"& Dirgo, Craig - Dirk Pitt - Clive Cussler and Dirk Pitt Revealed (b)" - читать интересную книгу автора (Cussler Clive)

"Can you return for me in about forty minutes?"

"You want to stand out here in the middle of nowhere on a cold night forforty minutes?" asked the uncomprehending driver.

"I enjoy solitude."

The cabbie shrugged his shoulders. "OK. I'll take a break for a cup ofcoffee and come back for you in forty minutes."

The man passed the driver a fifty-dollar bill and stepped from the cab.

He stood in the middle of the road beside the pole until the redtaillights of the cab faded in the distance. Then he stared at, aghostly building that seemed to materialize out of the night, itssilhouette becoming defined against the lights of the nation's capitalacross the Potomac River. Slowly, the building became physical andrecognizable as an old aircraft hangar with a rounded roof. At firstglance it appeared deserted. The surrounding land was covered withweeds, and the corrugated sides of the building wore a heavy coat ofrust. The windows were boarded over, and the huge doors that oncerolled open to admit aircraft for maintenance were welded closed.

The man standing in the road was not alone, and the hangar was notabandoned. At least two dozen cars were neatly parked in rows among theweeds. As he watched, a Lincoln Town Car pulled up to the frontentrance door of the hangar, and an elegantly dressed woman exited thecar, her door held open by a valet parking attendant.

As the man approached, he could hear the sound of voices mingled withlaughter and the music of a Dixieland jazz band blaring out "Waiting forthe Robert E. Lee." Before he made his way to the entrance,

the man with the mane of gray hair and matching beard paused for amoment, listening to the wave of conversation from inside. Finally, hestepped through the doorway and handed his overcoat to a girl who gavehim his receipt. A doorman, dressed suavely in a tuxedo, came forward.

"May I have your invitation, Sir?"

The gray-haired man looked at him and said with quiet authority, "I donot require one."

The doorman's face went blank for a moment, and then, as if realizinghis mistake, he said, "My apologies, Sir. Please enjoy the party."

Then the intruder passed into a scene that he had envisioned in his minda hundred times and that could only be described in a novel.

Row upon row of beautifully restored classic cars were positioned acrossa vast white epoxy-sealed floor.

Their gleaming mirror like paint seemed to fluoresce under the brilliantoverhead lights mounted on the girders in the rounded roof. A Germanjet from World War II and an old 1930s Ford Trimotor passenger aircraftstood parked in the far corner of the hangar.

Next to them sat an early-twentieth-century railroad Pullman car andwhat looked like a small sailboat put together by either a small childor a drunk. The man smiled as he examined a bathtub with an outboardmotor that sat on a small platform.

Hanging from the girders and along the walls were antique metal signsadvertising gasoline brands, car manufacturers, and soft drinks, many ofthem no longer in existence.

In another corner of the cavernous hangar an ornate iron circularstaircase wound up to an apartment above the main floor where the hostlived. The intruder did not make his way up the stairs. Not just yet.

There was no curiosity. He already knew every square inch of theapartment in his mind.

Tables arranged in the aisles between the cars were already filled withpeople conversing as' they drank California estate reserve wine orFrench champagne and dined on the gourmet delicacies from several buffettables stationed in a circle around an enormous ice sculpture of aMississippi steamboat that rose from a sea of blue ice with a mistswirling around its paddle wheels. The buffet table featured polishedsilver chafing dishes and iced platters kept filled with seafood ofevery variety by a small army of waiters and chefs.

The body of the man hovering around the serving lines was nothing lessthan colossal. He did not look happy. He was dabbing sweat from hisbrow and neck as he admonished the maitre d' of Le Curcel, the Nfichefinthree-star restaurant he had hired to cater the party.

"These oysters you sent over are the size of peanuts. They simply won'tdo."

"I shall have them replaced within minutes," the maitre d' promisedbefore rushing away.

"You are St. Julien Perlmutter." It was a statement, not a question,from the gray-haired man.

"Yes, I am. May I be of service to you, sir?"