CHAPTER 7

The industrial district along the edge of the Potomac was squalid and derelict, many of the buildings abandoned as unsuitable for even the meanest purpose. The stagnant air between the tall, closely spaced structures reeked of a pungent mixture of stagnant water, decay, and diesel fuel.

The blackness pressing down on the dilapidated warehouses was almost palpable compared to the bright lights of Georgetown and the Capitol rotunda. No overhead lamps illuminated the deserted streets. Most of the halogen bulbs above the barricaded doorways were broken or disconnected, and those few in use were dim and yellowed with age, their efforts producing little more than wispy ghosts drifting through the darkness.

Lee's silver Porsche was the only vehicle on a litter-strewn stretch of pavement, little more than an alley, squeezed between two slate gray walls. Even snugged against a dumpster and grime-coated concrete blocks, it was impossible for the classic sports coupe to be inconspicuous.

Inside the car, Amanda twisted, trying to ease a kink in her lower spine. Her legs and back were cramped from her efforts to hunker out of sight in the narrow space between the dashboard and passenger seat. She could see only shadows when she lifted her head to peer out, and even though she had rolled the windows down to listen for Lee's approach, she could hear nothing except her own shallow breathing and the occasional rustle of a rodent scratching through the trash.

How had she gotten into another of these extraordinary predicaments? Why wasn't she home, helping Phillip with his multiplication tables and listening to Mother chatter about her garden? The answer to both questions could be summed up in two words: Lee Stetson.

The phrases "use your head" and "look before you leap" were apparently foreign to the man's vocabulary. It was a wonder he was still alive, the way he rushed headlong into danger, time after time; there was no limit to his obstinacy and self-confidence. He blithely assumed he was capable dispatching any number of thieves and enemy agents, single-handed.

Dismissing her reasonable advice, Lee had crept into one of the crumbling warehouses without calling for backup, admonishing her to stay in the car, stay out of sight and not make a sound. That was nearly twenty minutes ago -- and there had been no sign of him since. Did he manage to get into the warehouse, undetected? Was he hidden somewhere inside, waiting to spring a trap on the thieves who stole the HTK missile plans and the Soviet couriers attempting to buy them? Or had he been on the receiving end of an ambush? Was he a prisoner or . . . or worse? Perhaps, even now, he lay dead or dying, in an expanding pool of blood, on the grease-stained cement floor . . . .

She'd been reading too many of her mother's spy novels, she told herself firmly, and she was letting her imagination run rampant. Lee was a fully trained agent, as he reminded her only half an hour ago, and he was perfectly capable of taking care of himself . . . . He didn't know who or what he might encounter inside the warehouse, though. He was armed . . . but so, almost certainly, were his opponents.

Would she be able to hear a gunshot from this distance? If she did, she would have no way of knowing whether the gun was Lee's . . . or one being used against him.

Should she leave the questionable safety of the Porsche to find out what was going on? No; it would it be it foolhardy wander the dark alleys or enter the warehouse with no clue to the situation within.

The keys were dangling in the ignition, but she had never learned to drive a stick shift. While she probably could get the car started, she wouldn't be able to maneuver away from the wall and out of the alley without calling attention to her presence in a place she most definitely didn't belong. She remembered the grind of the engine and the screech of gears the afternoon, many years ago, when she tried unsuccessfully to move Joe's old Volkswagen from the driveway of his boarding house. The racket then brought several students running from their rooms, doubling over with mirth when they saw the source of the commotion. The noise would be far more conspicuous on this silent street, and she doubted anyone would be amused.

Grinding her teeth, Amanda fumed at Lee Stetson's total lack of consideration, common sense and . . . and everything important. How dare he do this to her! Maybe she wouldn't sit in the car next time . . . if there was a next time.

She had almost decided to try the keys when she detected the distant rumble of an engine. More than one engine, she realized, as the sounds moved rapidly closer. There was probably some kind of office in the warehouse; perhaps Lee had managed to find a telephone and had called for backup, after all.

As the clamor grew in intensity, Amanda realized the approaching vehicles were motorcycles, not agency sedans. The volume increased until it reached an almost deafening roar, and the Porsche seemed to shiver from the vibration of huge engines. By the time tires squealed outside the car and the motors quieted to a soft hum, her ears were ringing, and the acrid smell of burned rubber stung her nostrils.

The interior of the car was now illuminated by a soft, white glow. Booted feet clattered on the pavement as heavy footsteps approached. Lifting her head, Amanda blinked against the glare emanating from a dozen headlights. Through the driver's window, shapes appeared, gradually congealing into a group of young men as her eyes adjusted to the brightness.

The apparent leader had halted a few steps from the Porsche, his minions forming a semicircle behind him. He was tall and muscular, with bushy, curling black hair brushing his broad shoulders. Silver chains jangled from his black leather jacket, denim jeans and pointed boots. When she pulled herself up onto her seat, carefully smoothing her skirt over her legs and straightening her coat, Amanda could see a cluster of motorcycles parked behind the men.

"Hello," she said, unable to keep a quaver from her voice. She offered the leader a nervous smile.

"Nice wheels," he said, his gaze sweeping appreciatively over the sports car as he moved closer. Placing both palms on the window frame, he leaned his considerable bulk against the door. The back of each hand was decorated with the head of a snake, its jaws open to exhibit dripping fangs, and the bodies of the serpents slithered up his wrists to disappear under his jacket. "You don't look so comfortable. Why don't you come out here and stretch your legs," he added, stepping back and jerking the car door open in one fluid motion.

Amanda cringed in the opposite direction, pressing herself against the passenger door. "I'm fine, thanks. I think I'll stay right here."

The man's bared his teeth and growled low in his throat. "I said, why don't you come out," he said, his voice deep and threatening.

Amanda glanced at the concrete wall, less than six inches outside the passenger window. There was no avenue of escape in that direction. "Well, all right." she said, crawling awkwardly across the center console and driver's seat, dragging the strap of her purse behind her and stepping gingerly down to the pavement. Her muscles were still stiff from being cramped inside the car, and she stumbled. A large hand caught her elbow, and she backed against the side of the car, clutching her purse against her chest.

As soon as she steadied herself, he dropped her arm and sidestepped, running a hand lovingly over Porsche's front fender. Moving to the front of the car, he opened the hood, beckoning several of his companions to join him.

Amanda stood stock still while five of the men bent over Porsche's engine, murmuring about flywheels and cylinders and pistons. She jumped when the hood slammed closed. The leader sauntered back to the driver's door and lowered himself into the seat -- a tight squeeze given his bulky frame. One hand caressed the steering wheel while the other fingered the keys.

"You don't want to steal this car," Amanda said, hoping her voice wasn't shaking. "It's twenty years old. Old cars get terrible mileage, and they break down all the time, and . . . and this one belongs to a federal agent."

The young man turned his head to stare at her. Thick eyebrows crept up his forehead, and he narrowed his dark eyes. "A federal agent? You mean like a spy?"

"They don't like to be called spies," she rasped.

"Like Remington Steele or something?" he asked, cocking his head to one side, as he studied her slender form.

Ever truthful, Amanda shook her head. "No, Remington Steele is a private investigator. Lee's more like James Bond, except, of course, James Bond works for the British government, and Lee works for our government."

Extricating himself from the Porsche, he planted himself in front of her, feet apart and arms folded across his burly chest. "How do I know you're not making this up?" He looked her up and down, his gaze lingering for a moment on her purse, as though evaluating its possible use as a weapon. He apparently found the idea humorous; he gave a snort of crude laughter. "You don't look like no federal agent, and you don't sound like one, either."

Amanda swallowed, wondering how she would force any words out past the dry lump in her throat. "I'm not a federal agent; I just came along to help. I talk when I get nervous, and I was already nervous when you got here . . . because Lee doesn't have any backup, and he's been in that warehouse for over twenty minutes, and I don't know what's happening to him . . . and national security could be at stake . . . and now you're going to steal his car, and if he survives he's going to blame me even though he's the one who left the keys in the ignition, and I stayed in the car just like he told me to do."