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He was alone, talking to no one, observing the people around him with a look of genuine interest rather than bored aloofness. When he became aware of Loren’s stare, he simply stared back with a frank, appraising expression.

“Who is that wallflower over there in the shadows?” she asked Morton Shaw.

Shaw turned and gazed in the direction Loren indicated with a tilt of her head. His eyes blinked in recognition and he laughed. “Two years in Washington and you don’t know who that is?”

“If I knew, I wouldn’t ask,” she said airily.

“His name is Pitt, Dirk Pitt. He’s special-projects director for the National Underwater and Marine Agency. You know-he’s the guy who headed up the Titanic’s salvage operation.”

She felt stupid for not having made the connection. His picture and the story of the famous liner’s successful resurrection had been headlined everywhere for weeks by the news media. So this was the man who had taken on the impossible and beaten the odds. She excused herself from Shaw and made her way through the crowd to Pitt.

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“Mr. Pitt,” she said. That was as far as she got. A breeze shifted the flames of the torches just then and the new angle caused a glinting reflection in Pitt’s eyes. Loren felt a fever in her stomach that had come Only once before, when she was very young and had a crush on a professional skier. She was thankful the dim light shaded the flush that must have tinted her cheeks.

“Mr. Pitt,” she said again. She couldn’t seem to get the right words out. He looked down at her, waiting. An introduction, you fool, she yelled inside her mind. Instead she blurted, “Now that you’ve raised the Titanic, what are you planning for your next project?”

“That’s a pretty tough act to follow,” he said, smiling warmly. “My next project, though, will be one with great personal satisfaction; one that I shall savor with great delight.”

“And that is?”

“The seduction of Congresswoman Loren Smith.”

Her eyes widened. “Are you joking?”

“I never regard sex with a ravishing politician lightly.”

“You’re cute. Did the opposition party put you up to this?”

Pitt did not reply. He took her by the hand and led her through the house, which was crammed with Washington’s power elite, and escorted her outside, to his car. She followed without protest, out of curiosity more than obedience.

As he pulled the car into the tree-lined street, she finally asked, “Where are you taking me?”

“Step one”-he flashed a galvanizing smile-“we find an intimate little bar where we can relax and exchange our innermost desires.”

“And step two?” she asked, her voice low.

“I take you for a hundred-mile-an-hour ride down Chesapeake Bay in a hydrofoil racing boat.”

“Not this girl.”

“I have this theory,” Pitt continued. “Adventure and excitement never fail to transform gorgeous congresswomen into mad, insatiable beasts.”

Afterward, as the sun’s morning warmth fingered the drifting boat, Loren would have been the last person on earth to dispute Pitt’s seduction theory. She noted with sensuous satisfaction that his shoulders bore her teeth and claw marks to prove it.

Loren released her hold and pushed Pitt toward the front door of the

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cabin. “So much for fun and games. I’ve got a batch of correspondence to clear up before we can drive down to Denver for a shopping spree tomorrow. Why don’t you go on a nature hike or something for a few hours. Later, I’ll fix us a fattening dinner and we’ll spend another perverted evening snuggling by the fire.”

“I think I’m all perverted out,” he said, stretching. “Besides, nature hikes are definitely not my bag.” “Go fishing, then.”

He looked at her. “You never got around to telling me where.” “A quarter of a mile over the hill behind the cabin. Table Lake. Dad used to catch his limit of trout there all the time.”

“Thanks to you”-he peered at her sternly-“I’m getting a late start.” “Tough.”

“I didn’t bring any fishing gear. Your dad leave any around?” “Under the cabin, in the garage. He used to keep all his tackle down there. Keys to the door lock are on the mantel.”

The lock was stiff from nonuse. Pitt spit on it and twisted the key as hard as he dared without breaking it. At last the tumblers gave and he squeaked the old twin doors open. After waiting a minute to adjust his eyes to the darkened enclosure, he stepped inside and looked around. There was a dusty workbench with its tools all neatly hanging in place. Cans of various sizes lined several shelves, some containing paint, some containing nails and assorted hardware.

Pitt soon found a fishing-tackle box under tiie bench. The pole took a little longer to find. He barely made one out in a dim corner of the garage. What seemed to be a piece of bulky equipment shrouded under a canvas drop cloth stood in his way. He couldn’t quite reach the fishing pole, so he tried climbing over the obstruction. It shifted under his weight and he fell backward, clutching the drop cloth in a vain effort to catch his balance before both ended up on the dirt floor of the garage.

Pitt cursed, brushed himself off, and gazed at what barred him from an afternoon of fishing. A puzzled frown gripped his features. He knelt down and ran his hand over the two large objects he had accidentally uncovered. Then he rose and walked outside and called to Loren. She appeared over the balcony. “What’s your problem?” “Come down here a minute.”

Begrudgingly, she donned a soft beige trench coat and went downstairs. Pitt led her inside the garage and pointed. “Where did your father find those?”

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She bent forward and squinted. “What are they?”

“The round yellow one is an aircraft oxygen tank. The other is a nose gear, complete with tires and wheels. Damned old, judging by the degree of corrosion and the grime.”

“They’re news to me.”

“You must have noticed them before. Don’t you ever use the garage?”

She shook her head. “Not since I ran for office. This is the first time I’ve been to Dad’s cabin since he died in an accident three years ago.”

“You ever hear of a plane crashing around here?” Pitt probed.

“No, but that doesn’t mean it hasn’t happened. I seldom see any neighbors, so I have little opportunity to catch up on local gossip.”

“Which way?”

“Huh?”

“Your nearest neighbors. Where do they live?”

“Down the road, back toward town. First turnout to the left.”

“What’s their name?”

“Raferty. Lee and Maxine Raferty. He’s a retired Navy man.” Loren took Pitt’s hand in hers and pressed tightly. “Why all the questions?”

“Curiosity, nothing more.” He lifted her hand and kissed it. “I’ll see you in time for that fattening dinner.” Then he turned and began jogging down the road.

“Aren’t you going fishing?” she called after him.

“Always hated the sport.”

“Don’t you want the Jeep?”

“The nature hike was your idea, remember?” he yelled over his shoulder.

Loren watched until Pitt disappeared through a clump of lodgepole pines before she shook her head at the incomprehensible whims of men and ran back inside the cabin to escape the early-fall chill.

Maxine Raferty had the look of the West about her. She was heavyset and wore a loose print dress, rimless glasses, and a net over her bluish-silver hair. She sat bundled up on the front porch of a cedar cabin, reading a paperback mystery. Lee Raferty, a string bean of a man, was down on his haunches, greasing the front-axle bearings of a battered old International flatbed truck, when Pitt trotted up and greeted them.

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“Good afternoon.”

Lee Raferty removed an unlit, well-chewed cigar stub from his mouth and nodded. “Hello there.”

“Nice day for exercise,” said Maxine, scrutinizing Pitt over the top of • her book. j

“The cool breeze helps,” said Pitt. i

The friendliness was there in their faces, but so was the backcountry wariness of strangers who trespassed, especially strangers who wore the look of the city. Lee wiped his hands on a greasy rag and approached Pitt.

“Can I help you with somethin’?” “You can if you’re Lee and Maxine Raferty.” That brought Maxine out of her chair. “We’re the Rafertys.” “My name is Dirk Pitt. I’m a guest of Loren Smith, down the road.” The uneasy expressions were replaced with broad smiles. “Little Loren Smith. Of course,” Maxine said, beaming. “We’re all pretty proud of her around these parts, what with her representing us in Washington and all.”

“I thought perhaps you might give me some information concerning the area.”

“Be glad to,” replied Lee.

“Don’t stand there like a tree,” Maxine said to her husband. “Get the man something to drink. He looks thirsty.”

“Sure, how about a beer?”

“Sounds good,” Pitt said, smiling.

Maxine opened the front door and hustled Pitt through. “You’ll stay for lunch.” It was more a command than a request and Pitt had no out but to shrug in acquiescence.

The living room of the house had a high-beamed ceiling with a bedroom loft. The decor was an expensive conglomeration of art deco furnishings. Pitt felt as though he had stepped back into the nineteen thirties. Lee scurried into the kitchen and quickly returned with two opened beers. Pitt couldn’t help noticing there were no labels on the bottles.

“Hope you like home brew,” said Lee. “Took me four years to get just the right blend between too sweet and too bitter. Runs about eight percent alcohol by volume.”

Pitt savored the taste. It was different from what he expected. If he hadn’t detected a slight trace of yeast, he would have pronounced the taste fit for commercial sale.

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Maxine set the table and waved for them to come around. She set out a large bowl of potato salad, a pot of baked beans, and a platter of thinly sliced rounds of meat. Lee replaced the rapidly emptied beer bottles with two fresh ones and started passing the plates.

The potato salad was hearty with just the right amount of tartness. The baked beans were thick with honey. Pitt did not recognize the meat or its taste, but found it delicious. In spite of the fact that he had eaten with Loren only an hour before, the aroma of the home-cooked meal inspired him to put it away like a farmhand.

“You folks lived here long?” Pitt asked between mouthfuls.

“We used to vacation in the Sawatch as far back as the late fifties,” said Lee. “Moved here after I retired from the Navy. I was a deep-water diver. Got a bad case of the bends and took an early discharge. Let’s see, that must have been in the summer of seventy-one.”

“Seventy,” Maxine said, correcting him.

Lee Raferty winked at Pitt. “Max never forgets anything.”

“Know of any wrecked aircraft, say within a ten-mile radius?”

“I don’t recollect any.” Lee looked at his wife. “How ‘bout it, Max?”

“Honest to Pete, Lee, where’s your mind? Don’t you remember that poor doctor and his family that was all killed when their plane crashed behind Diamond? … How’s the beans, Mr. Pitt?”

“Excellent,” Pitt said. “Is Diamond a town near here?”

“Used to be. Now it’s only a crossroads and a dude ranch.”

“I recall now,” Lee said, reaching for seconds on the meat. “It was one of them little single-engine jobs. Burned to a crisp. Nothin’ left. Took the sheriff’s department over a week to identify the remains.”

“Happened in April of seventy-four,” Maxine said.

“I’m interested in a much larger plane,” Pitt explained patiently. “An airliner. Probably came down thirty or forty years ago.”

Maxine twisted her round face and stared unseeing at the ceiling. Finally she shook her head. “No, can’t say as I ever heard of any air disaster of that magnitude. At least not around these parts.”

“Why do you ask, Mr. Pitt?” Lee asked.

“I found some old aircraft parts in Miss Smith’s garage. Her father must have put them there. I thought perhaps he found them somewhere nearby in the mountains.”

Charlie Smith,” Maxine said wistfully. “Godresthis soul. Heusedto dream up more schemes to get rich than an unemployed embezzler on welfare.”

Most likely bought them parts from some surplus store in Denver

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so’s he could build another one of his nonworking contraptions.”

“I get the impression Loren’s father was a frustrated inventor.”

“Poor old Charlie was that.” Lee laughed. “I remember the time he tried to build an automatic fishing-pole caster. Damned thing threw the lure everywhere but in the water.”

“Why do you say ‘poor old Charlie’?”

A sorrowful expression came over Maxine’s face. “I guess because of the horrible way he died. Didn’t Loren tell you about it?”

“Only that it was three years ago.”

Lee motioned to Pitt’s nearly empty bottle. “Like another beer?”

“No thanks; this is fine.”

“The truth of the matter is,” Lee said, “Charlie blew up.”

“Blew up?”

“Dynamite, I guess. Nobody never knew for sure. About all they ever found they could recognize was one boot and a thumb.”

“Sheriff’s report said it was another one of Charlie’s inventions gome wrong,” Maxine added.

“I still say bullshit!” Lee grunted.

“Shame on you.” Maxine shot her husband a puritanical stare.

“That’s the way I feel about it. Charlie knew more about explosives than any man alive. He used to be an Army demolitions expert. Why, hell, he defused bombs and artillery shells all across Europe in World War Two.”

“Don’t pay any attention to him,” said Maxine haughtily. “Lee has it in his head Charlie was murdered. Ridiculous. Charlie Smith didn’t have an enemy in the world. His death was an accident pure and simple.”

“Everyone’s entitled to an opinion,” Lee said.

“Some dessert, Mr. Pitt?” asked Maxine. “I made some apple turnovers.”

“I can’t manage another bite, thank you.”

“And you, Lee?”

“I’m not hungry anymore,” Raferty grumbled.

“Don’t feel bad, Mr. Raferty,” Pitt said consolingly. “It seems my imagination got the best of me also. Finding pieces of an aircraft in the middle of the mountains … I naturally thought they came from a crash site.”