Pitt had lost one and a half points out of a perfect hundred because the Stutz cigarette lighter didn’t work and the exhaust system did not strictly adhere to the original design.
“Better than I expected,” said Pitt proudly. “I didn’t think we’d place.”
“Congratulations,” said Frank Mancuso.
Pitt stared blankly at the mining engineer who had seemingly appeared out of nowhere. “Where did you pop from?”
“I heard through the grapevine you’d be here,” said Mancuso warmly, “so I thought I’d drop by, see the cars, and talk a little shop with you and Al.”
“Time for us to go to work?”
“Not yet.”
Pitt turned and introduced Mancuso to Loren. Giordino simply nodded and passed the newcomer a glass of wine from a newly opened bottle. Mancuso’s eyes widened when he was introduced to Loren.
He looked at Pitt with an approving expression, then nodded at Loren and the Stutz. “Two classic beauties. You have excellent taste.”
Pitt smiled slyly. “I do what I can.”
“That’s quite a car,” Mancuso said, eyeing the lines of the Stutz. “LeBaron coachwork, isn’t it?”
“Very good. You into old automobiles?”
“My brother is a car nut. I soaked up what little I know about them from him.” He motioned up the aisle separating the line of cars. “Would you care to give me a guided lecture on all this fine machinery?”
They excused themselves to Loren, who struck up a conversation with the wife of the owner of the Hispano- Suiza. After they strolled past a few cars, Giordino grew impatient.
“What’s going on?” he demanded.
Mancuso stared at him. “You’ll probably hear about it from Admiral Sandecker. But Team Mercedes has been put on hold. Your project to salvage any remains of the ship that carried the bomb cars has been scrubbed.”
“Any particular reason?”
“The President decided it would be best if we kept hands off for now. Too many problems. Soviet propaganda is already trying to lay the blast on our doorstep. Congress is talking about launching investigations, and the President is in no mind to explain an undercover salvage operation. He can’t afford discovery of your Soggy Acres venture. That went against international laws governing mining of the seafloor.”
“We only took samples,” said Pitt defensively. “It was purely an experimental program.”
“Maybe so, but you got the jump on the rest of the world. Third-world nations especially would howl their heads off at the UN if they thought they were being cut out of an undersea bonanza.”
Pitt stopped and studied a huge open car. “I’d love to own this one.”
“A Cadillac touring?”
“A Cadillac V-Sixteen phaeton,” Pitt corrected. “They’re bringing close to a million dollars at the auctions.”
Giordino nodded. “Right up there with the Duesenbergs.”
Pitt turned and looked at Mancuso steadily. “How many cars with warheads have they found?”
“Only your six so far. Stacy and Weatherhill haven’t sent word of their progress on the West Coast yet.”
“The Japanese must have a fleet of those things scattered around the country,” said Pitt. “Jordan will need an army to nail them down.”
“There’s no lack of manpower, but the trick is to do it without pushing the Japs into a corner. If they think their nuclear bomb project is threatened, they might overreact and set one off man.”
“Nice if Team Honda can penetrate the source and snatch a map of the locations,” Giordino said quietly.
“They’re working on it,” Mancuso stated firmly.
Pitt leaned over and peered at a Lalique crystal head of a rooster that adorned the radiator of a Pierce-Arrow roadster. “In the meantime we all sit around with our fingers in our ears.”
“Don’t feel left out. You accomplished more in the first four hours than the entire team in forty-eight. We’ll be called when we’re needed.”
“I don’t like waiting in the dark for something to happen.”
Giordino switched his attention from the cars to a girl walking past in a tight leather skirt and said vaguely, “What could possibly happen at a concours?”
They seemed an unlikely group, but there they were, seriously observant in their dark suits and attache cases amid the casually dressed classic car owners and spectators. The four Japanese men gazed studiously at the cars, scribbling in notebooks and acting as though they were advance men for a Tokyo consortium of collector car buyers.
It was a good front. People noticed them, were bemused by their antics, and turned away, never suspecting they were a highly trained team of undercover operatives and their attache cases were arsenals of gas grenades and assault weapons.
The Japanese team had not come to admire the automobiles, they came to abduct Loren Smith.
They combed the area around the concours, noting the exits and placement of armed security guards. Their leader, his dark face glistening in the midday sun, noted that Pitt’s Stutz was parked in the center of the field of classic automobiles, making it next to impossible to spirit Loren away without causing an outcry.
He ordered his three men to return to their stretch limousine that was parked by the track while he hung around keeping an eye on Loren’s movements. He also followed Pitt, Giordino, and Mancuso for a short distance, examining their clothing for any telltale bulge of a handgun. He saw nothing suspicious and assumed all three were unarmed.
Then he wandered about patiently, knowing the right moment would eventually arrive.
A race steward informed Pitt that he and the Stutz were due on the starting line. With his friends going along for the ride, he drove along the grass aisle between the rows of cars and through a gate onto the asphalt one-mile oval track.
Giordino raised the hood and gave a final check of the engine while Mancuso observed. Loren gave Pitt a long good-luck kiss and then jogged to the side of the track, where she sat on a low wall.
When the Hispano-Suiza pulled alongside, Pitt walked over and introduced himself as the driver stepped from behind the wheel to recheck his hood latches.
“I guess we’ll be competing against each other. My name is Dirk Pitt.”
The driver of the Hispano, a big man with graying hair, a white beard, and blue-green eyes, stuck out a hand. “Clive Cussler.”
Pitt looked at him strangely. “Do we know each other?”
“It’s possible,” replied Cussler, smiling. “Your name is familiar, but I can’t place your face.”
“Perhaps we met at a party or a car club meet.”
“Perhaps.”
“Good luck,” Pitt wished him graciously.
Cussler beamed back. “The same to you.”
As he settled behind the big steering wheel, Pitt’s eyes scanned the instruments on the dashboard and then locked on the official starter, who was slowly unfurling the green flag. He failed to notice a long white Lincoln limousine pull to a stop in the pit area along the concrete safety wall just in front of Loren. Nor did he see a man exit the car, walk over to her, and say a few words.
Giordino’s attention was focused on the Stutz. Only Mancuso, who was standing several feet away, saw her nod to the man, a Japanese, and accompany him to the limousine.
Giordino lowered the hood and shouted over the windshield, “No oil or water leaks. Don’t push her too hard. We may have rebuilt the engine, but she’s over sixty years old. And you can’t buy spare Stutz parts at Pep Boys.”
“I’ll keep the rpm’s below the red,” Pitt promised him. Only then did he miss Loren and glance around. “What happened to Loren?”
