The Mediterranean Caper by Clive Cussler Page B

benches that adorned the middle of the room, and he lit a cigarette. Time passed, and soon he began a futile search for an ashtray.
    Then silently, with no warning, a tapestry swung aside, and an old, heavyset man entered the room, accompanied by an immense white dog.

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    Pitt, mildly stunned, looked warily at the gigantic German shepherd and then into the face of the dog’s elderly master. The evil unsmiling features, so familiar on the late, late movies on television, sat entrenched on a typical round German face, complete with the shaven head, shifty eyes and no neck. Thin lips pressed tightly together as though their owner suffered from constipation. The body fit the villainous image too; heavyset in a rotund frame of solid tissue with no flab. All that was missing was a riding quirt and the polished boots. For an instant Pitt thought, the man you love to hate, Eric von Stroheim, had returned to life and stood ready to direct a scene from Greed .
    â€œGood evening,” the old man said in a suspicious guttural tone. “You are, I believe, the gentleman my niece invited to dinner?”
    Pitt rose, one eye on the huge panting dog. “Yes sir. Major Dirk Pitt at your service.”
    An expression of surprise furrowed the brow below the tight-skinned head. “My niece led me to believe you were under the rank of sergeant, and your military occupation was garbage collecting.”
    â€œYou must forgive my American humor,” said Pitt, enjoying the other man’s confusion. “I hope my little deception has caused you no inconvenience.”
    â€œNo, a little concern perhaps, but no inconvenience.” The old German extended his hand and studied Pitt closely. “It is an honor to meet you, Major. I am Bruno von Till.”
    Pitt clasped the outstretched hand and returned the stare. “The honor is mine, sir.”
    Von Till lifted a tapestry, revealing a doorway. “Please come this way, Major. You must join me for a drink while we wait for Teri to finish dressing.”
    Pitt followed the flat form and the white hound down a dark hallway that led into a large cavernous study. The ceiling arched at least thirty feet high and was supported by several fluted Ionic column shafts. The furniture, classic in its simplicity, sparsely dotted the floor and lent an air of grace to the imposing chamber. A cart was already laid with unusual Greek hors d’oeuvres, and a recessed alcove of one wall housed a completely equipped bar. The only item of decor, Pitt noted, that seemed out of place was a model of a German submarine, resting on a shelf above the bar.
    Von Till motioned Pitt to sit down. “What will be your pleasure, Major?”
    â€œScotch rocks would be fine,” replied Pitt, leaning back in an armless couch. “Your villa is most impressive. It must have an interesting history.”
    â€œYes, it was originally built by the Romans in 138 B.C. as a temple to Minerva, their goddess of wisdom. I purchased the ruins shortly after the First World War and rebuilt it into what you see today.” He handed Pitt a glass. “Shall we drink a toast?”
    â€œTo whom or what shall we drink to?”
    Von Till smiled. “You may have the honor, Major. Beautiful women…riches…a long life. Perhaps to the president of your country. The choice is yours.”
    Pitt took a deep breath. “In that case I propose a toast to the courage and flying skill of Kurt Heibert, The Hawk of Macedonia .”
    Von Till’s face went blank. He slowly eased into a chair and toyed with his drink. “You are a very unusual man, Major. You pass yourself off as a garbage collector. You come to my villa and assault my chauffeur, and then you astound me further by proposing a toast to my old flying comrade, Kurt.” He threw a sly grin over his drink at Pitt. “However, your most outstanding performance was in seducing my niece on the beach this morning. For that feat I