“I think we best find some alternate transportation,” Pitt said, guiding Loren in the other direction. They quickly stepped toward the road, where a 1960s-era Peugeot convertible rambled by, followed by a small group of locals on foot trailing it to the waterfront park. Pitt and Loren approached the Turks and tried to melt into the small party for cover. Their attempt failed when the blue-shirted man from the restaurant appeared down the road. Shouting to his cohorts on the dock, he waved excitedly, then pointed in Pitt’s direction.
“What do we do now?” Loren asked, seeing the men on the dock move in their direction.
“Just keep moving,” Pitt replied.
His eyes were dancing in all directions, searching for an avenue of escape, but their only immediate option was to keep moving with the crowd. They followed the group into the park, finding the open grassy field now lined with two uneven rows of old cars. Pitt recognized many of the highly polished vehicles as Citroën and Renault models built in the fifties and sixties.
“Must be a French car club meet,” he mused.
“Wish we could actually enjoy it,” Loren replied, constantly gazing over her shoulder.
As the group of people around them began to disperse across the field, Pitt led Loren to a cluster of people in the first row. They were congregated around the star of the show, a gleaming early-fifties Talbot-Lago with a bulbous body designed by Italian coach-maker Ghia. Working their way to the back of the crowd, Pitt turned and surveyed their assailants.
The three men were just entering the park together at a brisk pace. Sunglasses was obviously the team leader, and he promptly directed the other two men to either edge of the field while he slowly moved toward the center row of cars.
“I don’t think we’ll be able to leave the way we came in,” Pitt said. “Let’s try to keep ahead of them. We might be able to cut up to the main road from the other end of the park and flag down a car or bus.”
“I wouldn’t be opposed to attempting a carjacking at this point,” Loren replied grimly. She moved quickly, skirting around and between the cars, with Pitt a step or two behind. They tried as best they could to use other onlookers as cover, but the crowds thinned as they moved down the row. They soon reached the last car, a postwar two-door convertible painted metallic silver and green. Pitt noticed an older man seated inside taping a “For Sale” sign to the windshield.
“The last of our cover,” Pitt remarked. “Let’s move fast to the trees.”
Pitt grabbed Loren’s hand, and they started to run across the last section of grass field. A thick line of trees circled the park’s perimeter, beyond which Pitt was certain the coastal road lay just to the west.
They’d run just twenty yards when the sight ahead ground them both to a dead stop. Beyond the trees, they could now see a high stone wall that enveloped the southern half of the park. As a deterrent to the private residence on the other side, the wall was topped with shards of broken glass. Pitt knew that even with his help there was no way Loren could quickly scale the wall and outrun their pursuers, let alone avoid a bloody scrape in the process.
Pitt wheeled around and quickly spotted the three men. They were still picking their way through the cars, slowly converging on them. Tugging Loren’s hand, Pitt began walking back toward the line of cars.
“What do we do now?” Loren asked, fear evident in her voice.
Pitt looked at her with a devilish sparkle in his eye.
“In the words of Monty Hall, let’s make a deal.”
12
“Does she sport a cotal transmission?” Pitt asked.
The older bearded man leaned over and opened the car’s driver’s-side door.
“She certainly does,” he said in a clearly American accent. “You familiar with Delahayes?” His face perked up as he gazed at the tall, dark-haired man and his attractive wife.
“I’ve long admired the marque,” Pitt replied, “especially the coachwork-bodied vehicles.”
“This is a 1948 Model 135 convertible coupe, with a custom body from the Paris shop of Henri Chapron.”
The large two-door convertible had clean but heavy lines that exemplified the simple designs of auto manufacturers immediately after World War II. Loren admired the striking green-and-silver paint scheme, which made the car look even longer.
“Did you restore it yourself?” she asked.
“Yes. I’m a miner by trade. I ran across the car at an old dacha in Georgia while working a project on the Black Sea coast. It was in rough shape but all there. Brought it back to Istanbul and had some local talent help me with the restoration. It’s not concours quality, but I think she looks nice. They squeezed a lot of speed out of her six-cylinder engine, so she runs like a demon.” He reached out a hand toward Pitt. “My name is Clive Cussler, by the way.”
Pitt shook the man’s hand, then quickly introduced himself and Loren.
“She’s a beauty,” Pitt added, though his eyes were focused on the nearby crowd. The man with the sunglasses was staring at him from five cars away, walking casually in his direction. Pitt spotted the other two men farther afield but closing from the flanks.
“Why are you selling the car?” he asked while quietly motioning Loren to approach the passenger door.
“I’m headed over to Malta for a bit and I won’t have room for it there,” the man said with a disappointed look. He smiled as Loren opened the left side suicide door. A black-and-tan dachshund sleeping on the seat gave her an annoyed look, then hopped out and ran to its owner. Loren slid into the leather-bound front passenger seat, then waved to Pitt.
“You look good in the car,” Cussler said, turning on the sales charm.
Loren smiled back. “Would it be all right if we took it for a little test-drive around the park?” she asked.
“Why, of course. The keys are in it.” He turned to Pitt. “You’re familiar with the Cotal transmission? You only need to use the clutch to start and stop.”
Pitt nodded as he quickly slipped behind the wheel of the right-hand-drive car. Turning the ignition key, he listened with satisfaction as the motor immediately fired to life.
“We’ll be back shortly,” he said, waving to the man out of the window.
Pitt reversed the car, then turned down the back row of show cars, hoping to avoid Sunglasses. The assailant stepped around the last car in line and spotted Pitt behind the wheel just as the Delahaye pulled forward. Pitt gently mashed the throttle, trying to keep the rear wheels from spinning on the slick grass as the car lurched ahead. Sunglasses hesitated, then yelled for him to stop. Pitt promptly ignored the plea as the tires found their grip and the old car accelerated quickly, leaving the man in his tracks.
Pitt could hear additional shouting over the whine of the engine, then Loren called out a warning ahead. The Topkapi thief in the blue shirt appeared along the row of cars a dozen yards ahead.
“He’s got a gun,” Loren yelled as the accelerating car drew them closer.
Pitt could see that the man had produced a handgun, which he tried to obscure by holding it flat against the side of his leg. He stood near the back of a Peugeot wood-paneled wagon, waiting for the Delahaye to draw alongside.
With the motor screaming at high revolutions, Pitt popped the French car’s tiny dash-mounted shifter into second gear. Just a few feet ahead, the blue-shirted man raised his arm holding the pistol.
“Duck down,” Pitt shouted, then floored the accelerator.
The triple-carbureted engine spurted power, throwing Pitt and Loren back into their seats. The sudden acceleration threw off the gunman’s timing as well, and he quickly struggled to aim the weapon toward the windshield. Pitt refused to give him the chance.
Yanking the steering wheel hard to the right, Pitt aimed the Delahaye’s curved prow directly for the startled gunman. Blocked by the back of the Peugeot, the man had only one way to move. Furiously backpedaling, he abandoned making a precise shot in order to avoid becoming a hood ornament.