The taxi passed through a back gate of the Washington National Airport at precisely nine thirty P.M. and dropped Jarvis behind a solitary hangar that sat on a seldom-used end of the field. Except for a faint glow of light through the dusty glass of a side door, the giant building seemed bleak and cavernous. He pushed open the door and was mildly surprised not to hear it creak. The well-oiled hinges pivoted without a whisper.

The yawning interior was brilliantly illuminated by overhead fluorescent lighting. A venerable old Ford trimotor aircraft sat like a huge goose in the center of the concrete floor, its wings protectively reaching out over several antique automobiles in various stages of restoration. Jarvis walked over to a car that seemed no more than a pile of rusted iron. A pair of feet protruded from beneath the radiator.

“You are Mr. Pitt?” Jarvis inquired.

“And you are Mr. Jarvis?”

“Yes.”

No Return Ticket I 205

Pitt rolled from under the car and sat up. “I see you found my humble abode all right.”

Jarvis hesitated, taking in Pitt’s greasy coveralls and disheveled appearance. “You live here?”

“I have an apartment upstairs,” Pitt said, pointing to a glass-enclosed level above the hangar floor.

“You have a nice collection,” said Jarvis, gesturing at the relics. “What is the one over there with the black fenders and silver coach work?”

“A 1936 Maybach-Zeppelin town car,” Pitt answered.

“And the one you’re working on?”

“A 1912 Renault open-drive landaulette.”

” Seems a bit the worse for wear,” said Jarvis, wiping a finger through a layer of rust.

Pitt smiled patiently. “She doesn’t really look all that bad when you consider she’s been immersed in the sea for seventy years.”

Jarvis understood immediately. “From the Titanic1?”

“Yes. I was allowed to keep her after the salvage project. Sort of a prize for services rendered, so to speak.”

Pitt led the way up a flight of stairs to his apartment. Jarvis entered and his professional eye routinely traveled over the unusual furnishings. The occupant was a well-traveled man, he surmised, judging from the nautical objects decorating the interior. Copper divers’ helmets from another age. Mariners’ compasses, wooden helms, ships’ bells, even old nails and bottles, all neatly labeled with the names of famous ships from which Pitt had salvaged them. It was like looking into a museum of a man’s life.

Jarvis sank into a leather sofa at Pitt’s invitation. He looked his host directly in the eyes. “Do you know me, Mr. Pitt?”

“No.”

“Yet you had no qualms about seeing me.”

“Who can resist intrigue?” Pitt said, grinning. “It’s not every day I find a note on my windshield with a phone number that turns out to be the National Security Agency.”

“You guessed, of course, that you were being followed.”