“I take it he frowns on classified weapons’ being sold to unfriendly nations.”

Mapes shrugged. “The general is a narrow-minded man.” Mapes leaned back in his chair and stared speculatively at Pitt. “What, may I ask, is your connection with Grosfield?”

“Let’s just say he respects my judgment more than he does yours.”

“Do I detect a veiled threat, Mr. Pitt? If I don’t play ball, you cry foul to Grosfield-is that it?”

“My request is simple,” said Pitt. “A check of the whereabouts of the naval shells you bought from Lee Raferty in Colorado.”

“I don’t have to show you a damn thing, mister,” Mapes replied

No Return Ticket I 185

stubbornly. “Not without a logical explanation or proper identification,

or, for that matter, a court order.”

“And if General Grosfield makes the request?”

“In that case I might be persuaded to string along.”

Pitt nodded at the phone again. “I’ll give you his private number

“I have it,” Mapes said, fishing through a small box. He found the

slotted index card he was looking for and held it up. “Not that I don’t

trust you, Mr. Pitt. But if you don’t mind, I prefer using a number from

my own file.”

“Suit yourself,” said Pitt.

Mapes lifted the receiver, inserted the card in the automatic-dialer

phone, and pressed the code button. “It’s after twelve o’clock,” he said.

“Grosfield is probably out to lunch.” Pitt shook his head. “The general is a brown-bagger. He eats at his

desk.”

“I always figured him for a cheapass,” Mapes grunted.

Pitt smiled, hoping Mapes couldn’t read the anxiety behind his eyes.

Abe Steiger rubbed the sweat from his palms on his pant legs and picked up the phone on the third ring, taking a bite from a banana before he spoke.

“General Grosfield here,” he mumbled.

“General, this is Orville Mapes, of Phalanx Arms.”

“Mapes, where are you? You sound like you’re talking from the bottom of a barrel.”

“You sound muffled and distant, too, General.”

“You caught me in the middle of a peanut-butter sandwich. I like them thick with gobs of mayonnaise. What’s on your mind, Mapes?”

“Sorry to interrupt your lunch, but do you know a Mr. Dirk Pitt?”

Steiger forced a pause and took a deep breath before answering. “Pitt. Yes, I know Pitt. He’s an investigator for the Senate Armed Forces Committee.”

“His credentials are right up there, then.”

“They don’t go any higher,” said Steiger, as though talking with a mouthful. “Why do you ask?”

“He’s sitting in front of me, demanding to inspect my inventory records.”

“I wondered when he’d get around to you civilians.” Steiger took another bite from the banana. “Pitt is heading up the Stanton probe.”

“The Stanton probe? I never heard of it.”

186 VIXEN 03p>