Clive Cussler - Dragon

The admiral said briefly yesterday that Dirk Pitt was an extremely resourceful and audacious man. During the course of his career, he had saved many lives, including those of Sandecker himself and the President during an incident in the Gulf of Mexico. Pitt never lacked for ingenuity or creativity. No project was too difficult for him to accomplish.

He was not a man you can forget.

Sandecker sat on the running board of the Stutz in Pitt’s hangar and stared sadly at the obituary in the newspaper. “He did so much, it seems an injustice to condense his life to so few words.”

Giordino, his face expressionless, walked around the Messerschmitt Me-262A-la Luftwaffe jet fighter. True to his word, Gert Halder had looked the other way when Pitt and Giordino had smuggled the aircraft out of the bunker, hauled it on a truck under canvas, and arranged for it to be hoisted on board a Danish cargo ship bound for the States. Only two days earlier the ship had arrived in Baltimore, where Giordino had waited to transport the aircraft to Pitt’s hangar in Washington. Now it sat on its tricycle landing gear amid the other classic machinery of Pitt’s collection.

“Dirk should have been here to see this,” Giordino said heavily. He ran his hand across the nose of the mottled green fuselage with its light gray underbelly and stared at the muzzles of the four thirty-millimeter cannon that poked from the forward cowl. “He’d have loved to get his hands on it.”

It was a moment neither of them had foreseen, could never imagine. Sandecker felt as though he’d lost a son, Giordino a brother.

Giordino stopped and stared up at the apartment above the classic autos and aircraft. “I should have been in the DSMV with him.”

Sandecker looked up. “Then you would be missing and maybe dead too.”

“I’ll always regret not being with him,” Giordino said vaguely.

“Dirk died in the sea. It’s the way he’d have wanted it.”

“He might be standing here now if one of Big Ben’s manipulators had been fitted with a scoop instead of cutting tools,” Giordino persisted.

Sandecker gave a weary shake of his head. “Allowing your imagination to run riot won’t bring him back.”

Giordino’s eyes lifted to Pitt’s living quarters. “I keep thinking all I have to do is yell for him, and he’ll come down.”

“The same thought has crossed my mind,” Sandecker admitted.

Suddenly the door of the apartment opened, and they momentarily stiffened, then relaxed as Toshie emerged carrying a tray with cups and a teapot. With incredible supple grace, she delicately wound down the iron circular stairway and glided toward Sandecker and Giordino.

Sandecker wrinkled his brows in puzzlement. “A mystery to me how you sweet-talked Jordan into having her committed into your custody.”

“No mystery.” Giordino grinned. “A trade-off. He made her a present to me in return for keeping my mouth shut about the Kaiten Project.”

“You’re lucky he didn’t encase your feet in cement and throw you in the Potomac.”

“I was bluffing.”

“Ray Jordan is no dummy,” Sandecker said dryly. “He knew that.”

“Okay, so she was a gift for services rendered.”

Toshie set the tray on the running board of the Stutz next to the admiral. “Tea, gentlemen?”

“Yes, thank you,” Sandecker said, rising to his feet.

Toshie smoothly settled to her knees and performed a brief tea ceremony before passing the steaming cups. Then she rose and admiringly stared at the Messerschmitt.

“What a beautiful airplane,” she murmured, overlooking the grime, the flattened tires, and the faded paint.

“I’m going to restore it to its original state,” said Giordino quietly, mentally picturing the dingy aircraft as it looked when new. “As a favor to Dirk.”

“You talk like he’s going to be resurrected,” Sandecker said tightly.

“He’s not dead,” Giordino muttered flatly. Tough though he was, his eyes grew moist.

“May I help?” asked Toshie.

Giordino self-consciously wiped his eyes and looked at her curiously. “I’m sorry, pretty lady, help me what?”

“Repair the airplane.”

Giordino and Sandecker exchanged blank glances. “You’re a mechanic?” asked Giordino.

“I helped my father build and maintain his fishing boat. He was very proud when I mended his ailing engine.

Giordino’s face lit up. “A match made in heaven.” He paused and stared at the drab dress Toshie was given when she was released from Jordan’s custody. “Before you and I start to tear this baby apart, I’m going to take you to the best boutiques in Washington and buy you a new wardrobe.”

Toshie’s eyes widened. “You have much, much money like Mr. Suma?”

“No,” Giordino moaned sorrowfully, “only lots of credit cards.”

Loren smiled and waved over the lunch crowd as the maître d’ of Washington’s chic restaurant Twenty-One Federal led Stacy through the blond wood and marble dining room to her table. Stacy had her hair tied back in a large scarf and was more informally dressed in an oatmeal cashmere turtleneck sweater under a gray wool shawl with matching pants.

Loren wore a plaid wool checked jacket over a khaki blouse with a taupe wool faille skirt. Unlike most women, who would have remained seated, she rose and offered her hand to Stacy. “I’m glad you could come.”

Stacy smiled warmly and took Loren’s hand. “I’ve always wanted to eat here. I’m grateful for the opportunity.”

“Will you join me in a drink?”

“That cold wind outside stings. I think I’d like a manhattan straight up to take the chill off.”

“I’m afraid I couldn’t wait. I already went through a martini.”

“Then you’d better have another to fight the cold when we leave.” Stacy laughed pleasantly.

Their waiter took the order and went off toward the elegant bar.

Loren replaced her napkin in her lap. “I didn’t have a proper chance to thank you on Wake Island, we were all so rushed about.”

“Dirk is the one we all owe.”

Loren turned away. She thought she had cried herself out after hearing the news of Pitt’s death, but she still felt the tears behind her eyes.

Stacy’s smile faded, and she looked at Loren with sympathy. “I’m very sorry about Dirk. I know you two were very close.”

“We had our ups and downs over the years, but we never strayed very far from each other.”

“Was marriage ever considered?” asked Stacy.

Loren gave a brief shake of her head. “The subject never came up. Dirk wasn’t the kind of man who could be possessed. His mistress was the sea, and I had my career in Congress.”

“You were lucky. His smile was devastating, and those green eyes—God, they’d make any woman melt.”

Suddenly Loren was nervous. “You’ll have to forgive me. I don’t know what’s come over me, but I have to know.” She hesitated as if afraid to continue and fidgeted with a spoon.

Stacy met Loren’s eyes evenly. “The answer is no,” she lied. “I came to his place late one night, but it was on orders from Ray Jordan to give Dirk instructions. Nothing happened. I left twenty minutes later. From that moment until we parted on Wake Island it was strictly business.”

“I know this must sound silly. Dirk and I often went our own ways when it came to seeing other men and women, but I wanted to be sure I was the only one near the end.”

“You were more deeply in love with him than you thought, weren’t you?”

Loren gave a little nod. “Yes, I realized it too late.”

“There will be others,” Stacy said in an attempt to be cheerful.

“But none to take his place.”

The waiter returned with their drinks. Stacy held up her glass. “To Dirk Pitt, a damned good man.”