Clive Cussler - Cyclops

At precisely eight-thirty, the security guard at the LeBaron estate's front gate greeted a young couple driving a yellow Ferrari, checked their names on the party list, and waved them through. Next came a Chrysler limousine carrying the President's chief adviser, Daniel Fawcett, and his wife.

The guard was immune to the exotic cars and their celebrity occupants. He raised his hands over his head in a bored stretch and yawned. Then his hands froze in midair and his mouth snapped shut as he found himself staring at the largest car he'd ever seen.

The car was a veritable monster, measuring nearly twenty-two feet from bumper to bumper and weighing well over three tons. The hood and doors were silver-gray and the fenders a metallic maroon. A convertible, its top was completely hidden from view when folded down. The body lines were smooth and elegant in the grand manner, an example of flawless craftsmanship seldom equaled.

"That's some kind of car," the guard finally said. "What is it?"

"A Daimler," replied Pitt.

"Sounds British."

"It is."

The guard shook his head in admiration and looked at his guest list. "Your name, please."

"Pitt."

"I can't seem to find your name. Do you have an invitation?"

"Mrs. LeBaron and I had an earlier appointment."

The guard went into the gatehouse and checked a clipboard. "Yes, sir, your appointment was for four o'clock."

"When I phoned to say I was running late, she said to join the party."

"Well, since she expected you," the guard said, still soaking in the Daimler's lines, "I guess it's all right. Have a good evening."

Pitt nodded a thank-you and eased the immense car silently up the winding drive to the LeBaron residence. The main building sat on a low hill above a tennis court and a swimming pool. The architecture was common to the area, a three-story brick colonial with a series of white columns holding up the roof over a long front porch, the wings extending to each side. To the right a clump of pine trees shielded a carriage house with a garage below, what Pitt assumed were the servants' living quarters. Opposite and to the left of the manor sat a huge glass-enclosed structure, lit by crystal chandeliers hanging from the roof. Exotic flowers and shrubs blossomed around twenty or more dinner tables while a small orchestra played on a stage beneath a waterfall. Pitt was properly impressed. The perfect setting for a party on a brisk October evening. Raymond LeBaron got high marks for originality. He pulled the Daimler up to the front of the greenhouse where a liveried parking valet stood with the awed expression of a carpenter gazing at redwoods.

As he slid from behind the wheel and straightened the jacket of his tuxedo Pitt noticed a crowd beginning to gather behind the transparent wall of the greenhouse, pointing and gesturing at the car. He gave the valet instructions on how to shift the transmission and then passed through the glass doors. The orchestra was playing themes from John Barry scores, light on the brass and heavy on the strings. A woman, elegantly dressed in the latest designer fashion, was standing just inside the entrance, greeting the guests.

He had no doubt she was Jessie LeBaron. Cool composure, the embodiment of grace and style, the living proof women can be beautiful after fifty. She wore a glittery beaded green and silver tunic over a long, slim velvet skirt.

Pitt approached and gave a brief bow. "Good evening," he said, flashing his best gate crasher's smile.

"What is that sensational car?" Jessie asked, peering through the doorway.

"A Daimler powered by a 5.4 liter, straight-eight engine with Hooper coachwork."

She smiled' graciously and extended her hand. "Thank you for coming, Mr. . ." She hesitated, gazing at him curiously. "Forgive me, but I don't seem to recall meeting you before."

"That's because we've never laid eyes on each other," he said, marveling at her throaty voice, almost husky, with a sensual coarseness about it. "My name is Pitt, Dirk Pitt."

Jessie's dark eyes looked at Pitt in a most peculiar way. "You're four and a half hours late, Mr. Pitt. Did you suffer some sort of accidental delay?"

"No accident, Mrs. LeBaron. I planned my arrival most carefully."

"You weren't invited to the party," she said smoothly. "So you'll have to leave."

"A pity," said Pitt mournfully. "I seldom get a chance to wear my tux."

Jessie's face registered scorn. She turned to a prim woman wearing large-lensed glasses and standing slightly to her rear, who Pitt guessed was her secretary, Sandra Cabot.

"Find Angelo and tell him to show this gentleman out."

Pitt's green eyes glinted mischievously. "I seem to have a talent for spreading ill will. Do you wish me to go peacefully or cause a nasty scene?"

"I think peacefully would be best."

"Then why did you ask to meet with me?"

"A matter concerning my husband."

"He was a perfect stranger to me. I can't tell you anything about his death that you don't already know."

"Raymond is not dead," she said adamantly.

"When I saw him in the blimp he gave a damn good imitation of it."

"That wasn't him."

Pitt stared at her skeptically, saying nothing.

"You don't believe me, do you?"

"I don't really care."

"I was hoping you'd help me."

"You have a strange way of asking for favors."

"This a formal charity dinner, Mr. Pitt. You don't fit in. We'll set a time to meet tomorrow."

Pitt decided his anger wasn't important, so he shoved it aside. "What was your husband doing when he disappeared?" he asked abruptly.

"Searching for the El Dorado treasure," she replied, looking nervously around the greenhouse at her guests. "He believed it sank on a ship called the Cyclops."

Before Pitt could make a comment, Cabot returned with Angelo, the Cuban chauffeur.

"Goodbye, Mr. Pitt," said Jessie, dismissing him and greeting a pair of new arrivals.

Pitt shrugged and offered his arm to Angelo. "Let's make it official. You lead me out." Then he turned to Jessie. "One last thing, Mrs. LeBaron. I don't respond to shabby treatment. You needn't bother to contact me again, ever."

Then Pitt allowed Angelo to escort him from the greenhouse to the driveway where the Daimler was waiting. Jessie watched as the great car disappeared into the night. Then she began mingling with her guests.

Douglas Oates, the Secretary of State, looked over from a conversation he was having with presidential adviser Daniel Fawcett as she approached. "Splendid affair, Jessie."

"Yes indeed," echoed Fawcett. "Nobody in Washington puts on a finer spread."

Jessie's eyes flashed and her full lips curved in a warm smile. "Thank you, gentlemen."

Oates nodded toward the doorway. "Was I imagining things, or did I see Dirk Pitt bounced out the door?"

Jessie looked at Oates blankly. "You know him?" she asked, surprised.

"Of course. Pitt is the number two man over at NUMA. He's the guy who raised the Titanic for the Defense Department."

"And saved the President's life in Louisiana," added Fawcett.

Jessie noticeably paled. "I had no idea."

"I hope you didn't make him mad," said Oates.

"Perhaps I was a bit rude," she conceded.

"Aren't you interested in drilling for offshore oil below San Diego?"

"Yes. Seismic surveys indicate a vast untapped field. One of our companies has the inside track for the drilling rights. Why do you ask?"

"Don't you know who heads up the Senate committee for oil exploration on government lands?"

"Certainly, it's. . ." Jessie's voice trailed off and her composure melted away.

"Dirk's father," Oates finished. "Senator George Pitt of California. Without his backing and the blessing of NUMA on environmental issues, you don't stand a prayer of winning the drilling rights."