“There is something else,” Pitt said, rising from the chair and searching a row of encyclopedias on a bookshelf. He pulled out a black-bound volume and flipped the pages.

“Did you trigger another memory?” asked Jarvis.

“Operation Wild Rose,” answered Pitt.

“What about it?”

“The name. Can it stand for anything?”

“Code names seldom have an ulterior meaning,” said Jarvis. “It might give them away.”

“I’ll bet you a vintage bottle of wine this one does.”

Pitt held out the book. The pages were open at a map. Jarvis slipped on his reading glasses and took a cursory glance at it.

“All right, so Iowa is the Hawkeye State. So what?”

Pitt pointed to a spot halfway down the right-hand page. “The state

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flower of Iowa,” he said softly, “is the wild rose.”

The color abruptly washed from Jarvis’s face. “But the battleship Iowa was scrapped.”

“Scrapped, or sold for scrap?” said Pitt. “There is a big difference.”

A series of worry lines grew on Jarvis’s forehead.

Pitt looked at Jarvis and let the worry lengthen. “If I were you, I’d run a check on all shipyards located on the western Chesapeake shoreline of Maryland.”

“Your phone.” It was more a command than a request.

Pitt silently pointed to one on an end table.

Jarvis dialed a number. Then, as he waited for an answer, he looked at Pitt. “Do you have a car that isn’t an antique?”

“I have a NUMA car parked outside.”

“I came in a taxi,” said Jarvis. “Will you do the honors?”

“Give me a minute to clean up,” Pitt replied.

When Pitt emerged from the bathroom, Jarvis was waiting at the door. “You were right,” he said evenly. “As of yesterday, the battleship Iowa was docked at the Forbes Marine Scrap and Salvage Yard, in Maryland.”

“I know the facility,” said Pitt. “It’s a few miles below the bay entrance to the Patuxent River.”

51

As Pitt drove through the rain, Jarvis seemed mesmerized by the flailing windshield wipers. Finally his eyes focused and he made a casual gesture at the road ahead. “I make the next town to be Lexington Park.”

“Another four miles,” Pitt said without turning.

“There is an all-night gas station on the outskirts,” Jarvis continued. “Pull up at the pay phone.”

Minutes later the headlights picked out the Lexington Park city-limits sign. In less than a mile, around a sweeping curve, a brightly lit service station beckoned through the soggy night. Pitt turned in the driveway and parked beside an outside phone booth.

The station attendant sat warm and dry inside the office, his feet propped up on an old oil-burning stove. He put down his magazine and for two or three minutes watched Pitt and Jarvis suspiciously through water-streaked windows. Then, satisfied they weren’t acting like holdup

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