last message indicates that Pitt may have drowned inside the quarry."

The President gripped Mercier's shoulder as if to take strength from him. "I had no right to expect the impossible."

"The stakes were worth the gamble," said Mercier.

The President could not shake the heavy dread in his gut. "Any excuse for failure has a hollow ring."

Secretary of State Oates came through the door. "The Prime Minister and the Governor-General have arrived in the Senate chamber, Mr. President. The ministers are seated and waiting."

The President's eyes were sick with defeat. "It seems time has run out, gentlemen, for us as well as for the United States."

The 291- foot Peace Tower forming the center block of the Parliament building gradually grew larger through the windshield of a Scinletti VTOL aircraft as it banked toward the Ottawa airport. "If we don't get backed up by air traffic," said Jack Westler, "we should land in another five minutes."

"Forget the airport," said Pitt. "Set us down on the lawn in front of Parliament."

Westler's eyes widened. "I can't do that. I'd lose my pilot's license."

"I'll make it easy for you." Pitt slipped the old Mauser pistol out of Richard Essex's travel case and screwed the business end into Westler's ear. "Now take us down."

"Shoot…... shoot me and we crash," the pilot stammered.

"Who needs you?" Pitt grinned coldly. "I've got more hours in the air than you do."

His facial color bleached brighter than a bedsheet, Westler began the descent.

A crowd of tourists who were photographing a Royal Canadian Mounted Policeman lifted their faces to the sky at the sound of the engines, and then parted like a reverse whirlpool. Pitt dropped the gun in his seat, shoved open the door and leaped out before the landing wheels settled in the turf.

He ducked into the converging onlookers before the astonished Mountie could stop him. The door of the tall Peace Tower was jammed with cordoned lines of tourists waiting to catch a glimpse of the President. Pitt bulled his way through, ignoring the shouts of the guards.

Once inside the memorial hall, he was momentarily confused about which direction to take. Two dozen cables snaked across the floor.

He followed them at a dead run, knowing they would end at the video cameras taping the President's speech. He almost made it to the door of the Senate chamber before a Mountie the size of a small mountain, ablaze in scarlet ceremonial tunic, blocked his way.

"Hold it right there, mister!"

"Take Me to the President, quick!" Pitt demanded. As soon as he spoke he realized the words must have sounded absurd.

The Mountie stared incredulously at Pitt's strange attire.

Pitt had only had time to remove his wet-suit top and borrow Giordino's jacket-two sizes too short-before dashing to Westler's plane. He still wore the wet-suit bottoms and his feet were bare.

Suddenly two more Mounties clutched Pitt from flanking sides.

"Watch him boys. He might have a bomb in that satchel."

"There's nothing in there but a piece of paper," said Pitt, maddened to the core.

The tourists began to gather around them, clicking their cameras, curious to see what the disturbance was about.

"We better get him out of here," said the Mountie, who snatched the travel bag.

Pitt had never felt such despair. "For God's sake, listen to me-"

He was in the process of being none too gently jerked away when a man in a conservative blue suit shouldered past the crowd. He gazed briefly at Pitt and turned to the Mountie.

"Having a problem, constable?" he asked, displaying a U.S. Secret Service ID. "Some radical trying to break into the Senate chamber-" Pitt suddenly broke loose and lurched forward. "If you're Secret Service, help me." He was yelling now but didn't realize it.

"Take it easy, pal," blue suit said, his hand snapping to the holstered gun under his armpit.

"I have an important document for the President. My name is Pitt. He's expecting me You've got to get me through to him."

The Mounties pounced on Pitt again, this time with fire in their eyes. The Secret Service agent held up a restraining hand.

"Hold on!" He stared at Pitt skeptically. "I couldn't take you to the President even if I wanted to."

"Then get me to Harrison Moon," Pitt snarled, getting fed up with the absurdity of it all.

"Does Moon know you?"

"You better believe it."

Mercier, Oates and Moon were sitting in the anteroom of the Senate, watching the President on a television monitor, when the door burst open and a horde of Secret Service men, Mounties and building guards, dragging Pitt with at least a half-dozen set of hands, flooded into the room like a tidal wave. "Call off the hounds," Pitt shouted. "I've got it!"

Mercier spun to his feet, open-mouthed. He was too stunned to react immediately. "Who is this man?" Oates demanded.

"My God, it's Pitt!" Moon managed to blurt.

His arms pinned, an eye swelling from a sneak punch, Pitt nodded toward the battered old travel bag held by the Mountie. "The treaty copy is in there."

While Mercier vouched for Pitt and swept the security people from the room, Oates studied the contents of the treaty.

Finally he looked up hesitantly. "Is it real? I mean, there's no chance of a forgery?"

Pitt collapsed in a chair, tenderly probing the growing mouse under his eye, the long mission seemingly finished. "Rest easy, Mr. Secretary, you're holding the genuine article."

Mercier turned from closing the door and quickly thumbed through a copy of the President's speech. "He's about two minutes away from his closing statement."

"We better get this to him, fast," said Moon.

Mercier looked down at the exhausted man in the chair. "I think Mr. Pitt should have that honor. He represents the men who died for it."

Pitt abruptly sat up. "Me? I can't go in front of a hundred million viewers watching the Canadian Parliament and interrupt a presidential address. Not looking like a masquerade party drunk."

"You won't have to," said Mercier, smiling. "I'll interrupt the President myself and ask him to step to the anteroom. You take it from there."

In the deep red setting of the Senate chamber, the leaders of the Canadian government sat stunned at the President of the United States' invitation to begin negotiations for merging the two nations. It was the first any of them had heard of it. Only Sarveux sat unperturbed, his face calm and unreadable.

A wave of mutterings coursed through the chamber as the President's national security adviser stepped to the lectern and whispered in his ear. An interruption of a major address was a break in custom and was not to be taken without a minor fuss.

"Please excuse me for a moment," the President said, heightening the mystery. He turned and stepped through the doorway to the antechamber.

In the President's eyes, Pitt looked like a derelict from hell. He came forward and embraced him.

"Mr. Pitt, you don't know how happy I am to see you."

"Sorry I'm late," was all Pitt could think to reply. Then he forced a crooked smile and carefully held up the holed paper.

The President took the treaty and carefully scanned its contents. When he looked up, Pitt was surprised to see tears rimming his eyes. In a rare instance of emotion he muttered a choked "Thank you," and turned away.

Mercier and Moon sat down before the TV monitor and watched the President return to the lectern.

"My apologies for the interruption, but a document of great historical significance has just been handed to me. It is called the North American Treaty."

Ten minutes later, the President concluded solemnly "and so for seventy-five years, under the terms set forth, Canada and the United States have unknowingly been existing as two nations while under international law they were only one…..."

Mercier let out a long sigh. "Thank God, he didn't slap them in the face by saying they belonged to us."

"The future will not look upon us kindly," the President continued, "if we fail to consider the tremendous potential our former leaders have laid before us. We must not stand separate from one another as we have in the past. We must not look upon ourselves as English-Canadian or Anglo-American or French Canadian or Mexican-American. We must all look upon ourselves as simply Americans. Because that's what we are, North Americans…..."

The ministers of Parliament and the premiers of the provinces reflected varied degrees of emotion. Some sat quietly enraged, some showed thoughtful contemplation, others nodded as though in agreement. It was clear the President was not holding the treaty over their heads like a club. He made no demands or threats. But they never doubted for a moment that the power was there. "…... our histories are closely entwined, our people strikingly similar in life-styles and outlook. The only fundamental difference between us is a viewpoint toward tradition…..."

"If the provinces of Canada decide to go separate ways, they face a long and difficult journey that can only end in collision with others. For the good of all, this must not happen. Therefore, I call upon you to join with me in building the mightiest nation on earth…... the United States of Canada."

In the Senate chamber the applause was mild and scattered after the President's address. The listeners sat numb, unsure of how to take his proposal for a single nation. The unthinkable had at last been brought out in the open.

Mercier sighed and turned off the TV monitor. "Well, it's begun," he said softly.

Oates nodded. "Thank God the treaty got here in time, or we might have witnessed a political disaster."

Instinctively they all turned to voice their thanks to the man who had done so much to incur their debt.

But Dirk Pitt had fallen sound asleep.

The Prime Minister's Rolls braked to a stop before the huge jetliner bearing the presidential seal. Secret Service men exited the cars behind and discreetly placed themselves around the boarding ramp.

Inside, Sarveux leaned forward and unfolded a hurled walnut vanity table from the rear of the front seat. Then he opened a cabinet, produced a crystal decanter of Seagrams Crown Royal whiskey and poured two small goblets.

"Here's to two old and close friends who have covered a long haul."

"That we have," said the President, with a weary sigh. "If anyone ever found out how you and I secretly worked together all these years to formulate a single-nation concept, we'd both be shot for treason."

Sarveux smiled faintly. "Drummed out of public office perhaps, but surely not shot."

The President thoughtfully sipped the whiskey. "Strange how a casual conversation between a young minister of Parliament and a freshman senator in front of a fireplace at a hunting lodge so many years ago could change the course of history."

"The right time and place for a chance meeting of two men who shared the same dream," said Sarveux, thinking back.

"The merging of the United States and Canada is inevitable. If not in the next two years, then in the next two hundred. You and I simply worked together to advance the timetable."

"I hope we don't live to regret it."

"A unified continent with nearly the population and land mass of the Soviet Union is nothing to regret. It may well prove to be the salvation of both countries."

"The United States of Canada," said Sarveux. "I like the sound."

"How do you read the future?"

"The Maritime Provinces-Newfoundland, Nova Scotia and New brunswick-are now cut off from the rest of Canada by an independent Quebec. They'll see it in their best interests to apply for statehood in the coming months. Manitoba and Saskatchewan will follow. An easy decision for them, because they've always had close ties with your northwestern farm states. Next, my guess is that British Columbia will open negotiations. Then with the Pacific and Atlantic ocean ports gone, the other provinces will gradually fall into line."

"And Quebec?"

"The French will temporarily exult in their independence. But in the cold light of unavoidable economic hardship, they'll come to accept statehood as a pretty good bargain after all."

"And Britain. How will they react?"

"Same as they did with India, South Africa and the other colonies. Bid a reluctant goodbye."

"What are your plans, my friend?"

"I shall run for President of Quebec," Sarveux answered.

"I don't envy you. It will be a hard, dirty fight."

"Yes, but if I win, we win. Quebec will be one step closer to joining the union. And most important, I'll be in a position to guarantee the flow of electrical energy from James Bay and make sure that you are included and benefit from the development of your oil-field discovery in Ungava Bay."

The President set his empty goblet on the vanity table and looked at Sarveux. "I'm sorry about Danielle. The decision to tell you about her liaison with Henri Villon didn't come easy. I wasn't certain how you'd take it or if you'd even believe me."

"I believed you," said Sarveux sadly. "I believed you because I knew it to be true."

"If only there had been another way."

"There wasn't."

Nothing was left to say. The President opened the car door. Sarveux took hold of his arm and held him back. "One final question must be settled between us," he said.

"Go ahead."

"The North American Treaty. If all else fails, will you force Canada to abide by the terms?"

"Yes," the President replied, and there was a hard glint in his eyes. "There is no turning back now. If I have to, I will not hesitate to enforce the treaty."

It was raining when Heidi limped into the TWA passenger boarding lounge at Kennedy Airport, a drenching New York downpour that tore away leaves and slowed rush-hour traffic to a caterpillar crawl. She wore her navy uniform under a blue raincoat, and her water-specked hair spilled from below a regulation white cap. She dropped a large shoulder bag to the carpet and, carefully balancing on her good leg, eased into a vacant seat.

After the whirlwind events of the past several weeks, the prospect of returning to the routine of duty depressed her. She had not seen Pitt since he rushed off to Ottawa, and the marines guarding Brian Shaw had refused to let her near him before he was carried unconscious into an ambulance that sped away to a military hospital. In the excitement she had been nearly forgotten. It was only through the thoughtfulness of Admiral Sandecker that she had been driven to New York for a well-deserved sleep at the Plaza Hotel and booked first-class on a flight back to her station in San Diego the following day.

She stared through the window at the rain forming lakes on the runway and reflecting the multicolored lights in two dimensions. If she had been alone she would have allowed herself the indulgence of a good cry. She felt a deep sense of longing as she remembered how Shaw touched her. He had invaded her life and she was resentful now of the love he had taken. But there was no remorse, only annoyance with herself for losing control.

Blind and deaf to the people milling around her, she tried to put her feelings and the shameful actions of the past few weeks from her mind.

"I've seen melancholy creatures before," said a familiar voice beside her, "but, lady, you take the prize."

"Does it show that much?" she asked, surprised at how calm her voice sounded.

"Like a black cloud over a sunset," replied Pitt with his devilish smile. He was dressed in a navy-blue sport jacket with red Breton slacks and wallaby shirt. He looked down at her over a monstrous bouquet of mixed flowers. "You didn't think I was going to let you slink away without saying goodbye?"

"At least somebody remembered." She felt damp and straggly and tired and hurt and rejected. "Pay no heed if I sound bitchy. This is my night for self-sympathy."

"Maybe these will help." He laid the flowers in her lap. The bouquet was so immense she could hardly see over the top.

"They're gorgeous," said Heidi. "I think I'll cry now."

"Please don't." Pitt laughed softly. "I've always wanted to buy out a flower store for a beautiful girl. Embarrass me and I may never do it again."

She pulled Pitt down, kissed him on the cheek and fought back the tears. "Thank you, Dirk. You'll always be my dearest friend.

"A friend?" He feigned a hurt look. "Is that the best I can do?"

"Can we ever be anything else to each other?"

"No…... I suppose not." His face went gentle and he took her hand. "Funny how two people who had so much going for them couldn't find it in their hearts to fall in love."

"In my case, it was because of someone else."

"The fickleness of women," he said. "They fall for the guy who treats them like trash, and yet they wind up marrying John Q. Square."

She avoided his gaze and stared out the window. "We've never learned to deny our feelings."

"Does Shaw love you?"

"I doubt it."

"You love him?"

"I'm not my usual practical self when it comes to Brian. Yes, I love him for all the good it'll do me. We consumed each other. He had his reasons, I had mine. If he wanted me, I'd run to him like a shot. But it'll never happen."

"There comes that sad face again," Pitt said. "I refuse to send a whimpering female on board an airplane. You leave me no choice but to cheer you up with one of my magic tricks."

Heidi laughed softly through watery eyes. "Since when did you practice magic?"

Pitt took on a mock hurt look. "You've never heard of Magnificent Pitt, the Illusionist?"

"Never."

"All right for you, nonbeliever. Close your eyes."

"You're joking."

"Close your eyes and count to ten." Heidi finally did as she was told. When she opened her eyes, Pitt was gone and Brian Shaw was sitting in his place.

The cry that she had kept bottled away burst from her as she embraced him, and the tears rolled down her cheeks and dropped from her chin.

"I thought you were locked away," she blurted between sobs.

Shaw lifted the folded raincoat that was draped across his lap and revealed the handcuffs. "Pitt arranged for me to come."

She tenderly touched the bandage that showed beneath a tweed cap. "Are you all right?"

"My double vision is almost gone," he answered, smiling.

The airline attendant behind the check-in counter announced that Heidi's plane was ready to board.

"What will happen to you?" she asked, afraid to release him.

"I suspect I'll spend some time in one of your federal prisons."

"Would you think me maudlin if I said I love you?"

"Would you think me a liar if I told you the same?"

"No," she said. And she felt a rush of relief because she knew he wasn't lying.

Shaw said, "I promise you that someday we'll be together."

That part could never be true. It tore painfully, deep in her chest. She pulled away. "I must go," she whispered.

He read the hurt in her eyes and understood. He lifted her up and onto the crutches. A helpful flight attendant came over and took Heidi's travel bag and the flowers.

"Goodbye, Heidi."

She kissed him lightly on the lips. "Goodbye."

After Heidi had disappeared through the boarding gate, Pitt walked up and stood beside Shaw.

"An awfully good woman," he said. "Be a shame to lose her."

"A good woman," Shaw agreed wistfully.

"If you don't hurry, she'll leave without you."

Shaw looked at him. "What are you talking about?"

Pitt shoved a packet in Shaw's breast pocket. "Your boarding pass and ticket. I fixed it so you have adjoining seats."

"But I'm under arrest as an enemy agent," said Shaw, his thoughts at a loss.

"The President owes me a favor." Pitt shrugged.

"Does he know what you're doing?"

"Not yet."

Shaw shook his head. "You're asking for trouble, setting me loose."

"I've been there before." Pitt held out his hand. "Don't forget, you promised me a backgammon lesson."

Shaw shook with both his hands. Then he held them up, displaying the steel bracelets. "Most aggravating, these things."

"Picking the lock should be child's play for a secret agent."

Shaw made a series of movements under the raincoat. Then he held up the cuffs, his hands free. "I'm a bit rusty. I used to do it much faster."

"James Bond would have been proud of you," Pitt said dryly.

"Bond?"

"Yes, I hear you two were quite close."

Shaw exhaled, his breath in a long sigh. "He exists only in fiction."

"Does he?"

Shaw shrugged, then stared at Pitt for a long moment. "Why are you doing this after the pain I've caused Heidi?"

"She loves you," Pitt said simply.

"What do you get out of it?"

"Nothing that will add to my bank account."

"Then why?"

"I enjoy doing things out of the ordinary."

Before Shaw could reply, Pitt had turned and mixed into the flowing crowd on the concourse.

The rain had stopped, and Pitt put down the Cobra's convertible top. He drove toward the lights of Manhattan that glowed ghostlike against the low-hanging clouds. The breeze whipped his hair, and he deeply inhaled the sweet fragrance of wet grass that rose from the fields beside the highway.

Pitt tightened his grip on the wheel, pressed the accelerator to the floor and watched the tachometer needle as it crept slowly into the red.