It was a Maybach-Zeppelin town car, complete with a sliding glass partition separating the enclosed passenger compartment from the driver, who sat in the open exposed to the sun. Behind the large double-M ornament on the radiator, the hood stretched back six feet and ended at a low split windshield, giving the car an image of great brutish power. The long flowing fenders and running boards gleamed black but the coachwork was painted a deep multi-coated silver. It was a classic among classics: superb Teutonic craftsmanship evident in every fitting, every nut and every bolt. If the 1936 Rolls-Royce Phantom III typified the British ideal of silence and distinguished mechanical efficiency, then its German counterpart was found in the 1936 Maybach-Zeppelin.

Pitt stepped up beside the car and ran his right hand over a gargantuan spare tire that sat solidly mounted in the front fender well. He grinned a grin of satisfaction and relief as he noted the tire's tread was deeply grooved in a diamond-shaped pattern. He patted the big donut-like tire a couple of times and then turned and looked into the front seat.

The driver sat slouched behind the wheel, idly drumming his fingers on the door frame. He not only looked bored, but he yawned to prove it. He was dressed in a gray-green tunic that strangely resembled the uniform of a World War II Nazi officer but the sleeves and shoulders bore no insignia. A high brimmed cap covered his head, and the blond color of his hair was betrayed by the brief hint of his sideburns. Old-fashioned silver-rimmed spectacles covered his eyes and glinted in the setting sun. A long thin cigarette dangled conceitedly from one corner of a curled lip, giving the driver an aura of smugness and arrogance; an image he made little effort to conceal.

Pitt instantly disliked the driver. Putting a foot on the running board, he stared penetratingly at the uniformed figure behind the steering wheel. "I think you're waiting for me. My name is Pitt."

The yellow-haired driver did not bother to return Pitt's stare. He merely flipped his cigarette over Pitt's shoulder onto the road, sat up straight and turned the ignition switch. "If you are the American garbage receiver," he said in a heavy German accent, "you may get in."

Pitt grinned and his eyes hardened. "Up front with the foul-smelling rabble or in back with the gentry?"

"Wherever you choose," the driver said. His face turned crimson but he still did not turn or look up.

"Thank you," said Pitt smoothly. "I'll take the back." He pushed down on a huge chrome handle, swung the vault-like door open and climbed into the town car. An old roll style curtain perched over the partition window and Pitt pulled it down, closing off all sight of the driver in front. Then he settled back comfortably into the soft and luxurious morocco leather upholstery, lit a cigarette and prepared to enjoy the early evening ride across Thasos.