Serpent

"I do have Mantons in my collection," he said.

Slocum was not to be deterred. "I might point out that these were custom-made by Mr. Manton," he said, using the honorific as if the gunsmith were still living. "These are just the weapons for a scoundrel. " Austin took no insult from the statement, understanding exactly what Slocum meant, that the pistols had built-in insurance. Using a creative combination of traveler's checks and American Express, Austin walked out of the shop with the brace of pistols.

When Austin first showed off his acquisition, Zavala held the pistol at arm's length and said, "It feels barrel-heavy."

"It is,' Austin had explained. "Gun makers like Manton knew there was something about staring down a .59 caliber muzzle that made a fellow nervous. Duelists tended to shoot high. The barrel was weighted to keep their aim down. The checkering on the grip and the trigger spur for your middle finger will help you keep it steady."

"How accurate is this thing?"

"Duels were supposed to be settled by fortune. Deliberate aiming or barrel rifling were considered unsportsmanlike. Even cause for murder." He removed the other pistol from the case. "This has 'blind rifling.' Manton made it so the grooves stopped a few inches short. You can't see them by looking into the barrel, but it's enough rifling to give you the edge. At three to five yards, it should be right on target for a snap shot."

Standing in the radio room now, Austin brought the gun up quickly and sighted down the ten-inch barrel as if it were an extension of his arm. "Just the thing for a one-armed man."

Earlier Austin had given Zavala a quick lesson in loading, so he had the concept down even if he was lacking in execution. The flat, pea-rshaped powder flask had a spring-activated shut-off that measured out the right amount of load. Zavala had no problem tamping the heavy lead ball down the barrel, but he spilled too much primer in the pan. The second pistol took half the time, and the loading was a lot cleaner. Austin told Zavala he'd make an excellent second in a matter of honor. He tucked one pistol in his sling and held the other in his right hand.

Deciding it would be too dangerous to go back through the wheelhouse, they went into the chartroom, and the captain slowly opened the aft door that led outside. With the Bowen at ready Zavala cautiously peered through the crack. All was dear. They slipped out into the night.

Austin softly called up to Mike and told him to lie low, then suggested they go down the exterior ladders and work their way toward the stem to lead the attackers away from where the others were hiding. He and the captain cautiously descended the starboard side, and Zavala went down on the port. They came together on the deck that extended to become the flat roof of the science storage section. The extension of the bridge superstructure was three levels high and nearly the width of the ship's fiftyfoot beam. The roof served double duty as a parking lot for the inflatable workboats.

Three attackers had been spotted earlier on the roof. Austin scanned the shadows, thinking that the deck was perfect for an ambush. He worried about the attackers having nightvision goggles. The roof would have been a dangerous place even if their firepower were not laughable.

He whispered to Zavala, "Do you know any insults in Spanish?"

"You're kidding. My father was born in Morales."

"We need something strong enough to draw our visitors out of hiding."

Zavala thought for a second, cupped his hands to his mouth, and let loose with a torrent in Spanish. The only word Austin recognized was madre, repeated several times over. Nothing happened.

"I don't understand it," Zavala said. "Hispanics usually go crazy at any insult to their mother. Maybe I'll go to work on their sisters.'

He fired off more insults. Louder and with more of a sneer in his voice. The echoes of the last barbs had hardly faded when two figures stepped from behind. the workboats and sprayed the deck with gunfire. Austin was crouched with Zavala and the captain behind a large deck winch. The firing stopped suddenly as the shooters exhausted the bullets in their magazines.

"I think they took it the wrong way," Austin said.

"Must be my Mexican accent. What do you figure? AK 74s?" The AK 74 was the newer version of the terrorists' favorite firearm, the venerable AK47.

"That's my guess, too. Hard to mistake the sound"

His words were drowned by the ugly chatter of gunfire. The air was filled with the whine of ricocheting bullets being fired at a rate of four hundred rounds a minute. Again the firing stopped

Austin and Zavala took advantage of the intermission and rose to move to a position where they might have a clear shot. They heard a shout from the captain.

"Behind you!"

The two men whirled as a shadow dropped noiselessly from the deck immediately above them. Austin saw him first. His good arm came up in a swift motion, and he pulled the trigger. There was a second of delay as the sparks from the flint ignited the powder pan. After what seemed like hours the pistol belched fire like a dragon's mouth. The figure took a step forward and collapsed. The gun he was carrying clattered to the deck.

Zavala made a move to retrieve the gun. It was too risky now that the muzzle flash had revealed their position. With Zavala covering their rear, Austin and the captain moved toward the nearest stairwell and down to the next deck.

Gunfire was coming from every direction. They looked for cover. Too late. The captain cried out, clutched his head, and fell to the deck. Zavala grabbed the captain's arm and pulled him out of harm's way. More shots, and Zavala went down as a bullet plowed through his left buttock.

They had their backs to the science section. Austin opened a bulkhead door and, without checking to see if it was safe, grabbed the captain by the collar and pulled him inside. Zavala was crawling with one leg dragging limply behind him, but with some help he, too, made it through the portal.

Austin bolted the steel door shut and looked around. They were in one of the "wet" labs, so called because of the large sinks and running seawater He knew the room by heart and easily found a flashlight, then a firstaid kit, inside a storage locket:

He examined Zavala's wound arid breathed a sigh of relief when he saw that the bullet had gone in and out of the flesh. As Austin worked to bind up the wound not an easy task with only one working hand, Zavala kept the Bowen leveled, at the door they had just come in.

"How bad is it?" he said finally.

"You won't like sitting for a while, and you might have to explain that you weren't running for the hills when you got hit. Otherwise, you'll be okay. I don't think they knew where we were. Just shooting wild."

Zavala looked at Austin's sling and then at the prone figure of the captain. "I'd hate to be around when they were really aiming."

Austin examined the captain's head. The close-cropped salt-and-pepper hair was matted with blood, but the wound looked to be a graze. The captain groaned as Austin applied antiseptic to the bloodied scalp.

"How do you feel?" Austin asked.

"I've got a hell of a headache, and I'm having a hard time seeing."

"Think of it as a hangover without the taste of booze in your mouth," Austin advised.

His ministrations finished, Austin looked at his bloodstained comrades and shook his head. "So much for guerrilla warfare."

"Sorry I lost the shotgun," the captain said.

Zavala said, "You should be. I could be using it for a crutch." He looked around. "See anything in here we can use to make an atomic bomb with?"

Austin squinted at the rows of chemicals and finally picked up an empty flask. "Maybe we can use these for Molotov cocktails." He glanced at the door they had just come through. "We can't stay here. They're going to figure out what happened to us when they see the blood trail."

Austin helped his partner into the next section, the high-ceiling garage that was home to the submersible when it wasn't plumbing the depths.

"What about those Molotov cocktails?" Zavala said.

Austin's mouth clamped into a tight and not very pleasant smile, and a hard gleam of anger flickered in eyes that had shifted in shade from coral blue to ice water. For all their wisecracks he and Zavala knew that if they failed, Nina and the others on board were as good as dead. The people crowded into the bow would be found, and these black-suited killers would dispatch them with the same coldbloodedness with which they wiped the archaeological expedition off the face of the earth. Austin vowed that was not going to happen as long as he was able to draw a breath.

"Forget the cocktails," he said with a quiet ferocity.. "I've got a better idea."

10 AUSTIN LEANED AGAINST THE METAL skin of the submersible, and under the unblinking gaze of the vehicle's porthole eyes he outlined his plan. Zavala, who was sitting at the edge of a sea sled to give his wounded haunch a rest, nodded appreciatively.

A classic Kurt Austin strategy, depending on splitsecond timing, unsupported assumptions, and lots of luck. Given the fact that we've got our backs against the sea, I say we go for it."

The captain shook his head in unison with Zavala's grin. The man would fall over with a good push, yet he acted as if he had a Fifth Cavalry division behind him. With the butt of the dueling pistol sticking out of his bloodsoaked sling, the silverhaired Austin could have passed for a Hollywood buccaneer in an Errol Flynn movie. Phelan decided that if he had to fight for his ship against such lousy odds, he was glad these two lunatics were on his side.

Their strategy session done, they crept through a rear door that led from the submersible garage onto the stern deck Just behind the towering science storage structure, two portable container vans had been lashed ,to the deck for use as extra lab space. The three men made their way around the vans and across the deck until they were at the very stern of the ship under the massive beams of the aft A-frame that was used to lift the submersible in and out of the ocean.

The deck appeared to be deserted, but Austin knew they wouldn't remain alone for very long, and in fact he was counting on having company.

"What do you want me to do?" the captain asked Austin.

Austin regretted that he ever had any doubts about the doughty old sea dog.

"You're the only one with two whole arms and legs. Since brainpower doesn't count with this phase of the operation, you get to do the grunt work."

Under Austin's one-armed direction, the captain transported four of the gasoline tanks used by the workboats from a.storage area and strung them evenly spaced in a line across the deck about halfway between the Aframe and the van labs. Each molded red polyethylene tank held nine gallons.

The captain felt dizzy after the work and had to rest. .Austin, who was lightheaded from the blood he'd lost, couldn't blame him. Zavala had located a short wooden paddle to use as a cane and was thumping about the deck like Long John Silver. He said he was fine, but he clenched his teeth as. he eased himself onto a cable drum of a deck winch.

"Guess we won't be giving to a blood bank anytime soon," Austin said. "We'd better get this show moving before we all keel over. It's vital that we make them come to us."

"1 can try greeting them in Spanish again. That worked the last time."

Remembering the violent reaction Zavala's taunts provoked on the upper deck, Austin said, "Let 'em have it."

Zavala drew a deep breath and in the loudest voice he could muster let fly a string of insults that called the character of the listeners' families into question in every way imaginable. Fathers, brothers, and sisters, assigning to each an imaginative array of perversions. Austin had no idea what he was saying, but the sarcastic needling tone left no mistake about the meaning of the scornful barbs.

While Zavala threw out the bait, Austin got a tight grip on one of the deck hoses and signaled the captain to turn on the water. The hose jerked as if it were alive. Austin walked across the deck, sweeping the spray back and forth.

The water hit the deck with a spattering hiss that was drowned out by Zavala's insults. Barely visible in the moonlight, a whitefoamed ripple began to advance. Austin kept the miniature wave moving until it almost reached the gas tanks.

Zavala's taunts failed to work their scatalogical magic this time. The enemy had become wary after the last episode. Austin grew impatient. He drew the dueling pistol from his sling, pointed it in the air, and fired. If his scheme failed, a single bullet wasn't going to help much anyhow. The rise worked. Before long, dusky ghosts that were more spectral than real in the faint light of the moon materialized from the shadows around the cargo containers and began to advance slowly toward them.

Austin again had a scary thought that they might have night-vision goggles, but he quickly put it out of his mind. The intruders were moving more cautiously than they did in the earlier attacks, but they showed no sign of being deterred from their task. Austin estimated that it would be only seconds before powerful flashlights clicked on and lethal gunfire sprayed the deck.

The ripple was nearly at the containers.

Red lights glowed in the darkness. Laser sights that would give the gunmen unerring aim.

Austin gave the signal to Zavala.

"Now. "

Zavala was sitting in the center of the deck, favoring his good side, his eyes glued on the barely visible line of foam that marked the edge of the advancing water He lifted the Bowen revolver in both hands, sighted on the tank farthest to his right, and pulled the trigger.

The revolver roared like a miniature howitzer. The tank disintegrated as a fountain of gasoline showered the deck. Zavala quickly moved the leveled pistol to the left. Three more times he fired. Three more tanks were blown to pieces. The thirty-six gallons of gasoline spread out in an expanding puddle.

Austin ordered the captain to turn up the pressure. Floating on the surface of the moving water, the gasoline surged forward and eddied around the prone forms of the attackers who lay bellydown on the deck where they had flattened out at the first roar of Austin's oversized pistol. They got up, and if they thought about the precariousness of wearing gas-soaked clothes as a puddle of waterborne fuel lapped at their shoes, it was too late to do anything about it. All that was needed to turn the deck into an inferno was a spark, and Zavala was glad to provide one.

Zavala put the empty Bowen aside and picked up the flare gun. Austin had been watching the figures get to their feet.

"Now!" he yelled again.

Zavala pulled the trigger. The glowing projectile streaked down at an angle and skipped across the fleck in a phosphorescent explosion of streamers. The deck erupted in flames, and Zavala threw his arm up for protection against the hot blast.

A moving wall of yellow flame swept toward the blackclad figures who were thrown into relief as the volatile liquid they were standing in ignited like a napalm bomb. The fire quickly enveloped them as it fed on the gas-soaked clothes and transformed the figures into blazing torches. The intense heat sucked the air out of their lungs. Before they could take a step they crumpled to the deck. Bullets from the useless guns flew in all directions through the cloud of billowing black smoke.

Austin hadn't foreseen this dangerous byproduct of his plan. He yelled out to the captain to grab cover, then helped Zavala. They huddled behind the winch drum until the gunfire ceased.

The blaze used up the fuel and blew itself out almost as quickly as it started. Austin told Zavala and the captain to stay put and walked forward. Five steaming corpses lay in fetal position on the deck.

"Everything okay?" Zavala called.

"Yeah, but it's the last time they'll come to one of our barbecues."

Zavala's voice rang out. "Watch it, Kurt, there's another one."

Austin automatically reached for his sling only to realize he had left the useless dueling pistol behind. He froze as a shadow detached itself from behind the base of a crane off to one side. He was out in the open. The Bowen was empty. He was dead. He waited for a fusillade of hot lead to cut him down. He'd be a perfect target against the flames flickering on the water's surface. Zavala and the captain would be next.

Nothing happened. The figure was running away toward the starboard side where Austin had first discovered the grappling hooks.

Austin took a step to follow, then stopped. Unarmed, wounded, and just plain worn out, he could only stand there helplessly as an outboard motor coughed into life. He waited until the motor's buzz faded into the distance, then walked back to Zavala and the captain.

"Guess our head count was off," Zavala said.

"Guess so." Austin let out the breath he'd been holding. He wanted to lie down and take a nap, but there was one more thing he had to do. Mike was still on the roof of the bridge, and the crew and researchers were barricaded in the bow section.

"You wait here. I'll tell the others they can come up for air."

He picked his way around the charred bodies and made his way toward the bow section where the crew and scientists were hiding. Austin was not a coldblooded man, but he reserved his compassion for those who deserved it. Moments ago the flesh-and-blood entities that had inhabited these smoking charcoal shells were intent on killing him and his friends and colleagues. Something he could not let happen under any circumstances Particularly to Nina, for whom he was forming a growing attachment. It was as simple as that.

This was obviously the same team that wiped out the archaeological expedition. They had come to finish the job. Austin and the others had just been in the way The assassins had been stopped, but Austin knew that as long as Nina Kirov was alive, this wasn't going to be the end of it.

India

11 THE MONSOONS THAT SWEEP ACROSS India from the Arabian Sea drop most of their rain on the mountain range known as the Western Ghats. By the time the moist air currents reach the Deccan in southeast India the downpour has diminished to a mere twenty-five inches. As Professor Arthur Irwin stood in the mouth of the cave looking out at the sheets of water pouring down from the slate-colored sky, he found it hard to believe this was supposedly the same amount of rainfall London gets. The afternoon shower that was just ending would by itself have been enough to float the Houses of Parliament.

The cave opening was on a sloping hillside that overlooked a narrow valley choked by lush greenery. The dense forest south of the Ganges River is the most ancient part of India and was once known as a remote and dangerous place haunted by demons.

Irwin was less worried about demons than the welfare and whereabouts of his party. It had been six hours since Professor Mehta had set off for the village with their taciturn guide. The village was about an hour's hike along a muddy road and across a stream. He hoped the bridge hadn't been knocked out in a sudden flash flood. He sighed. Nothing he could do about it; he would simply have to wait. He had plenty of supplies and much to occupy himself. Irwin went back into the cave, walking between a pair of pillars under a horseshoe arch into the cool central hall or chapel.

Poor Mehta. This was his expedition, after all. He'd been so excited when he called and said, "I need a middleaged Cantabrigian ethnologist for a small expedition. Can you come to India? At my expense."

"Has the Indian Museum suddenly become less parsimonious?"

"No, but it's not the museum. I'll explain later."

The Buddhist monks who had carved the cave from sheer rock with pick and ax were following the words of the Master, who advised his followers to take a "rain rest" for meditation and study during the monsoon season.

Doorways on either side of the chapel opened into the spartan monks' cells. The stone couches where Irwin and the other men spread their sleeping bags were not the most comfortable of sleeping platforms, but at least they were dry.

The main hall was built like a Christian basilica. Light from the door reached the far end where the altar would be in a church. Irwin marveled at the artfully sculpted pillars that supported the barrel ceiling. Along the walls were scenes from the life of Buddha and, most interesting to Irwin, court and domestic paintings that portrayed the everyday existence of people and allowed the cave to be dated at about A.D. 500.

The Deccan was famous for its cave monasteries, and as far as anyone knew, all had been discovered. Then this one was found, its entrance hidden behind vegetation. On their first visit Mehta and Irwin were examining the paintings when the guide; who had wandered off, called out to them from an anteroom.

"Come quickly! A man!"

They exchanged glances, thinking that the guide had discovered a skeleton: When they entered the cool dark space and flashed their lights on the comer, they saw a stone figure perhaps five feet long. The man reclined, his head turned to one side. On his belly he held a dishshaped receptacle.

Irwin stared for a moment in disbelief, then went back into the chapel and sat down.

Mehta followed him out. "What is it, Arthur?"

"That figure. Have you ever seen anything like that?"

"No, but obviously you have."

Irwin tugged nervously at his goatee. "I was traveling in Mexico some, years ago. We stopped at the Mayan ruins at Chichen Itza. There's a larger version of this figure there. It's called a chac mool. That dishlike receptacle the figure is holding was used to catch blood during sacrifices."

"Mexico," Mehta said without conviction.

Irwin nodded. "When I saw it here, it was so out of time and place . . ."

"I understand, of course. But perhaps you're mistaken. There are a great many similarities in cultures."

"Maybe. We've got to get it back for authentication."

Mehta's sad eyes became even sadder. "We haven't even started our work."

"There's no reason why we can't still do it, but this is important."

"Of course, Arthur," Mehta said with resignation, remembering how impulsive Irwin was even whey they were students at Cambridge.

They trekked back to the village and retrieved their truck, which they drove to the nearest town that had a telephone. Mehta suggested they call Time-Quest, the nonprofit foundation that was funding the original expedition, and ask for more money to pay to remove the artifact. He explained that the only strings attached were that Time-Quest be notified of any significant find.

After a lengthy conversation, Mehta hung up and smiled. "They said we can hire some villagers but to wait until they get someone to us with the money. I told them the monsoon season is almost here. They said forty-eight hours."

They went back to the cave and worked at the site photographing and cataloging. Two days later Mehta and the guide set off for the village to meet the Time-Quest representative. Then the rains came.

Irwin worked on his notes. When the others hadn't arrived by dusk, he cooked curried rice and beans. It grew dark, and it looked as if he would be spending the night alone. So he was pleased when he heard a quiet footfall as he finished washing the dishes with spring water from a cistern.

"At last, my friends," he said over his shoulder. "I'm afraid you've missed dinner, but I might be persuaded to cook more rice."

There was no reply He turned and saw a figure standing just out of range of the light cast by the lamp. Thinking he might be a villager sent by Mehta, Irwin said, "You startled me. Did Mehta send you with a message?"

In silent reply, the figure took a step forward. Metal gleamed in the stranger's hand, and in the last terrifying moments of his life Irwin realized what had happened to Mehta and the guide, even if he didn't know why.

China

12 HOW FAR ARE WE FROM THE SITE, CHANG?"

The wiry man standing at the riverboat's long tiller held up two fingers.

"Two miles or two hours?" Jack Quinn said.

A gaptoothed grin appeared on the steersman's wizened fare. He shrugged and pointed to his ear. Either the question had exceeded his meager grasp of English or he simply couldn't hear over the racket generated by an antique Evinrude outboard motor.

Worn valves, defective muffler, and a loose housing that vibrated like a drumhead combined in an uproar that echoed off the riverbanks and drowned out all attempts at verbal communication.

Quinn ran his fingers through thinning black hair and adjusted his stocky body in a vain attempt to locate a more comfortable position for his posterior. It was a lost cause. The low-slung, narrow-beamed craft was shaped vaguely like a surfboard and partially covered by a rough deck whose sunsplintered surface discouraged sitting.

Quinn finally gave up. He hunched his shoulders and stared with glazed eyes at the passing scenery. They had left the rice paddies and tea plantations behind them. Occasionally they passed a fishing village and a grazing water buffalo, but soon only golden fields rolled off to mistshrouded mountains in the distance. The beauty of China was lost on Quinn. He could think only of Ferguson, his project manager.

The first message from Ferguson had been exciting.

"Found many clay soldiers. This could be bigger than Van."

Quinn knew right away that Ferguson was talking about the seven-thousand-strong army of terracotta soldiers discovered in an imperial mausoleum near the Chinese city of Van. It was the sort of news Quinn liked to relay to the governing board of the East Asia Foundation, which he served as executive director.

The foundation was set up by a group of wealthy patrons to promote eastwest understanding and atone for the opium trade. It was also a tax writeoff so those living comfortably off the fortunes their forebears made hooking hundreds of thousands of Chinese on drugs could enjoy their wealth to the fullest.

As part of its program the foundation sponsored archaeological digs in China. These were popular with the board because they cost the foundation nothing, being largely subsidized by enthusiastic amateurs who paid money to participate, and because they sometimes made the front page of The New York Times.

Quinn would visit a site when he could be sure of favorable publicity, but it usually took a lot to pry him from the mahogany and leather comfort of his New York office.

The second message from the field was even better than the first.

"Found exciting artifact. Details to follow"

Quinn had already primed his newspaper and TV contacts when the third message arrived.

Artifact is Mayan!"

Before taking the foundation job, Quinn had run a university museum and had a sketchy knowledge of ancient cultures. He fired off a reply to Ferguson: "Mayan is not Chinese. Impossible."

A few days later he heard from Ferguson again. "Impossible but true. No kidding."

That night Quinn packed a bag and took the next flight to Hong Kong, where he caught a train to the interior. After a bus ride of several hours he arrived at the river just in time to hitch a ride with Chiang. In addition to keeping the expedition supplied, Chiang served as postman, running communications to a telegraph office, which explained why the messages were so agonizingly slow.

Quinn learned that Chiang had visited the site a few days before, which must have been when he picked up Ferguson's last letter. Quinn's anger had been building during the course of his long, hard journey. It was only a question of whether he would fire Ferguson before or after he threw him in the river. As they neared the site, Quinn began to wonder if Ferguson had simply gone raving mad. Maybe it was something in the water.

Quinn still hadn't decided on a course of action when the boat angled in and bumped up against the shore where the banking had been worn down by foot traffic. Chiang tied up at a post stuck in the ground, then he and Quinn both grabbed a couple of boxes with supplies and began to walk inland.

As they followed a path through high yellow grass, Quinn asked, "How far?"

One finger. Quinn figured it to be one hour or one mile. He was wrong on both counts. One minute later they came upon an area where the grass had been tramped down in a more or less circular shape.

Chiang put down his load and gestured at Quinn to do the same.

"Where's the camp?" Quinn said, looking for people or tents.

Chiang's face was creased in a puzzled frown. Tugging at his scraggly beard, he pointed emphatically to the ground.

End of a perfect day Quinn fumed. He was tired and dirty, his stomach was roiling like a boiled pot, and now his guide was lost. Chiang said something in Chinese and motioned for Quinn to follow. After a few minutes' walk he stopped and pointed to the ground. A couple of acres of dirt had been turned over.

Quinn walked along the perimeter of the disturbed soil until his eye caught a roundish object protruding from the dirt. He dug away at it with his hands and after a few minutes revealed the head and shoulders of a terracotta soldier. He dug some more and found other soldiers.

This must be the site, but there should be about a dozen people here. Where the hell was everybody? Chiang glanced fearfully around him. "Devils," he said, and ' without another word trotted back toward the river.

The air grew colder as if a cloud had passed over the sun. Quinn realized he was all alone. The only sound was the snakelike rustle of the breeze through the grass. He took one last look around and dashed toward the retreating figure, leaving behind the ranks of silent soldiers entombed in the earth.

FairFax County, Virginia

13 IN THE SULTRY STILLNESS OF THE Virginia morning Austin shoved off from the boat ramp, wrapped his thick fingers around the carbonfiber oar handles, and with a long smooth pull sent his arrow-slim racing scull darting into the sparkling waters of the Potomac River.

Sculling on the Potomac was a daily ritual Austin followed faithfully in between assignments. As the doctor ordered, he had given his left side a rest. Once the stitches healed he began his own therapy regimen using the weights and machines in his exercise room and daily swims in his pool. He had gradually increased the demands on his body until he considered it safe to row without tearing newly mended muscle.

The time to test the regimen came on a particularly lovely day when the siren call of the river became impossible to resist. He hauled his sleek twenty-one-foot-long Maas Aero racing scull from the lower level of the boathouse he'd converted into his home just below the palisades in Fairfax County. Jockeying the light shell down the ramp and into the water was not difficult. The real adventure was getting into the slender boat without tipping it over.

His first attempt to row was pure disaster. The Concept 11 composite oars were featherlight, but with their ninefoot length and the weight and pressure of the blades against the water, Austin took only a few painful strokes before turning back in a cold sweat. His side felt as if a meat hook hung off it. He deliberately capsized the shell near shore, staggered into the house, and stood in front of the medicine cabinet looking at his ashen reflection as he popped painkillers that only slightly dulled the agony. He waited a few days then tried again. He favored his right arm, and the uneven strokes tended to send the scull into an unpretty series of connected arcs, but at least he was moving. Within days he could row without gritting his teeth.

Eventually the stiffness lessened. Today the only reminder of the assassin's lucky shot was the twinge he experienced during his warmup stretches. He felt good from the moment he slipped into the open cockpit, tucked his feet into the dogs bolted to the foot rests, and pushed the sliding seat back and forth a few times on its twin runners to limber up his abdominal muscles. He adjusted the "buttons," the collars that rest against the outrigger oarlocks, to make sure they were positioned to deliver the maximum power with each stroke.

Leaning forward, Austin dipped the blades into the water and gingerly pulled the oar handles back, letting the weight of his body work for him. The scull skimmed over the surface like a water bug. This was the best day yet. Any residual pain was overwhelmed by his joy at being able to row with a normal rhythm. He sat straight up, hands overlapped for easier pulling. Rowing slowly at first, he used a moderate forward reach and a long pull. At the end of each stroke he feathered the oars, turning them almost horizontal to reduce wind resistance, the blades inches above the water as they came forward. He grunted with satisfaction; he was rowing well.

The scull glided upriver as quietly as a whisper past the stately old mansions that lined the shore. The misty flower-scented river air that filled his lungs was like the perfume of an old love. Which in a way was true. For Austin, rowing was more than his main physical exercise. With its emphasis on technique rather than power this melding of mind and body was like a Zen meditation. Totally focused now, he increased his stroke rate, gradually unleashing more of the power in his broad shoulders, until the dial of the Strokecoach just above his toes showed him rowing at a normal twenty-eight strokes per minute.

Sweat rolled down from under the visor of his turquoise NUMA baseball cap, the back. of his rugby shirt was soaked with perspiration, and his butt was numb despite the seat padding of the bike shorts. But his senses were telling him that he was alive. The sleek shell flew over the river as if the oars were wings. He planned to row the first leg for forty-five minutes, then reverse and let the lazy current give him an easy ride back. There was no sense pushing his luck.

A blinding flash of light caught his eye from the riverbank. The sun was reflecting off the glass of a tripod-mounted spotting scope. A man sat on a folding chair on the shore peering into the scope's eyepiece. He had on a white cotton hat pulled down low over his brow, and the rest of his face was hidden behind the scope. Austin had seen the same man for the first time several days earlier and had figured him for a birdwatcher: Except for one thing: the scope was always trained on Austin.

Minutes later Austin made the planned turn and started downriver. As he approached the birdwatcher again he shipped his oars, letting the current take him, and waved, hoping the man would lift his head. The eye remained glued to the scope. Austin studied the birdwatcher as the scull glided silently by Then he grinned and with a shake of his head took up the oars again and pulled for home.

The Victorianstyle boathouse had been part of a riverfront estate. With its pale blue clapboards and mansard roof surmounted by a turret, it was a miniature of the main house except for interior modifications. Austin steered the shell toward shore, climbed out onto the ramp, and pulled the scull up and under the boathouse. He maneuvered it onto a rack next to another one of his toys, a small outboard hydroplane. Austin had two other boats, a twenty-two-foot catboat and a fullsized racing hydroplane, tied up at a Chesapeake Bay marina.

He liked the catboat's classic lines and history and the fact that despite its tubby hull and single sail it was fast, especially with the modifications he'd built into it, and could beat the pants off bigger and sleeker craft. The cat was weatherly too, and he pushed it to extremes of weather and distance just for the thrill of it. While Austin enjoyed the mental challenges of rowing and could sail a boat almost from the time he could walk, he had acquired a taste for speed early in life and raced boats since he was ten. His big love on his time off was still racing boats.

With the scull stowed, he climbed an inside stairway to the main level, then another short flight to the turret bedroom. He tossed his rowing clothes into a hamper and washed away the morning's exertions with a hot shower. As he toweled off in front of the mirror he examined the bullet wound. It had lost its angry redness and turned pinkish. Soon it would join the other pale scars that stood out against his walnut skin. All souvenirs of violent encounters. Sometimes he wondered if his body naturally attracted projectiles and sharp instruments the way a magnet draws metal filings.

Dressed in clean shorts and T-shirt, he went into the kitchen, brewed half a pot of strong Kenyan coffee; and rustled up a pan of bacon and eggs. He carried the plate through a slider to the deck overlooking the Potomac and watched the river go by as he ate breakfast. Still enjoying the cholesterol rush, he refilled a mug of coffee, then went into his combination study-den. He put a Coltrane CD on the stereo, settled into a black leather chair, and listened to Anton Sax's instrument sing in voices its creator could never have dreamed were possible. It was not surprising that Austin favored progressive jazz. In a way the sounds of Coltrane, Oscar Peterson, Keith Jarrett, Bill Evans, and other artists in his extensive music library reflected Austin's own personality: a steely coolness that masked intense energy and drive, the ability to reach deep into his soul when superhuman effort was needed, and a talent for improvisation.

The spacious room was an eclectic collection of the old and the new, authentic darkwood colonial furniture, and white walls hung with contemporary originals. Curiously for a man who was raised in and around the sea and who spent much of his life on or under the water, there were few nautical items. A primitive painting of a sailing clipper done by a Hong Kong Picasso for a China Trade skipper, a nineteenth-century chart of the Pacific, a couple of shipbuilding tools, a photo of his catboat, and a glass-encased scale model of his racing hydroplane.

His bookshelves held the leatherbound sea adventures of Joseph Conrad and Herman Melville and dozens of books of ocean science. But the most hand worn volumes were those of writers like Plato, Kant, and the other great philosophers he liked to study. Austin was aware of the dichotomy but saw no oddity in it. More than one sea captain had retired inland after a career on the bounding main. Austin wasn't yet ready to move to Kansas, but the sea was a wild and demanding mistress, and he needed this quiet refuge from its crushing embrace.

As he sipped his coffee his eye fell on the brace of Mantons mounted on the wail over the fireplace. Austin had nearly two hundred sets of dueling pistols in his collection: Most of the pairs were stored in a fireproof vault. He kept the more recent acquisitions at the boathouse. He was fascinated not only by the workmanship and deadly beauty of the pistols but by the twists and turns of history that may have been launched by a well-placed ball fired on a quiet morning. He pondered how the republic might have fared if Aaron Burr had not killed Alexander Hamilton. The Mantons brought his mind back to the Nereus incident. What a strange night! In the days he'd been home recovering Austin had replayed the attack in his mind again and again, fast-forwarding, freezing action, and rewinding like a VCR.

After the battle the exertion and loss of blood caught up with Austin. He had barely taken a dozen steps before he could go no farther, collapsing in slowmotion and ending up in a sitting position. Captain Phelan had been the one to tell the crew all was safe. They came out of hiding, scraped Austin and Zavala off the deck, and carried them on stretchers to sickbay. On the way they passed the body of the assailant Austin had nailed with

a single shot from his dueling pistol. At Austin's direction they stopped, and a crewman with a strong stomach pulled the mask off the dead man. The face was that of a man in his thirties, dark-complexioned, with a thick black mustache, his features otherwise unremarkable except for the round hole in the forehead.

Zavala sat up on his stretcher and let out a low whistle. "'Tell me you had a laser sight on that old blunderbuss. A moving target in the dark! If I hadn't seen it I'd say a shot like that was impossible." ,

"It is impossible," Austin said with a rueful smirk. "I was playing it safe With a body shot."

As he explained to Zavala while their wounds were properly bandaged, his uncanny accuracy had nothing to do with his aim or the pistol's disreputable barrel grooving. In his haste Austin had turned the small pressure adjusting screw next to the trigger in the wrong direction and set the pistol with a hair trigger. Thank goodness for Manton's barrelweighted idiotproofing.

A oilcompany helicopter summoned by an emergency radio call plucked the wounded men and Nina Kirov from the Nereus and dropped them off in Tarfaya. Captain Phelan refused to leave his ship, and after the physician's mate had ascertained he'd be able to function on a limited basis within a few days, he stayed on to take the Nereus to the Yucatan. Within hours Austin and Zavala were on a NUMA executive jet that had been diverted to Morocco on its way to the United States from Rome. Nina hitched a ride on the plane to Dulles airport. The painkiller Austin was given knocked him for a loop, and he slept almost the entire flight. His. recollections were vague, but he remembered dreaming that a blond angel kissed him lightly on the cheek. When he awoke he was in Washington. Nina was gone, having caught the shuttle for Boston. He wondered whether he'd ever see her again. After spending a couple of days in the hospital he and Zavala were sent home, told to take their medication faithfully and give their bodies a chance to heal.

The jangle of the phone jolted Austin out of his reverie. He picked up the receiver and heard a crisp greeting. "Good morning Kurt, how are you feeling?"

"I'm coming along quite well, Admiral Sandecker. Thank you for asking. Although I must admit to being a little bored."

"Glad to hear that. Your boredom is about to come to an abrupt end. We're meeting tomorrow at nine to see if we can get to the bottom of this Moroccan business. I'm bringing Zavala in as well. He's been seen around Arlington in his convertible, so I assume he, too, is bored with inactivity."

Zavala, who drove a 1961 Corvette, mostly because it was the last model with a trunk, had used his time to tinker in his basement, where he liked to restore mechanical contrivances and create new technical underwater devices. As soon as he was able to walk without falling over he started working out at a boxing gym. Joe was never bored when there were women around, and he'd been making the most of the sympathetic leverage his wound got him.

Austin had talked to Zavala numerous times on the phone. For all the fun Joe was having, he was itching for action. Austin was telling the truth when he said, "I'm sure he's eager to get back to work, Admiral."

"Splendid. By the way I understand you're well enough to qualify for a spot on the Olympic crew team."

As coxswain, maybe. One suggestion, sir. The next time you hire someone to impersonate a birdwatcher, you might make sure he isn't wearing dress shoes and knee socks."

Pause. "I don't have to remind you that NUMA does not have the same pool of clandestine operatives that your Langley neighbors have at their beck and call. I asked Joe McSweeney, one of NUMA s bean counters from accounting, to quietly see how you were coming along. He passes your house commuting to work. Sounds as if a James Bond bug bit him and he took the job more seriously than I imagined. Hope you don't mind."

"No problem, sir. I appreciate your concern. It's better than having daily phone calls from headquarters."

"Thought you might think so. Incidentally Mac does know his birds."

"I'm sure he does," Austin said. "See you tomorrow, Admiral."

Austin hung up, chuckling at Sandecker's paternalism and his disingenuous shot at the CIA whose headquarters were less than a mile from the boathouse. The admiral's agency was primarily scientific, but its operations as the undersea counterpart of NASA were naturally made for intelligence gathering that rivaled or even surpassed the best "the Company" could come up with.

Sandecker envied the CIA's bottomless budget and limited accountability, although he himself was no slouch at prying funding from Congress. He could muster the support of twenty top universities with schools in the marine sciences and a host of large corporations. With its five thousand scientists, engineers, and others; its ongoing studies in deep ocean geology and mining, biological studies of sea life, marine archaeology, and climatology; and its farflung fleet of research vessels and aircraft, NUMAs reach extended to every part of the globe.

Hiring Austin away from the CIA had been a major Sandecker coup. Austin came to NUMA in a roundabout fashion. He had studied for his master's degree in systems management at the University of Washington and attended a high-rated dive school in Seattle. He'd trained as an underwater jack-of-all trades, which meant he was proficient in basics such as welding, the commercial application of explosives, and mud diving. He specialized in flotation, lifting heavy objects from the sea, and deep-sea saturation diving in various environments using mixed air and undersea chambers. After working on oil rigs in the North Sea a couple of years, he returned to his father's marine salvage company for six years before being lured into a little-known branch of the CIA that specialized in underwater intelligence gathering. He was assistant director of the secret raising of a Russian submarine and the salvage and investigation of an Iranian container ship carrying nuclear weapons that was sunk clandestinely by an Israeli submarine. He also conducted several investigations into commercial airlines that had been mysteriously shot down over the sea, locating, salvaging, and investigating the incidents.

At the end of 'the Cold War the CIA closed down the undersea investigation branch. Austin probably would have drifted into another CIA section had he not been hired by Admiral Sandecker for special undersea assignments that often took place outside the realm of government oversight. Sandecker could cry poor mouth and point at Langley all he wanted, but he was well acquainted with cloak-and-dagger operations.

Austin glanced at his watch. Ten o'clock. It would be seven in Seattle. He picked up the phone and punched out a number. A voice with a buzzsaw edge answered.

"Good morning," Austin said. "It's your number one son."

About time you called."

"I talked to you yesterday, Pop."

"A lot can happen in twenty-four hours," Austin's father replied with good-natured gruffness.

"Oh? Like what?"

"Like landing a multi-million dollar contract with the Chinese. That's what. Not bad for an old geezer."

It was from his father that Austin inherited his strapping physique and stubbornness. Now in his mid-seventies, the elder Austin had a slight stoop to his wide shoulders, but he regularly put in work days that would kill a younger man. His Seattle-based marine salvage company had made him wealthy. But he still drove himself, especially since the death of Austin's mother a few years earlier. Like many self-made men, it had become the game, not the money, that was important.

"Congratulations, Pop. Can't say I'm surprised. But you're hardly a geezer, and you know it."

"Don't waste your time buttering me up. Talk's cheap. When are you coming out so we can celebrate with a bottle of Jack Daniel's?"

That's all I need, Austin thought. A night out with his hard drinking father would land him back in the hospital. "Not for a while. I'm going back to work"

About time. You've gold-bricked long enough." There was disappointment in his voice.

"You must have been talking to the admiral. He said pretty much the same thing."

"Now, I got better things to do." Austin's father was only half kidding. He had a great deal of respect for Sandecker. At the same time he saw him as a rival for his son and had never abandoned hope that Kurt would come to his senses someday and take over the family business. Austin sometimes thought this hope was what kept hits father going.

"Let me see what he wants. I'll get back to you."

Heavy sigh. "Okay, you do what you have to do. Got to go. Call coming in on the other line."

Austin stared at the now dead receiver and shook his head. In more, fanciful moments he wondered what would happen if his bear-like father dashed head-to-head with the slightly built but bantamtough Sandecker. He wouldn't bet on the outcome, but he knew one thing. He didn't want to be around if it happened.

The Coltrane CD was ending. Austin replaced it with a Gerry Mulligan disk and leaned back in his chair with a smile on his face as he prepared to savor the last hours of leisure time he might have for weeks to come. He was glad Sandecker had called and that his vacation was about to end. It went beyond boredom. The admiral wasn't the only one who wanted to get to the bottom of what he called "this Moroccan business."

14 HIRAM YAEGER LEANED BACK IN HIS chair hands folded behind his neck, and stared through his wire-rimmed granny glasses at the three-dimensional black-and-white photograph of the buxom Sumatran woman, made even more life-like by the holographic display, who was projected on the huge monitor beyond his horse-shoe-shaped console. He wondered how many millions of young males learned their first lesson in female anatomy from the dusky maidens in the pages of National Geographic magazine.

With a sigh of dreamy nostalgia Yaeger said, "Thanks for the treat, Max."

"You're welcome," replied the computer's disembodied female voice. "I thought you'd enjoy a break from your work" The nubile maiden disappeared, sent back to 1937 where she had been frozen in time by a Geographic photographer.

"It brought back fond memories," Yaeger said, taking a sip from his coffee.

From his private terminal in a small side room the chief of the agency's communications network could, in a blink of the eye, tap into the vast files of the computer data complex that occupied the entire tenth floor. of the NUMA headquarters building. It was NUMA's hardware that usually made world headlines. The exploits of the high-tech research vessels, deep-submergence submarines, and assorted undersea robots were

what caught the public's imagination. But one of Sandecker's greatest contributions was NUMAs unseen jewel in the crown, the massive high-speed computer network Yaeger had designed with a free hand and unlimited funding thanks to the admiral.

Sandecker had lured Yaeger to NUMA in a raid on a Silicon Valley computer corporation and assigned him to build what would undeniably be the finest and largest archive of ocean sciences in the world. The vast data library was Yaeger's joy and his passion. It had taken years to put together centuries of human knowledge gleaned from books, articles, and scientific and historical theses. Everything known to have been written about the sea was available not only to NUMA but to ocean science students, professional oceanographers, marine engineers, and underwater archaeologists worldwide.

Yaeger was the only person in NUMA who ignored Sandecker's dress code and got away with it, which spoke eloquently of his talents. With his Levi's jacket and jeans, his long blondish-gray hair tied in a ponytail, and the untamed whiskers that hid the boyish eagerness of his face, the scruffy Yaeger could have come off a sixties hippy commune. In fact; Yaeger did not live in a yurt, but drove to and from a fashionable Maryland suburb in a fully equipped BMW His attractive wife was an artist, his two teenage daughters were students at a private school, and their main complaint was that Yaeger spent more time with his electronic family than his flesh-and-blood one.

Yaeger was still in awe of the tremendous power at his command. He had given up the keyboard and monitor for spoken commands and the holographic display. His foray into the more revealing aspect of the Geographic articles was an excuse to take a break from the demanding assignment he'd been working on at Sandecker's request. On the surface Sandecker's directive had been uncomplicated. Find out if there were any attacks on archaeological expeditions similar to what happened in Morocco. It turned out to be a monumental task. He'd neglected his understanding wife and children even more than usual in his passion to solve the puzzle.

Although the NUMA system was geared to the oceans, Max routinely hacked into other systems, without authorization, to gather information and transfer data among libraries, newspaper morgues, research libraries, universities, and historic archives anywhere on the globe. Yaeger began by compiling a master list of expeditions, divided chronologically by decades and going back fifty years. There were hundreds of names and dates on the list. Then he prepared a computer model based on the facts that were known about the Moroccan incident. He asked Max to compare the model to each expedition, drawing on various sources such as published academic papers, scientific journals, and news reports, cross-checking the accounts to determine if any of these expeditions had come to a similar unscheduled end, always searching for patterns.

The sources were often fragmentary and sometimes dubious. Like a sculptor trying to find a figure in a piece of marble, he chipped the master list down in size. It was still long and complicated enough to daunt the most experienced researcher, but the challenge only whetted his appetite. After several days he had brought together an enormous amount of information. Now he would instruct the computers to sift through the data and refine the results into a palatable serving.

"Max, please print out your findings when you've exhausted your networks;" he instructed the computer.

"I will get back to you shortly. Sorry for the delay" the soft monotone voice responded. "Why don't you pour yourself another cup of coffee while you wait?"

Time was irrelevant to a computer, Yaeger reflected as he followed Max's suggestion. It did what it did at unimaginable speeds, but no matter how fast and smart Max was, it had no concept of what it was like to have Sandecker breathing down its circuits. Yaeger had promised Sandecker the results by the following morning. While Max labored, Yaeger could have taken a break, walked to the NUMA cafeteria, or simply left his sanctum sanctorum for a brisk walk. He hated to leave his electronic babies and instead used the time to explore other options.

He stared up at the ceiling and remembered that Nina Kirov had said the killers came in the night, massacred the party then disposed of the bodies.

"Max, let's take a look at 'assassins.'"

Max was actually a number of computers that, like the human brain, could work on several complicated tasks at the same time.

"That should be no problem." A second later the computer voice said: Assassins. An English analog of the Arabic hashshashin, meaning one who is addicted to hashish. A secret eleventh-century politicoreligious Islamic order presided over by an absolute ruler and deputy masters. Unquestioning obedience was demanded of sect members known as 'the devoted ones,' the actual hit men who murdered political leaders and put their skills out for hire. The killers were given hashish and a heavy dose of sensual pleasures and told this was a taste of the paradise that awaited them if they did their job. The sect spread terror for more than two hundred years."

Interesting. But how pertinent? Yaeger tugged at his scraggly beard while Max described other groups of assassins such as the thugs of India and the Japanese ninja. These groups didn't quite fit the profile of the Moroccan killers, but, more important, they had been out of business for centuries. He didn't dismiss them out of hand. If he were forming an assassin squad he'd look toward the past to see how others had operated.

Dr. Kirov said the killers destroyed a stone carving that could be evidence of pre-Columbian contact between the Old and the New World. If he called up everything on pre-Columbian culture, even with Max's speed, it would take ten years to sort things out. Instead, Yaeger had established what he called a "parallel paradigm," basically a set of questions that asked the computer in different ways who would be upset by revelations that Columbus had not been the first Old World representative to set foot in the New World. And vice versa.

A few days ago he started the computers working on the problem but had been too busy until now to call up the findings.

With the machines working on the. main question posed by Sandecker, he had some time to review the results.

He said, "Call up `ParPar,' " the code name he had given the unpronounceable Parallel Paradigm.

"ParPar is ready, Hiram."

Thanks, Max. Who would be upset at revelations Columbus did not discover America?"

"Some scholars, historians, and writers. Certain ethnic groups. Would you like specifics?"

"Not now. Would this belief be dangerous?"

"No. Would you like me to pursue a link to the past?"

Yaeger had programmed his computers to give short answers so they wouldn't go off on interminable tangents without exact instruction.

"Go ahead," Yaeger said.

"The Spanish Inquisition had made belief in pre-Columbian contact a heresy punishable by burning. The Inquisitors said Columbus was divinely inspired to bring Spanish civilization to the New World. Link to Vespucci?"

"Go ahead."

"When Amerigo Vespucci proved scientifically that Columbus had not reached India but had discovered a new continent, he was threatened with heresy, too."

"Why was this so important?"

Admitting someone else had discovered the New World would invalidate claims to its riches and weaken power of the Spanish state."

Yaeger pondered the reply. Spain was no longer a world power, and its former lands in the Americas were all independent countries. There was something there he couldn't see. He felt like a child who knows there's a monster lurking in the shadows of his closet, can hear its heavy breathing and see the green eyes, only to have it disappear when he turns the lights on.

The computer softly dinged the Big Ben chimes, and a hologram caricature of himself smiling appeared.

"Processing and printing are complete," his animated doppelganger said. "Whew! I'm going out for a beer."

Yaeger spent so much time with this computer it was inevitable that he would program in a few personality traits.

"Thanks, Max, I'm buying," he said.

Wondering what he would do if Max ever took him up on his offer, Yaeger went into an adjoining room and retrieved the lengthy printout he'd requested. As he studied the ParPar report on archaeological expeditions his eyes grew wider, and he began to repeat the word "incredible" under his breath. He was only partially through the report when he picked up the phone and punched out a number. A crisp voice answered.

"If you've got a minute, Admiral," Yaeger said, "I've got something I think you'd like to see."

15 AT EIGHT FORTYFIVE A.M., AUSTIN slotted his standardissue agency turquoise Jeep Cherokee into the reserved space in the underground parking garage at NUMA headquarters, the imposing solar glass building in Arlington, Virginia, that housed two thousand NUMA scientists and engineers and coordinated another three thousand scattered around the globe. Joe Zavala called Austin's name as he crossed the atrium lobby with its waterfalls and aquariums and huge globe at the center of the seagreen marble floor. Austin was glad to see that Zavala walked with only a slight limp.

The elevator rocketed to the top floor where Admiral Sandecker had his suite of offices. As they exited the elevator a pair of men stood waiting to enter. One was a tall, hardbodied man standing six-foot-three with an oak-tanned, craggy face. He had deep opaline green eyes and wavy ebony hair with a touch of gray at the temples. Not quite as broad-shouldered as Austin, his body was lean and wiry.

The other man was a contrast. He was only five-feet-four but built with the massive chest of a bulldog; his arms and legs were well muscled. His hair was black and curly. The swarthy face anti walnut eyes betrayed his Italian ancestry.

The tall man stuck out his hand. "Kurt, it must have been three months since we've seen each other."

Dirk Pitt, NUMAs special projects director, and his able assistant, Al Giordino, were legends within the agency. Their exploits in the many years since NUMA was launched by Admiral Sandecker were the stuff of which adventure novels were written. Though Pitt's and Austin's tracks seldom crossed, they had become good friends and had often gone sport diving together.

Austin matched the firm grip. "When will you two be free for lunch so we can catch up on your latest escapades?"

"Not for a couple of weeks, I'm afraid. We're taking off in an hour from Andrews Air Force Base."

"Where are you headed?" asked Zavala.

A project the admiral has laid on us in the Antarctic," Giordino answered.

"Did you remember to pack your testicle sock?" Zavala said with a glint in his eyes.

Giordino grinned. "I never leave home without it."

"How about you and Joe?" asked Pitt.

"We're meeting with the admiral to find out what he has in mind for us."

"I hope you're going into tropical waters."

Austin laughed. "So do I"

"Call me when you get back," said Pitt. "We'll all have dinner at my place."

"I'll do that," said Austin. "It's always a pleasure to view your car collection."

The next elevator arrived, and the doors opened. Pitt and Giordino stepped in and turned around. "So long, guys," Giordino said. `Best of luck on wherever you're going." Then the doors closed and they were gone.

"This has to be the first time I haven't seen Dirk and Al limping, bleeding, or covered with bandages," said Austin.

Zavala rolled his eyes. "Thank you for unnecessarily reminding me that working for NUMA can be hazardous."

"Why do you think NUMA has such generous healthcare benefits?" Austin said as they entered a large waiting room whose walls were covered by photos of the admiral hobnobbing with presidents and other luminaries from the worlds of politics, science, and the arts. The receptionist told them to go right in.

Sandecker lounged behind the immense desk made from the refinished hatch cover salvaged from a sunken confederate blockade runner. Dressed in razor-creased charcoal-gray slacks and an expensive navy blue blazer with an embroidered gold anchor on the breast pocket, Sandecker would have needed only the addition of a white cap to complete his sporty image. But Sandecker was no yacht club commander. He radiated a force field of natural authority forged by thirty highly decorated years in the navy and tempered in the sometimes bruising job as head of a maritime government empire he had built from scratch. Washington old-timers said Sandecker's commanding presence reminded them of George C. Marshall, general and secretary of state, who could walk into a room and without saying a word make it known that he was in charge. Compared to the burly general, Sandecker was short and slight of build from his daily five-mile jogs and strict exercise regimen.

He leaped up as if he had steel springs for legs and came around to greet the two men.

"Kurt! Joel How good to see you," lie said effusively, grasping their hands in a knuckle-crushing grip. "You're looking well. Glad you both could make the meeting."

Sandecker appeared trim and fit as usual, looking far younger than his mid-sixties. The sharp edges of a Van Dyke beard whose fiery red color matched his hair, and sometimes his' temperament, could have been trimmed with a laser.

Austin raised an eyebrow There was simply never any doubt that he and Joe would show up. The feisty founder and director of NUMA wasn't known to take no for an answer.

Mustering a grim smile, Austin said, "Thanks, Admiral. Joe and I are fast healers."

"Of course you are," Sandecker replied. "Swift recovery is a prerequisite of employment with NUMA. Ask Pitt and Giordino if you don't believe me."

The scary thing, Austin knew, was that Sandecker was only half joking. Even more frightening was the fact that Austin and Zavala were eager to take on a new assignment.

"I will be sure to compare contusions with Dirk over tequila on the rocks with lime the next time I see him, sir."

Zavala couldn't resist the opportunity to have a little fun. Keeping a straight face, he said, A couple of invalids like us can't be of much use to NUMA."

Sandecker chuckled and gave Zavala a hearty slap on the back. "I've always admired your sense of humor, Joe. You could do well as a comic on the nightclub circuit, where, I understand, you've been spending your evenings in the company of young women. I imagine they've been assisting in your recovery?"

"Private duty nurses?" Zavala answered with an angelic expression that didn't quite cut it.

As I said, Joe, you missed your calling. Bantering aside, how is the, er, backside?"

"I'm not quite ready to run a marathon, but I threw my cane away days ago, sir."

"Glad to hear that. Before we join the others I wanted to congratulate you both on the Nereus affair. I read the reports. Job well done.

"Thanks," Austin said. "Captain Phelan deserves a lot of the credit. He was born too late. He would have looked quite at home with a cutlass in his hand, taming the Barbary pirates. I'm afraid we left his ship in a mess."

Sandecker affixed Austin with his cold blue eyes. "Some things have to be done, Kurt. I spoke to the captain yesterday. The vessel is winding up its work in the Yucatan. He feels fine and tells me the Nereus is shipshape and Bristol fashion once again." Sandecker used the old term to describe a tight ship. "He asked me to thank you again for saving his vessel. So, are you both ready to get back to work?"

Zavala swung his hand up in a grand salute worthy of a Gilbert and Sullivan character. "Shipshape and Bristol fashion," he echoed with a grin.

There was a soft knock, and a side door in the dark-paneled wall opened. A giant of a figure stepped in, ducking his head to clear the door jamb. At six-foot-eight Paul Trout looked as if he'd be more at home on an NBA basketball court than as deep ocean geologist on NUMAs Special Assignments Team. In fact Trout had been offered scholarships at several universities more interested in his height than his brilliant mind.

As befitted his New England heritage Trout was a man of few words, but his Yankee reserve couldn't hide the pleasure in his voice. "Hi, guys. Glad to see you back We've missed you around here." Turning to Sandecker, he said, "We're ready Admiral."

"Splendid. I won't waste time with explanations now, gentlemen. The reasons for this meeting will soon be made abundantly dear." Sandecker led the way into a spacious and comfortably appointed conference room adjoining his office.

Austin knew right away something big was in the air. The wiry, narrow-shouldered man seated at the far end of the long mahogany table was Commander Rudi Gunn, deputy director of NUMA and a master of logistics. Next to him was the 1960s throwback and computer whiz Hiram Yaeger. Across the table from the NUMA staffers was a distinguished-looking older man whose craggy profile and bristling white mustache reminded Austin of C. Aubrey Smith, the old movie actor who often played blustering British army officers. The younger man sitting beside him was balding and thickset and had a pugnacious jut of his jaw.

Austin acknowledged Gunn and Yaeger with a nod of his head. His gaze bounced off the other men like a stone skipped on water and settled on the woman seated at the far end of the table. Her blond hair was braided dose to her scalp, an arrangement that emphasized her smoky gray eyes and high cheekbones. Austin went over and extended his hand.

"Dr. Kirov, what a nice surprise," he said with genuine pleasure. "It's good to see you."

Nina was wearing a jacket and matching skirt whose soft periwinkle tones set off her honeyed skin. In the back of his mind Austin was thinking what idiots men are. When he first met Nina she had been beautiful as a lightly clad mermaid. Now, fully clothed, with her hidden curves and contours emphasized under snug-fitting silk, she was absolutely stunning.

Her mouth widened in a bewitching smile. "It's good to see you, too, Mr. Austin. How are you feeling?"

"Wonderful, now," he replied. The formality of the polite exchange couldn't mask its quiet intensity. They held each other's hands seconds longer than they should have, until Sandecker broke the spell with an exaggerated clearing of his throat. Austin turned to see the bemused expressions of his NUMA colleagues, and his face flushed. He realized he was reacting like a dewy-eyed schoolboy caught by his girl-loathing pals.

Sandecker made a round of introductions. The older man was J. Prescott Danvers, executive director of an organization called the World Archaeological Council. The other stranger was Jack Quinn of the East Asia Foundation. Sandecker looked at his watch. "Now that we've dispensed with the formalities, shall we get right down to business? Hiram?"

While Yaeger fiddled with the keyboard of a Macintosh Powerbook, Austin took a seat next to Trout. As usual, Trout's appearance was impeccable. His light brown hair was parted down the middle, as was the style during the Jazz Age, and combed back on the temples. He was wearing a tan poplin suit, Oxford blue shirt, and fine of the large, colorfully designed bow ties he was addicted to. In contrast to his sartorial correctness, Trout also favored workboots, an eccentricity some thought was homage to his fisherman father. In reality it was a habit he picked up at the Woods Hole Oceanographic Institution where many scientists wore them.

The son of a Cape Cod fisherman, Trout spent much of his boyhood hanging around the world-famous institution and was offered weekend and summer jobs by scientists who went out of their way to be friendly to a youngster so fascinated by the ocean. His love of the sea later took him to the equally renowned Scripps Institution of Oceanography majoring in deep ocean geology.

"Thought you were down in the Yucatan with Gamay," Austin said. It was unusual to see Trout without his wife. They had met at Scripps, where she was studying for a doctorate in marine biology, and they were married after graduation. Rudi Gunn, an old friend from his high school days, persuaded Paul to come on board as a member of a special team being put, together by Admiral Sandecker. Paul accepted, but only on the condition that his wife went with him. Delighted that he was getting two topnotch people, Sandecker readily accepted.

Trout's chin seemed constantly dipped in thought. As was his habit he spoke with his head lowered, and, although he wore contact lenses, he peered upward, as if over glasses.

Speaking in the nasal twang and broad A of his native Cape Cod, Trout said, "She'd been trying for weeks to make an appointment with a VIP from the national anthropological museum in Mexico City. Guy couldn't change the date, so I'm, here for the two of us."

Sandecker had taken up a post in front of a large rear-projection screen linked to Yaeger's computer. He nodded to Yaeger, and a second later a map of northwest Africa appeared on the screen. Indicating Morocco and using an unlit Managua cigar to point to a blinking red arrow, Sandecker said, All in this room are aware of the attack on Dr. Kirov and the disappearance of her expedition." He turned to Austin and Zavala. "Kurt, while you and Zavala were recuperating, two more expeditions were reported missing."

Taking the cue, Yaeger projected a map of the world on the screen. He pointed to three red blinking arrows. "Mr. Quinn's organization lost a group here in China. Two scientists and their helper have disappeared from India. This one is Morocco."..

"Thank you, Hiram," Sandecker said. "Dr. Danvers, if you could tell us a little about your organization."

"I'd be happy to," Danvers replied, rising. His elegant voice still bore its pseudo-British prep school imprint. "The World Archaeological Council in Washington is a clearing house for information having to do with the world archaeological community At any given moment dozens of projects are under way around the globe, he said with a wave at the map: "They are sponsored by foundations, universities, governmental entities, or combinations of all three. Our job is to collect all this information and dispense it back to them, as needed, in controlled quantities."

"Perhaps .you might give us a specific example," Sandecker coached.

Danvers thought for a moment. "One of our members, a university in this case, recently wanted to do some work in Uzbekistan. With one call to our computer banks we could tell them about all past, current, and future work in that country, provide all the papers published in recent years, bibliographies of reference books, and names of experts in the field. We would have maps and charts, information on practical matters, such as local politics, sources of workers, transportation, conditions of roads, weather, and so on."

Sandecker cut to the chase. "Would you also have records of expeditions that have vanished?"

"Well" Danvers furrowed his frosty brow. "Not as such. It is up to the various members to provide material. As I said, we're collectors and dispensers. Our material is primarily academic. In the Uzbekistan example there would be no mention of a disappearance unless the university provided it. Perhaps warnings that a certain territory might be hazardous. On the other hand, the information might be there, spread throughout the databank, but it would be a question of bringing all that together, and that would be a monumental task"

"I understand," Sandecker said. "Hiram, would you help us out here?"

Yaeger pecked away at the computer. One after another, red blinking arrows appeared on the various continents. He had added about a dozen new sites to the three on the map.

"These are all expeditions that have vanished over the last ten years," he said.

Danvers's nostrils flared as if he smelled a bad odor.

"Impossible," he said. "Where did you get the information to make such a preposterous assertion?"

Yaeger shrugged laconically. "I got it from the files of your organization."

"That can't be," Danvers said. "You have to be a member of the WAC to access our database. And much of the information is privileged. Not even members can move from file to file. They have to be cleared after giving their code name."

This wasn't the first time Yaeger heard somebody suggest his electronic babies could barely walk when in reality they could sprint. He had long ago learned not to argue. He simply smiled.

Scanning the arrows blinking merrily on the map, Sandecker said, "I think we can all agree that this goes beyond the realm of coincidence."

Danvers was still dumbfounded that his database had been violated by someone who looked like a cast member of Hair. "Well beyond the realm," he said, doing his best to preserve his dignity.

"My sincere apologies, Dr. Danvers," Sandecker said. "When I first heard about the Moroccan incident I asked Hiram to run a survey of similar cases in press reports and to crosscheck them with other information available. That he chose your organization to burglarize in cyberspace is testimony to the WAC's importance. I'm afraid, however, that the news is even worse."

Taking the cue Yaeger said, "I ran a scan of archaeological stories in the major publications, compared them with your files, then kept refining the search, separating the wheat from the chaff. The past five years was easy. Things got harder as I got back to the time before people started using computers. This survey isn't complete, but what I have is pretty thoroughly documented. I kicked out all expeditions that didn't have dead bodies or were wiped out by natural disasters."

He clicked his mouse. There was a gasp from Danvers. The map was lit up like a Tunes Square neon sign. Dozens of little red arrows winked on every continent.

Quinn's reaction was one of anger. "That's crazy," he said. "This isn't Indiana Jones stuff we're dealing with, for Godsakes! Archaeological digs don't just disappear off the face of the earth without anyone knowing."

Calmly Sandecker said, "Good point, Mr. Quinn. We, too, were astonished at the number of expeditions that had simply vanished into thin air. The public is not indifferent to these events, but the incidents have been spread out over decades, and at one time it was fairly commonplace for explorers to disappear from public view for years. Sometimes permanently. Would we have known what happened to Dr. Livingstone if the intrepid Stanley hadn't gone after him?"

"But what about news reports?" Quinn said.

Sandecker said, "From what Hiram has explained to me, occasionally somebody at a major outlet with resources like The New York Times would dig into his morgue and note a similar happening, comparing it to a more recent incident. When there was widespread publicity, such as in the 1936 disappearance of a National Geographic expedition into Sardinia, the incident was simply ascribed to bandits or misfortune. We can discount a percentage of them. Floods and volcanoes, for instance." He paused. "What I find disturbing is that the trend is on the increase."

Still unconvinced, Austin leaned forward on his elbows, staring intently at the map. "Communications are a lot more efficient now than they were in Stanley's day," he said. "Could that have something to do with these vanishings?"

"I factored that into the equation, Kurt," said Yaeger. "The curve still shows an upswing."

Rudi Gunn removed his horn-rimmed glasses and nibbled thoughtfully on the earpiece. "Reminds me of a movie I saw," he mused. "Somebody Is Killing the Great Chefs of Europe.

"Only in this case it is not chefs, and the incidents aren't confined to a single continent," Sandecker said. "If Dr. Kirov's experience is any indication, someone is killing the great archaeologists of the world."

Danvers sat back in his seat, his ruddy face now as white as bread dough. "Good Lord," he said with a hoarse whisper. "What on earth is happening?"

"What indeed?" Sandecker's blue eyes moved from face to face. "I asked Hiram to codify similar elements these disappearances had. Nothing presented itself on the surface. The expeditions were incredibly diverse. They varied in size from three people to more than twenty and took place all over the world. They were organized by a wide spectrum of groups or individuals. There were common denominators, however. What the police call the MO was the same in all cases before Morocco. The expeditions simply vanished. Dr. Kirov's experience was traumatic, but it may be a stroke of good luck in the long run if it can prevent similar disasters. We know now that these expeditions did not simply go into thin air. That they were wiped out by teams of trained assassins."

"Thugee," Gunn said quietly.

"What's that mean?" Quinn said.

"It's where our word thug came from. It means 'thief' in Hindi, what they called followers of the Indian cult of Kali. They would infiltrate a caravan, strangle people at night, hide their bodies, and steal goods. The British broke the cult up in the 1800s, ,and it went out of business for the most part. One' of these latest disappearances was in India."

Nobody who knew Gunn was surprised when he produced arcane bits of information. The short, slight Gunn was a sheer genius. Number one in his graduating class at the Naval Academy, the former navy commander could be enjoying a top staff job with the Navy Department. He had advanced degrees in chemistry, finance, and oceanography but preferred underwater science to warfare. He served in submarines as Sandecker's chief aide, and when the admiral resigned from the navy to form NUMA, Gunn followed. In compiling reports and researching he had absorbed much of the wide-ranging material from the hundreds of books with which he surrounded himself.

"I checked them out," Yaeger said. "Ninja and hashshashin, too. You're right, there are similarities."

Sandecker didn't dismiss the suggestion out of hand. "The idea of a secret society of murderers is certainly interesting," he said. "Let's put it on the back burner for now while I discuss that other common element. As far as could be documented, all expeditions victimized in recent years reported finding pre-Columbian artifacts in unlikely places." He paused for dramatic effect. And according to Hiram's findings, all were funded to some extent by Time-Quest. Do either of you gentlemen know anything about this organization?"

"Sure," Quinn said. "Our foundation has used them any number of times. Totally respectable as far as I know You see their ads in all the archaeological magazines. They're known to be pretty generous with grant money. They'll fund your expedition if they like it. Better still, they'll send volunteers, people who pay for the thrill of working a dig. They're tied in with some of the environmental and retired persons organizations. As I say, they're on the up-and-up."

Danvers seemed to snap out of a deep sleep. "Yes, I agree. Many of our clients have used TimeQuest. We have a file on them if that would be helpful.".

"I've already checked them out," Yaeger said. "I've pulled info in from other sources, too. Directories of nonprofits, state and federal agencies that regulate nonprofits. Bank statements. Internet. They've got an impressive Web site. They're headquartered in San Antonio. Board of directors is made up of nationally known people."

Austin frowned. "Well meaning people have unknowingly lent their names to everything from right and leftwing extremists to organized crime thinking they were pushing a good cause."

"Well put, Kurt," Sandecker agreed. "Hiram, anything to show Time-Quest is a front for extremists?"

Yaeger shook his head. All the data say Time-Quest is clean."

"So you found nothing out of the ordinary?" Sandecker persisted, his perceptive ear detecting an offkey note in Yaeger's tone.

"I didn't say that, Admiral. There's a ton of information available on the main organization, but most of it is slick pressrelease fluff that doesn't really tell you anything. When I tried to probe past the PR image, I got nothing."

"They blocked access?"

"That's the thing. Not really. This is more sophisticated. When access is blocked it's like not having the key to get into the room. I had the key, but when I got into the room it was dark, and I couldn't turn on the light switch."

"If your electronic hounds couldn't sniff out the trail, it must be sophisticated indeed. Your work tells us something, though. The organization would not disconnect its light switch unless there were something to hide."

Nina, who had been sitting silently throughout the presentation, suddenly said, "Gonzalez."

"I beg your pardon?" Sandecker said.

"I've been thinking about what Commander Gunn said about thugee. There was a man named Gonzalez on our expedition. I mentioned him to Mr. Austin and Mr. Zavala. He had come through Time-Quest. He was . . . he was just strange."

"In what way Dr. Kirov?"

"It's hard to say. He was terribly obsequious. Always around, looking over your shoulder. Whenever anyone asked about his background he always had the same story. It never varied. He'd get evasive when you pressed him for details. For instance, that last day when I asked him about the stranger he'd been talking to." She paused, her brow furrowed in thought. "I think that had something to do with the attack."

"I read. about the incident in your report," Sandecker said. "This Gonzalez was killed with the others?"

"I assume so. There was a lot of confusion. He disappeared with everybody else, so..."

"We'll check over the identification of the bodies exhumed from the excavation, and if he's not there Hiram will run a trace on him."

"One question," Austin said. "Time-Quest was connected with every expedition that vanished in recent years, but did some of its expeditions come home perfectly safe?"

"I'll answer that," Sandecker said. "Yes. There have been many expeditions where the most serious injuries were from sunstroke. Again, those that disappeared had all reported unusual finds or, in more specific cases, evidence of pre-Columbian contact. What do you make of that, Dr. Danvers?"

"The archaeological community would certainly scrutinize such claims with the greatest skepticism," Danvers replied. "But to say how they might precipitate murder, well, I'm simply at a loss. Surely it couldn't be a string of coincidences, unlikely as that may be."

Nina shook her head. "Just as unlikely a coincidence as the pre-Columbian artifact I found being destroyed. And evidence of its existence being erased from the university's database." She turned to Yaeger. "How could that happen?"

Yaeger shrugged. "Not a big problem if you know how"

Sandecker checked his watch again. "We've done all we can do here for now. I'd like to thank you for coming, gentlemen and Dr. Kirov. We'll discuss our next step and keep you informed of our progress."

As the meeting broke up, Kurt went over to speak to Nina.

"Will you be staying in the Washington area?"

"I'm afraid not," she said. "I'm leaving right away to start work on a new project."

"Well . . ."

"You never know, we might be working together someday"

Austin inhaled the faint scent of lavender coming from Nina's hair and wondered how much work they would accomplish. "Perhaps we might."

Zavala came over. "Sorry to interrupt. Sandecker wants us in his office."

Austin bid Nina a reluctant goodbye, followed the others into the admiral's aerie, and took up a seat in one of the comfortable leather chairs. Sandecker was behind his desk. He leaned back in his swivel chair and puffed several times on his giant cigar, which he had finally lit. He was about to open discussion when his eye fell on Zavala, who was puffing an identical stogie. There was little in the known universe that Sandecker was unaware of, but one of the most enduring and irritating mysteries in his life had to do with the humidor on his desk. For years he had been trying to figure out how Al Giordino lifted cigars from the box undetected.

Sandecker pinned Zavala with a steely eye. "Have you been talking to Giordino?" he said coolly.

"In the elevator. He and Pitt were leaving for a project in the Antarctic," Zavala replied with cherubic innocence. "We had a brief chat about NUMA business."

Sandecker quietly harrumphed. He had never given in to Giordino, and he was damned if he'd give Zavala the satisfaction of knowing he was irritated or flummoxed.

"Some of you may be wondering why an agency whose precinct is the ocean and what lies under it is in any way involved with a bunch of desert diggers," he said. "The major reason is that NUMA has the best intelligence capacity in the world. Many of these sites were reached by the ocean or rivers that run out to the sea, so technically we have a vested interest. Well, gentlemen, ideas?"

Austin, who had watched the battle of the cigars with interest, turned his mind to Sandecker's question. "Let's go over what we know." Ticking the points off on his fingers, he said, "There is a pattern to the disappearances. People don't simply vanish but are murdered by well-organized and equipped assassins. The expeditions were all linked to art outfit called Time-Quest that seems to have something to hide."

Yaeger interjected, "Could be they're just hiding assets from the IRS and it has nothing to do with the murders?"

"We may well find that's the case," Sandecker said, "which is why I want you to keep digging. Explore every possible angle."

"Did you ever get any leads on the hovercraft that tried a hit-and-run on Dr. Kirov?" Zavala asked.

"Slightly better luck," Yaeger said. "From your description I narrowed the manufacturer to an English outfit called Griffon Hovercraft Ltd. Only so many were built of. the model you described. This one is especially interesting. It's called an LCAC type."

"Navy jargon for landing craft air cushion, as I recall," Gunn said

"That's right. It's a souped-up high-speed over-the-beach version of a commercial model. Eighty-eight feet long. Two props and four gas turbines give her a speed of forty knots with payload. Gun mounts for .50caliber machine guns, grenade launcher, and M60 machine gun. We've got a few in the U.S. Navy."

"Why didn't they use their guns to stop Dr. Kirov?" Zavala said.

"My guess is that they were afraid her body would be found. There would have been questions. Have any orders come in from private parties?" Austin asked Yaeger.

"Only one. An outfit in San Antonio."

Austin leaned forward. "That's where Time-Quest has its headquarters."

"Right," Yaeger replied. "Could be coincidence. The hovercraft is owned by an oil exploration corporation, but the company could be one of a series of dummies. It's going to take a while to see if they're linked. Careless of them to allow the chance of a connection."

"Not really," Austin said. "They didn't expect any witnesses: If they'd been successful with their attack on Dr. Kirov, nobody would have known about the killers. Those on the Nereus noticed the hovercraft, but it was too far away to see that it was being used for assault and battery"

Sandecker said, "Kurt is right, Hiram. I'd like you to keep exploring the San Antonio connection. Any proposals on more direct action?"

"Yes, I've been thinking," Austin said. "Maybe we can make them come to us. The trigger in these incidents is the pre-Columbian angle. What if we set up an archaeological expedition and let TimeQuest, know we've found something pre-Columbian?"

"Then we put on our Kevlar jackets and see what happens," Zavala said. He puffed on his cigar like Diamond Jim Brady. "A sting. Brilliant."

Sandecker arched an eyebrow. "Zavala's dry wit aside, how would we go about doing that?" Sandecker asked. "It would take weeks, perhaps months, to organize, wouldn't it, Rudi?"

"I'm afraid so, sir. There would be a lot to pull together."

Austin couldn't figure why Gunn looked so amused at his proposal, and the irritation showed in his voice when he said, "Maybe if we really try we can accelerate the process somehow."

"No need to go hellbent for leather, my friend." Sandecker showed his teeth in his familiar barracuda smile. "While you and Joe were laid up, Rudi, Hiram, and I came up with the same scheme and started things moving. Everything is in place. For reasons of speed and ease of logistics, we've set it up in the American Southwest. The bait will be an Old World `artifact' found on American soil. That should attract someone's attention. Consider this a task for the NUMA Special Assignments Team."

"Assignment accepted," Austin said. "What about Gamay?"

"A marine biologist in the desert might be harder to explain," the admiral said. "I see no need to take her away from her work in the Yucatan. Let her know what we're up to. If we need her, she can be on hand in a few hours. She's been working pretty hard lately. She's probably enjoying the tropic sun on the beaches of Cozumel or Cancun even as we speak."

Zavala took along puff on his cigar and blew a smoke ring. "Some people have all the luck," he said.

The Yucatan Mexico

16 THE FOURTH PERMANEMT MEMBER OF the NUMA Special Assignments Team would have been the last person to describe herself as lucky. While her colleagues enjoyed their air-conditioned comfort, Gamay MorganTrout was drenched with perspiration, and her usual good nature was ebbing in direct proportion to the rise of the ambient air temperature, which was in the eighties and climbing. She couldn't believe the humidity was 100 percent without a cloud in the sky.

Arms folded across her chest, she leaned her tall, willowy body against the Jeep parked on the grassy shoulder of the asphalt ribbon that slashed through the lowlying rain 'forest Shimmering water puddle mirages danced on the mottled gray tarmac. The desolate spot reminded her of the lonely highway in North by Northwest where Cary Grant gets chased by a crop duster.

Gamay looked up at the pale sky. No crop duster. Only a couple of turkey vultures making lazy circles. Bad place for hungry buzzards. The roadkill pickings must be slim indeed. One vehicle had passed in the last hour. She heard the old pickup coming for miles. It rattled by with its load of half-dead chickens leaving a trail of white feathers in its wake. The driver hadn't even slowed down to see if she needed help.

Thinking it was dumb standing out in the sun, Gamay climbed back into the shade under the Jeep's convertible top and took a slug of cooling water from a thermos. For at least the third time she unfolded the map Professor Chi had faxed her from Mexico City. The paper was damp and limp from her moist hands. Earlier that morning she had driven inland from Ciudad del Carmen where the Nereus was anchored, following the map to the letter through the monotonous flat Yucatan landscape, paying strict attention to the neatly written precise mileage notations, pulling over exactly where the arrow indicated. She studied the carefully drawn lines. No mistake. X marked the spot. She was exactly where she was supposed to be.

The middle of nowhere.

Gamay was regretting having begged off when she and her husband, Paul, got the call to return to Washington for an important meeting of NUMAs Special Assignments Team. She, had been trying to arrange this rendezvous with Professor Chi for days and didn't know if she would ever have another opportunity. She wondered what merited yanking them back to headquarters on such short notice. They had joined the Nereus shortly after it arrived in the Yucatan to take part in the meteorite project. Paul would be creating the undersea computer graphics that were his specialty. Gamay would bring in her expertise as a marine biologist. It seemed like a very pleasant assignment indeed. No heavy lifting. Then the call came in from headquarters.

She smiled to herself. Kurt Austin must be back on the scene. Things tended to happen when Austin was around. Like the shootout she'd heard about on the Nereus. She'd call Paul when she got back to the ship to see if she should hop a plane home.

Good God, she wondered, taking in her surroundings, why had the professor asked to meet her in this dismal place? The only signs of human habitation, past or present, were the faint grass-grown tire tracks that disappeared into the forest. She waved away an insect that strafed the tip of her nose. The Cutter's bug repellent was wearing thin. So was her patience. Maybe she should leave now. No, she would wait fifteen more minutes. If Professor Chi didn't show, she would pack it in and head back to the NUMA ship. She would have to admit that the two hour drive in the rented Jeep had been for nothing.

Damn. She'd never get a chance like this again. She really wanted to meet Chi. He sounded so pleasant on the phone, with his American accent and a Spanish courtliness. Wilted by the heat, a strand of the long darkred hair swirled up on her head dropped down over her nose. She stuck her lower lip out and tried to blow the wisp out of the way. When that didn't work she brushed it away, checking from habit in the rearview minor. She saw a speck in the road. The dot grew larger, vibrating in the heat waves. She leaned out the door for a better look. The object materialized into a blue and white bus. Obviously lost, she concluded. She withdrew her head and was taking another swig of water when she heard the hiss of air brakes.

The bus had stopped behind the Jeep. The door opened, and the tomblike silence was shattered by a blare of Mexican music that was heavy on decibels and brass instruments. The local bus systems all had speakers that must have been left over from Woodstock. A lone passenger stepped from the bus. He wore the standard Indian garb, a cotton shirt, baggy white pants, and sandals. On his head was a hard straw hat with a slightly rolled-up brim. Like most Mayan men he was short, barely over five feet tall. There was an exchange of rapidfire Spanish between the passenger and the bus driver and a waved goodbye. The door clunked shut, and with a grinding of gears the bus took off down the road like a large rolling jukebox.

Ouch!

Gamay bent forward to slap a bug that had sunk its fangs into her calf. When she looked in the mirror again the man had disappeared along with the bus. She checked the side minor. Only the empty highway. Odd. Wait. Movement to her right. She froze. Eyes like black stones were staring at her from the Jeep's passenger side.

"Dr. MorganTrout, I presume."

The man had the same softspoken voice with the American accent she had heard on the call from Mexico City. Tentatively she said, "Professor Chi?"

At your service." He realized that Gamay was staring at the double-barreled shotgun curdled in his arm and lowered it from sight. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to startle you. My apologies for being late. I was out hunting and should have allowed more time. Juan, our driver, is a good-hearted but garrulous man who chats with all the female passengers young and old. I hope you weren't waiting long."

"No, that's quite all right." This little brown man with the broad nut-brown face, high cheekbones, and long and slightly curved nose wasn't exactly what she expected. She scolded herself for thinking in stereotypes.

Dr. Chi had lived in the white man's world long enough to recognize the embarrassed reaction. The stony expression didn't change, but the dark eyes sparkled with good humor. "I must have surprised you, a stranger coming up suddenly like that with a gunlike a bandito. I apologize for my appearance. When I'm home I go native."

"I should apologize for my rudeness, letting you stand out there in the hot sun." She patted the seat beside her. "Please sit in the shade."

"I carry my shade around with me, but I will accept your kind invitation." He removed his hat, revealing gray bangs over a retreating forehead, unslung a canvas game bag, and climbed into the passenger side, carefully resting the shotgun, breech open, between the seats with the muzzle pointing toward the rear. He placed the game bag on his lap.

"From the looks of that bag I'd say you had a successful hunt," Gamay said.

Sighing theatrically, he said, "I must be the laziest hunter in the world. I stand at the roadside. The bus picks me up and drops me off. I walk into the forest. Poppop. I walk out to the road and catch the next bus. This way I can enjoy the solitary

delights of the hunt and the social rewards of sharing my triumphs and failures with my neighbors. The hardest part. is timing the buses. But yes, all went well." He lifted the game bag. "Two plump partridges."

Gamay flashed a dazzling smile that displayed a slight space between her upper front teeth like the actress and model Lauren Hutton. She was an attractive woman, not gorgeous or overly sexy, but lively and vivacious in a tomboy way most men found appealing.

"Good," she said. "May I give you and your birds a lift somewhere?"

"That would be very kind of you. In return I can provide you with some liquid refreshment. You must be very hot from waiting out here."

"It wasn't bad," Gamay said, although her hair was dearly out of control, her T-shirt stuck to the seat, and her chin dripped with perspiration.

Chi nodded, appreciating the polite lie. "If you could back up and then follow that track for a bit."

She started the Jeep, put it in reverse, then shifted into. low' gear and turned off the road. The tires followed the dried mud ruts through dense forest. After about a quarter of a mile the trees thinned and the ruts gave way to a sunlit clearing dominated by a native shelter The walls of the but were fashioned of sticks and the roof thatched with palm leaves. They got out of the Jeep and went inside. The only furniture was a metal folding table, a camp chair, and a woven hammock. A couple of propane gas lanterns hung from the rafters.

"Be it ever so humble there's no card like me casa," Chi said, sounding very much as if he meant every word. Scuffing the dirt floor with his toe, he said, "This land has always been in my family Dozens of houses have stood on this spot through the centuries, and the design hasn't changed since the first one was built at the beginning of time. My people 'learned that it was easier to throw a house together every so often than to try to build one that would outlast hurricanes and damp rot. May I get you a drink?"

"Yes," Gamay said, looking around for a cooler. "Thank you. I'd like that."

"Follow me, please." He led the way outside the but to a well-worn path through the woods. After a minute's walk they came upon a cinderblock building with a corrugated steel roof. The professor opened the unlocked door, and they stepped inside. Chi reached into a dark alcove and rummaged around, muttering in Spanish under his breath. After a few seconds an engine popped into life.

"I turn the generator off when I'm away to save gas," he explained. "The air conditioner should kick in momentarily."

A bare bulb went on overhead. They were in a small entryway. Chi opened another door and hit a wall switch. Fluorescent lighting flickered on to illuminate a large windowless room with two work tables. On the tables were a laptop computer, scanner and laser printer, stacks of paper, a microscope and slides, and assorted plastic bags holding hunks of stone. Larger pieces, carefully tagged, lay here and there. Manila folders were piled everywhere. The bookshelves groaned with the weight of thick texts. On the wall were topographic maps of the Yucatan peninsula, site photographs, and drawings of Mayan carvings.

"My lab," Chi said with obvious pride.

"Impressive." Gamay never expected to see a fully equipped archaeological lab in, well, the middle of nowhere. Dr. Chi was full of surprises.

Chi sensed her astonishment. "People sometimes wonder when they see the contrast between where I live and where I work. Outside Mexico City I require only the barest essentials to exist. A place to sleep and to eat, a hammock with mosquito netting, a roof to keep the rain out. But it's a different story when you have to work. One must have the tools. And here is the most important, tool in conducting scientific inquiry"

He went over to a beatup but serviceable refrigerator, stuffed the game bag on a shelf, and took out two Seven-Ups and ice cubes which he put into a couple of ail plastic tumblers. With a sweep of his arm he cleared space among some files and brought over two folding chairs. Gamay sat down, took a sip, and let the cool sweet ..liquid flow down her parched throat. It tasted better than a fine champagne. They sat a few moments quietly enjoying their drinks.

"Thank you, Dr. Chi," Gamay said after accepting a refill, of bottled water this time. "I'm afraid I was more dehydrated than I thought."

"It's not difficult to lose body moisture in this country. Now that our energies are restored, how may I help you?"

As I said on the phone; I'm a marine biologist. I'm involved in a project off the coast."

"Oh, yes, NUMA s tektites survey near the Chixulub meteor impact site."

Gamay cocked her head. "You know of it?"

He nodded solemnly. "Bush telegraph." Seeing her puzzled expression, he chuckled and confessed, "I can't lie. I saw an email to the museum from NUMA headquarters informing us of the survey as a courtesy."

He reached over to a file cabinet, opened a drawer, and pulled out a manila folder.

"Let me see," he said, reading from the file's contents. "Gamay MorganTrout. Thirty years old. Resident of Georgetown. Wisconsin born. Expert diver. Holds degree in marine archaeology from the University of North Carolina. Changed specialties, enrolling in Scripps Institution of Oceanography, where she eventually attained a doctorate as a marine biologist. Puts her talents to work for the world-renowned . National Underwater and Marine Agency."

"Not a fact out of place," Gamay said raising a finely curved eyebrow.

"Thank you," Chi said, replacing the file in the cabinet. "My secretary's work, actually. After you called I asked her to hook onto NUMA's Web site. There's a complete description of ongoing projects with brief biographies of those involved in them. Are you any relation to Paul Trout, the deep ocean geographer whose name was also listed?"

"Yes, Paul is my husband. The site probably didn't mention that we met in Mexico. We were on a field trip to La Paz. Otherwise, I'd say you did your homework"

"It's my strict academic training, I'm afraid."

"I tend to retain details, too. Let's see if I can remember." Gamay dosed her eyes. "Dr. Jose Chi. Born in Quintana Roo, Yucatan peninsula. Father was a farmer. Excelled in his studies, sent by the government to private schools. Undergraduate studies at University of Mexico. Graduate degrees from Harvard University, where he is still affiliated with the prestigious Peabody Museum of Archaeology and Ethnology. Curator at Mexico's National Anthropological Museum. Winner of the MacArthur Award for his work in helping to, compile a corpus of Mayan inscriptions. Now working on a dictionary of the Mayan language"

She opened her eyes to see Chi's toothy grin. He dapped his hands lightly. "Brava, Dr. MorganTrout."

"Please call me Gamay"

A beautiful and unusual name."

"My father was a wine connoisseur. The color of my hair reminded him of the grape of Beaujolais."

"Well chosen, Dr. Gamay. I must correct something, though. I'm very proud of my work on the dictionary, but the corpus is actually the work of many talented people. Artists, photographers, cartographers, catalogers, and so on. I contributed my skills as a 'finder.' "

A finder?"

"St. I'll explain. I've been hunting since I was eight years old. I've roamed throughout the Yucatan and. in Belize and Guatemala. In the course of my wanderings I frequently stumbled across ruins. Some people say I must carry a Ouija board around in my head. I think it's a combination of the alertness to his Surroundings a hunter must have, and simple mileage. If you walk long and far enough in these parts, you'll trip over a remnant left by my busy ancestors. Now tell me, what interest does a marine biologist have in the work of a landbound bonedigger?"

"I have an odd request, Dr. Chi. As you noted in my CV, I was an underwater bonedigger before I switched to living things. My two areas of interest have combined through the years. Whenever I'm in new territory, I look for ancient artistic renderings of marine life. An obvious example is the scallop. The Crusaders took it as their emblem. You can find paintings and carvings of scallop shells dating back thousands of years to the Greeks and Romans, and even before."

"An interesting hobby," Chi said.

"It's not really a hobby, although I find it fern and relaxing. It gives me an eye into the past, before the age of scientific drawings. I look at a painting or a carving and get an idea of what a species looked like hundreds or thousands of years ago. By comparing it to the creature as it exists today I can see if there has been genetic evolution or mutation. I'm thinking about doing a book on my collection. Do you know of any archaeological sites that have depictions of marine life? I'm looking for fish, shellfish, coral. Any sea creature that may have caught the eye of a Mayan artisan."

Chi had been listening intently. "What you're doing is fascinating. And worthwhile because it proves that archaeology is not a dead science of use to no one. Too bad you didn't .mention exactly what you wanted on the phone. It would have saved you from coming way out here."

"It was no problem, and I wanted to meet you personally."

"I'm glad you did, but the Maya's artistic subjects tended toward birds, jaguars, and serpents. Chances are that any renderings of sea life will be so stylized that you wouldn't recognize them as anything you'd seen in a biology book. Like those parrot carvings that some people say look like elephants."

"That just makes the subject more interesting.. I have some time off from the tektites project. If you could point me toward some ruins I'd be grateful."

He thought for a moment. "There's a site perhaps two hours from here. I'll take you there. You can browse around. Maybe you'll find something."

"You're sure it's not too much trouble?"

"Not at all." He looked at a dock. "We'd be there about lunchtime, spend a couple of hours, and be back here by late afternoon. You could drive to the research vessel while it's still daylight."

"That would be fine. We can go in my Jeep."

"No need to," he said. "I have a time machine."

"Pardon?" She wasn't sure she heard him correctly.

"There's a bathroom in there. Why don't you freshen up while I pack lunch?"

Gamay shrugged. She retrieved her rucksack from the Jeep, then came back inside and rinsed her face and combed her hair. Chi was closing an Igloo cooler when she came out of the bathroom.

"Where do I catch the time machine?" she asked, getting into the spirit of things.

"It's in the temporal transport module," he said seriously, leading the way out the door. He took the shotgun with him "You can never tell when you might run across some birds."

They went around behind the lab building to a path that led to another native shelter. This one had no walls, the roof supported by poles at each comer. Under the palm roof was a blue HumVee four-wheel-drive vehicle.

Gamay let out a whoop. "This is your time machine?"

"What else would you call a contrivance that can take you to cities where ancient civilizations once flourished? I'm aware that it looks very much like the civilian version of a military vehicle used in the Persian Gulf War, but that was done on purpose to discourage the curious."

He placed the cooler in the rear and opened the door for Gamay. She got in the passenger seat, recognizing the airplane-like dashboard instrumentation. She and Paul owned a Hummer back in Georgetown. Designed to replace the Jeep, its imposing width made it a formidable force in Washington traffic, and on weekends they weren't remodeling their brick townhouse they liked to drive offroad in rural areas.

"The route we came in with the Jeep is actually the back way" Chi explained. "There's a track here that leads out to the road." He got in and started the engine. His head barely made it above the wheel.

This was going to be some adventure, Gamay thought. She leaned back in her seat and said, "Take it to warp six, Mr. Sulu."

"Warp six it is," he said, putting the Hummer into gear. The vehicle lurched forward. "But if you don't mind, first we'll take a detour through the twelfth century."

Tucson, Arizona

17 THE RUGGED PEAK OF MOUNT LENNON rising from the Santa Catalina range was visible out Austin's window as the jetliner made its approach to Tucson International Airport. The landing was smooth, and minutes later he and Zavala shouldered their duffel bags, stepped from the terminal into the hard Arizona sunlight, and looked for their ride. A dusty silver Ford F150 pickup tooted its horn and pulled up to the curb. Austin, who was nearer the truck, opened the passenger door. And blinked. Behind the wheel was the last person he expected to see. Nina Kirov.

Nina had exchanged the dressier outfit of the NUMA meeting for tan cargo shorts and a pale blue shirt. "Can I give you boys a lift?" she said in a deep Southern drawl. "I never paid you back for that exciting sea scooter ride."

Austin laughed, partly to hide his amazement. "I could say we've got to stop meeting like this, but I wouldn't mean it."

Zavala's mouth dropped open when he saw who Austin was talking to.

"Hi, Joe," Nina said. "If you and Kurt throw your bags in the back, we can be on our way."

As the two men tossed their duffels behind the cab Zavala whispered with unveiled admiration, "How'd you arrange this one?"

Austin grunted noncommittally and gave Zavala a knowing wink. They got in the cab, and the truck joined the traffic leaving the airport. As they turned onto Tucson Boulevard heading north Nina said, "I really should explain things. I really do have a new assignment. I'll be working with you and your team on this project."

"I'm pleasantly surprised. I'm just curious why you didn't mention your plans when I saw you in Washington this morning." .

Admiral Sandecker asked me not to say anything."

Zavala chuckled. "Welcome to the weird and wacky world of NUMA."

Nina went on. "He said you had been out of the picture for a while, and he wanted to introduce you to what was going on one brushstroke at a time. Also, he wanted you focused for the meeting and was afraid you might be, uh, distracted if you knew I was going to be working with you."

Austin shook his head. Sandecker could always be expected to do the unexpected. "He's right, I would have been totally distracted."

She smiled. "He needed an archaeologist to give the project an authentic ring. He asked me if I would help. I said yes. It was the least I could do."Her voice hardened. "I want to catch these people, whoever they are."

"I can understand your feelings, Nina, but we don't know what we're dealing with: This could be dangerous."

"I considered that possibility very carefully and at great length. The admiral gave me every chance to pull out."

"Please don't take this the wrong way, but did it ever occur to you that the admiral asked you to be part of this for reasons other than your technical expertise?"

Nina glanced at him with serious gray eyes. "He made it very clear from the outset."

"Then you know you're being used as bait."

She nodded. "It's the main reason I'm here, to try to draw the people who killed Dr. Knox, Sandy, and the others. I want them brought to justice whatever the cost. Besides, there's no certainty that they're even interested in me anymore. I've been back in Cambridge for weeks, and the most dangerous thing I've encountered is the traffic around Harvard Square. Nobody in a black suit has jumped out of a closet. I haven't had any bodyguards to protect me, and I'm still alive."

Austin decided not to tell Nina that the bodyguards he'd arranged to keep an eye on her were around; she just hadn't seen them. There was no mistaking the stubborn jut to Nina's chin. She was determined to see this thing through.

"My stern paternal tone may suggest otherwise, but I'm very glad to see you again."

The faint scowl Nina had assumed during Austin's lecture was replaced by a smile.

Before long they turned onto the Pioneer Parkway going toward Oracle Junction. The tract housing started to give way to desert and saguaro cactus. Zavala, who'd been listening patiently, knew Austin's mind was working at a couple of levels, his professional concerns and his personal ones. With his Latin heritage, Joe was a romantic at heart, but he could see that Sandecker was right about possible distractions. He took the pause as an opportunity to kick off the discussion in a more practical direction.

"Now that we've got that matter straightened out, maybe we could discuss the sting."

"Thanks for the reminder," Austin agreed. "Ruth filled us in, but we should go over the details in case he missed something."

"I'll tell you what I know," Nina said. "When we first started talking it quickly became apparent that the obstacles to pulling together an elaborate plan in a short time were substantial."

"Don't know why," Austin said. All you needed was a promising archaeological site, a dummy expedition that would look credible, people you could count on to dig, an amazing artifact to discover, and a way to get word of the find out to friends and enemies alike."

"That about sums it up. It was like putting together an off-Broadway production," Nina said.. "Only we .were expecting to do it without a stage, actors, or script. The admiral had given Commander Gunn the assignment of organizing the sideshow. He suggested we piggyback on an expedition that was already in place. But this would present its own difficulties."

Austin nodded. "You would have to waltz into a legitimate dig, say 'We're taking over, and oh, by the way, we. want to bury a fake artifact because we want to attract a bunch of armed assassins.' Yes, that could be a problem.

"A big problem. So the commander came up with a proposal that was really a stroke of genius."

"It often is with Rudi," Austin said.

"His idea was to build on a legend. The Arizona Romans."

Zavala chuckled. "Sounds like the name of a soccer team."

"It could be, but it isn't. Back in 1924, near an old adobe kiln at the Nine Mile Hole stagecoach stop, some people unearthed what looked like a religious cross made of lead and weighing sixty-two pounds. They thought it might have been left by Jesuit missionaries or Spanish conquistadors. The cross was encrusted in caliche, a hard crust of calcium carbonate. When they cleaned off the concretion they found true crosses, fastened together with lead rivets. And there was writing on the metal."

"Kilroy was here," Zavala offered.

"Kilroy was writing in Latin. The University of Arizona translated the writing, and it told an incredible story. How in A.D. 775, seven hundred men and women led by Theodorus the Renowned sailed from Rome and were blown across the ocean by storms. They made landfall, abandoned their ships, and continued north on foot until they reached a warm desert. They built a city called Terra Calalus that prospered until the Indians, who had been made slaves, revolted and killed Theodorus. The city was rebuilt, but the Indians revolted again. The Romans' elder, a man named Jacobus, ordered the story inscribed on the cross."

"The Romans had ships big and seaworthy enough to make the trip," Austin said, "but it sounds more like something out of an old pulp magazine. Conan the Barbarian."

"Or Amalric the Mangod of Thoorana," Zavala added.

"Okay, you two," Nina said with mock irritation. "This is serious stuff. As your reaction so eloquently testifies, the story is fair game for a skeptic, which is what happened back then. But they changed their minds when a Roman head engraved in metal was found near the site of the cross, also covered with caliche. An archaeologist at the university organized a dig. They found more crosses, nine ancient swords, and a labarum an imperial Roman standard. Some people became believers. Others said the objects were left by Mormons."

"They came all the way from Utah to bury these things?" Austin said.

Nina shrugged. "There was worldwide controversy. Some experts said that the depth of the objects and the caliche crust proved they could not have been a hoax unless it was perpetrated before Columbus. The skeptics found the written phrases were similar to those in Latin grammar books. Someone said the artifacts could have been left by a political exile from the time of Maximilian, whom Napoleon placed on the Mexican throne."

"What happened to the artifacts?"

"The university decided the project had become too commercial. They've been stored in a bank ever since. No money was available to continue excavations."

"I think I see where we're going with this," Austin said. After all this time, money has been found for the excavation. And my guess is it comes out of the NUMA budget."

"Uhhuh. We're saying that the expedition is being financed by a wealthy backer who wants to remain anonymous. This Person has been fascinated by the story since he was a child and would like to see the mystery cleared up once and for all. Magnetometer readings showed some interesting possibilities at an abandoned ranch near the original excavation site. We dug there and found a Roman relic."

"Quite a story," Zavala said. "Think anyone will buy it?"

"We know they will. The papers and TV stations have already run articles that have helped to give us credibility. When we got in touch with Time-Quest they knew about the project and were eager to help."

They gave you money?" Austin said.

"We didn't ask for any. We did request volunteers. They sent two of them. In return, they asked, as was their custom, to be notified before the press of any unusual find. Which we've already done."

Austin was thinking ahead. "With all this publicity it's going to be pretty hard to make an expedition disappear off the face of the earth."

"The admiral talked about that. He thinks the public nature of the dig will discourage assassination attempts. They'll try to steal or destroy the relic."

"Maybe they won't come in with guns blazing, but I wouldn't advise standing in their way if that's the case," Zavala said.

"When did you tell Time-Quest about the artifact?" Austin asked.

"Three days ago. They asked us to hold off telling anybody else for seventy-two hours."

"Which means they'll make their move tonight"

Nina briefed them on the excavation. She was the project archaeologist. The NUMA staff's undersea backgrounds were being tweaked to give them more landoriented credentials. Trout had easily switched into the role of geologist. Austin would be billed vaguely as an engineer Zavala as a metallurgist.

The truck continued climbing to the high desert country on the fringe of Tucson. It was late afternoon when they left the main highway and bumped down a dirt road past stands of mesquite, chulo, and cactus. They stopped where two Winnebago RVs and several other vehicles were clustered near a crumbling .pile of adobe bricks. Austin got out and surveyed the location. Old rock walls more or less defined the abandoned ranch. The rays of the afternoon sun filtering through the buildup of clouds gave the desert a coppery tint.

Trout's lank form came striding over, hand extended. He wore khakis that looked as if they had just come off a clothes rack at the Gap, a button down pinstriped dress shirt, and a paisley bow tie that was smaller and slightly less flamboyant than his usual neckwear. The only concession to the grunt nature of an archaeological dig were his work boots, although the leather looked as if he had just buffed it with a cloth.

"Got in from DC this morning with Nina," he explained. "C'mon, I'll show you around." He led the way behind the ruins of the old hacienda to a low hill where a patch of ground had been staked out into a grid. An older couple was working at a framework made of wood and wire mesh. The man was shoveling dirt into the screen, and the woman was culling out objects trapped by the wire mesh and placing them in plastic bags. Trout made the introductions. George and Harriet Wingate were a handsome couple who could have been in their late sixties or early seventies but displayed the fitness and energy of younger people. They were from Washington, they said.

"That's the state of Washington," Mrs. Wingate corrected with a proud smile.

"Spokane," clarified her husband, a tall man with silver hair and beard.

"Nice town," Austin said.

"Thank you," the husband said. "Thanks, too,, for coming by to lend a hand. This archaeology stuff is slightly harder than eighteen holes of golf. Can't believe we're actually paying to do this work."

"Oh, listen to him. He wouldn't have missed a chance like this for the world. George, why don't you tell. them about the Indian Jones hat you want to buy?"

Her husband pointed to the sun. "That's Indiana Jones, dear. Like the state. Just trying to avoid sunstroke," he said with a grin that was almost hidden behind his bushy white whiskers.

After exchanging further pleasantries the new arrivals were led over to the excavation. Two men were on their knees in adjoining shallow rectangular pits scraping the dirt away with garden trowels. Austin recognized them as ex-navy SEALS who had been attached to the NUMA team on previous assignments. Sandecker was taking no chances. These were two of the top men from NUMAs security division. The taller man, whom Austin knew simply by the name of Ned, had the classic broad shoulders and narrow waist of a bodybuilder. The trowel looked like a toothpick in his hand. Carl, his shorter companion, was wirier, but Austin knew from past experience that he was the more deadly of the two.

"How's it going?" Nina said.

Ned laughed. "Okay, but nobody's told me what we do if we actually find something."

"I told him to rebury it," Carl said laconically.

"That may not be a bad idea," Austin said. "Beats explaining what a couple of NUMA divers are doing in the middle of the Arizona desert." He'd been going over in his mind what Nina had told him about the Moroccan incident. "Did any strangers drop by today?"

Trout and the other two men exchanged glances, then burst out laughing.

"If you mean strange people, we've had more than our share. It's amazing the type of loonies a project like this attracts."

"Dunno if you're being fair," Carl said. "One guy suggested I look for traces of UFO Atlantis connections. All seemed quite reasonable to me by the time I got through talking to him."

"About as reasonable as this whole operation," Austin said with a wry grin. Anyone else?"

"A couple of people showed up with cameras and notepads," Trout said. "Said they were.' reporters or from newspapers."

"Did they have ID?"

"We didn't ask. Seemed like a waste of time. If these guys are as organized as we think they are, they'd have phony credentials. We've had lots of sightseers and volunteers, We've told them we're just doing the preliminary stuff, took their names, and said we'd contact them. Everyone's being videotaped by the remote surveillance camera on top of that cactus."

Austin was thinking about the battle aboard the Nereus when they had to fend off the group of well-armed attackers. As defenders they had the element of surprise and luck But the scars he and Zavala bore testified that events easily could have gone the other way Even these tough ersatz ditch diggers would be quickly overwhelmed by an attack in force.

"What kind of backup do we have?" he asked.

"We've got six men in that old gas station just before the turnoff," Ned said. "They can be here less than five minutes after they get the signal. We've timed them." He touched the pager at his belt. "I punch a button, and they're on their way"

Austin's eyes swept his surroundings then scanned the distant mountains. Strangely, for a man of the sea, he always felt at home in the desert. There were similarities between the two environments, the endless vistas, the potential for violent weather changes, and the pitiless hostility toward human life.

"What do you think, Joe? What way would you come in if you were attacking?"

Zavala, who had been giving the subject some thought, answered without hesitation. "The road we drove in on offers the easiest access, so the obvious line of attack is from the desert. On the other hand, they might want us to think desert so they can come in on the road. Depends on their transportation. I haven't forgotten they used a hovercraft in Morocco."

"Neither have I. A hovercraft might be hard to hide in the open desert."

"Looks can be deceiving," Carl said. "I've scouted the area around the ranch. The terrain out there has got more wrinkles than Sun City. Arroyos, washes, natural basins. You might not be able to hide an army, but you could tuck away a hit team big enough to make life interesting."

"And very short, "Austin said. "So we'll take the desert. Have the boys in the general store set up posts on the road after dark. Anyone backing them up?" .

Ned nodded. "Uhhuh. Chopper and another dozen guys armed to the teeth are camped in a wash about three miles from here. Five-minute ETA for them, too."

Five minutes can be a long time, Austin thought, but overall he felt pretty good about the arrangements. He looked over at where the Spokane couple were hard at work

"What about our Time-Quest people?"

Trout chuckled. "If they're assassins, it's the best damned disguise I've seen. We did background checks, and they're legitimate."

"I wasn't thinking about that," Austin said. "There should be some plan to protect them if and when trouble starts."

"No problem," Trout replied. "They're staying in a no-tell motel out on the highway."

Austin turned to Nina. "Would I be able to persuade you to get a motel room as well?"

"No," she said emphatically.

"Why does your answer not surprise me? If you insist on staying, I want you close to Joe and me. And do exactly what we tell you to do. Now, where is this incredible artifact that's supposed to provoke the attack?"

Nina smiled. "We've got it in the 'vault."

Ned and Carl went back to their work, and Nina led the way to a metal shed that had been thrown up next to an RV She opened the padlocked door with a key at her belt. There was no electricity, so they lit a gas camp lamp. Two sawhorses had been set up inside with thick planks running crosswise. On the planks was an object covered with a painter's canvas drop cloth.

Trout said, "It's amazing what modern science can do to add years to something's age. The boys at the NUMA lab cooked up a batch of caliche that would ordinarily take centuries to accumulate." He paused for dramatic effect, then whipped the cloth off. "Voila. "

Austin and Zavala stared for a moment at the object illuminated in the light from the lamp, then moved in for a closer look Austin reached out and touched the bronze surface. "Is this what I think it is?" he said.

Trout cleared his throat. "I believe the term its creators used was artistic license. What do you think?"

A broad grin crossed Austin's face. "I think it's perfect," he said.

The Yucatan, Mexico

18 GAMAY WAS REGRETTING HER STAR Trek comment. The HumVee hurtled along the narrow two-lane road at warp speed. Chi seemed to navigate with an advanced type of radar. Since he was too short to see over the top of the steering wheel, there could be no other explanation for the ease with which he whipped the wideframed vehicle around potholes and suicidal armadillos. The woods on both sides were a verdant blur.

Trying a ploy to slow him down, Gamay said, "Dr. Chi, how is your Mayan dictionary coming along?"

The professor attempted to talk over the loud whir of the heavytreaded tires and the rush of air around the boxy vehicle. Gamay cupped an ear with her hand. Chi nodded his understanding. His lead foot came off the accelerator, and he switched on the AC.

Refreshingly cool air flowed from the vents. "Don't know why I didn't do this before," he said. "Thank you for asking about the dictionary. Unfortunately I've abandoned work on the project for the time being."

"I'm sorry to hear that. You must be busy at the museum."

His response was an amused glance. 'My duties at the museum are not what I'd describe as demanding. As the only fullblooded Mayan on the staff I rate a sinecure. I believe they call them 'noshow' jobs in your country. In Mexico these are timehonored positions that command great prestige. I'm actually encouraged to be out in the field away from the office."

"I don't understand, then. The dictionary?"

"Must play second fiddle to the greater need. I spend most of my time fighting the looters who are stealing our heritage. We are losing our historical artifacts at an alarming rate. A thousand pieces of fine pottery are taken from the Mayan region every month."

A thousand," Gamay said with an uncomprehending shake of her head. "I was aware you had problems, but I had no idea things were quite so bad."

"Not many people do. Unfortunately it is not only the quantity of the stolen goods that. is frightening but the quality. The traffickers in contraband don't waste their time on inferior work They take the very best. Codexstyle ceramics of the Late Classic period, A.D. 600 to 900, command top dollar. Beautiful pieces. I wouldn't mind having some myself."

She stared out the windshield, lips pursed in anger. "That is a tragedy."

"Many of the looters are chicleros who work the chicle plantations. A very tough breed. Chicle is the sap used to make chewing gum. In the past when Americans chewed less, the chicle market dropped, the workers turned to looting, and we lost more of our culture. But it's worse now"

"In what way, Dr. Chi?"

"The chicle market doesn't make a difference now. Why break your back working in the fields when you can sell a good pot for two hundred to five hundred dollars? They've become used to the money. Looting is organized. Groups of fulltime looters are hired by traffickers in Carmelita, in Guatemala. The artifacts are channeled there, loaded on trucks, and taken across the border to Belize: Then by ship or air to the U.S. and Europe. The artifacts bring thousands of dollars in the galleries and auctions. Even more from museums and private collectors. It's not difficult to provide source documentation."

"Still, they must know many of these artifacts are stolen."

"Of course. But even if they suspect this, they say they are preserving the past."

"That's a lame excuse for erasing a culture. But what can you do about it?"

"As I said earlier, I'm a 'finder.' I try to locate sites before they can belooted. I make their location known only when the government can assure me that the sites will be guarded until we get the artifacts out of the ground. At the same time I use my connections in the US. and Europe. The governments of the affluent countries are the ones who can bring the traffickers to jail, hit them where it hurts by confiscating their property."

"It seems almost hopeless."

"It is," he said gravely. And dangerous. With the stakes so high violence has become commonplace. Not long ago a chiclero said instead of sending Mayan artifacts out of the country, leave them alone where they are and bring the tourists in to see them. It would mean more money for all."

"Not a bad idea. Did anyone listen to him?"

"Oh yes." His mouth curled in a dark smile. "Someone heard him loud and clear. He was killed. Whoops!"

He hit the brakes. The HumVee decelerated like a fighter jet deploying a drogue chute and swung to the right in a twelve-G turn.

"Sorry!" Chi yelled .as they bumped over the shoulder and plunged toward the trees. "I get carried away Hold on, we're going in!" he shouted over the din of snapping branches and the roar of the engine.

Gamay was sure they were headed for a crash, but Chi's sharp eye had seen what she hadn't, a barely discernible opening in the dense forest. With the professor hanging on to the steering wheel like some mad gnome, the lumbering vehicle crashed through the woods.

They bounced along for nearly an hour. Chi followed a route that was entirely invisible to Gamay, and she was surprised when he announced they were at the end of the track. The professor maneuvered the vehicle around, taking down at least an acre of vegetation, pointed out, and switched off the motor.

"Time for a stroll in the woods."

Chi exchanged his straw hat for a Harvard baseball cap, worn with the visor facing backward so it wouldn't catch on branches. While he unloaded the packs Gamay changed from shorts into jeans that would protect her legs from thorns and briars. Chi slipped his arms through the straps of the rucksack holding their lunch, slung the shotgun over his shoulder, and hung the machete from a scabbard tucked into his belt. Gamay carried a second pack with the camera and notebooks. With a quick glance at the surfs position to get his bearings, he set off into the woods in a groundcovering scuttle.

Gamay had an athletic figure with long legs, small hips, and medium bust. She was a tomboy as a girl, always running with a gang of boys, building tree houses, playing baseball in the streets of Racine, Wisconsin. As a grown woman she became a fitness nut, deep into holistic medicine, and running and biking and hiking during family fourwheeling trips into the Virginia countryside. At five-ten, Gamay was nearly a foot taller than the professor. As lithe and fit as Gamay was, she had trouble keeping up with Chi. He seemed to melt through branches she had to push aside. His quiet passage through the forest made Gamay imagine she must sound like a cow crashing through the bushes. Only when Chi stopped to hack away with his machete at vines barring the way did she get a chance to catch her breath.

On one such halt, after they had climbed up a small hill, he pointed to broken pieces of limestone layering the ground.

"This is part of an old Mayan road. Raised paved causeways like this run between cities all over the Yucatan. Good as anything the Romans built. Traveling should be easier from now on."

His prediction proved true. Although the grass and bushes were still thick, the solid underpinning made for easier walking.

Before long they stopped again, and Chi indicated a low line of fallen stones that ran through the trees. "Those are the remains of a city wall. We're almost there."

A few minutes later the forest thinned, and they broke out of the trees into the dear. Chi slid the machete into its sheath.

"Welcome to Shangri-la."

They were at the edge of a plain about a half mile in diameter, covered with low bushes and broken here and there by trees. It was unremarkable except for odd-shaped, steep-sided mounds hidden under dense vegetation that rose from the grass between where she and the professor were standing and the tree line on the far side of the field.

Gamay blinked in the abrupt change from shade to bright sunlight. "It's not quite how I pictured utopia," she said, wiping the sweat from her eyes.

"Well, the neighborhood has gone downhill in the last thousand years or so," Dr. Chi lamented. "But you must admit it's quiet."

The only sound was their own breathing and the drone of a million insects. "I think the term is deathly quiet."

"What you see is the area immediately around the main one-acre plaza of a fairsized settlement. Buildings stretched out for three miles on each side with streets in between. Once this place bustled with little brown-skinned people like me. Priests in feathered regalia, soldiers, farmers, and merchants. Wood smoke hung in the air from hundreds of buts no different from my house. The sound of, infants crying. Drumbeats. All gone. It makes you think, doesn't it?" Chi's gaze was fixated as if the visions in his mind had come alive. "Well," he said, pulling himself back into the present. "I'll show you why I dragged you into the wilderness. Stay right behind me. There are holes all over the site that drop down to old dome-shaped cisterns. Some of them I've marked. I might have a hard time pulling you out. If you keep to the paths you'll be fine."

Warily eyeing the waist-high grass to either side of the rough trail, Gamay loped after the professor as he made his way across the field. They came to the foot of a mound covered with thick tendrils of vegetation. It was about thirty feet high and sixty feet at the base.

"This is the center of the plaza. Probably a temple to a minor god or king. The summit collapsed, which is what has saved the site from being discovered. The ruins are all below tree line and don't stick up out of the forest. You really can't see this place unless you're standing right on top of it."

"It's lucky you were hunting in the vicinity" Gamay ventured.

"It would be more dramatic if I stumbled out of the woods onto these ruins in pursuit of a partridge, but I cheated. I have a friend who works for NASA. A spy satellite mapping the rain forest saw a vague rectangular spot. I thought it looked interesting and took a closer look. That was nearly two years ago. I've been back a dozen times. On each visit I clear away more paths, and vegetation from the monuments and buildings. There are other ruins in the surrounding woods. I think it might turn out to be an important site. Now if you'll come this way"

Like a guide conducting a museum tour, Chi led Gamay along the path to a cylindrical structure that had been hidden behind a heavily grown mound. "I've devoted my last two visits solely to clearing away this building." They walked around the edifice, which was built of finely fitted brownish-gray stone blocks.

Gamay peered up at the rounded roof that had partially collapsed in on itself.

"Unusual architecture," she said. Another temple?"

Talking as he worked, Dr. Chi cut away the snaking vines that were boldly trying to reclaim the building. "No, this is actually a Mayan celestial observatory and time clock. Those ledges and window openings are. laid out so that the sun and stars would shine in according to the equinoxes and solstices. At the very top was an observatory chamber where astronomers could calculate the angles of stars. But here. This is what I wanted to show you."

He brushed away new vegetation from a frieze about a yard in width that ran around the lower part of the wall, then stepped back and invited Gamay to take a look. The frieze was carved at Mayan eye level, and Gamay had to bend low: It was a nautical scene. She ran her long fingers over a carving of a boat. The vessel had an open deck and a high stern and bow. The stem was elongated into what looked like a pointed battering ram. Billowing from the thick mast was a large square sail. There was no boom, the rope braids holding the top of the sail fastened to a permanent yard, lines sweeping fore and aft to the overhanging stem, a double steering oar. Seabirds flew overhead, and fish leaped from the water near the bow.

The craft bristled with so many spears it resembled the back of a porcupine. The weapons were in the hands, of men wearing what looked like football helmets. Other men rowed with long oars that were angled back along the side of the ship. There were twenty-five rowers, which meant there would have been a total of fifty, counting those on the side not visible. What appeared to be a row of shields hung off the rail. She used the human figures to estimate the approximate size of the craft at more than. one hundred feet.

Moving along the frieze she saw more warships and what appeared to be merchant vessels with fewer soldiers, the decks crowded with rectangular shapes that could have been boxes for goods. Men she assumed were ship's crew stood in the yardarm hauling on lines to trim the sail. In contrast to the helmeted men, they wore odd, pointed headgear. The motifs were varied, but this was clearly a flotilla of merchants being escorted by armed protectors.

Chi watched her walk around the building, an amused gleam in his dark eyes, and she realized he never intended to show her carvings of marine life. He wanted her to see the ship scene. She stopped at one ship and shook her head. On the bow of the boat was a carving of an animal.

"Dr. Chi, doesn't this look like a horse to you?"

"You asked me to show you sea life."

"Have you dated this?"

He stepped forward and ran his finger along the inscribed border.

"These carved faces are actually numbers. This one represents zero. According to the hieroglyphics that are carved here, these ships were pictured about a hundred and fifty years B.C."

"If that date is even remotely correct, how could this ship be carved with a horse's head? Horses didn't arrive until the fifteen hundreds when the Spanish brought them in."

"Yes, it is certainly a puzzle, isn't it?"

Gamy was looking at a diamond shape in the sky over the ships. Hanging from it was the figure of a man.

"What on earth is this?" she said.

"I'm not sure. I thought it was some kind of sky god when I first saw it, but it's none I recognize. This is a great deal to absorb all at once. Are you hungry? We can come back and look at this again."

"Yes, fine," Gamy said, as if coming out of a daze. She had trouble pulling herself away from the carvings, but thoughts were buzzing around in her head like a swarm of bees.

A few steps away was a round drumshaped stone about a yard high and a couple of yards across. While Gamay went behind the monument and changed from her jeans to more comfortable shorts she'd brought in her pack, Chi prepared lunch on the stone's flat top. The professor took a small woven mat and cloth napkins from the rucksack and spread them out over the carved figure of a Mayan warrior in full feathered dress.

"Hope you don't mind eating on a bloodstained sacrificial altar:" Chi said with a poker fare.

Gamay was catching on to the professor's morbid humor. "If the sharp stub I just sat on is any indication, this was once a sundial."

"Of course," he said innocently. Actually, the sacrificial altar is over there near that temple." He dug' into the rucksack. "Spam and tortilla roll-ups."

Handing Gamay her neatly wrapped sandwich, Chi said, "Tell me, what do you know about the Maya?"

She unwrapped the clear plastic and nibbled a bite of tortilla before answering. "I know that they were violent and beautiful at the same time." She swept her hand in the air. "That they were incredible builders. That their civilization collapsed but nobody is certain why"

"It is less of a mystery than some suppose. The Mayan culture went through many changes in the hundreds of years of its existence. Wars, revolutions, crop failures, all contributed. But the invasion of the conquistadors and the genocide that followed put an end to their civilization. While those who followed Columbus were killing our people, others were murdering our culture. Diego de Landa was a monk who came in with the conquistadors and was made bishop of Yucatan. He burned all the Mayan books he could find. `Lies of the devil' he called them. Can you imagine a similar catastrophe in Europe and the damage it would have done? Even Hitler's storm troopers were not so thorough. Only three books escaped destruction that we know of."

"So sad. Wouldn't it be wonderful if more were found one. day?" Gamay surveyed the plain from their perch. "What is this place?"

"I thought at first that it was a center of pure science, where research was conducted away from the bloody rituals of the priests. But the more I uncovered, the more I became convinced that it was actually part of a greater plan. An architectural machine, if you will."

"I don't think I understand."

"I'm not sure I do, either." He produced a bent cigarette from his shirt and lit up, saying, "One is allowed small vices with age." He took a puff. "Let me start with the micro. The frieze and the observatory."

And the macro?"

"The siting I was talking about. I have found similar structures at other sites. Together with other buildings they remind me of a rather large printed electrical circuit"

Gamay couldn't help smiling. Are you saying that the Maya could add computer science to their other accomplishments?" .

"Yes, in a crude way. We're not looking at an IBM machine with endless gigabytes. More like a code machine perhaps. If we knew how to use it we could decipher the secrets in these stones. Their placement is no accident. The precision is quite remarkable, as a matter of fact."

"Those carvings . . . so strange. The horse's head. Did the hieroglyphics say anything about the inscriptions?"

"They tell of along voyage many years before with hundreds of men and great riches."

"Have you ever heard the story elsewhere in Mayan lore?"

"Only at the other sites."

"Why here, though, so far from the coast?"

"I've wondered the same thing. Why not at the monuments at Tulum, right on the Gulf? Come, I can show you something that might offer an explanation."

They packed up and walked to the far edge of the plain where the woods resumed, then through the trees and down a gradual slope. The air cooled a few degrees and took on a muddy smell as they descended to the edge of a slow-moving river. Pointing, Chi said, "You can see where the banks are eroded higher up, which means the river was wider at one point."

"Someone on the research ship said there were no streams or rivers in the Yucatan."

"True. The Yucatan is mostly a big limestone slab. Lots of caves and cenotes where there are holes in the limestone. We're more south in Campeche where the terrain is a little different. As you move into the Peten and Guatemala the big Mayan cities are actually located on waterways. That's what I was thinking here, that perhaps the boat was a ferry between settlements."

"You're right, there was a river, but I don't think it was large enough for a vessel of that size. With the high bow and sides, the rugged stem, that vessel was made for the open sea. There was something else. What I first thought were fish are dolphins. Saltwater creatures." She paused. "What's that?"

The sun had glinted off something shiny in the distance. She walked a few paces downstream with Chi coming up behind her. A battered aluminum pram powered by an old Mercury outboard was pulled up onto shore. "This must have drifted in from somewhere."

Chi was less interested in the boat than in the footprints in the mud. His eyes darted into the surrounding woods. "We must go," he said quietly. Taking Gamay's hand in a firm grip, he led her on a zigzag course up the hill, his head moving back and forth like a radar antenna. Near the top of the slope he halted, and his nostrils flared like a hound's.

"I don't like this," he said in a hushed tone, sniffing the air.

"What's going on?" she whispered.

"I smell smoke and sweat. Chickleros. We must leave."

They skirted the edge of the woods, then picked up a path that would take them across the plain. They were passing between a pair of squareshaped mounds when a man stepped out from around the corner of one of the hillocks and blocked their way.

Chi's hand flew to his scabbard, whipped the machete out in a blur of metal, and held the long sharpedged blade cocked menacingly above his head like a Samurai. His jaw jutted forward projecting the defiance that had so amazed the Spanish conquistadors who fought a bloody war of subjugation against his ancestors.

Gamay marveled at how quickly this gentle elf of a man transformed himself into a Mayan warrior. The stranger wasn't impressed. He grinned, showing great gaps in his yellow teeth. He had long greasy black hair and a stubble on his face that didn't quite hide the syphilitic scars of his jaundiced complexion. He wore the standard Mexican campesino garb of baggy pants, cotton shirt, and sandals, but in contrast to the immaculate appearance of the poorest Yucatan native, he was dirty and unwashed. He looked to be a mestizo, a cross between Spanish and Indian, and flattered neither group. He was unarmed but didn't seem worried about the upraised machete. A second later Gamay learned the reason for his equanimity.

"Buenos dias, senor, senora," said a new voice.

Two more men had come around the other side of the mound. The closer one had a barrel-shaped body and short arms and legs. A high Elvisstyle black pompadour of thick hair surmounted a face that looked as if it could have come off a Mayan carving. He had slanted eyes, a wide blunt nose, and cruel lips like two pieces of liver. The muzzle of his aged hunting rifle was pointed in their direction.

The third stranger stood behind Elvis. He was bigger than the other two put together. He was clean, and his white pants and shirt looked freshly laundered. His long dark sideburns were as neatly trimmed as was his thick mustache. His belly was round, but the thick arms and legs were muscular: He loosely held an M16 and carried a holstered pistol on the wide belt that supported his large gut.

Smiling pleasantly, he spoke to Chi in Spanish. The professor's eyes went to the M16, then he slowly lowered the machete and let it fall to the ground. Next he slipped the shotgun off his shoulder. He put it down next to the machete. Without warning Yellow Teeth stepped forward and struck Chi across the face.

The professor weighed about a hundred pounds, and the blow practically lifted him off the ground and sent him sprawling into the grass. Instinctively Gamay stepped in between the stricken professor and his assailant to ward off the kick she expected would follow: Yellow Teeth froze, staring at her with surprise. Instead of cowering, she skewered him with a warning glance, then turned and bent to help the professor to his feet. She was reaching for his arm when her head was jerked backward as if her hair were caught in a wringer, and for a second she thought her scalp was being ripped off.

She fought for her balance only to be jerked back again. Yellow Teeth had his fingers wrapped in her long hair. He pulled her close to him, so close that when he laughed she practically gagged at his fetid oniony breath. But her whitehot anger drowned out the pain. She relaxed slightly to gain slack and make him think she was no longer resisting. Her head was at an angle, and from the corner of her eye she glimpsed his sandal. Her sneakered foot came down on his instep, and she put her whole weight of one hundred thirtyfive pounds into her heel, which she gyrated as if she were grinding out a lighted cigarette butt.

He let out a swinish grunt and loosened his grip. Gamay could see the blur of his face out of the corner of her eye. Her elbow swung back in a short hard arc and caught his nose and cheekbone with a satisfying crunch of cartilage. He yelled shrilly, and she was free. She whirled around, disappointed that he was still standing. He was holding his nose, but anger diffused his pain, too, and he started for her, dirty fingers aimed at her throat. He was a miserable excuse for a human being, but Gamay knew she would still be no match for his weight and male strength. When he grabbed her she would feint a knee to his groin, a streetfighter move he might expect, then she'd drive her knuckles into his eye sockets and see how he liked that. She tensed as he came at her.,

"Basta!"

.The big man who looked like Pancho Villa had yelled. His mouth was still smiling, but his eyes glittered with anger.

Yellow Teeth stepped back. He rubbed his face where a bruise was forming against the unhealthy skin. He backed off and grabbed at his crotch. The message was dear.

"I got something to give you, too," he said in English.

He retreated when Gamay took a quick step toward him, setting his companions off into gales of dirty laughter.

Pancho Villa was intrigued by the fearless reaction of this slender woman. He moved forward. "Who are you?" he said, his eyes boring into hers.

"I'm Dr. Gamay Trout. This is my guide," she said quickly, helping Chi off the ground. Chi's knowing expression told her that he understood he might face a bleak future if these men knew his identity He adopted a groveling servile attitude.

The big man dismissed Chi with a contemptuous glance and concentrated his attention fully on Gamay. "Whatcha doin' here?"

"I'm an American scientist. I heard about the old buildings and came out to see what they were. I got this man to take me here."

He studied her for a moment. "What did you find?"

Gamay shrugged and looked around. "Not much. We just got here. We saw some carvings over there, that's all. I don't think there's much to see."

Pancho Villa laughed and said, "You didn't know where to look. I show you."

He rattled off an order in Spanish. Yellow Teeth nudged Gamay with the shotgun but backed away when she gave him a fierce look. Instead he concentrated his anger on Dr. Chi, knowing she didn't like it. They trekked to the far side of the plain to where the ground was scarred by a dozen or so trenches. Most were empty except for one filled with pottery.

At Pancho's order Elvis retrieved two pots from the trench and stuck first one, then the other, under her nose.

"This whatcha looking for?" the big man said.

She heard a sharp intake of breath from Chi and hoped the others didn't notice.

Taking one pot in her hands, she examined the figures drawn in black lines on the creamcolored surfaces. The scene seemed to represent a historic or legendary event. The ceramics were examples of the Codex-style pottery Dr. Chi had mentioned earlier. She handed the pot back.

"Very nice."

"Very nice," Pancho Villa echoed. "Very nice. Haha. Very nice."

After a short and vocal conference the looters marched their captives for a few more minutes. Pancho Villa led the way. Elvis and Yellow Teeth rode shotgun behind them. They headed toward a grassy mound that was partially exposed to show the stones beneath the vegetation. Pancho walked through a corbeled arch and seemed to disappear. Gamay saw that the building housed a large orifice in the ground. They descended a flight of irregular roughcut steps into the semidarkness to a dank underground chamber with a lofty roof.

The big man said a few words to Chi. Then they were left alone.

"Are you all right?" Gamay asked the professor, her voice echoing.

He rubbed the side of his face, which was still reddish where he'd been hit.

"I will live, but I can't say the same for the animal who struck me. And you?"

Rubbing her scalp where it hurt, Gamay said, "I needed a perm anyhow"

For the first time a wide grin broke his stony expression.

"Thank you. I might have been dead if it weren't for your intervention."

"Maybe," Gamay said. Remembering the upraised machete she guessed the professor would have cut Yellow Teeth down to size. She looked back toward the stairs they had come down. "What did the big man say?"

"He says he wont bother tying us up: There is only one way out. He will have someone at the entrance, and if we try to get away he will kill us."

"He couldn't have been more direct than that."

"It's my fault," Chi said glumly "I should not have brought you here. I never dreamed looters had found this place."

"From the looks of that pottery they've been hard at work."

"The artifacts in that ditch are worth hundreds of thousands, perhaps millions, of dollars. The big man is the boss. The other two are just hired men. Pigs." He paused. "It was well that you didn't say who I was."

"I didn't know how far your fame had spread, but I didn't want to take any chances they knew who you were." She looked up at the high roof, which was barely visible in the light coming through the entrance. "Where are we?"

"It's a cenote. A well where the people who lived here came for their water. I found it on my second trip. Come, I'll show you."

They went in for about a hundred feet. The darkness deepened then lightened as they came to a large pool of water. The light streamed from an opening in the rocky roof she estimated was about sixty feet high. On the far side of the basin was a steep wall that went up to the ghostly glow of the ceiling.

"The water is pure," Dr. Chi said. "The rainfall collects under the limestone and finds its way here and there to the surface through holes like this and underground caves."

Gamay sat on a low ledge. "You know this breed," she said. "What do you think they'll do?"

Dr. Chi was amazed at his companion's calm manner. He shouldn't be surprised, he reminded himself. She had shown no fear defending him and going after the man who attacked him.

"We have some time. They won't do anything until they confer with the traffickers who hired them about what to do with an American."

"Then what?"

He spread his hands. "They have little choice. This is a lucrative excavation that they won't want to abandon. Which is what they will have to do if they let us go."

"So it will be better for them if we disappear from the face of the earth. Nobody knows where we are, although they don't know that. People might think we'd been eaten by a jaguar."

He raised a brow "They wouldn't have been so free in showing us their loot if they thought we'd be around to tell anybody"

She looked around. "You wouldn't know a secret way out of here?"

"There are passageways off the main chamber. They either end or descend below the water table and are impassable."

Gamay got up and walked over to the edge of the water. "How deep do you suppose this is?"

"It's hard to say"

"You mentioned underwater caves. Any chance that this comes up someplace else?"

"Possible. Yes. There are other water holes in the area."

Gamay stood a minute at the water's edge trying to probe the depths with her eyes.

"What are you doing?" the professor called after her.

"You heard what that creep said. He wants a date with me." She dove in, breaststroked out into the middle of the basin. "Well, he's not my type," she said, her voice echoing in the chamber. And with a splash she disappeared beneath , the still water.

Nine Mile Hole, Arizona

19 FOR A TIME AUSTIN THOUGHT THE thunderstorm would hold off. Festering dark clouds that had been piling up all afternoon in ominous layers had snagged on a jagged peak. As Austin and Nina strolled around the edge of the ranch property they could have been a relaxed couple out for a walk, which was the impression Austin wanted to convey to any unseen watchers. They stopped under the bluegreen branches of a palo verde tree and looked off into the vast stillness. Rays from the lowering sun cast the wrinkled faces of the mountains in brilliant tones of gold, bronze, and copper.

Austin took Nina gently by the shoulders, encountering no resistance as he pulled her toward him, so close he could feel the heat coming off her body.

Are you sure I can't persuade you to leave?"

"It would be a waste of time," she said. "I want to see this thing through."

Their lips were almost touching, and at any other time the romance of the setting would have concluded in a kiss. Austin looked into the gray eyes flecked with orange from the setting sun and sensed Nina was far away, her mind with her murdered friends and colleagues.

"I understand," he said.

"Thank you. I appreciate that." She gazed at the darkening desert. "Do you think they will come?" she asked.

"There's no doubt in my mind. How could they resist the bait?"

"I'm not sure they're still interested in me.

"I'm talking about the Roman bust. A stroke of genius."

"It was a collaborative endeavor," Nina said with a smile. "We needed a model who looked like a Roman emperor. Paul's a wonder at computer graphics. He took a file photo, simply removed the beard, thinned the hair, combed it a la Julius Caesar, and substituted a breastplate for the blazer." Suddenly alarmed, she said, "You .don't think Admiral Sandecker would be angry if he knew we used his face for a model, do you?"

"My guess is that he'd be quite flattered. He .might have something to say about being memorialized as a mere emperor. And the expression is a bit too benign." He glanced at the blackening sky. "Looks like we're in for it after all."

The phalanx of dark clouds had broken free from the mountain peaks and was advancing swiftly in their direction. The mountains were now a deep umber. Faint rumbles echoed across the desert. The suns rays were frayed and faded.

After stopping to turn on the interior illumination of the two RVs parked near the shed, they made their way in the yellowing light toward the adobe nuns of the ranch house where Trout was manning the command post.

The Wingates, tired from digging and sifting, had returned to their motel early. Ned, Carl, and Zavala had taken up perimeter posts in outbuildings beyond the old corral. Their positions gave them a clear view of the desert stretching out to the horizon. The backup team would move in to secure the road when darkness fell.

A gust of wind kicked up sand, and giant raindrops slapped the ground as Austin and Nina ducked inside the ranch house. Trout was in the kitchen, the only part of the house that still had a roof. Rain leaked in through a few holes and rapidly created rivulets in the dirt floor, but otherwise the interior was relatively dry and sheltered. The ragged opening where the door had been looked out on the RVs. The gaps between the adobe bricks provided views in every direction like the peepholes in a castle wall.

The wind and rain were mere preliminaries. A desert electrical storm doesn't simply sweep in and let loose a few desultory bolts of lightning. It picks a spot and hovers over it, unleashing torrents of rain and crooked bolts of lightning seconds apart, or sometimes in multiples. It will pound away with a malevolence more common to humans, battering the earth like an artillery barrage whose intent is to eliminate the enemy or break his will.

The nearconstant stroboscopic light froze the slashing raindrops. While Trout made visual checks, Austin kept in touch with the guards with a handheld radio. He had to shout to be heard over the thunder boomers and the pounding rain.

The watchdogs had been instructed to call in at regular intervals or immediately if they encountered something unusual. The men on the perimeter identified themselves by their own names. The six men posted at the old gas station called themselves the A Team. The chopper crew, simply known as the B Team, was to listen and maintain silence.

Austin's radio crackled with what sounded like static but was really rainfall.

"Ned to base. Nothing."

"Roger that," Austin replied. "Come in, Carl.".

A second later. "Carl. Ditto."

Taking to heart Austin's warning to keep messages brief, Joe answered, "Dittoditto."

Then, from the road, "A Team. Negative."

The storm lasted most of an hour, and when it moved on the premature darkness it had brought with it lingered, broken only by lightning flashes in the distance. The fresh-scrubbed air smelled strongly of sagebrush. Patrol reports continued to come in. All was still quiet until a call came in from the road crew.

A Team to base. Vehicle coming. Taking positions."

The team's plan was to use two men to intercept the vehicle, two to cover them. One would watch the backs of the coverers, and the sixth would keep in touch with the others on the radio.

Austin went to the doorway and squinted toward the road. The headlights were pinpoints in the dark.

A minute later. "Car signaled to stop . . . stopping. Approaching cautiously"

Austin held his breath. There was no mason for anyone to visit the site this time of night. He pictured the men advancing from each side of the car with guns cocked. He hoped it wasn't a diversion while the real thrust came elsewhere. He quickly checked in with the other watchers. All was quiet on the desert side.

The road team reported in after several tense moments. A Team." The voice sounded more relaxed. "Base, do you know anybody named George Wingate?"

"Yes," Austin said. "What about him?"

"He's operating the car."

"Older man. White hair and beard?"

"Roger that. Says he's working on your dig."

"That's correct. Is his wife with him?"

"Negative. He's by himself."

"What's he doing here?"

"Says his wife forgot her pocketbook. Left it in an RV bathroom. He would have come back earlier except for the storm. Instructions?"

Austin chuckled. "Okay, let him in."

"Roger that. Over and out."

Moments later headlights stabbed the darkness as the car made its way along the road. The Wingates' Buick pulled up between an RV and the shed. The door opened, and a man got out. Wingate's tall figure disappeared around the corner of a Winnebago. A minute later he emerged carrying something under his arm. He stopped and did a curious thing. He turned toward the ranch house and waved. Austin was sum it was no accidental gesture. Then he got into his car and drove off. Austin turned to Nina, who'd found an old butcher block to sit on. She must have seen the puzzled expression on his face.

"Problems?" she said apprehensively

"No," he said to reassure her. "False alarm."

A minute later the road team called in. "Visitor gone. A Team out."

"Thanks. Good job. Base out."

Trout shrugged. "Maybe tonight's not the night."

Austin was unconvinced. "Maybe," he said, working a muscle in his jaw.

Nobody was surprised when Trout's cell phone rang about fifteen minutes later. He had been trying off and on to make contact with Gamay and had left word for her to call him. He pulled the miniature Motorola flip phone from his pocket.

After a moment he said, "No word? Would you ask the Nereus to let me know as soon as they hear from her? Yes, I'd be happy to talk to him. Hi, Rudi." He listened another minute, his brow furrowed. "Okay. I'll brief Kurt and get back to you."

"That's odd," he said after he hung up. "Rudi had set up a dummy corporation that was coordinating this project. Phony name with a telephone number at NUMA headquarters. They got a call not long ago from police in Montana. Seems they picked up an older couple wandering down a highway. Fantastic story of being kidnapped."

Austin was preoccupied with the nonevents of the night, so he was only half listening. "UFOs?" he said.

"I don't think we ought to pass this one off. They said they'd been held a couple of days, that they were on their way to an archaeological dig in Arizona."

Austin's ears perked up. "Do the police have a name?"

"Wingate."

Austin's reflexes had been dulled by a combination of the storm and the boredom of their uneventful watch. An alarm bell started jangling in his skull.

"Damn!" he snapped. "Paul, get that chopper out here in a hurry. And pull the A Team into the site." He bolted out the door. He was halfway between the ranch house and the RVs when the shed went up in a yellowish-red ball of flame. He hit the ground belly-first, covered his head with his hands, and buried his face in the wet sand. The propane tanks on the RVs went off in secondary explosions that rocked the earth and turned night into day. Glowing pieces of metal fell from the sky, but the wind left in the storm's wake carried most of it away, and only a few hot sparks singed the backs of his hands.

The patter of falling debris finally halted. He raised his head and spit out a mouthful of sand. The RVs and the shed had vanished. In their place was a crackling fire. The ground around the blaze was covered with glowing red embers.

When he was sure the explosions had stopped completely, he got up and walked closer to the burning rubble which was all that remained of the RVs and the shed.

Trout and Nina came running up.

"Kurt, are you all right?" Nina said apprehensively.

"I'm okay" Austin looked at the blazing pyre and wiped a few more grains of sand off his tongue. "But I prefer my fireworks on the Fourth of July"

Carl, Ned, and Joe arrived seconds later: Then moving shadows materialized from every direction. The A Team was running in with no attempt to stay out of sight. Their confused yells were drowned out by the whup-whup of the helicopter rotors. The chopper pilot saw the rotors fanning the blaze and scattering sparks, so he hauled off and landed near the ranch house.

Circuits were rapidly connecting in Austin's brain. "Paul, do you have the number of the motel where the Wingates are staying?"

"Yes, it's on my cell phone's memory."

"Give the motel a call. See if they're still there."

Trout punched out a number and asked to be connected to the Wingates' room.

He turned to Austin. "I've got the night manager. He says Mr. Wingate paid up, but their car is still there. He'll go down and knock on the door."

The manager came on the phone again after a few moments.

"Calm down, sir," Trout said calmly. "Listen to me. Call the police. Don't touch anything in the room."

Trout clicked off and turned to Austin. "The manager knocked on the Wingates' unit but didn't get an answer He tried the door. It was unlocked, and he went in. Then: was a body in the shower. A woman. Mrs. Wingate."

Austin's jaw hardened. Any sign of Mr. Wingate?

"No . The manager says he must have hitched a ride with somebody."

"I'll bet he did."

"What's going on?" Nina said.

"Can't explain now. We'll be right back."

Leaving Zavala to see if he could create some chaos out of order, Austin and Trout dashed for the helicopter. A minute later the chopper was airborne again. They flew out to the highway, followed it to the bright neon motel sign, and came down in the parking lot.

The police had already arrived and were checking the room. Austin flashed his ID, identifying himself vaguely as being with a federal agency, hoping they would think he was FBI. Explaining what NUMA operatives were doing at a murder scene would have been a long story. The police didn't look too closely at his ID, impressed as they were by his sudden arrival from the heavens flanked by a tough looking SWAT team.

Mrs. Wingate's body was crumpled in the shower stall. She was wearing a pink terrycloth robe as if she had just come from the shower when she was killed and shoved back in the stall. Although there was no blood, her head was at an odd angle. Austin went outside where Trout was talking on his phone to NUMA headquarters again.

"The Wingates sent in photos with their original application," Trout said.

"The motel must have a fax," Austin said.

They went to the office, and Trout introduced himself as the one who had originally called him on the phone.. The manager said he had a fax, practically brand new, and gave Trout the number. He relayed it to NUMA, and within minutes the pictures came through. The elderly couple in the photos bore no resemblance to either Wingate, dead or alive.

Austin and Trout quizzed the manager, a plump balding man in his fifties. He was still shaken but turned out to be a good witness. Years behind a desk dealing with people had given him a sharp eye for detail.

"Saw the Wingates come back late in the afternoon and go into their room," he said. "Then came the storm. Wingate's car left as the rain was letting up. Then it came bark after a while. Wingate went to his room and a short time later dropped by the office and paid. Cash. Almost didn't recognize him," the manager said.

"Why is that?" Austin said.

"Hell, he had shaved off his beard. Don't know why he'd do that. You could see his scar."

"Make believe I don't know what you're talking about,' Austin said.

With his finger the manager drew an imaginary line down his cheek from his eye to the corner of his mouth. A long one, from here to here."

Austin and Trout talked to the manager until the police came in to question him. Then they got into the helicopter, and at Austin's direction the pilot made a sweep of the roads around the excavation site. They saw dozens of headlights, but it would have been impossible to know which vehicle Wingate was riding in. Or even whether he was in a vehicle. They headed back to the ranch, where the glow of the fire could be seen for miles.

Austin filled Nina and Zavala in on the scene back at the motel, Mrs. Wingate's murder, and her husband's disappearance.

"I can't believe Mr. Wingate was one of them," she said.

"That's why he got away with it. It only took him a second to plant the bomb in the shed. Cool customer, whoever he is. He did it right under our noses."

She shuddered. "But who was that poor woman?"

"We won't know for a while. Maybe never." He paused. "I've been thinking about Wingate or whatever his name is. He gave that `come get me' wave just before the bomb went off. There's something else. He didn't have to shave off that beard right away. He could have left in his disguise and done it later. It was almost as if he were taunting us. Or showing his contempt."

Zavala tried to put the best fare on the situation. "At least the admiral won't hear we were playing fast and loose with his noble profile."

"He probably already knows, Joe."

"Yeah, I guess you're right." Zavala put his hands on his hips and surveyed the glowing ashes. Now what?"

"The others can keep an eye on this place. We'll head into Tucson and flop somewhere. Then fly back to Washington in the morning."

"These boys were a lot smarter and more organized than we gave them credit for," Zavala said. "They learned from the bloody nose we gave them on the Nereus."

"Tie score." Austin's eyes gained their glacial coldness. "Let's see who picks up the match point."

The Yucatan, Mexico

20 THE PRESSURE AGAINST GAMAY'S ears told her internal depth gauge she was more than thirty feet under the black water. She swam back and forth like an aquarium fish foraging for food, moving higher with each zigzag traverse. Her hands explored the slimy surface of the unseen wall, touch substituting for sight.

The previous year she had taken up free diving as a change from scuba. She enjoyed the unfettered feeling of diving without cumbersome scuba gear and had built up her lung capacity to more than two minutes.

The limestone face was pitted with ruts, cracks, and small holes. No opening big enough to offer a way out. She surfaced, swam across the pool, and pulled herself up on the edge to rest and catch her breath.

Chi read the disappointment in her face. "Nothing?"

"Mucha nada. Please pardon my Spanish." She wiped the water from her eyes and looked around the cavern. "You said there are some passages off this chamber"

"Yes. I've explored them. They are all dead ends, except for one which is blocked by water."

"Do you have any idea where the waterfilled tunnel leads?"

"My guess is that it is like the others, ending in small basins that fill or not according to the water table. What were you looking for in the pool?"

Gamay pulled her hair back and wrung out a half pint of water. "I hoped to find an opening that might lead to another cave or come out above the water level.

"I'll be right back" She rose and padded to the stairway that led to the cave entrance, quietly climbed the stairs, and disappeared over the top. A few minutes later she returned. "No chance of sneaking up on the guard," she said, chagrin in her voice. "They've blocked up the entrance with boulders. Nothing we couldn't move, but he'd hear us if we tried."

With her hands on her hips, Gamay again inspected their prison, her eyes finally coming to rest on the shaft of light shining through the ceiling hole high above the pool.

Chi followed her gaze. "The ancients dug that hole to lower buckets into the cenote. It saved them going up and down the stairs every time they wanted to whip up a bowl of soup."

"It's offcenter," she noted, and indeed, the opening was close to one wall.

'St. They had no way of knowing when they dug from above where the exact center of the pool was. It didn't make any difference as long as they were able to lower a rope and fill their buckets."

Gamay walked to the water's edge and peered up at the opening. Vegetation had grown around the hole and worked its way into the chamber, cutting back on the light.

"That looks like a vine dangling down."

Chi squinted at the dome-shaped ceiling. "There may be more than one vine. My eyesight isn't what it used to be."

It was Gamay's turn to squint. The professor was hardly ready for a white cane, she decided. Even with perfect vision she could barely see the second vine. She lowered her eyes. Much of the wall was in shadow. No reason to assume that it was any different from the underwater wall she had explored.

"It's hard to tell in the poor light, but from here that wall looks easier than some of the rock faces I've climbed in West Virginia. Too bad we don't have some crampons and a pickax." She laughed. "Heck, I'd even settle for a Swiss army knife."

Chi stared thoughtfully into space for a moment.

"Maybe I have something better than a Swiss army knife."

He reached under his shirt, slipped a leather thong over his head, and handed it to Gamay. In the dim light the pendant dangling from the cord looked vaguely like the head of a bird of prey

Gamay cradled the object in her palm. The green eyes sparkled even in the faint cavern light, and the white beak seemed to glow. "Beautiful. What is it?"

An amulet. Kukulcan the storm god. He was the Mayan equivalent of the Aztec's Quetzalcoatl, the feathered serpent. The head is made of copper with jadite eyes, the beak of quartz. I carry it for good luck and to cut cigars."

The round base fit her hand. She fingered the short blunt beak

"Tell me, Dr; Chi, how hard is limestone?"

"It's made of calcium carbonate and ancient seashells. Hard but crumbly as you would expect."

"I was wondering if I could chip hand and footholds in that wall. Enough to get me within reach of those vines." She wasn't sure what she would do once she escaped from the cave, but she'd think of something.

"It's possible. Quartz is almost as hard as diamond."

"In that case I'd like to borrow this little birdsnake for a while."

"Be my guest," he said. "The power of the gods may be necessary to free us from this dungeon."

Gamay eased back into the water and swam across the pool, then along the wall to a slight bulge in the limestone. Holding on to the ledge with one hand, she reached up and found a hole big enough for her fingers. Using the amulet as a crude adze, she chipped away until the space was big enough to give her fingers a grip. Then she pulled herself up so her knee was balanced on the ledge and chipped another hole somewhat higher.

Once she was able to stand .to her full height the work went quicker. She inched up the face of the wail. Clinging to the sheer rock face with her face pressed against the hard surface gave her an intimate knowledge of the limestone's character. As she suspected, the wall was cracked and gouged. She used natural handholds or simply enlarged existing holes. Her hair was covered with powdery white dust. She had to stop occasionally to wipe her nose on her shoulder. One good sneeze would blast her into space.

How did Spiderman make it look so easy? She would have given anything for a couple of Spidey's webshooting wrist bands. Hanging on was tough in itself; what exhausted her the most was having to work with her arm extended over her head. Her shoulder ached, and often she had to let her numbed arm dangle until the blood came back into it. She wondered if she would ever work the kink out of her neck.

Halfway up the wall she looked down: The white smudge of Chi's shirt was barely visible in the gloom. He'd been watching her progress.

Are you all right, Dr. Gamay?" he said, his voice echoing.

She spit out a powdery gob. Unladylike but who cares. "Piece of cake."

Damn, she wished that yellow-fanged cretin hadn't stolen her wristwatch before stuffing them underground. She had lost track of time. The light coming into the cave was more slanted and dimmer than when she started. The sun must be setting. The tropical night fell with the swiftness of a guillotine blade. Soon the cave would be pitch black. Making a grab for the vines would be tough even with light to see them by In the darkness it would be impossible.

Dr. Chi must have sensed her doubts. Again his encouraging voice came from below, calmly telling her that she was doing fine, that she was almost there. And all at once she was there, where the ceiling curved into the domed roof. She swiveled her head slowly and saw she was level with the tips of the vines. She moved higher to give herself the margin of error she needed if her leap was to succeed. Now she was under the curving wall.

The strain was telling on her tired fingers. She had to move fast or not at all.

Another quick glance. The vines hung about six feet out from the wall

Think your moves through. But be fast! She mentally rehearsed. Spring off the wall, twist her body in midair; grab a vine, and hold on.

As she told the professor. Pieceacake.

Her fingers felt as if they were being torn from her hands. She angled her shoulder away from the wall.

No more time. Now.

She took a deep breath and leaped.

She spun around as her body described a parabola, her hands reaching hungrily for the vine. Brushed, then caught it. Dry and brittle. She could tell from the stiffness that it wasn't going to hold her weight. Snap! Grabbed with her free hand for the other vine. Felt it break.

And fell.

Still holding the useless pieces of vegetation, she hit the water. No time to move her feet or head around for a clean dive. She landed on her side with a sickening splat! When she broke the surface her left arm and thigh stung from the impact. She bit back the pain and. swam in an awkward sidestroke to the edge of the pool.

Chi's hand, surprisingly strong, took her by the wrist and helped her out of the water. She sat for a moment trying to rub die sting out of her thigh.

Are you all right"

"I'm fine," she said between gasps. The fall had knocked the air out of her. "Phooey, after all that work." She handed the amulet back to Chi. "Guess the gods had other plans for us." .

"From what I saw they would have had to give you wings."

"I would settle for a parachute." She broke into laughter. "I must have been quite the sight flying through the air holding on to these things." She tossed aside the useless vine fragments clutched in her hand.

"I don't think Tarzan need fear any competition, Dr. Gamay"

"Nor do I. Tell me again about the passageway, the one with water in it."

The professor took her hand. "Come," he said.

The chamber was almost totally in darkness, and Chi could have been leading her into the jaws of hell for all she knew. At one point he stopped, and a second later the flame from his butane lighter flared and threw grotesque shadows on the rough walls.

"Watch your head," Chi cautioned, leading her into a passageway. "The ceiling gets lower, but we don't have far to go."

After a few minutes the tunnel eventually widened and gave Gamay more headroom. The passageway sloped down slightly, abruptly ending in a blank wall. Below the wall was a small pool.

"The tunnel dips below the water table here," Chi explained. "Whether it goes up or down after that, I don't know"

"But it's not impossible that this tunnel might lead to the surface."

"Si. The ground of the Yucatan is simply a limestone . slab honey combed with natural caverns and tunnels carved out over the eons by water action."

Gamay shivered, not so much from the cold and damp but at the claustrophobic prospect of swimming into the waterfilled earth. She willed her fears away, but some lingered.

"Professor Chi; I know this is a long shot. I'm going to see if this leads anywhere. I can hold my breath for about two minutes, which will give me time to swim a fair distance."

"It is very dangerous."

"Not any more so than waiting for those jokers up above to decide when they're going to wall us permanently into this place. After my dentally challenged friend has some fun, of course."

Chi didn't argue. He knew she was right.

"Well," she said, "time for a dip."

She slid into the pool and started a sequence of noisy hyperventilation exercises to fill her lungs with oxygen. When she had absorbed air to the point of dizziness, she ducked underwater and scoped out the tunnel opening. She rose to the surface and reported her find to Chi. "It angles down, but I don't know how far it goes."

He nodded. "Make sure you allow enough air to return." Chi leaned over and handed her his butane lighter. "You may need this where you're going."

Gamay was already into her deep breathing exercises, so she tucked the fighter into her shorts, gave him the okay sign, and dove into the blackness. Counting seconds off in her headone chimpanzee, two chimpanzeelike a child estimating the closeness of lightning, she swam just below the ceiling. She had decided to push herself to the limit. Swimming forward for nearly two minutes, she could cover thirty or forty yards before having to turn around for a lung bursting dash back.

As it turned out she didn't have to burst her lungs at all. She was barely past her sixtieth chimpanzee when the ceiling angled up sharply and her extended hand broke out of the water, followed an instant later by her head. She exhaled and took a tentative breath. The air was musty but good.

Gamay couldn't believe her good luck. About time they got a break. The tunnel must dip then come up like the waterseal trap under a kitchen sink She was familiar with plumbing from the almost constant renovation work around her Georgetown house. She laughed at the thought of swimming in an oversized drain, but her mirth was also prompted by relief. The sound of her voice echoed in the darkness, quickly sobering her with the reminder that she wasn't out of this mess yet. Not by a long shot.

She dug Chi's lighter out of her pocket and held it high, Statue of Liberty fashion. After several tries the lighter flint sparked and the flame hissed into life. Treading water Gamay pirouetted and saw that she was at the bottom of a steepsided circular hole. She sidestroked around the perimeter, thinking this is what it must feel like to be a kitten down a well. How on earth would she climb these sides? She didn't relish a repeat performance of her Icarus-like plunge into the cenote.

She floated over to a shelflike waterlevel protuberance and raised the lighter. There was another ledge a short distance above the first. Her heart raced with excitement. Steps! There might be a way out of this pit after all. Losing no time she pulled herself out of the water and climbed the steps that spiraled around the inside of the stone cylinder.

Soon she was over the rim of the well. Using the lighter again, she explored her surroundings. She was in a small cave. Her eye fell on the narrow furrow in the stone floor, and she followed it to a low ceiling passageway. She held the lighter dose to the opening and watched the flame flutter. Air was blowing through. Stale and warm. But still air.

Within seconds she was back in the well. She hyperventilated a few times then swam back the way she had come. Surfacing, she blurted, "I think I found a way out."

The professor's voice answered in the hollow darkness. "Dr. Gamay. I was afraid you were gone for good. So much time had passed."

"'Sorry to keep you waiting. Wait'll I show you what I found. Can you swim?"

"I used to do laps every day in the Harvard pool." He paused. "How long will I have to hold my breath?"

"Just the other side of the wall. You can do it."

They found each other's hand, and Chi splashed into the basin. With their heads close together, Gamay instructed him in breathing exercises. Between breaths he said, "I wish now my ancestors were Incan rather than Mayan."

"Pardon?"

"Large lung capacity from the thin mountain air. I'm basically a flatlander."

"You'll do fine, even for a flatlander. Ready?"

"I'd prefer to wait until I grow gills, but since that's not possible, vamanos!" He squeezed her hand in signal. Gamay sank beneath the surface, quickly found the continuation of the tunnel, and practically yanked the professor through the passageway. The journey took less than half the time of her earlier trip, but the professor was huffing and puffing when they surfaced, and she was glad the distance wasn't any greater.

She flicked the lighter. The professor's head bobbed a few feet away. He was sucking in big gulps of air. Somehow he had managed to keep the baseball cap on his head.