Victor moved the machine to the center of the desk and pressed the red Record button.

"Your name?"

"Dirk Pitt."

"Middle initial?"

"E for Eric."

"Address?"

"266 Airport Place, Washington, D.C. 20001."

"Telephone where you can be reached?"

Pitt gave Victor the phone number of his office.

"Occupation?"

"Special projects director for the National Underwater and Marine Agency."

"Can you describe the event you witnessed on the afternoon of Saturday, October 20?"

Pitt told Victor of his sighting the out-of-control blimp during the sailboard marathon race, the mad ride while clinging to the mooring line, and the last-second capture only a few feet away from potential disaster, ending with his entry into the gondola.

"Did you touch anything?"

"Only the ignition and battery switches. And I laid my hand on the shoulder of the corpse seated at the navigator's table."

"Nothing else?"

"The only other place I might have left a fingerprint was on the boarding ladder."

"And the backrest of the copilot's seat," said Victor with a smug smile. "No doubt when you leaned over and turned off the switches."

"Fast work. Next time I'll wear surgical gloves."

"The FBI was most cooperative."

"I admire competence."

"Did you take anything?"

Pitt shot Victor a sharp look. "No."

"Could anyone else have entered and removed any objects?"

Pitt shook his head. "After I left, the hotel security guards sealed off the gondola. The next person inside was a uniformed police officer."

"Then what did you do?"

"I paid one of the hotel lifeguards to swim out and retrieve my sailboard. He owned a small pickup truck and was kind enough to run me back to the house where I was staying with friends."

"In Miami?"

"Coral Gables."

"Mind if I ask what you were doing in town?"

"I wound up an offshore exploration project for NUMA and decided to take a week's vacation."

"Did you recognize any of the bodies?"

"Not damned likely. I couldn't identify my own father in that condition."

"Any idea who they might be?"

"I assume one of them was Raymond LeBaron."

"You're familiar with the disappearance of the Prosperteer?"

"The news media covered the disappearance in great depth. Only a backwoods recluse could have missed it."

"Any pet theories on where the blimp and its crew were buried for ten days?"

"I haven't a clue."

"Not even a wild idea?" Victor persisted.

"Could be a colossal publicity stunt, a media campaign to promote LeBaron's publishing empire."

Interest grew in Victor's eyes. "Go on."

"Or maybe an ingenious scheme to manipulate LeBaron conglomerate stock prices. Sell large blocks before he disappears and buy when prices tumble afterward. And sell again when they rise during his resurrection."

"How do you explain their deaths?"

"The plot backfired."

"Why?"

"Ask your coroner."

"I'm asking you."

"They probably ate tainted fish on whatever deserted island they hung out on," said Pitt, tiring of the game. "How would I know? If you want a scenario, hire a screenwriter."