"In that case I might be persuaded to string along."

Pitt nodded at the phone again. "I'll give you his private number

"I have it," Mapes said, fishing through a small box. He found the

slotted index card he was looking for and held it up. "Not that I don't

trust you, Mr. Pitt. But if you don't mind, I prefer using a number from

my own file."

"Suit yourself," said Pitt.

Mapes lifted the receiver, inserted the card in the automatic-dialer

phone, and pressed the code b.u.t.ton. "It's after twelve o'clock," he said.

"Grosfield is probably out to lunch." Pitt shook his head. "The general is a brown-bagger. He eats at his

desk."

"I always figured him for a cheapa.s.s," Mapes grunted.

Pitt smiled, hoping Mapes couldn't read the anxiety behind his eyes.

Abe Steiger rubbed the sweat from his palms on his pant legs and picked up the phone on the third ring, taking a bite from a banana before he spoke.

"General Grosfield here," he mumbled.

"General, this is Orville Mapes, of Phalanx Arms."

"Mapes, where are you? You sound like you're talking from the bottom of a barrel."

"You sound m.u.f.fled and distant, too, General."

"You caught me in the middle of a peanut-b.u.t.ter sandwich. I like them thick with gobs of mayonnaise. What's on your mind, Mapes?"

"Sorry to interrupt your lunch, but do you know a Mr. Dirk Pitt?"

Steiger forced a pause and took a deep breath before answering. "Pitt. Yes, I know Pitt. He's an investigator for the Senate Armed Forces Committee."

"His credentials are right up there, then."

"They don't go any higher," said Steiger, as though talking with a mouthful. "Why do you ask?"

"He's sitting in front of me, demanding to inspect my inventory records."

"I wondered when he'd get around to you civilians." Steiger took another bite from the banana. "Pitt is heading up the Stanton probe."

"The Stanton probe? I never heard of it."

"I'm not surprised. They're not advertising. Some do-good senator got it in his head that stockpiles of nerve-gas weapons are hidden under the Army's carpet. So he launched a probe to find them." Steiger wolfed down the last of the banana and tossed the peel in one of General Grosfield's desk drawers. "Pitt and his investigators didn't turn up so much as a pellet. Now he's after you surplus boys."

"What do you suggest?"

"What I suggest," Steiger blurted, "is that you give the b.a.s.t.a.r.d what he wants. If you have any gas canisters stashed in your warehouses, give them to him and save yourself a carload of grief. The Stanton Committee is not out to prosecute anybody. They only want to make d.a.m.ned sure some Third World dictator doesn't lay his hands on the wrong kind of weapons."

"Thanks for the advice, General," Mapes said. Then, "Mayonnaise, you say? I prefer peanut b.u.t.ter with onions, myself."

"To each his own, Mr. Mapes. Good-bye."

Steiger hung up the phone and let out a deep, satisfied sigh. Then he wiped the receiver with his handkerchief and exited into the hall. He was just in the act of closing the door to the general's office when a captain in Army green walked around a corner. The captain's eyes grew mildly suspicious at the sight of Steiger.

"Excuse me, Colonel, but if you were looking for General Grosfield, he's out to lunch."

Steiger straightened and offered the captain his best "I outrank you" stare and said, "I don't know the general. This jungle of concrete threw my sense of direction out of balance. I'm looking for the Army Accident and Safety Department. Got lost and poked my head in this office to ask directions."

The captain seemed noticeably relieved at avoiding an embarra.s.sing situation. "Oh h.e.l.l, I get lost ten times a day myself. You'll find Accident and Safety one floor down. Just take the elevator around the next corner to your right."

"Thank you, Captain."

"My pleasure, sir."

In the elevator Steiger smiled devilishly to himself as he wondered what General Grosfield would think when he found the banana peel in his desk.

Unlike most security guards who wear ill-fitting uniforms with waist belts sagged by heavy revolvers, Mapes's people looked more like

fashionably attired combat troops as imagined by the editors of Gentlemen's Quarterly magazine. Two of them stood smartly at the gate to the Phalanx warehouse grounds in neatly tailored field fatigues with the latest in a.s.sault rifles slung over their shoulders.

Mapes slowed his Rolls-Royce convertible and lifted both hands from the steering wheel in an apparent greeting. The guard nodded and waved to his partner, who pulled open the gate from the inside.

"I a.s.sume that was a signal of some kind," said Pitt.

"Pardon?"

"The hands-in-the-air routine."

"Ah yes," Mapes said. "If you had been holding a concealed gun on me, my hands would have remained on the wheel. A normal gesture. Then, as we were waved through and your attention was lulled by the guard's opening the gate, his teammate would have discreetly stepped behind the car and blown your head off."

"I'm glad you remembered to raise your hands."

"You're most observant, Mr. Pitt," said Mapes. "However, you force me to issue a new signal to the gate guards."

"I'm crushed you don't trust me to keep your secret."

Mapes did not reply to Pitt's sarcasm. He kept his eyes on a narrow asphalt road that pa.s.sed between semingly endless rows of Quonset huts. After about a mile they came to an open field crammed with heavily armored tanks in various states of rust and disrepair. A small army of mechanics was busily crawling over ten of the ma.s.sive vehicles that had been parked in formation beside the road.

"How many acres do you have?" Pitt asked.