freak knows damn well that the "Goldfinger' car is the Aston-Martin DB-Four, not a Three.
He even went so far as to say that he could understand if someone said DB-Five, because there wasn't that much difference in the design, but never a DB-Three."
"I can't tell a Chevrolet from a Pontiac, if they make them any longer, that is."
"A car freak can, especially if he's going to pay over a hundred thousand for it. Meet me in the south parking lot. That's where Withers's Jaguar is."
The limousine entered the huge Langley complex, the driver wending his way to the south lot. They were stopped by a man in a dark suit, holding up a badge. Sorenson lowered his window.
"Yes, what is it?"
"I recognized the car, sir. If you'll get out and-follow me, I'll bring you to the DCI. There's a change of vehicles, somewhat less obvious than a limo."
"That makes sense."
The change of vehicles meant riding in a nondescript sedan of dubious ownership. Wesley climbed into the backseat alongside Knox Talbot.
"Don't let appearances fool you," said the DCI.
Chapter Thirty-Six
"This iron mother has an engine that could probably win the Indy 500."
"I'll take your word for it, but then, what choice do I have?"
"None. Besides, in addition to the two gentlemen in front, there's a second car behind us with four other gentlemen armed to their bicuspids."
"Are you expecting the invasion of Normandy?"
"I got mine in Korea, so I don't know that much about ancient history. I only know we should expect anything from these bastards."
"I'm on your side-"
"There he is," the driver broke in.
"He's heading straight for the jag."
"Go slow, man," said Talbot.
"Go with the flow, just don't lose him."
"No way, Mr. Director. I'd love to nail that son of a bitch."
"Why is that, young man?"
"He hit on my girl, my fiancee. She's in the steno pool. He got her in a corner and tried to feel her up."
"I understand," said Talbot, leaning into Sorenson's shoulder and whispering.
"I love it when there's true motivation, don't you? It's what I try to instill in my companies."
After nearly an hour's drive, the Jaguar pulled into a shabby motel on the outskirts of Woodbridge. On the far left of a row of cabins was a miniature barnlike structure with a red neon sign proclaiming cocKTAiLs, TV, , ROOMS AVAILABLE.
"The Waldorf of the quickie afternoon trade, no doubt , observed Wesley as Bruce Withers got out of his car and went into the bar.
"I'd suggest you swing around and park way to the right of the door," he continued, speaking to the driver, "next to that low-slung silver bug."
"That's the Aston, DB-Four," said Talbot, "the "Goldfinger' car."
"Yes, I remember seeing it now-a good film. But why would anyone pay a hundred thousand dollars for it? The damn thing can't be very comfortable."
"According to my manager, it's a classic, and it's well over a hundred thousand by now. Probably nearer two."
"Then where would a Bruce Withers get anywhere near that kind of money?"
"How much is it worth to the neo movement to get rid of two captured Nazis whose tongues could be loosened?"
"I see what you mean." Sorenson again addressed the front seat as the driver pulled alongside the British sports car.
"How about one of you fellows going inside and taking a look around?"
"Yes, sit," replied the agent passenger, "as soon as our backup parks.. .. There, he's in place."
"May I suggest that you loosen or remove your tie. I don't think this place sees too many men in business suits -going into the cabins, perhaps, but not in there."
The man next to the driver turned around. His tie was gone and his shirt collar unbuttoned.
"Also my coat, s1r," he said, taking off his Jacket.
"It's a hot day." The agent got out of the car, his erect posture suddenly turning to a slouch as he walked to the aoor'under the neon sign.
Inside the dimly lit bar, the clientele was a Saroyanesque mixture:
several truck drivers, men from a construction crew, two or three collegiate types, a white-haired man whose wrinkled, blotched face was once aristocratic and whose threadbare clothes still showed their original quality, and a quartet of aging local hookers. Bruce Withers had been greeted by the burly bartender.
"Hi, Mr. W," the man had said.
"You want a cabin?"
"Not today, Hank, I'm meeting someone. I don't see him-"
"Nobody's asked for you. Maybe he's late."
"No, he's here; his car's outside."
"He's probably in the can. Take a booth, and when he comes out, I'll send him over."