Pitt reached the bottom of the broad stone steps as the plumber's truck drove past in front of him. He stood a moment to let another car by and began walking through the parking lot. He was seventy yards from the Talbot-Lago when he turned at the honking of a horn.

Al Giordino drew up alongside in a Ford Bronco four-wheel drive.

His curly black hair was shaggy and uncombed and a heavy growth covered his chin. He looked as if he hadn't slept in a week.

"Sneaking home early?" he said.

"I was until you caught me," Pitt replied, grinning.

"Lucky you, sitting around with nothing to do."

"You wrap the Eagle salvage?" Pitt asked.

Giordino gave a tired nod. "Towed her up the river and pushed her into dry dock about three hours ago. You can smell her death stink a mile away."

"At least you didn't have to remove the bodies."

"No, a Navy diving team was stuck with that ugly chore."

"Take a week off. You've earned it."

Giordino spread his Roman smile. "Thanks, boss. I needed that."

Then his expression turned solemn. "Anything new on the Pilottown?"

"We're zeroing in-" Pitt never finished the sentence. A thunderous explosion tore the air. A ball of flame erupted between the densely packed cars and jagged metal debris burst in all directions. A tire and wheel, the chrome spokes flashing in the sun, flew in a high are and landed with a loud crunch in the middle of Giordino's hood.

Bouncing inches over Pitts head, it then rolled through a landscaped parkway before coming to rest in a cluster of rosebushes. The rumble from the blast echoed across the city for several seconds before it finally faded and died.

"God!" Giordino rasped in bewildered awe. "What was that?"

Pitt took off running, dodging between the tightly parked cars until he slowed and halted in front of a scrambled mass of metal that smoldered and coughed up a cloud of dense black smoke. The asphalt underneath was gouged and melting from the heat, turning into a heavy sludge. The tangled wreck was nearly unrecognizable as a car.

Giordino ran up behind him. "Jesus, whose was it?"

"Mine," said Pitt, his features twisted in bitterness as he stared at the remains of the once beautiful Talbot-Lago.

August 7, 1989

Miami, Florida

LOREN WAS GREETED by Captain Yakov Pokofsky when she boarded the Leonin Andreyev. Pokofsky was a charming man with thick silver hair and eyes as round and black as caviar. Though he acted polite and diplomatic, Loren sensed he wasn't actually thrilled at having an American politician snooping about his ship, asking questions about its management. After the usual niceties, the first officer led her to a celebrity suite filled with enough flowers for a state funeral. The Russians, she mused, knew how to accommodate a visiting VIP.