“On the contrary. You have the Roberta Ann looking shipshape and Bristol fashion,” Pitt said, stepping aboard and shaking hands with Dan Martin. A tough Bostonian with thick brown hair, Martin gazed at Pitt through a pair of elfin blue eyes that seemed to dance with mirth.

“Trying to get her prepped for the President’s Cup Regatta next weekend, but the inboard motor is giving me fits. New carburetor, wiring, and fuel pump, yet she still doesn’t want to fir e up.”

Pitt leaned over the hatch and studied the four-cylinder engine.

“ That looks like the motor from an old American Austin,” he said, recalling a minuscule car built in the twenties and thirties.

“Good guess. It’s actually an American Bantam motor. The second owner had an American Bantam dealership and apparently tore out the original engine and inserted the Bantam. She ran fine until I decided to overhaul her.”

“Always the case.”

“Can I get you a beer?” Martin offered, rubbing his oil-stained hands on a rag.

“A little early for me,” Pitt replied, shaking his head.

Martin kicked open a nearby ice chest and rummaged around until he located a bottle of Sam Adams. Popping the cap, he leaned on a rail and inhaled a large swig.

“I take it you didn’t come down here strictly to talk boats,” he said.

“No, that’s simply a bonus,” Pitt said with a grin. “Actually, Dan, I was wondering what you know about the explosion at the George Washington University research lab last week.”

“Since the Director of NUMA isn’t calling at my office, I presume this is an unofficial inquiry?”

“Entirely off-the-record,” Pitt replied with a nod.

“What’s your interest?” Martin turned his gaze to the beer bottle, studying its label.

“Lisa Lane, the scientist whose lab exploded, is a close friend of my wife’s. I had just walked into the building to give her a report when the place detonated.”

“Amazing nobody was killed,” Martin replied. “But it does appear to have been a measured blast.”

“You have people working on it?”

Martin nodded. “When the D.C. police couldn’t identify a cause, they flagged it as a potential terrorist act and called us in. We sent three agents over a few days ago.”

Dan Martin was the director of the FBI’s Domestic Terrorism Operations Unit within the agency’s Counter-terrorism Division. Like Pitt, Martin had an affinity for old cars as well as boats, and had become friends with the NUMA Director after competing against him at a vintage auto concours some years earlier.

“So nobody believes the explosion was an accident?” Pitt asked.