"I conducted a historical survey a few years ago on a pair of Confederate Civil War wrecks about sixty miles further down river in Plaquemines Parish."

"I know this great little restaurant in the parish-"

"So do I. The name is Tom's. Excellent gulf oysters on the halfshell. Be sure and ask for Tom's mama's special chili pepper juice.

Fantastic on the oysters."

"YOU get around."

"I try."

"Got any idea where the barge might be hidden?"

"Keep an eye open for a dock and warehouse that appear rundown and little used, but well protected with heavy security-excessive number of guards, high fencing, perhaps dogs. The barge, rusted and in disrepair, will be stashed nearby. My guess is somewhere between Chalmette and Pilottown."

"You can only reach Pilottown by boat," said Griffin. "The delta highway ends ten miles above at a town called Venice."

"I stand corrected."

They went silent for a minute while the river below flowed along at almost four knots between the great levees that shielded the land from flood. Small farms with cows grazing in pastures and orange groves spread across the narrow strips of Solid ground bordering the levees, before slining away into marshland. They flew over Port Sulphur, with its great piers entrenched along the west bank. Small mountains of yellow sulphur rose fifty feet over the flat, poisoned ground.

The next half-hour produced the first of three false alarms. A few miles below Port Sulphur they spotted an abandoned cannery with two barges tied up beside it. Griffin radioed his team of agents, who were chasing the helicopter from the road on the west bank. A quick search proved the building to be empty, and the barges contained only bilge water and silt.

They continued south, flying over the vast marshes and meandering bayous toward the gulf, spotting several grazing deer, a number of alligators sunning themselves in the mud and a small herd of goats that looked up at their passing with indifferent curiosity.

A huge freighter churned upriver, thrusting its blunt bow against the current. The flag of registry on its stern flapped red with a gold star and hammer and sickle.

"Russian," Pitt observed.

"The Soviets own a fair percentage of the five thousand ships that steam into New Orleans every year," said Griffin.

"Want to see what's on that barge?" Hogan asked, pointing.

"There, tied up behind that dredge on the east bank."

Griffin nodded. "We'll check this one out ourselves."

Hogan nodded her blond mane. "I'll set you down on the levee."

She expertly dropped the tires of the helicopter onto the crushed shell road that ran along the top of the levee. Three minutes later Griffin ran across a creaking ramp to the barge. Another three minutes and he was back strapping himself in his seat.

"No luck?" asked Pitt.

"A bummer. The old tub is half filled with oil. Must be used as a refilling station for the dredge."