Pitt was contemplating a blackboard mounted on a tripod about ten feet from the car. A large nautical chart depicting the entire inland water route was tacked to the outer frame. Across the board he had written several notations and what appeared to Giordino as a list of ships.

"I've just come from the admiral's office," Giordino said.

"What's the latest?" Pitt asked, his eyes never leaving the blackboard.

"The joint Chiefs of Staff have thrown the armed forces into the hunt. Combined with agents from the FBI and CIA, they should be able to cover every inch of shoreline by tomorrow evening."

"On the ground, by the sea and in the air," Pitt murmured uninterestedly. "From Maine to Florida."

"Why the sour grapes?"

"A damned waste of time. The barge isn't there," Pitt said, flipping a piece of chalk in the air.

Giordino shot him a quizzical look. "What are you babbling about?

The barge has to be in there somewhere."

"Not necessarily."

"You saying they're searching in the wrong place?"

"If you were the Bougainvilles, you'd expect an exhaustive, whole-hog hunt, right?"

"Elementary reasoning," Giordino said loftily. "Me, I'd be more inclined to camouflage the barge under a grove of trees, hide it inside an enclosed waterfront warehouse, or alter the exterior to look like a giant chicken coop or whatever. Seems to me concealment is the logical way to go."

Pitt laughed. "Your chicken coop brainstorm, now that's class."

"You got a better idea?"

Pitt stepped out of the Isotta, went to the blackboard and folded over the inland waterway chart, revealing another chart showing the coastline along the Gulf of Mexico. "As it happens, yes, I do."

He tapped his finger on a spot circled in red ink. "The barge holding Margolin and Loren captive is somewhere around here."

Giordino moved closer and examined the marked area. Then he looked at Pitt with an expression usually reserved for people who held signs announcing the end of the world.

"New Orleans?"

"Below New Orleans," Pitt corrected. "I judge it to be moored there now."

Giordino shook his head. "I think your brakes went out. You're telling me Bougainville towed a barge from Charleston, around the tip of Florida and across the gulf to the Mississippi River, almost seventeen hundred miles in less than four days? Sorry, pal, the tug isn't built that can push a barge that fast."

"Granted," Pitt allowed. "But suppose they cut off seven hundred miles?"

"How?" inquired Giordino, his voice a combination of doubt and sarcasm. "By installing wheels and driving it cross-country?"

"No joke," Pitt said seriously. "By towing it through the recently opened Florida Cross State Canal from Jacksonville on the Atlantic to Crystal River on the Gulf of Mexico, shortcutting the entire southern half of the state."

The revelation sparked Giordino. He peered at the chart again, studying the scale. Then, using his thumb and forefinger as a pair of diviners, he roughly measured the reduced distance between Charleston and New Orleans. When he finally turned and looked at Pitt, he wore a sheepish smile.