Treasure

"Impossible," Bashir roared. "You could never smuggle that many men into Uniguay without arousing suspicion. And even if through some miracyou captured the ship and subdued the crew, every special assault team in the West would be swarming over your hide inside of twenty-four hours. Threats to kill the hostages won't stop them. You'd "

"I can take and hold the Lady Flamborough for two weeks."

Bashir shook his head. "You're lost in a dream world."

"How is that possible?" asked Moheidin. "I'm interested in learning how you expect to outwit an army of highly trained international security forces without a pitched battle."

"I don't intend to fight."

"This is nonsense!" Yazid said, shocked.

"Not really," said Ammar. "It's all in knowing the trick."

"Trick?"

"Precisely." Ammar smiled benignly. "You see, I plan on making the Lady Flamborough, her crew and passengers, an crew disappear.

"My visit is strictly unofficial," Julius Schiller advised Hala Kamil as they stepped into the log-beamed sitting room of Senator Pitts ski lodge. "My aides are covering for me, saying I'm fishing in Key West."

"I understand," said Hala. "I'm grateful for the chance to talk to someone other than the cook and Secret Service guards."

She greeted him dressed fashionably in an Icelandic brown wool sweater-jacket with matching pants, looking even younger than Schiller remembered.

He looked out of place at a ski resort in a business suit, polished wing-tip shoes, and carrying an attached case. "Is there anything I can arrange to make your safety more bearable?"

"No, thank you. Nothing can relieve the frustration of inactivity when there is so much I must do."

"A few more days and it will be over," Schiller said consolingly.

"I hardly expected to see you here, Julius."

"Something has come up that concerns Egypt. Our President thought it prudent you be consulted on a recent event."

Hala curled her legs under her and sipped at the tea. "Should I be flattered?"

"Let's say he'd be grateful for your cooperation."

"Regarding what?"

Schiller opened the attache case, gave Hala a bound folder and sat back with his tea. He watched as the soft features of her angelic face slowly tightened as she realized the scope of what she read, Finally she finished the last page and closed the folder. She gave Schiller a penetrating stare.

"Is the public aware of this?"

He nodded. "The discovery of the ship will be announced this afternoon.

But we're holding off any reference to the Alexandria Library treasures."

Hala gazed out the window. "Our loss of the Library sixteen centuries ago would compare to your President suddenly ordering the burning of the Washington archives, the Smithsonian Institution and the National Art Gallery."

Schiller nodded. "A fair comparison."

"Is there hope the ancient books can be recovered?"

"We don't know yet. The wax tables from the ship only provided a few tantalizing clues. The hiding place could be anywhere between Iceland and South Africa."

"But you do intend to search," she said, her interest growing.

"The discovery project is underway."

"Who else knows about this?"

"Only the President, myself and a few trusted members of our government, and now you."

"Why have you included me and not President Hasan?"

Schiller got up and walked across the room. Then he turned back to Hala. "Your nation's leader may not be in control much longer. We feel the information is too far-reaching to fall into the wrong hands."

"Akhmad Yazid."

"Frankly, yes."

"Your government will have to deal with him sooner or later," said Hala.

"If the Library treasures and their valuable geological data can be located, Yazid will demand they be returned to Egypt."

"We understand," said Schiller. "That's the purpose behind our meeting here in Breckinridge-The President wishes you to announce the imminent discovery in your address to the United Nations."

Hala looked at Schiller thoughtfully for a moment. Then her eyes turned and anger came into her voice.

"How can I say the discovery is just around the corner when a search may take years and never be successful? I find it most distasteful that the President and his advisers insist on creating a lie and using me to speak it. Is this another one of your stupid Middle East foreign policy games, Julius? A last-ditch gamble to keep President Hasan in power and erode Akhmad Yazid's influence? Am I the tool to mislead the Egyptian people into believing rich mineral deposits are about to be found in their country that will Turn around our depressed economy and eliminate the terrible poverty?"

Schiller sat silently and made no denials.

"You have come to the wrong woman, Julius. I'll see my government fall, and face death from Yazid's executioners, before I deceive my people with false hope."

"Noble sentiments," Schiller said quietly. "I admire your principles; however, I firmly believe the plan is sound."

"The risk is too great. If the President fails to provide the Library's great knowledge, he will be inviting a political disaster. Yazid will take advantage with a propaganda campaign that will broaden his power base and make him stronger than your experts on Egypt can ever conceive.

for the tenth time in as many years, United States foreign policy experts will look like amateurish clowns in the eyes of the world."

"Mistakes have been made," Schiller admitted.

"If only you hadn't interfered in our affairs."

"I didn't come here to debate Middle eastern policy, Hala. I came to ask your help."

She shook her head and turned away. "I'm sorry. I can't go on record with a lie."

Schiller looked at her with compassion in his eyes. He didn't push her, but thought it better to back off.

"I'll tell the President of your response," he said, picking up his attache case and making for the doorway. "He'll be most disappointed."

"Wait!"

He turned expectantly.

Hala rose and came to him. "Prove to me that your people have a positive lead to the location of the Library artifacts and not a foggy clue, and I'll do as the White House wishes."

"You'll make the announcement?"

"Yes.

"Four days until your address is not much time."

"Those are my terms," Hala said bluntly. Schiller nodded gravely

"Accepted."

Then he turned and walked out the door.

Muhammad Ismail watched Schiller's limousine come off the private road leading to Senator Pitts lodge and Turn onto Highway 9 toward the ski town of Breckenridge. He did not see who was seated in the rear seat, and he did not care.

The sight of the official car, men patrolling the grounds who spoke into radio transmitters at regular intervals, and the two armed guards inside a Dodge van at the road's enumce were all he needed to confirm the information purchased by Yazid's agents in Washington.

Ismail leaned casually against a large Mercedes-Benz diesel sedan, shielding a man sitting inside peeling out an open window through a pair of binoculars. A rack on the roof held several sets of skis. lsmail was dressed in a white ski suit. A matching ski mask hid his perpetually scowling face.

"Seen enough?" he asked while seemingly adjusting the ski rack.

"Another minute," answered the observer. He was staring at the lodge, which was partially visible through the trees. All that could be seen around the binoculars was a heavy black beard and a mass of uncombed hair.

"Make it quick. I'm freezing out here just standing around."

"Bear with me another minute."

"How does it look?" asked Ismail.

"No more than a five-man detail. Three in the house. Two in the van.

Only one man patrols around the grounds at a time, not a second more than thirty minutes. They don't dally. The cold gets to them too. They walk the same trail through the snow. No sign of TV cameras, but they probably have one mounted in the van that is monitored inside the house."

"We'll move in two groups," said Ismail. "One takes the house, the other kills the guard patrolling outside and destroys the van from the road, where they least expect an attack."

The observer dropped the glasses. "Do you plan to move in tonight, Muhammad?"

"No," answered ismail. "Tomorrow, when the American pigs are stuffing their mouths with their morning meal."

"A daylight raid will be dangerous."

"We will not sneak around in the dark like women."

"But our only escape route to the airport is through the center of town," the observer protested. "The streets will be crowded with traffic and hundreds of skiers. Suleiman Ammar would not risk such an adventure."

lsmail suddenly spun and slapped the observer with his gloved hand. "I am in charge here!" he snapped. "Suleiman is an overrated jackal. Do not speak his name in my presence."

The observer did not cower. His dark eyes flashed with hostility. "You'll kill us all," he said quietly.

"So be it," Ismail hissed, his voice as cold as the snow. "If we die so Hala Kamil can die, the price will be cheap."

"Magnificent," said Pitt.

"Gorgeous, simply gorgeous," Lily murmured.

Giordino nodded in agreement. "A real winner."

They were standing in an antique and classic automobile restoration shop, and their admiring stares were directed toward a 1930 L-29 Cord town car, a model with an open front for the chauffeur. The body was painted burgundy while the fenders were a buff that was matched by the leather-covered roof over the passenger's compartment. Elegantly styled, long and graceful, the car had front-wheel drive that helped to give it a low silhouette. The original coachmaker had stretched the chassis until it measured nearly five-and-a-half meters from front to rear bumper. Almost half the length was hood, beginning with a race-car-type grill and ending with a sharply raked windshield.

It was big and sleek, a thing of beauty that belonged to an era fondly revered by older generations but unknown to those who followed.

The man who had found Pitts car stored in an old garage, hidden under forty years of trash, and had restored it from a mangled hulk, was proud of his handiwork. Robert Esbenson, a tall man with a pixie face and limpid blue eyes, gave the hood a final, loving wipe with a dust cloth and turned the car over to Pitt.

"I hate to see this one go."

"You've done a remarkable job," said Pitt.

"Are you going to ship it home?"

"Not just yet. I'd like to drive it for a few days."

Esbenson nodded. "Okay, let me adjust the carburetor and distributor for our high altitude. Then, when you return to the shop, I'll have it detailed and arrange for an auto transporter to ship it to Washington."

"Can I ride in it?" Lily asked anxiously.

"All the way to Breckenridge," Pitt replied. He turned to Giordino.

"Coming with us, Al?"

"Why not? We can leave the rental car outside in the parking lot."

They switched the luggage, and ten minutes later Pitt turned the Cord onto Interstate 70 and aimed the long hood toward the foothills leading into the snow-peaked Rocky Mountains.

Lily and Al sat warmly in the luxurious passenger compartment separated from Pitt by the divider window. Pitt did not pull out the transformable top that protected the chauffeur's seat, but sat in the open bundled up in a heavy sheepskin coat, savoring the cold air on his face.

for the moment his mind was on his driving, scanning the instruments to make sure the sixty-year-old car was performing as it was designed to do. He held to the right lane, allowing most of the traffic to pass and gawk.

Pitt felt exhilarated and content behind the wheel, listening to the smooth purr of the eight-cylinder engine and the mellow tone of the exhaust. It was as though he had control over a living thing.

if he had had any inkling of the mess he was driving into, he would have turned around and headed straight back to Denver.

Darkness had fallen over the Continental Divide when the Cord rolled into the legendary Colorado mining town turned ski resort. Pitt drove up the main street, whose old buildings retained their historic western flavor. The sidewalks were crowded with people coming from the slopes, carrying their skis and poles over one shoulder.

Pitt parked near the entrance of the Hotel Breckenridge. He signed the register and took two phone messages from the desk clerk. He read both slips of paper and slipped them into a pocket.

"from Dr. Rothberg?" asked Lily.

"Yes, he's invited us for dinner at his condo. It's just across the street from the hotel."

"What time?" Giordino queried.

"Seven-thirty."

Lily glanced at her watch. "Only forty minutes to shower and do my hair. I'd better get with it."

Pitt gave her the room key. "You're in two twenty-one. Al and I have rooms adjoining yours on each side."

As soon as Lily disappeared with the porter into an elevator, Pitt motioned Giordino into the cocktail lounge. He waited until the barmaid took their drink order before passing the second message across the table.

Giordino read it aloud softly. " 'Your library project takes top priority. Most urgent you find a permanent address for Alex in the next four days. Luck, Dad."

" He looked up, utterly confused. "Do I read this right? We have only four days to identify the location?"

Pitt nodded positively. "I read panic between the lines and smell something rumbling in Washington power circles."

"They might as well ask us to invent a common cure for herpes, AIDS and acne," Giordino grumbled. "We can kiss off our skiing trip."

"We'll stay," said Pitt resolutely. "Nothing we can do until Yaeger gets lucky." Pitt rose from his chair. "And speaking of Yaeger, I'd better give him a call."

He found a public telephone in the hotel lobby and made a call on his credit card. After four rings a voice answered in what sounded like the middle of a yawn.

"Yaeger here."

"Hiram, this is Dirk. How's your search going?"

"It's going."

"Run onto anything?"

"My babies sifted through every piece of geological data in their little banks from Casablanca around the horn to Zanzibar. They failed to find a hot spot along the coast of Africa that matched your drawing. There were three vague possibilities.

But when I programmed profiles on land-mass transformations that might have occurred over the past sixteen hundred years, none proved encouraging. Sorry."

"What's your next step?"

"I'm. already in the process of heading north. This will take more time because of the extensive shoreline encompassing the British Isles, the Baltic Sea and the Scandinavian countries as far as Siberia."

"Can you cover it in four days?"

"Only if you insist I put the hired help on a twenty-four-hour schedule."

"I insist," said Pitt sternly. "Word has just come down that the project has become an urgent priority."

"We'll hit it hard," Yaeger said, his voice more jovial than serious.

"I'M in Breckenridge, Colorado. if you strike on something, call me at the Breckenridge Hotel." Pitt gave Yaeger the hotel phone and his room number.

Yaeger dutifully repeated the digits. "Okay, got it."

"You sound like you're in a good mood," said Pitt.

"Why not? We accomplished quite a lot."

"Like what? You still don't know where our river lies."

"True," replied Yaeger cheerfully. "But we sure as hell know where it ain't."

Snowflakes the size of cornflakes were falling as the three trudged across the street from the hotel to a two-story cedarsided condominium.

A floodlighted sign read SKIQUEEN. They climbed a stairway and knocked on the door to unit 22B.

Bertram Rothberg greeted them with a jolly smile beneath a splendid gray beard and sparkling blue eyes. His ears rose in full sail through a swirling sea of gray hair. A red plaid shirt and corduroy trousers clad his beefy body. Put an ax in one hand -and a crosscut saw in the other, and he could have reported for duty as a lumberjack.

He shook hands warmly and without introductions as if he'd known everyone for years. He led them up a narrow stairwell to a combination living-dining room beneath a high-peaked ceiling with skylights.

"How does a gallon bottle of cheap burgundy sound before dinner," he asked with a sly grin.

Lily laughed. "I'm game."

Giordino shrugged. "Makes no difference as long as it's wet."

"And you, Dirk?"

"Sounds good."

Pitt didn't bother asking Rothberg how he recognized each of them. His father would have provided descriptions. The performance was nearly flawless. Pitt suspected the historian had worked for one of the government's many intelligence agencies at some time in the past.

Rothberg retired to the kitchen to pour the wine. Lily followed.

"Can I help you with anything-?" She suddenly stopped and peered at the empty counters and the cold stove.

Rothberg caught her curious look. "I'm a lousy cook so our dinner will be catered. It should show up around eight." He pointed at the sectional couch in the living room. "Please get comfortable around the fire."

He passed the glasses and then lowered his rotund figure into a leather easy chair. He raised his glass.

"Here's to a successful search."

"Hear, hear," said Lily.

Pitt got off the mark. "Dad tells me you've made the Alexandria Library a life study."

"Thirty-two years. Probably been better off to have taken a wife all that time instead of rummaging around dusty bookshelves and straining my eyes over old manuscripts. The subject has been like a mistress to me.

Never asking, only giving. I've never fallen out of love with her."

Lily said, "I can understand your attraction."

Rothberg smiled at her. "As an archaeologist, you would."

He rose and jabbed in the fireplace with a poker. Satisfied that the logs were burning evenly, he sat down again and continued.

"Yes, the Library was not only a glorious edifice of learning, but it was the chief wonder of the ancient world, containing vast accumulations of entire civilizations." Rothberg spoke almost as if he was in a trance, his mind seeing shadows from the past. "The great art and literature of the Greeks, the Egyptians, the Romans, the sacred writings of the Jews, the wisdom and knowledge of the most gifted men the world has ever known, the divine works of philosophy, music of incredible beauty, the ancient best-sellers, the masterworks of medicine and science, it was the finest storehouse of materials and knowledge ever assembled in antiquity."

"Was it open to the public?" asked Giordino.

"Certainly not to every beggar off the street," answered Rothberg. "But researchers and scholars pretty much had the run of the place to examine, catalog, translate and edit, and to publish their findings. You see, the Library and its adjoining museum went far beyond being mere depositories. Their halls launched the true science of creative scholarship. The Library became the first true reference library, as we think of today, where books were systematically catalogued. In fact the complex was known as the Place of the Muses."

Rothberg paused and checked his guests' glasses. "You look like you can use another shot of wine, Al."

Giordino smiled. "I never Turn down a free drink."

"Lily, Dirk?"

"I've hardly touched mine," said Lily.

Pitt shook his head. "I'm fine."

Rothberg refilled Giordino's glass and poured his own before continuing.

"Later empires and nations owe a staggering debt to the Alexandria Library. Few institutions of knowledge have produced so much. Pliny, a celebrated Roman of the first century A.D., invented and wrote the world's first encyclopedia. Aristophanes, head of the Library two hundred years before Christ, was the father of the dictionary.

Callimachus, a famous writer and authority on Greek tragedy, compiled the earliest Who's Who. The great mathematician Euclid devised the first known textbook on geometry. Dionysius organized grammar into a coherent system and published his 'Art of Grammar,' which became the model text for all languages, written and spoken. These men, and thousands of others, labored tutu piuduced their epoch achievements while working at the Library.

"You're describing a university," said Pitt.

"Quite right. Together the library and museum were considered the university of the Hellenistic world. The immense structures of white marble contained picwm galleries, statuary halls, theaters for poetry reading and lectures on everything from astronomy to geology. There were also dormitories, a dining hall, cloisters along colonnades for contemplation, and an animal park and botanical garden. Ten great halls housed different categories of manuscripts and books. Hundreds of thousands of them were handwritten on either papyrus or parchment, and then rolled into scrolls and stored in bronze tubes. "

"What's the difference between the two?" asked Giordino.

"Papyrus is a tropical plant. The Egyptians made a paperlike writing material out of its stems. Parchment, also called vellum, was produced from the skins of animals, especially young calves, kids or lambs."

"Is it possible they could have survived the centuries?" Pitt asked.

"Parchment should last longer than papyrus," answered Rothberg. Then he looked at Pitt. "Their condition after sixteen hundred years would depend on where they've been stored. Papyrus scrolls from Egyptian tombs are still readable after three thousand years."

"A hot and dry atmosphere."

"Yes. "

"Suppose the scrolls were buried somewhere along the northern coast of Sweden or Russia?"

Rothberg bent his head thoughtfully. "I suppose the freeze would preserve them, but during the summer thaw they would rot from the dampness."

Pitt could smell defeat looming down the road. This was one more nail in the coffin. Hope of finding the Library manuscripts intact seemed farther than ever.

Lily did not share Pitts pessimism. She had the glow of excitement on her face. "If you had been Junius Venator, Dr. Rothberg, what books would you have saved?"

"Hard question," Rothberg said, winking at her. "I can only guess he might have attempted to save the complete works of Sophocles, Euripides, Aristotle and Plato for a start. And of course, Homer. He wrote twenty-four books, but only a very few have come down to us. I think Venator would have saved as many of the fifty thousand volumes on Greek, Etruscan, Roman and Egyptian history as his fleet of ships could carry.

The latter would be extremely interesting, since the Library's monumental store of Egyptian literature and religious and scientific material has all been lost. We know practically nothing about the Etruscans, yet Claudius wrote an extensive history on them that must have sat on the Library's shelves. I'd certainly have taken religious works on Hebrew and Christian laws and traditions. The revelations of these scrolls would probably knock the socks off modern biblical scholars."

"Books of the sciences?" added Giordino.

"That goes without saying."

"Don't forget cookbooks," said Lily.

Rothberg laughed. "Venator was a shrewd operator. He'd have saved a general spread of knowledge and material, including books on cooking and household hints. Something for everyone, you might say."

"Especially the ancient geological data," said Pitt.

"Especially that," Rothberg agreed.

"Has anything come down on what kind of a man he was?" inquired Lily.

"Venator?"

"Yes. "

"He was the leading intellectual of his time. A renowned scholar and teacher who was hired away from one of the great learning centers of Athens to become the last of the Alexandria Library's prominent curators. He was the great chronicler of his age-We know he wrote over a hundred books of political and social commentary that covered the known world going back four thousand years. None of which has survived."

"Archaeological researchers would have a field day with data compiled by someone who was two thousand years closer to our past," said Lily.

"What else do we know about him?" Pitt asked.

"Not much. Venator attracted a large number of pupils who went on to become recognized men of letters and science. One student, Diocles of Antioch, mentioned him briefly in one of his essays. He described Venator as a daring innovator who struck out into areas other scholars feared to tread. Though a Christian, he saw religion more as a social science. This was the main cause behind the friction that existed between Venator and the Christian zealot Theophilos, Bishop of Alexandria. Theophilos went after Venator with a vengeance, claiming the museum and Library were hotbeds of paganism. He finally persuaded the Emperor Theodosius, a devout Christian, to burn the place. In the uproar and riots that occurred between Christians and non-Christians during the destruction, it was supposed Junius Venator was murdered by fanaticw followers of Theophilos."

"But now we know he escaped with the pick of the collection," said Lily.

"When Senator Pitt called with the news of your discovery in Greenland,"

said Rothberg, "I felt as excited as a street sweeper who'd won a million-dollar lottery."

"Can you give us any thoughts on where you think Venator hid the artifacts?" asked Pitt.

Rothberg considered for a long moment. Finally he said quietly, "Junius Venator was not an ordinary man. He followed his own path. He had access to a mountain of knowledge. His route would have been scientifically planned, only the unknowns were left to chance. He certainly did an efficient job when you consider the relics have remained hidden for sixteen hundred years." Rothberg threw up his hands in defeat. "I can't offer a clue. Venator is too tough a customer to second-guess."

"You must have some idea," Pitt persisted.

Rothberg looked long and deeply into the flames wavering in the fireplace. "All I can say is, Venator's burial place must be where no man would think to look."

0758, read Ismail's watch. He flattened himself behind a small blue spruce and peered at the lodge. Wood smoke was curling from one of two chimneys while steam issued from the heater vents. Kamil, he knew, was an early riser and a good cook. He rightly reasoned that she was up and making breakfast for her guards.

He was a man of the desert and not used to the icy cold that gripped him. He wished he could stand, flail his arms and stamp his feet. His toes ached and his fingers were becoming numb inside the gloves. The agony of the cold was filling his mind and slowing his reaction time. A creeping fear fell over him, a fear that he might botch the job and die for no purpose.

Ismail's inexperience was showing through. At the initial stage of the mission he was coming unstrung. He suddenly wondered if the hated Americans somehow knew or suspected his presence. Nervous and afraid, his mind began to lose its ability to make hard-and-fast decisions.

0759. One quick glance at the van just above the entrance to the road.

Shifts were alternated every four hours between the guards in the warm lodge and those huddled inside the van. Two relief men were due to make the hundredmeter walk from the lodge at any time.

He turned his attention to the guard walking a well-beaten path through the snow around the grounds. He was slowly approaching Ismail's tree, his breath coming in clouds of vapor, his gaze alert for any sign out of the ordinary.

The monotony and the bitter cold had not slackened the Secret Service agent's vigilance. His eyes swept back and forth over the area like radar. Less than a minute remained before he would see Ismail's trail in the snow.

Ismail swore softly under his breath and pressed more deeply into the snow. He was, he knew, exposed. The pine needles shielding him from view would not stop bullets.

0800. Almost on the dot, the front door of the lodge opened and two men stepped out. They wore stocking caps and down-filled ski coats. They automatically scanned the snowy landscape as they moved down the road in quiet conversation.

Ismail's plan was to wait until the relief party reached the van and then take Out all four guards at the same time. But he had misjudged and moved into position too early. The two men had only walked fifty meters down the road when the guard circling the lodge spotted Ismail's footprints.

He stopped and raised the transmitter to his lips. His words were cut off by a loud series of cracks from ismail's Heckler & Koch MP5

submachine gun.

Ismail's amateurish plan had gotten off to a bad start. A pro would have snuffed the guard with a single shot between the eyes from a silenced semiautomatic. Ismail stitched the guard'S COat in the chest area with ten rounds; a good twenty others sprayed the woods beyond.

One of the Arabs frantically began lobbing grenades at the van while another pumped bullets through the sides. Sophisticated assault was beyond the scope of most terrorists. Finesse was as foreign to them as liquid soap. Their only salvation was luck. One of the grenades found its way through the windshield, bursting with a loud thud. The explosion bore no similarity to motion-picture special effects. The gas tank did not go up in a fiery ball. The body of the van bulged and split as if a cherry bomb had gone off inside a tin can.

Both occupants were killed instantly.

Excited with blood lust, the two assassins, neither older than twenty, kept up their attack on the mangled van until the magazines of their rifles were empty, instead of concentrating on the Secret Service agents on the road, who took cover

behind trees and unleashed an accurate fire from their Uzis that quickly cut them down.

Correctly figuring their fellow agents inside the van were beyond help, they began retreating toward the lodge, running in a sideways motion back to back, one of them exchanging fire with Ismail, who had found cover behind a large mossy rock.

Ismafl's strategy was blown away by the confusion.

The other ten men of the terrorist team were supposed to rush the rear door at the sound of Ismad's gunfire, but they lost valuable time wading through knee-deep snow. Their assault came late and they were effectively pinned down by the agents inside.

One Arab managed to gain temporary safety under the north wall of the lodge. He pulled the pin on a grenade and flipped it at a large sliding window. He misjudged the thickness of the double panes, and the grenade bounced back. His face had only time for an expression of horror before the blast blew him apart.

The two agents scrambled up the steps and leapt through the front door.

The Arabs laid down a barrage of fire that caught one of the men in the back, dropping him with only his feet showing across the threshold. He was quickly dragged inside and the door slammed shut at the exact instant a dozen shots and a grenade blasted it into splinters.

The windows disintegrated in showers of glass but the heavy log walls easily withstood the onslaught. The agents dropped two more of Ismad's men, but the rest dodged in closer, using the pines and rocks for cover.

When they had moved within twenty meters of the lodge, they began hurling grenades through the windows.

Inside the lodge, an agent roughly shoved Hala into a cold fireplace. He was in the act of pushing a writing desk over the hearth to shield her when a hail of fire through a window ricocheted off the stone mantel, of the bullets smashing into his neck and shoulder. Hala could not see, but she heard his body thump as it made contact with the wood floor.

Ibc grenades were taking deadly effect now. At close range the shrapnel was far more damaging to human tissue than a rifle bullet. The agents'

only defense was a sharp and precise fire, but they had not counted on a heavy assault and theirsmall stockpile of ammunition was down to the last few clips.

A call for assistance had been transmitted immediately after Ismail's opening shots, but the emergency plea went to the Secret Service office in Denver and precious time was lost before the local sheriff's department was notified and their units organized.

A grenade exploded in a storeroom, igniting a can of paint thinner. A gas can used for filling the tank of a snowblower went next, and one entire side of the lodge soon crawled with flames.

The gunfire died as the fire spread. The Arabs cautiously tightened the net. They formed a loose circle around the lodge; every automatic rifle was trained on the doors and windows. They waited patiently for the survivors to be flushed out by the blaze.

Only two Secret Service agents were still on their feet. The rest were sprawled in bloody heaps among the mutilated pieces of furniture-The full fury of the fire raced into the kitchen and up a rear staircase, spreading to the upstairs bedrooms. Already it was far beyond any hope of extinction. The heat swiftly became unbearable to the defenders on the lower floor.

The sound of sirens echoed up the valley from the direction of town and drew closer.

One agent pushed away the desk protecting Hala in the fireplace and led her on hands and knees to a low window.

"The local sheriff's deputies are arriving," he said quickly. "As soon as they draw off the terrorist fire, we'll make a run for it before we're barbecued to death."

Hala could only nod. She could hardly hear him. Her eardrums hurt from the roar of the grenades. Her eyes were filled with tears, and she pressed a handkerchief tightly against her nose and mouth to filter out the thickening blanket of smoke.

Outside, Ismail lay prone, clutching his H & K automatic, torn by indecision. The lodge had swiftly become a blazing inferno, smoke and flame were rolling through the windows. Anyone still living had to escape in the next few seconds or die.

But Ismail could not wait it out. Already he could see red and blue lights flashing through the trees as a sheriff's car sped up the highway.

Of his original team of twelve men, seven were left, including himself.

any wounded were to be killed rather than left behind to be interrogated by American intelligence officials. He shouted a comnand to his men and they pulled away from the lodge and hurried off toward the entrance road.

The first deputies to arrive slid to a stop and blocked the road to the lodge. While one reported on the radio, his partner cautiously eased open his door and studied the van and burning lodge, holding his drawn revolver. They were only to observe, report and wait for backup.

It was a sound tactic when facing armed and dangerous criminals.

Unfortunately, it didn't work with a small army of unseen terrorists who suddenly opened fire with a storm of bullets that shredded the patrol car and killed the two deputies before they had a chance to react.

At a signal from one of the agents peering around the window, Hala was lifted and brusquely flung out onto the ground. The Secret Service men followed and quickly took her by the arms and began running, stumbling through the snow on an angle toward the highway.

They had covered only paces when one of Ismail's men spotted them and shouted the alarm. Shots struck the trees and branches fell around the fleeing survivors. One of the agents suddenly threw up his hands, clawing at the sky, stumbled forward a few steps and then fell face downward in the snow.

"They're trying to cut us off from the highway!" the other agent snapped. "You try to make it. I'll make a stand and delay them."

Hala started to say something, but the agent spun her around and gave her a not-too-gentle shove that sent her on her way.

"Run, dammit, run!" he yelled.

But he could see it was already too late. any hope of escape was dealt a death blow. They had taken the wrong angle away from the burning lodge and were headed on a direct line toward two Mercedes-Benz sedans parked in woods beside the road. In dazed defeat he realized the cars belonged to the terrorists. He had no alternative. If he couldn't stop them, he would at least slow them down long enough for Hala to hail a passing car. In a suicide gamble, the agent ran at the Arabs, finger locked on the trigger of his Uzi, shouting every obscenity he'd ever learned.

Ismail and his men were momentarily stunned into immobility by what they saw as a charging demon. for two incredulous seconds they hesitated, then recovered and let loose a long burst at the courageous Secret Service agent, cutting him down in mid-stride.

But not before he took out four of them.

Hala saw the cars too. She also saw the terrorists rushing for them.

Behind her she heard the thunderous fusillade of shots. Choking and gasping for breath, her clothes and hair singed, she staggered into a small ditch and up the other side before sprawling on a hard surface.

She raised her head slightly and found herself staring at black asphalt.

She pushed herself to her feet and began running, knowing she was only delaying the inevitable, knowing with dread certainty she would be lying dead in the next few minutes.

The Cord rolled majestically along the highway from Breckenridge, the morning sun gleaming on the bright chrome and new paint. Skiers wailing to the lifts waved as the elegant sixty-year-old classic swept past.

Giordino dozed in the enclosed rear seat while Lily sat up front in the open with Pitt.

Pitt had awakened in a stubborn mood that morning. He saw no reason to ski on rental skis when his own American made Olin 921s were in a closet only three miles up the road from the hotel. Besides, he reasoned, he could drive to the family lodge, pick up his gear and be sitting on a chair lift in half the time it took waiting his Turn to be fitted in a rental shop.

Pitt shrugged off his father's unexplained warning to stay clear of the lodge. He simply wrote it off as bureaucratic overplay. The Senator would have made the same impression on Hulk Hogan by telling the wrestler to Turn the other cheek after an opponent had kicked him in the groin.

"Who's shooting off fireworks so early in the morning?" Lily wondered aloud.

"Not fireworks," Pitt said, tuning in the sharp crack of gunfire and the explosive thump from grenades echoing off the mountainsides of the valley. "Sounds like an infantry firefight."

"It's coming from the woods up ahead!" Lily pointed"to the right of the road."

The smile wrinkles around Pitts eyes tightened. He increased the Cord's speed and rapped on the divider window. Giordino came awake and cranked the glass down.

"You woke me just as the orgy was getting started," he said between yawns.

"Listen up," ordered Pitt.

Giordino winched as the cold air flew into the passengers' compartment.

He cupped his ears. Slowly an expression of bewilderment crossed his face.

"Have the Russians landed?"

"Look!" said Lily excitedly. "A forest fire."

Giordino made a quick study of the black smoke that abruptly billowed above the treetops, chased by columns of flame. "Fuel concentrated," he stated briefly. "I'd say it was a burning structure, probably a house or condominium."

Pitt knew Giordino was on target. He swore and pounded the steering wheel, knowing with sickening certainty it was his family's lodge that was feeding the growing mushroom of fire and smoke.

He said, "No sense asking for trouble by stopping. We'll drive past and check out the action. Al, you come up front.

Lily, climb in the rear and keep your head down. I don't want you hurt."

"What about me?" Giordino asked in resigned indignation. "Don't I rate a little concern? Give me one good reason why I should sit up there exposed with you?"

"To protect your trusty chauffeur from harm, evil and unsavor-y felons."

"Definitely not a good reason."

Pitt tried another tack. "Of course, there's that fifty bucks I borrowed from you in Panama and never paid back."

"Plus interest."

"Plus interest," Pitt repeated.

"What I won't go through to protect my meager assets."

Giordino's weary despair sounded almost genuine as he scrambled through the open divider window and changed places with Lily.

Farther down the highway, a half-mile before the entrance to the lodge, people were stopping and crouching behind their parked cars, gawking at the swirling smoke and listening to the rattle of automatic rifles. Pitt thought it odd that the sheriff's department hadn't put in an appearance, and then he saw the bullet-riddled patrol car barricading the road to the lodge.

His attention was focused to his right and the inferno beyond when suddenly, at the very edge of his peripheral vision, he caught a vague form running down the road on a collision course with the Cord.

He stomped on the brakes, hard, and cramped the steering wheel to the right, whipping the Cord into a ninety-degrre angle and sending it on a broadside skid. The high, narrow tires shrieked from their treads'

friction against the pavement. The Cord ended up sideways, blocking both lanes of the highway, the driver's side not more than a meter from a woman standing stock-still.

Pitts heart had doubled its beat. He let out a deep breath and looked at the woman he'd come within a hair of mashing like a bug. He saw the fear and shock in her eyes slowly transform into an expression of incredulity.

"You!" she gasped. "Is it really you?"

Pitt stared at her blankly. "Ms. Kamil?"

"I believe in d'eji vu," Giordino mumbled. "I do, I do, I do."

"Oh, thank God," she whispered. "Please help me. Everyone is dead.

They're coming to kill me."

Pitt climbed from behind the wheel at the same time Lily stepped from the passengers' compartment. They helped Hala inside and lowered her on the rear seat.

"Who's they?" Pitt asked.

"Yazid's paid assassins. They murdered the Secret Service men guarding me. We must get away quickly. They'll be here any second."

"Rest easy," Lily said soothingly, noticing Hala's smokeblackened skin and singed hair for the first time. "We'll take you to a hospital."

"No time," Hala gasped, making a trembling gesture through the window.

"Please hurry or they'll kill all of you too."

Pitt turned just in time to see two black Mercedes sedans burst from the woods and veer onto the highway. He studied them for no more than a second before jumping into the driver's seat. He shifted into first gear and jammed the accelerator to the floor. He twisted the wheel and turned the Cord in the only direction open to him-back toward downtown Breckenridge.

He looked briefly into the mirror strapped to the side mount spare tire.

He estimated the distance between the Cord and the terrorists' cars at no more than three hundred meters. That brief glimpse was all he had time for. His rear view was suddenly cut off as a bullet drilled through the mirror and shattered the reflection.

"Down on the floor!" he yelled at the two women in back.

There was no drive shaft on the Cord, and the women were able to curl up and press themselves against the flat floor. Hala stared into Lily's face and began trembling uncontrollably. Lily put an arm around her and forced a brave smile.

"Not to panic," she said encouragingly. "Once we make it to town we'll be safe."

"No," Hala murmured as shock began to set in. "We won't be safe anywhere."

In the front seat Giordino hunched low to get what shelter he could from the gunfire and higid wind whistling around the windshield. "How fast will this thing go?" he asked conversationally.

"The best top speed ever recorded for an L-29 was seventy-seven,"

answered Pitt.

'Miles or kilometers?"

'Miles. "

"I have a sinking feeling we're outclassed." Giordino had to shout in Pitts ear to be heard above the howl of the Cord's second gear.

"What are we up against?"

Giordino swung around, leaned over the door and cast a wary eye backward. "Hard to tell what model a Mercedes is from the front, but I'd say the hounds are driving five hundred SDLS."

"Diesels?"

"Turbocharged diesels to be exact, capable of 220 kilometers per hour."

"They gaining?"

"Like tigers after a -toed sloth," Giordino replied drily. "They'll chew our ass long before we reach the local sheriff's coffee hangout."

Pitt jammed the clutch to the floor, grasped the end of the gear-shift arm that extended from the dashboard and shoved it into third. "Better we save lives by staying away. Those killcrazy bastards are liable to slaughter a hundred innocent bystanders just to assassinate Kamil. "

Giordino peered to the rear again. "I think I can see the whites of their eyes."

Ismail screamed a dozen curses as his gun jammed. In a rage, he heaved it out of the Mercedes onto the highway and snatched another from the hands of his follower in the backseat. He reached out the window and squeezed off a burst at the Cord. Only five shells spat from the muzzle before the armno clip emptied. He cursed again as he fished in his pocket for another clip, wrestled it free and pushed it in the slide.

"Do not excite yourself," said the driver carefully. "We'll catch them in the next kilometer. I'll come around on the left while Omar and his men in the other car take the right. We can snare them in a cross fire at close range."

"I want to kill the scum who interfered," Ismail snarled.

"You'll get your chance. Patience."

Almost like a sullen child who can't have his way, Ismail slumped in the seat and stared vengefully through the windshield at the fleeing car ahead.

lsmail was the worst kind of killer. He was utterly incapable of remorse. He would have celebrated after blowing up a maternity ward.

First-class hit men recorded their kills and studied ways to improve their craft. He never bothered to react or count the bodies. His planning was sloppy, and on two occasions he had wiped out the wrong quarry, which made a fanatic like Ismail all the more dangerous.

Unpredictable as a shark, he struck indiscriminately and without mercy at any innocent victim who was unlucky enough to step in his way. He justified his bloody deeds by killing for a religious cause, but in another time, another place, he'd have been a serial murderer, leaving a trail of dead for the full of it. Ismail would have sickened John Dillenger and Bonnie and Clyde.

He sat there moving his fingers over the rifle as if it were a sensual object, waiting, waiting to pump its lethal fire through the thin walls of the old car and into the flesh that had temporarily cheated him of his prey.

"They must be saving their ammunition," sadd Giordino thankfully.

"Only until they box us in and can't miss," Pitt replied. His eyes were on the road, but his mind was desperately turning over escape schemes.

"My kingdom for a rocket launcher."

"Which reminds me. When I got in the car this morning, I accidentally kicked something under the seat."

Giordino bent down and probed the floorboard under Pitt. His hand touched a cold, hard object. He held it aloft. "Only a socket wrench,"

he announced sadly. "Might as well be a hainbone for all the good it'll do."

"There's a Jeep trail just ahead that leads up to the top of the ski runs. Maintenance vehicles sometimes use it to carry supplies and equipment to the peak. Might give us a slim chance to lose them in the woods or a ravine. We're dead if we stick to the highway."

"How far?"

"Around the next bend in the road."

"Can we make it?"

"You tell me."

Giordino looked back for the third time. "Seventy-five meters and hauling ass."

"Close, too close," said Pitt. "We'll have to slow them down."

"I could show my ugly face and make obscene gestures," Giordino said dryly.

"Only make them madder. We have to go to plan one."

"I missed the briefing," Giordino said sarcastically.

"How's your throwing arm?"

Giordino nodded in understanding. "Keep this old barge in a straight line and fireball Giordino wig retire the opposing term."

The open town car made a perfect platform. Giordino planted his knees on the seat facing backward, his head and shoulders exposed above the roof. He took aim, raised his arm and hurled the socket wrench in a high arc toward the leading Mercedes.

for an instant his heart seized. He thought he had underthrown as the wrench dropped low and landed on the hood of the car. But it took a bounce and smashed neatly through the windshield.

The Arab driver had spotted Giordino in the act of heaving the wrench.

His reaction time was good but not good enough. He hit the brakes and cramped the wheel to swerve out of the way just as the glass burst in a thousand tiny pieces and sprayed into his face. The wrench caromed off the steering wheel and dropped into Ismail's lap.

The driver in the second Mercedes was hanging close to the rear bumper of Ismail's car, and he didn't see the socket wrench sailing through the air. He was caught completely off guard when the taillights in front of his eyes suddenly flashed red. He stared helplessly as he rammed the first Mercedes, sending it spinning out of control until it came to a halt facing in the opposite direction.

"That what you had in mind?" asked Giordino cheerfully.

"Right on the money. Hold on, we're approaching our Turn." Pitt slowed and swung the Cord onto a narrow, snowpacked road leading in a series of switchbacks up the mountainside.

The straight-eight engine with its 115-horsepower strained to pull the heavy car over the slippery, uneven surface. The stiff chassis springs jolted everyone like tennis balls in a washing machine as the lighter rear end slewed back and forth. Pitt compensated with a deft touch on the accelerator and steering wheel, using the pulling power of the front-wheel drive to keep the long hood pointed up the middle of a road that had all the qualifications of a vague hiking to.

Lily and Hala had picked themselves up off the floor and were sitting in the seat, feet braced against the divider partition, hanging onto the overhead straps for dear life.

Six minutes later they left the trees behind and were climbing above timberline. The road now ran between steep inclines carpeted with massive rocks and deep snow. It had been Pitts original idea to abandon the Cord and make a run for it, using the woods and craggy landscape for cover, but the depth of Colorado's famous powdery snow sharply increased at the higher altitudes, making any passage on foot nearly impossible.

He was left with no alternative but to reach the summit with enough time to take a chair lift down the mountain to the town and become lost in the crowds.

"We're boiling," Giordino observed.

Pitt didn't need to see the steam starting to issue around the base of the radiator cap; he'd been watching the needle on the temperature gauge creep upward until it was pegged on HOT.

"The engine was rebuilt with close tolerances," he explained. "We've given it too much of a beating before it had a chance to break in."

"What do we do when the road ends?" asked Giordino.

"Plan two," answered Pitt. "We take a leisurely ride down a chair lift to the nearest saloon."

"I like your style, but the war's not over." Giordino nodded over his shoulder. "Our friends are back."

Pitt had been too busy to keep track of his pursuers. They had recovered from the accident and charged up the mountain after the Cord.

Before he could look behind, bullets shattered the rear window between Lily's and Hala's heads, traversed the car and passed cleanly through the windshield, leaving three small, starred holes. The women didn't have to be told to crouch on the floor again. This time they tried to melt into it.

"I think they're mad about the wrench," said Giordino,

"Not half as mad as I am over the way they're trashing my car."

Pitt hauled the car around a steep switchback, and when he straightened oirt again, he turned and stole a quick look at the chasing cars. The rearward view was not lacking in menace.

The twin Mercedes were violently slewing all over the snow-covered road.

Their superior speed was partially offset by the Cord's front-wheel traction. Pitt pulled away in the tight turns, but the Arabs narrowed the gap in the straightaways.

Pitt caught a glimpse of the lead driver twisting and turning his wheel like a maniac, ignoring caution and keeping the rear-drive wheels in a constant state of spin. At every switchback he came within a hair of sliding into heavy snow and becoming hopelessly stuck.

Pitt was surprised that the Mercedes showed no signs of wearing snow tires. He couldn't have known the Arabs had driven the cars over the border from Mexico to muddy their trail. Registered to a nonexistent textile company in Matamoros, they were to be abandoned at the Breckenridge airport after Hala's assassination was completed.

Pitt didn't like what he saw. The Mercedes were moving relentlessly closer. They were only fifty meters behind. He also didn't like the sight of a man sticking an automatic rifle through the smashed windshield.

"Here comes the mail!" he shouted, slipping under the wheel until his eyes barely peered over the top of the dashboard. "Everyone down!"

The words were barely out of his mouth when bullets began thumping into the Cord. One burst ripped the right fendermounted spare tire and wheel. The next tore through the roof, shredding the leather padding and mangling the metal skin underneath.

Pitt tensed and tried to duck even lower as the left side of the car was cut open as if attacked by an army of can openers. The hinges flew off a rear door and it fell open, hanging grotesquely for a few moments until it was torn away as the Cord brushed a tree. Glass fragments flew like rain. One of the women screamed, he didn't know which one. He became aware of a fine spray of blood on the dashboard. A bullet had ploughed a furrow through one of Giordino's ears, but the gritty little Italian made no sound.

Giordino probed the wound indifferently, almost as though it belonged to someone else. Then he tilted his head and gave Pitt a slanted grin. "I fear last night's wine is leaking out."

"Is it bad?" Pitt asked.

"Nothing a plastic surgeon can't fix for two thousand dollars. What about the women?"

Pitt shouted without turning. "Lily, are you and Hala all right?"

"A few scratches from flying glass," Lily replied gamely. "Otherwise we're unhurt." She was good and scared but not anywhere near the edge of panic.

The steam from the Cord's radiator was escaping like a high-pressure jet now. Pitt could feel the engine lose revolutions as it slowly began to seize up. Like a jockey riding a tired old nag long overdue for the pasture, he pushed the car as hard as he dared.

He worked coolly, concentrating on hurling the Cord around the last switchback before the summit. He had gambled and failed to elude the assassins. They clung to his rear bumper as if chained there.

The engine bearings began to rattle in protest from the excessive heat and strain. Another volley of bullets peppered the left rear fender and flattened the tire. Pitt fought the wheel to keep the rear end from careening off the side of the road and dragging the car down a 60-percent grade filled with large jagged boulders.

The Cord was dying. Ominous blue smoke filtered through the hood louvers. Beneath the engine, oil seeped through a gouge torn in the oil pan by a rock Pitt could not avoid. The oil pressure gauge quickly registered zero. any chance of making the temporary safety of the summit became more remote with each knock of the piston rods.

The lead Mercedes charged around the switchback in a wild skid. Pitt clutched the wheel despairingly. He could picture the look of triumph on his pursuers' faces as they sensed they were seconds away from naming their prey to the ground.

He saw no place for a desperation escape on foot. They were trapped on the narrow road between a steep drop on one side and a sharp rocky rise on the other. There was nowhere to go but ahead until the Cord's engine gave up and froze.

Pitt jammed the accelerator pedal against the floorboard with all the strength in his leg and uttered a fast prayer.

Incredibly, the battle-weary old classic had something more to give. As though a mechanical engine had a mind of its own, it reached down into its iron and steel for one final, magnificent effort. The engine revolutions suddenly increased, the front wheels dug in, and the Cord wiggled up the final grade to the sunmiit. A minute later, through clouds of blue smoke and white steam, it broke out onto the open crest of a ski run.

Not one hundred meters away stood the upper end of a triple-chair ski lift. At first Pitt thought it strange that no one was skiing on the slope directly below the Cord. people were dropping off the chairs and turning toward the opposite side of the lift before starting down a parallel ski trail.

Then he observed his section of the slope was roped off. Several signs hung on a line festooned with bright orange streamers warning skiers not to ski this run because of dangerous, icy conditions.

"The end of the trail," Giordino said solemnly.

Pitt nodded in frustration. "We can't make a break for the lift. They'd shoot us down before we ran ten meters."

"It's either fight them with snowballs or take our chances and surrender."

"Or we can try plan three."

Giordino peered at Pitt curiously. "Can't be any worse than the first two." Then his eyes widened and he groaned, "You're not-oh, God, no!"

The two Mercedes were almost within spitting distance. They had pulled side by side to box in the Cord when Pitt twisted the wheel and sent the car plummeting down the ski run.

"Allah help us," muttered lsmafl's driver. "The crazy idiots. We can't stop them."

"Keep after them!" Ismail shouted hysterically. "Don't let them escape."

"They'll die anyway. No one can survive a runaway car down a mountainside."

Ismafl swung his gun barrel and roughly pushed the muzzle into his driver's ear. "Catch those pigs," he snarled viciously, "or you'll see Allah sooner than you planned."

The driver hesitated, seeing death no matter which move he made. Then he gave in and turned the Mercedes down the steep incline after the Cord.

"Allah guide my actions," he uttered in sudden fear.

Ismail pulled the gun away and pointed through the broken windshield.

"Be still and mind your driving."

Ismail's henchmen in the second Mercedes didn't pause. Dutifully they plunged after their leader.

The Cord hurtled across the hard-packed snow like a runaway freight , gaining speed at a terrifying rate. There was no slowing the heavy car.

Pitt steered with a light touch and feathered the brakes, cautious not to lock them and send the Cord into an uncontrollable spin. A sideways slide down the steep incline would only result in the car's overturning and ending up at the base of the mountain in a scattered trail of metal and broken bodies.

"Is this a good time to raise the question of seat belts?" asked Giordino with his feet raised and wedged against the dashboard.

Pitt shook his head. "Not optional equipment in this model."Pitt sensed a tiny bit of luck as the bullet-shredded rubber tore off the rear wheel. Free of the deflated tire, the double edges of the rim gave him a small measure of control as they bit into the icy surface, throwing up fanlike sheets of ice particles.

The speedometer was hovering at sixty when Pitt saw a field of moguls coming up. Expert skiers found the rounded snow bumps a favorite obstacle course. So did Pitt when he schussed down a slope at that speed. But not now, not playing downhill racer with a weighty 2,120

kilograms of automobile.

With a deft touch, he gently nudged the car off to the side of the road where the path ran smooth. He felt as though he were trying to thread a needle with an Olympic bobsled. Subconsciously Pitt tensed himself for the violent shock and crashing impact should he make the slightest wrong move and hurl the car into a tree, smashing everyone to bloody pulp.

But there was no crushing impact. The Cord somehow shot through the narrow slot, the moguls on one side and the trees on the other flashing by like blurred stage sets.

As soon as Pitt was on a wide, unobstructed run, he snapped his head around to check the status of his pursuers.

The driver of the lead Mercedes was savvy. He'd followed in the Cord's tire tracks around the moguls. The second driver either didn't see them or didn't consider them dangerous. He realized his mistake too late and compounded it by throwing the Mercedes wildly from side to side in a desperate effort to dodge the meter-high humps.

The Arab actually slipped past three or four before he took one head-on.

The front end dug in and the rear rose up and appeared to hang on a minety-degree angle. The car stood poised there for an instant, and then it flipped end over end as if a child had flipped a short stick. It struck the hard snowpack again and again with the splitting sound of crashing metal and glass, The occupants might have survived if they'd been thrown clear, but the jarring series of impacts had jammed the doors. The car began to disintegrate. The engine tore from its mountings and tumbled crazily into the woods. Wheels, front suspension, rear-drive train, none of it was built to take this destructive tomm-It all wrenched away from the chassis, bouncing in mad gyrations down the hill.

Pitt could not spare the time to watch the Mercedes cartwheel and crumple into an indistinguishable heap before finally grinding to a halt on its squashed roof in a small ravine.

"Would it sound gauche," said Giordino for the first time since they plunged off the crest, "if I said, One down?"

"I wish you wouldn't use that term," Pitt muttered through gritted teeth. "The score is about to escalate." He briefly took one hand from the wheel and motioned ahead.

Giordino tensed as he observed the ski run fork and merge with another trail crowded with people in vividly colored ski suits. He jerked himself to a standing position by grabbing the remains of the windshield frame, shouting and waving frantically as Pitt laid on the Cord's twill horns.

The startled skiers turned at the honking and saw the two speeding cars barreling down the ski trail. With seconds to spare, they traversed to the sides and gaped in astonishment as the Cord, with the Mercedes right behind, sped past.

A ski jump rose from the trail and dropped off a hundred meters away.

Pitt hardly had time to distinguish the snowy ramp blending in with the hillside. Without hesitation he aimed the radiator ornament at the starting drop-off.

"You wouldn't?" blurted Giordino.

"Plan four," Pitt assured him. "Brace yourself. I may lose control. "

"I thought you've been doing that right along."

Far smaller than the structures built for Olympic competition, the jump was used only for acrobatic and hot-dog skiing exhibitions. The ramp was wide enough to take the Cord and then some. It extended thirty meters into a concave dip before abruptly ending twenty meters above the ground.

Pitt lined up on the starting gate, using the Cord's wide body to hide the ski jump from the view of the Mercedes. The tricky part depended on exact timing and a nimble twist of the steering wheel.

At the last instant, before the front wheels rolled across the starting line, Pitt flicked the steering wheel and spun the Cord's rear end, whipping the car away from the ramp down the ski jump. Alert to the sudden antics of the Cord, Ismail's driver swung to avoid a collision and made a perfect entry through the starting gate.

As Pitt wrestled the Cord back on a straight path, Giordino looked back at the Mercedes and stared into a face masked with a weird expression of frightened rage. Then it was gone as the car shot down the steep slant out of all control. It should have soared into the sky like a fat bird with no wings. But the rear end broke loose and it slipped on a slight angle, dropping the right wheels off the ramp's side a few meters before the final edge and sending the car spiraling through the air like a well-thrown football.

The Mercedes must have been hitting close to 120 kilometers when it lifted off. Impelled by tremendous momentum, it twirled through sky for an incredible distance before curving earthward and striking the snowpack with a tremendous impact on its four wheels. As if in slow motion, it bounced and sailed into a tall ponderosa pine, smashing against the thick trunk. The grinding screech of mangled metal split the thin air as the chassis and body wrapped around the tree until the front and rear bumpers met like a pitched horseshoe against a steel stake. Glass exploded like confetti and the bodies inside were twisted and mashed like flies under a swatter.

Giordino shook his head in wonder. "That's the danmedest sight I've ever seen."

"More to come," said Pitt. He had straightened out the Cord's wild slide, but there was no slowing its velocity. The brakes had burned out halfway down the slope and the steering tie rod was bent and hanging by a thread. The Cord's path was un stakable. It was heading toward the large ski facility and restaurant building at the base of the chair lifts. All Pitt could do was keep blowing the horns and struggle to avoid skiers too dumb to scramble out of the way.

The women had watched the destruction of the last Mercedes with morbid curiosity and vast relief. The relief was short-lived. They turned and stared aghast at the rapidly approaching building.

"Can't we do something?" Hala demanded.

"I'm open for suggestions," Pitt fired back. tie became quiet as he managed to dodge a ski class made up of young children by careening up a snowbank and curling around them. The main mass of skiers had either heard or witnessed the crash of the Mercedes and were galvanized into action at the sight and sound of the Cord. They quickly moved to the side of the I and stared in utter incomprehension as the Cord rocketed by.

Warnings of the runaway vehicles had been phoned from the upper end of the chair lift, and ski instructors had cleared most of the crowd away it-from the base area. There was a shallow, frozen pond to the right of the ski center. Pitt hoped to angle in that direction and run onto the ice until it cracked open sinking the car to the running boards and bringing it to an abrupt halt. The only problem was, the onlookers had unwittingly formed a corridor leading to the restaurant.

"I don't suppose there's a plan five," said Giordino, bracing himself for the collision.

"Sorry," said Pitt. "We're all sold out."

Lily and Hala watched, helpless and horror-stricken. Then they dived behind the division behind the chauffeur's seat, closed their eyes and clutched each other.

Pitt stiffened as they struck several long racks holding skis and poles.

The skis seemed to explode as they were sent flying through the air like toothpicks. for an instant the Cord seemed buried, but then it burst clear and bored up the concrete stairway, missing the restaurant but splintering through the wooden wall of the cocktail lounge.

The room had been emptied except for the piano player, who sat paralyzed at his keyboard, and a bartender, who elected discretion and frantically took refuge behind the bar just as the Cord exploded into the room and bulldozed its way through a sea of chairs and tables.

The Cord almost broke ugh the far wall and down a two-story drop.

Miraculously, its momentum finally spent, the mutilated car stopped short, leaving only its badly distorted front bumper protruding through the wall. The cocktail lounge looked like the recipient of an artillery barrage.

Except for the hiss of the radiator and the crackling of the overheated engine, an eerie silence filled the room. Pitt had banged his head against the windshield frame and blood was streaming down his face from a cut above the hairline. He looked over at Giordino, who sat staring at the wall as if turned to stone. Pitt turned and stared down at the women behind. They were wearing their best "are we still alive?" look, but seemed none the worse for wear.

The bartender was still huddled out of sight behind the bar, so Pitt turned to the piano player, who sat in a daze on a three-legged stool.

He was wearing a derby hat and the cigarette that dangled from the side of his mouth hadn't even lost its ash. His hands were poised above the keys, his body rigid as if he was locked in suspended animation. He stared, shaken, at the bloody apparition who insanely smiled back.

"Pardon me," sir Pitt asked politely. "Can you play 'Fly Me to the Moon'?"

October 19, 1991

Uxmal; Yucatdn

The stonework on the massive structure reflected an unearthly glow under the battery of multicolored floodlights. Blue dyed the walls of the great pyramid, while orange highlighted the Temple of the Magician on the top. Red spotlights swept up and down the wide staircase, giving the effect of cascading blood. Above, on the roof of the temple, a slender figure stood haloed in white.

Topiltzin spread his arms and open hands in a divine gesture and stared down at the hundred thousand upraised faces surrounding the temple/pyramid in the ancient Mayan city of Uxmal on the YucatAn peninsula. He ended his speech, as he always did, with a chant in the lilting Aztec tongue. The vast audience picked up the phrases and repeated them in unison.

"The strength and courage of our nation lies in us who will never be great or wealthy. We starve, we toil for leaders who are less noble and honest than ourselves. There can be no glory or greatness in Mexico until the false government is dead. No longer will we endure slavery.

The gods are gathering again to sacrifice the corrupt for the decent.

Their gift is a new civilization. We must accept it."

As the words died away, the colored lights slowly dimmed until only Topiltzin remained brightly lit. Then the white spotlights blinked out and he was gone.

Great bonfires were lit, and a truck caravan began handing out boxes of food to the grateful mass of people. Each container held the same amount of flour and canned goods, and a cartoonUe booklet, heavy on illustrations, light on captions. President De Lorenzo and his cabinet ministers were drawn to resemble demons being driven out of Mexico and into the open arms of an evil-looking Uncle Sam by Topiltzin and four major Aztec gods.

A list of instructions was also included, describing peaceful but effective methods of eroding government influence.

During the food handout, men and women worked the crowd, recruiting new followers for Topiltzin. The event was staged and oiled with the professionalism of a rock concert organization. Uxmal was only one stop from Toppling the campaign to subvert the government in Mexico City.

He preached to the masses only at the great stone centers of the past-Teotihuacdn, Monte Albdn, ?"ula and Chichdn It7A. He never appeared in Mexico's modern cities.

The people cheered Topiltzin and shouted his name. But he no longer heard them. The instant the spotlights went off, his bodyguards hustled him down a ladder on the backside of the pyramid and into a large truck and semitrailer. The engine was started and the truck, led by one car and followed by another slowly wound its way through the crowd until it met the high' way. Then it turned toward the Yucatdn state capital of Mdrida and picked up speed.

The interior of the trailer was expensively decorated and divided between a conference room and Topiltzin's private living quarters.

Topiltzin briefly discussed the next day's schedule with his close worshipers. When the meeting broke up, the truck was stopped, and everyone bid him a good night. The two cars collected the weary followers and drove them to hotels in MA-rida.

Once Topiltzin closed the door and shut off one world, he entered another.

He removed a feathered headdress and stripped off his white robe, revealing a pair of expensive slacks and a sports shirt underneath. He opened a hidden cabinet, removed a chilled bottle of Schramsberg Blanc de Blanc sparkling wine and swiftly extracted the cork. The first glass was downed for thirst, but the second was slowly savored.

Relaxed, Topiltzin entered a small cubicle containing communications equipment, punched in a numbered code on a holographic telephone and turned to face the center of the room. He sipped at the California champagne and waited. Slowly an indistinct figure began to materialize in three dimensions. At the same time, Topiltzin was visible thousands of miles away.

When the details cleared, another man sat on an ottoman couch and stared back at Topiltzin. His complexion was dark, and the thin brushed-back hair gleamed with oil. His eyes had a hard-jeweled gleam. The visitor was dressed in a silk paisley robe over pajamas. He studied Topiltzin's shirt and slacks for a moment and frowned when he noticed the glass in one hand.

"You live dangerously," he said sternly in American English. "Designer clothing, champagne-next it will be women."

Topiltzin laughed. "Don't tempt me. Acting like the Pope and wearing a bizan-e costume eighteen hours a day is bad enough without practicing celibacy."

"I endure the same inconvenience."

"We both have our own cross to bear," Topiltzin said in a bored tone.

"Do not get careless so close to success."

"I don't intend to. None of my people would dare disturb my privacy.

Whenever I'm alone, they think I'm communicating with the gods."

The other man smiled. "The routine sounds familiar."

"Shall we get down to business?" said Topiltzin.

"All right, what's the status?"

"The arrangements are sealed. Everyone will be in his place at the right moment. I paid out over ten million pesos in bribes to set up the rendezvous. Once the fools on the take did their job, they were sacrificed, not only to guarantee their silence but also as a warning to those who are waiting to carry out our instructions. "

"My congratulations. You're very thorough."

"I leave the cleverness to you."

There was a friendly silence after this remark, which lasted several moments while both men rested on their thoughts. At last the caller smiled craftily and produced a small brandy snifter from beneath a fold of his gown. "Your health."

Topiltzin gave a satiric laugh and raised his champagne glass. "To a successful venture."

The ethereal visitor paused. "A successful venture," he repeated, and then added, "with no snags." After an even longer pause he said pensively, "It will be interesting to see how our efforts alter the fumm."

The roar of the engines lessened as the uinnarked Beechcraft jet lifted away from Buckley Field outside Denver and rose toward its crusing altitude. The snowcapped rockies fell away behind as the aircraft set its nose across the great plains.

"The President sends his best wishes for a speedy recovery," said Dale Nichols. "He was quite angered when briefed on your ordeal '

"Madder than hell is a better description," Schiller cut in.

"Let's say he wasn't happy," Nichols continued. "He asked me to express his apologies for not providing stronger security measures and promised he will do everything within his power to ensure your safety while you remain in the United States."

"Tell him I'm grateful," Hala replied, "and please beg him for me to give every consideration to the families of the men who died saving my life."

"They'll be well taken care of," Nichols assured her.

Hala was lying propped in a bed, wearing a white velour sweatsuit striped in jade with a knit polo collar. Her right ankle was in a plaster cast. She looked at Nichols, then toward Julius Schiller and Senator Pitt, who were all seated opposite her bed. "I'm honored that three such distinguished gentlemen took time from their busy schedules to fly to Colorado and accompany me back to New York."

"If we can do anything-"

"You've done much more than any foreigner on your soil could expect."

"You have the lives of a cat," said Senator Pitt.

Her lips parted in a slight smile. "I owe two of them to your son. He has a capacity for appearing in the right place when you least expect him."

"I saw Dirk's old car. It's a miracle you all survived."

"A truly beautiful machine," Hala sighed. "A pity it was destroyed. "

Nichols cleared his throat. "If we may touch on the subject of your address to the U.N. tomorrow . . ."

"Have your people turned up any solid data leading to the Alexandria missing artifacts?" Hala asked sharply.

Nichols glanced at the Senator and Schiller with the look of a man who suddenly stepped in quicksand. The Senator threw him a rope and gave the reply.

"We haven't had time to launch a massive search," he said honestly. "We know little more than we did four days ago."

Nichols began hesitantly. "The President . . . he hoped . . ."

"I'll save you time, Mr. Nichols." Hala's eyes turned to Schiller. "You may rest easy, Juhus, my speech will include a brief report on the inuninent discovery of the Alexandria Library antiquities."

"I'm glad to hear you've changed your mind."

"Considering recent events, I owe your government that much."

Nichols was visibly relieved. "Your announcement will give President Hasan a sharp political advantage over Akhmad Yazid, and a golden opportunity to boost Egyptian nationalism over religious fulldamentalism."

"Don't expect too much," said the Senator. "We're only filling cracks on a crumbling fort."

Schiller's lips parted in a cold smile. "I'd give a month's salary to see Yazid's face when he realizes he's been had."

"I'm afraid he'll really come after Hala with a vengeance," said Schiller.

"I don't think so," said Nichols. "If the FBI can link a chain from the dead terrorists to Yazid and then to the assassin responsible for the plane crash with the death of sixty people, many moderate Egyptians who do not condone terrorism will withdraw their support from his movement.

With an internationally publicized terrorist mission laid on his doorstep, he'd have to think twice before ordering another attempt on Ms. Kainil's life."

"Mr. Nichols is correct on one point," said Hala. "Most Egyptians are Sunni Moslems who do not follow the bloody revolutionary dnimbeat of the Iranian Shiites. They prefer an evolutionary approach that slowly changes the people's loyalty from a democratic government to a religious leadership. They will not accept Yazid's bloodlust methods." Hala paused a moment. "I disagree on the second point. Yazid won't rest until I'm dead. He is too fanatical to give up. He's probably planning another attempt on my life this minute."

"She may be right; we must keep a sharp intelligence eye on Yazid,"

cautioned the Senator.

"What are your plans after your U.N. address?" asked Schiller.

"This morning, before we left the hospital, I was given a letter from President Hasan by an attache from our embassy in Washington. President Hasan wishes me to meet with him."

"Once you leave our boundaries we can't guarantee your protection,"

Nichols warned her.

"I understand," she replied. "But there is little cause for concern.

Since President Sadat's assassination, Egyptian security people have become quite efficient."

"May I ask where this meeting will be held?" queried Schiller. "Or is it none of my business?"

"No secret; in fact it will be covered by the world news media," Hala answered nonchalantly. "President Hasan and I will confer during the coming economic meetings in Punta del Este, Uruguay."

The mangled and bullet-holed Cord sat forlornly in the middle of the shop floor. benson slowly circled the car and shook his head sadly.

"This is the first time I've ever had to restore a classic car two days after I finished it."

"We had a bad day," Giordino explained. He was wearing a neck brace, one arm was in a sling, and his nicked ear was heavily bandaged.

"It's a wonder any of you are standing here."

Except for six stitches, mostly hidden by his hair, Pitt was unmarked.

He patted the buckled chrome radiator shell as if the car was an injured pet.

"Lucky for us they used to build them to last," he said quietly.

Lily limped painfully from the shop office. Her left cheek was bruised and the opposite eye was blackened.

"I have Hiram Yaeger on the phone," she announced.

Pitt nodded. He put a hand on benson's shoulder. "Make her even better than she was before."

"We're looking at six months and heavy bucks," said benson.

"Time is no problem and neither is money." Pitt paused and broke into a grin. "The government is going to foot the bill this time around." He turned, walked into the office and picked up the phone. "Hiram, you got something for me?"

"Just a status report," Yaeger replied from Washington. "I've eliminated the Baltic Sea and the coastline of Norway."

"And nothing showed."

"Nothing worth celebrating. No matching of geologic contours or geographic descriptions from the Serapis log. The barbarians Rufinus mentioned don't come close to fitting the early Vikings. He wrote of people who resembled Scydiians, but with darker skins."

"That bothered me too," Pitt agreed. "The Scythians came from Central Asia. Not damned likely they'd have been fairskinned and blond."

"I see no sense in continuing the computer search around Norway into the northern waters of Russia."

"I agree. What about Iceland? The Vikings didn't settle there for another five hundred years. Maybe Rufinus meant Eskimos."

"No go," said Yaeger. "I checked. Eskimos never migrated to Iceland.

Rufinus also threw in the mystery of the 'great sea of dwarflike pines.'

He couldn't have found them on Iceland. And don't forget, you're talking about a six-hundred-mile voyage across some of the worst seas in the world. Historical marine records are quite precise: Roman ship captains rarely sailed out of sight of land for more than two days. The voyage from the nearest European land mass would have taken at least four and a half days under ideal conditions. "

"So where do we go from here?"

"I'll run the West African coast by again. We might have missed something. Dark-skinned Africans and a warmer climate seem more logical than the cold northern countries, especially to men from the Mediterranean."

"You still have to explain how the Serapis came to be in Greenland."

"A projection of wind and currents could give us a clue."

"I'm flying back to Washington tonight," said Pitt. "I'll look in on you tomorrow."

"Maybe I'll have something," said Yaeger, but his tone did not sound optimistic.

Pitt hung up and stepped from the office. Lily looked at him with an expression of hope. Then she read the disappointment in his eyes.

"No good news?" she asked.

He shrugged negatively. "Seems we haven't left square one."

She took his arm. "Yaeger will come through," she said encouragingly.

"He can't work miracles."

Giordino held up a watch on his good arm. "We don't have much time to make our flight. We'd better get rolling."

Pitt walked over, shook benson's hand and smiled. "Make her well again.

She saved our lives."

benson looked at him. "Only if you promise me you'll keep her away from flying bullets and ski slopes."

"Done."

After they left for the airport, benson opened a rear door of the Cord.

The door handle came off in his hand.

"God," he said mournfully, "what a mess."

A loud roar of applause erupted in the public galleries and swept over the delegates on the main floor below as Hala refused all assistance and slowly made her way to the podium on crutches. She stood behind the podium, poised and serene, speaking in a strong, convincing voice. Her theatrics were low-key and subtle. She moved the audience with an emotional appeal to stop the useless killing of innocent people in the name of religion. Only when she called for a censure of governments that turned a blind eye toward terrorist organizations did a few delegates shift in their seats and stare into space.

An undercurrent of murmurs trailed her news of the forthcoming Alexandria Library discovery as the immense potential took time to sink in. Then Akhmad Yazid came in for a scathing attack, as she accused him directly of the attempts on her life.

Hala concluded by firmly stating she would not be driven out of her position as SecretaryGeneral by threats of future harm, but would remain until her fellow delegates asked for her resignation.

The response was a standing ovation that became thunder ous as she stood off to one side of the podium and displayed the cast on her ankle.

"She's some lady," said the President admiringiy. "What I wouldn't give to have her sit in my cabinet." He pressed the off button on a remote control and the television screen went black.

"An excellent speech," said Senator Pitt. "She tore Yazid apart-and made a good pitch on the Library search project."

The President nodded. "Yes, she came through for us on both counts."

"You know, of course, she's leaving for Uruguay to confer with President Hasan."

"Dale Nichols briefed me on the conversation you had with her on the plane," the President acknowledged. He was seated behind his desk in the Oval Office. "How do we stand on the search?"

"NUMA!s computer facility is working on a location," answered the Senator.

"Are they close?"

The Senator shook his head. "No closer now to a breakthrough than they were four days ago."

I.Can't we speed up the process? Bring in a think tank, university people, other government agencies?"

Senator Pitt looked doubtful. "NUMA has the finest computer library in the world on oceans, lakes and rivers. If they can't find the destination of the Egyptian fleet, no one can."

"What about archaeological and historical records?" the President suggested. "Maybe something's been uncovered in the past that could offer a clue."

"Might be worth a try. I know a good man at Penn State University who's a triple-A researcher. He can have my people digging the archives here and in Europe by this time tomorrow."

"Good, give him a crack at it."

"Now that the news media and Hala have spread the word," said the Senator, "half the governments and most of the fortune hunters of the world will be on the hunt for the Library collection."

"I considered that probability going in," the President said.

"But propping up President Hasan's government takes top priority. If we make the discovery first and then pretend to back down after Hasan makes a dramatic show of demanding the artifacts be returned to Egypt, his domestic popularity will take a big jump, and make him a hero in the eyes of the Egyptian people."

"While stalling off the threat of a takeover by Yazid and his followers," added the Senator. "The only problem is Yazid himself. The man is extremely unpredictable. Our best Middle East experts can't read him. He's liable to pull a rabbit out of the hat and steal the scene."

The President looked at him steadily. "I see no problem in cutting him out of the limelight when the artifacts are turned over to President Hasan."

"I'm on your side, Mr. President, but it's dangerous to underestimate Yazid."

"He's far from perfect."

"Yes, but unlike the Ayatollah Khomeini, Akhmad Yazid is a brilliant intellect. He's what the advertising agencies call a good concept man."

"In political areas perhaps, but hardly in assassinations."

The Senator shrugged and ssighed knowingly. "His plans were, no doubt, screwed up by his henchmen. As President, you know better than anyone how easily an aide or adviser can botch a simple project."

The President smiled back without humor. He leaned back in his chair and toyed with a pen. "We know damned little about Yazid, where he came from, what makes him tick."

"He claims to have spent the first thirty years of his life wandering the Sinai desert talking to Allah."

"So he's lifted a page from Jesus Christ. What else do we have on him?"

"You might ask Dale Nichols," answered the Senator. "I understand he's working with the CIA on building a biographical and psychological profile."

"Let's see if they've come up with anything." The President pressed a button on his intercom. "Dale, can you come in for a minute?"

"Be right there," came Nichols's voice over the speaker.

Neither of the men in the Oval Office spoke during the fifteen seconds Nichols took to walk from his office. He knocked, then opened the door and stepped in.

"We were discussing Akhmad Yazid," the President informed him. "Have Brogan's people turned up any data on his background?"

"I talked to Martin only an hour ago," replied Nichols. "He said his analysts should have a file put together in another day or two."

"I want to see it the minute it's completed," said the President.

"Not to change the subject," said Senator Pitt, "but shouldn't someone brief President Hasan on what we've got in mind in case the Library collection can be pinpointed in the next few weeks?"

The President nodded. "Definitely." He stared directly at the Senator.

"Think you could sneak off for forty-eight hours and do the honors, George?"

"You want me to meet with Hasan in Uruguay." It was more a statement than question.

"Do you mind?"

"This is really a matter for Doug Oates over at the State Department. He and Joe Arnold from Treasury are already in Kingston holding preliminary meetings with foreign economic leaders. Do you think it wise to go behind his back?"

"Ordinarily, no. But you're better informed on the search project.

You've also met with President Hasan on four different occasions, and you're close to Hala Kamil. Simply put, you're the best man for the job."

The Senator lifted his hands in resignation. "No heavy votes coming up in the Senate. My staff can cover for me. if you arrange for a government plane, I can leave here early Tuesday and arrive the following afternoon."

"Thank you, George, you're a good scout." The President paused, and then sprang the trap. "There is one other thing."

"There always is." The Senator sighed.

"I'd like you to inform President Hasan 'm private, under the strictest secrecy, that I will fully cooperate with him in the event he decides to remove Yazid."

The Senator's voice was shocked. "Since when does the White House deal in political assassination? I implore you, Mr. President, do not lower your office into the slime with Yazid and other terrorists."

"If someone had had the foresight to take Khomeini for a ride twelve years ago, the Middle East would be a far more peaceful place."

"King George might have said the same about George Washington and the colonies in 1778."

"Come now, George, we could spend all day making comparisons. The final decision is up to Hasan. He has to give the go-ahead."

"A bad idea," saidd the Senator resolutely. "I have grave doubts about such an offer. If this leaked out it could shatter your Presidency."

"I respect your advice and honesty. That's why you're the only man I can trust to deliver the message."

The Senator caved in. "I'll do as you ask and gladly brief Hasan on the Library proposal, but don't expect me to sell him on Yazid's murder even if it's deserved."

"I'll see that Hasan's staff is alerted to your arrival," said Nichols, stepping in diplomatically.

The President rose from behind his desk, signaling the end of the conference. He shook hands with the Senator.

"I'm grateful, old friend. I'll look forward to your report Wednesday afternoon. We'll have an early supper together."

"See you then, Mr. President."

"Have a good flight."

As Senator Pitt left the Oval Office he had a dire sense that the President might very well be dining alone Wednesday evening.

The Lady Flamborough slipped smoothly into the tiny harbor of Punta del Este just minutes before the sun fell over the western interior of the mainland. A soft breeze drifted in from the south that barely fluttered the Union Jack on her stern.

She was a beautiful cruise ship, trim and handsomely designed, with a streamlined superstructure. She broke with the traditional British black hull and more common white on her upper works. She was painted entirely in a soft slate blue with a sharply raked funnel banded in royal purple and burgundy.

One of the new breed of sleek, small cruise ships, the Lady Flamborough looked more like a posh motor yacht. Her trim 101-meter-long hull contained the most sumptuous luxuries afloat. With only fifty large suites, she carried just one hundred passengers, who were catered to by an equal number of crew members.

On this voyage, however, from her home port in San Juan, Puerto Rico, she sailed without passengers.

"Two degrees port," said the dark-skinned pilot.

"Two degrees port," acknowledged the helmsman.

The pilot stood in loose khaki shirt and shorts and kept a calculating eye on the finger of land that sheltered the bay until it slipped behind the Lady Flamborough's stern.

"Begin coming around to starboard and hold steady at zero eight zero."

The helmsman dutifully repeated the command and the ship very slowly swung on its new course.

The harbor was crowded with yachts and other cruise ships riving flocks of colorful pointed and swallowtail pennants. Some vessels were chartered as floating hotels for the economic conference, others were filled with their usual complement of vacationing passengers.

Half a kilometer from the mooring site the pilot ordered the engines on

"dead stop." The luxurious ship slipped through the calm water on her momentum, eating up the distance and gradually easing to a halt.

Satisfied, the pilot spoke into a portable transmitter. "We're in position. Slow aft and drop the hook."

The order was relayed to the bow, and the anchor payed out as the ship very slightly moved astern. When the flukes dug into the harbor silt, the slack was taken up and the order was given to ring the engines to

"off."

Captain Oliver Collins, a slim man standing straight as a plumb line in an impeccably tailored white uniform, nodded at the pilot in respect and offered his hand.

"Neatly done as always, Mr. Campos." Captain Collins had known the pilot for almost twenty years, yet he never referred to anyone, even his closest friends, by his Christian name.

"If her length stretched another thirty meters I couldn't squeeze her in." Harry Campos smiled, revealing an array of tobacco-stained teeth.

His accent was more hish than Spanish. "Sorry we can't slip her into a berth, Captain, but I was told to moor you in the harbor."

"for security reasons, I should imagine," said Collins.

Campos lit the stub of a cigar. "The bigwig meetings have the whole island turned upside down. You'd think there was a sniper behind every palm the way security police are acting."

Collins stared through the bridge windows at the popular playground of South America. "I'll not complain. This ship will be hosting the presidents of Mexico and Egypt during the conference.

"That a fact?" muttered Campos. "No wonder they wanted to keep your vessel offshore."

"May I offer you a drink in my cabin, or better yet, considering the hour, would you do the honor of dining with me?"

Campos shook his head. "My thanks for the invite, Captain." He paused and motioned at the mass of ships filling the harbor. "But she's a busy time. Maybe a rain check for your next layover."

Campos filled out his document for payment and handed it to Captain Collins, who signed. Campos looked through the aft bridge windows at the immaculate decks of the ship.

"One of these days I'll take a holiday and sail with you as a passenger."

"Let me know," said Collins. "I'll see the company covers all your expenses."

"A mighty kind offer. If I tell my wife, she'll never let up till I take advantage of it."

"A pleasure, Mr. Campos. any time you say the word."

The pilot boat came alongside and Campos jumped onto the deck from the boarding ladder. He gave a final wave as the boat pulled away and headed out to sea to pilot the next incoming vessel.

"Most enjoyable voyage I ever sailed." This from Collins's first officer, Nhchael Finney. "A frill crew and no passengers. for six days I thought I'd died and gone to heaven."

Company orders required ship's officers to spend almost as much time entertaining the passengers as sailing the ship, a duty Finney hated with a passion. A fine seaman, he stayed away from the main dining salon as much as possible, preferring to eat with his fellow officers, or making constant inspections of the ship.

Finney didn't exactly look the part of a party mixer. He was big, with a barrel chest that fought to explode from the tight confines of his uniform.

"I don't imagine you missed the joy of mingling and small talk," said Collins sarcastically.

Finney made a disagreeable face. "Wouldn't be so bad if they didn't ask the same stupid questions all the time."

"Courtesy and respect when dealing with passengers, Mr. Finney," Collins admonished. "It goes with the waters. Mind your manners in the next few days. We'll be entertaining some rather important foreign leaders and statesmen."

Finney did not reply. He gazed at the modern high-rise

"Everytime I see the old town," he said wistfully, "they ve added another hotel."

"Yes, you're from Uruguay."

"Born just west in Montevideo. My father was a sales rep for a Belfast machinery company."

"You must enjoy coming home," said Collins.

"Not really. I signed aboard a Panamanian ore carrier when I was sixteen. Mum and dad are gone. Nobody left I grew up with." He paused and pointed through the bridge window at an approaching boat. "Here come the bloody customs and immigration inspectors."

"Since we have no passengers, and the crew won't be going ashore," said Collins, "the vessel should be cleared with a rubber stamp."

"The health inspectors are the worst nuisance."

"Notify the purser, Mr. Finney. Then show them to my cabin."

"Begging your pardon, sir, but isn't that a bit much? I mean, greeting mere customs inspectors in the Captain's cabin."

"Perhaps, but I want everything to run smoothly with the bureaucracy while we're in harbor. You never know when we might require a favor."

"Aye, sir."

It was dusk as the customs and immigration officials brought their boat alongside the Lady Flamborough and mounted the boarding ladder. The ship's lights suddenly blazed on and illuminated her upper decks and superstructure. Moored amid the lights of the city and the other cruise ships, she sparkled like a diamond in a jewelry box.

The Uniguayan officials, led by Finney, approached the open doorway to the Captain's cabin. Collins studied the five men including his first officer. He was a man who missed very little, and he quickly noticed something odd about one of them. One man had on a wide-brimmed straw hat pulled low over his eyes and was wearing a jumpsuit, while the rest were dressed properly enough in the casual uniforms worn by most officials throughout the Caribbean islands.

The fellow who stood out walked without looking up, keeping his eyes on the feet of the man in front of him. When they reached the dciorway, Finney politely stood aside and allowed them to enter first.

Collins stepped forward. "Good evening, gentlemen. Welcome aboard the Lady Flamborough. I'm Captain Oliver Collins."

The visiting officials stood strangely silent and Collins and Finney exchanged curious glances. Then the man in the jumpsuit stepped forward and slowly peeled it off, revealing a white uniform with gold braid that was an exact copy of the one Collins wore. Next he removed the straw hat and replaced it with a cap that matched the uniform.

The normally calm Collins was momentarily caught off balance. He felt as though he was staring into a mirror. The stranger could easily have passed for a twin brother.

"Who are you?" Collins demanded. "What's going on here?"

"No name is necessary," said Suleiman Aziz Ammar with a disamiing smile.

"I am taking command of your ship."

Surprise is the key for any successful clandestine operation. And the surprise takeover of the Lady Flamborough was total. Except for Captain Collins, First Officer Finney and a stunned purser, who were bound, gagged and closely guarded in Finney's cabin, none of the other officers or crew had the vaguest idea their ship had been hijacked.

Ammar cut his timing to a fine edge. The bona fide Uruguayan customs inspectors showed up only twelve minutes later. He greeted them as if they were old acquaintances in his makeup and nearperfect disguise as Collins. The men he had hand-picked to play the roles of Finney and the purser kept to the shadows. They were both experienced ship's officers and bore a remarkable resemblance to their counterparts. Few crew members would have noticed the facial differences outside of three meters.

The Uruguayan officials cleared the vessel and were soon on their way.

Ammar called Collins's second and third officers to the captain's cabin.

This would be his first and most crucial test. If he passed their inspection without arousing suspicion, they would become invaluable to him as innocent accomplices to carry out the complicated plot in the next twenty-four hours.

Making himself up to look like Dale Lemk, the pilot of Nebula Flight 106, was not a difficult process. Animar had easily casta plaster mold from Lemk's face after he'd murdered him. Disguising himself to pass as the captain of the Lady Flamborough was another matter. He was forced to work from only eight photographs of Collins obtained on short notice by one of his agents in Britain. He also had to inject himself with a compound that raised his voice to an identical level with recordings of Collins's voice.

He hired a skilled artist to sculpt a likeness of Collins's face from the photos. Male and female molds were cast from the sculpture. Next, a natural latex, dyed to match Captain Collins's skin coloring, was pressed between the molds and set aside until gelation occurred, and then baked. He trimmed and carefully fitted the latex mask, using a resin-wax mixture to match minor changes in facial structure.

Then Ammar applied foamed ear and nose prosthetics and added makeup.

Finally, a correctly dyed, barbered and parted hairpiece, contact lenses to match the color of Collins's eyes, tooth caps, and Animar became the spitting image of the cruise liner's Captain.

Ammar did not have the time to study Oliver Collins's personality profile in depth or study the Captain's mannerisms. He just managed to take a cram course on shipboard duties and memorize the names and faces of the ship's officers. He had no choice but to bluff it out, relying correctly on the assumption the crew did not have the slightest reason to be skeptical. As soon as the two officers stepped into the Captain's cabin, Ammar immediately acted to tip the scales in his favor.

"Pardon me, gentlemen, for sounding and looking a bit under the weather, but I've picked up a case of the flu."

"Shall I send for the ship's doctor?" asked Second Officer Herbert Parker, physically fit, suntanned, with a smooth boyish face that seemed as if it saw a razor only on Saturday evenings.

A near-stake, thought Ammar. A doctor familiar with Collins would have spotted the masquerade in a flash.

"He's already given me enough pills to choke an elephant. I feel fit enough to muddle through my duties."

The third officer, a Scot with the unlikely name of Isaac Jones, pushed aside a shag of red hair from his high forehead. "Anything we can do, sir?"

"Yes, Mr. Jones, there is," answered Ammar. "Our VIP passengers will be arriving tomorrow afternoon. You will be in charge of the welcoming party. We don't often have the honor of entertaining two presidents, and I should think the company will expect us to carry out a firstrate ceremony."

"Yes, sir," snapped Jories. "Depend on it."

"W. Parker.

"Captain .

"A landing craft will arrive within the hour to transship a cargo for the company. You will be in charge of the loading operations. A team of security people will also be coming aboard this evening. Please see they are provided with suitable quarters.

"Rather short notice, isn't it, sir, taking on cargo? And I thought the Egyptian and Mexican security agents weren't due until early morning."

"Our company directors work in mysterious ways," Ammar said philosophically. "As to our armed guests, company orders again. They want their own security personnel on board in case of a problem."

"A matter of one security team overseeing another."

"Something like that. I believe Lloyds demanded extra precautions or they threatened to raise our insurance rate to some astronomical height."

"I understand."

"any questions, gentlemen?"

There were none and the two officers turned to leave. "Herbert, there is one more thing," said Ammar. "Please load the cargo as quietly and quickly as possible."

"I will, sir."

Once they were out of earshot on the deck, Parker turned to Jones. "Did you hear that? He called me by my first name. Don't you think that jolly queer?"

Jones shrugged indifferently. "He must be sicker than we thought.

The landing craft came alongside and a small cargo boom was run out. The loading operation went smoothly. The rest of Ammar's men, dressed in business suits, also came on board and were assigned to four empty suites.

By midnight the landing craft slipped into the darkness and was gone.

The Lady Flamborough's cargo boom was pulled into the hold out of sight and the large double loading doors were closed.

Ammar rapped five times on Finney's door and waited. The door was cracked slightly and the guard stood back. Arnniar took a quick look up and down the carpeted passageway and entered.

He nodded toward the Captain. The guard moved forward and stripped the tape from Collins's mouth. "I regret the inconvenience, Captain. But I suppose it would be a waste of words to ask you to give me your word you won't attempt to escape and warn your crew."

Collins sat stiffly in a chair, his arms and legs chained together, and glared at Ammar with murder in his eyes. "You sordid sewer filth."

"You British have a literary quality to your insults that is quite amusing. An American would have simply used a fourletter word meaning the same thing."

"You'll get no cooperation from me or my officers."

"Not even if I order my men to slit the throats of your female crew members one by one and throw their bodies to the sharks?"

Finney lunged at Ammar but the guard swiftly swung the butt end of his automatic rifle into the first officer's groin. Finney fell back into his chair with a muffled groan, his eyes glazed in pain.

Collins's eyes never left Ammar. "I'd expect as much from a band of subhuman terrorists."

"We are not ignorant juveniles out to butcher infidels," Ammar explained patiently. "We are top-line professionals. This is not a repeat of the unfortunate Achille Lauro episode of a few years back. We do not intend to murder anyone. Our purpose is simply to hold Presidents Hasan and De Lorenzo and their staffs for ransom. If you do not stand in our way, we shall make our deal with their respective governments and be on our way."

Collins studied Ammar's mirrored face, searching for the lie, but the Arab's eyes reflected genuine honesty. He could not know Ammar was a master at theatrical deception.

"But you wouldn't hesitate to butcher my crew otherwise."

"And you too, of course."

"What do you want from me?"

"You, actually nothing. Mr. Parker and Mr. Jones have accepted me as Oliver Collins. It's First Officer Finney whose services I require. You will order him to obey my commands."

"Why Finney?" asked Collins.

"I opened the desk file in your cabin and read the officers' personal records. Finney knows these waters."

"I don't see what you're getting at."

"We cannot afford the risk of calling for a pilot," explained Animar.

"Tomorrow after dark, Finney will take the helm and steer the ship through the channel into the open sea."

Collins considered that. Then he slowly shook his head. "Once the port authorities get on to you they'll block the harbor entrance whether you threaten to kill everyone on board or not."

"A darkened ship can slip out on a dark night," Ammar assured him.

"How far do you expect to go? Every patrol boat within a hundred miles will have you boxed in by daylight."

... They won't find us."

Collins looked slightly dazed. "That's crazy. You can't hide a ship like the Lady Flamborough."

"Quite true," said Ammar, a cold, knowing smile forming on his lips.

"But I can make her invisible."

Jones was bent over a desk in his cabin making notes for the morning's welcoming ceremonies when Parker knocked on the door and entered. He looked tired and his uniform was damp with sweat.

Jones turned and looked at him. "Loading duty finished?"

"Yes, thank God."

"How about a nightcap?"

"A glass of your good Scottish malt whiskey?"

Jones rose and lifted a bottle from a dresser drawer. He poured two glasses and handed one to Parker.

"Look at it this way," he said. "You were relieved of standing early-morning anchor watch."

"I'd have preferred that to cargo loading," said Parker tiredly. "What about you?"

"Just got off duty."

"I wouldn't have bothered you if I hadn't seen a light through your port."

"Burning the midnight oil, making sure everything runs tick-tock smooth tomorrow."

"Finney isn't about and I felt I had to talk to someone.

for the first time Jones noticed the confused expression in Parker's eyes. "What's bothering you?"

Parker downed the Scotch and stared at the empty glass.

"We've just taken on the damnedest cargo I've ever seen come on board a cruise liner."

"What did you load?" asked Jones, his curiosity aroused.

Parker sat quite still, shaking his head. "Painting gear. Air compressors, brushes, rollers and fifty drums of what I assumed was paint."

Jones couldn't resist asking, "What color?"

Parker shook his head. "Can't say. The drums were marked in Spanish."

"Nothing odd about that. The company must want them on hand when the Lady Flamborough goes in for a refit."

"That's only the half of it. We transshipped huge rolls of plastic. "

"Plastic?"

"And great sheets of fiberboard," Parker continued. "We must have loaded kilometers of the stuff. We barely squeezed it ugh the loading doors. Mucked around a good three hours just trying to stow it."

Jones stared at his glass through half-open eyes. "What do you suppose the company plans to do with it?"

Parker looked up at Jones with a puzzled frown. "I haven't the foggiest idea."

"The Egyptian and Mexican security agents came on board soon after sunup and proceeded to inspect the ship for hidden explosives and make cursory checks of the crew members' records for any hint of a possible assassin.

Except for a sprinkling of Indians and Pakistanis, the members of the crew were British, and had no quarrel with the governments of either Egypt or Mexico.

Animar's terrorist team all spoke fluent English and acted very cooperative, showing their counterfeit British passports and insurance-security documents when asked, and offering their assistance in the ship's inspection.

President De Lorenzo came on board later in the morning. He was a short man in his early sixties, physically robust, with wind-blown gray hair, mournful dark eyes, and the suffering look of an intellectual condemned to a mental institution.

He was welcomed by Ammar impersonating Captain Collins in an award-winning performance. The ship's orchestra played the Mexican national anthem, and then the Mexican leader and his staff were escorted to their suites on the starboard side of the Lady Flamborough.

In the middle of the afternoon a yacht belonging to a wealthy Egyptian exporter came alongside and President Hasan climbed onto the ship. The Egyptian leader was the complete opposite of his Mexican counterpart. He was younger, just past his fifty-fourth birthday, with thinning, black hair. He stood slim and tall, yet he moved with the halting movements of a man who was ill. His dusky eyes were watery and seemed to stare through a filter of suspicion.

The ceremony was repeated and President Hasan along with his staff were quartered in the suites running the length of the port side.

Over fifty Third World heads of state had arrived in Punta del Este for the economic summit. Some chose to stay in palatial estates owned by their nation's citizens or at the exclusive Cantegril Country Club.

Others preferred the offshore quiet of the cruise ships.

Visiting diplomats and journalists soon crowded the streets and restaurants. Uruguayan officials worried whether they could cope with the sudden mass of important foreigners combined with the routine influx of tourists. The nation's military force and police units did their best to control the situation, but they were soon overwhelmed by the human tidal wave sweeping the streets, and they gave up all attempts at traffic control, concentrating their efforts on guarding the summit meeting leaders.

Ammar stood on the starboard bridge wing and surveyed the teeming city through binoculars. He lowered them for a moment and checked his watch for the fifth time.

His close friend studied him carefully. "Are you counting the minutes until nightfall, Suleiman Aziz?"

"Sunset in forty-three minutes," said Ammar without turning.

"The water is busy," said Ibn, nodding at the fleet of small boats darting around the harbor, their decks crowded with journalists demanding interviews and tourists hoping to spot international celebrities.

"Allow no one to board except Egyptian and Mexican delegates who belong on boarDe Lorenzo and Hasan's staffs."

"And if any wish to go ashore before we leave poll?"

"Permit them to do so," said Ammar. "Ship's routine must appear nominal. The confusion in the city works to our advantage. We won't be missed until it's too late."

"The port authorities are no fools. When our lights fail to come on after dark, they will investigate."

"They'll be notified that our main generator is under repair." Ammar pointed toward another cruise liner that was anchored farther offshore between the Lady Flamborough and the encircling peninsula. "from shore her lights will seem like ours. "

"Unless someone looks closely enough."

Ammar shrugged. "One hour is all we need to make the open sea. The Uruguayan security will not consider a search outside the harbor before daylight."

"If the Egyptian and Mexican security agents are to be removed in time,"

said Ibn, "we must begin now."

"Your weapons are heavily silenced?"

"Our fire will sound no louder than the clap of hands."

Animar gave Ibn a piercing stare. "Stealth and quiet, my tend. Use whatever deception necessary to isolate and take them out one at a time.

Notify me, If any escape overboard and alert the security forces on shore, we all die. Make sure your men understand."

"We'll need every strong back and pair of hands we can muster for this night's work."

"Then it's time to earn our fee and make Yazid ruler of Egypt.

The Egyptian guards were the first to be eliminated. Having no reason to distrust Ammar's fake insurance-security agents, they were easily lured into vacant passenger suites that quickly became killing grounds.

any ruse that rang with a grain of truth was used to decoy the security men. The lie that worked best was deceiving them into believing one of their high-ranking officials was stricken with food poisoning and the ship's captain required their presence.

Once the Egyptian agents crossed the threshold, the door was closed and a hijacker coldly shot them pointblank in the heart. While the blood was quickly cleaned away, the bodies were stacked in an adjoining bedroom.

When the Mexicans' Turn arrived, two of De Lorenzo's guards became suspicious, refusing to enter the suite. But they were swiftly overpowered and knifed in an empty passageway before they could sound the alarm.

One by one the security agents went to their deaths, twelve in all, until only two Egyptians and three Mexicans,'standing guard outside their leaders' suites, were left.

Dusk was closing in from the east as Animar shed his ship's captain's uniform and donned a black cotton jumpsuit. Next he peeled off the latex disguise and slipped a small jester's mask over his face.

He was in the act of tightening a heavy belt containing two automatic pistols and a portable radio around his waist when Ibn knocked and entered the cabin.

"Five remain," he reported. "They can only be taken by direct assault."

"Good work," said Ammar. He gave Ibn a steady stare. "We're past the need for subterfuge. Rush them, but warn your men to be cautious. I don't want Hasan and De Lorenzo accidentally killed."

Ibn nodded and gave the order to one of his men waiting outside the door. Then he turned and again faced Animar with a confident smile.

"Consider the ship secure."

Ammar motioned toward a large brass chronometer above Captain Collins's desk. "We shove off in thirty-seven minutes. Collect all passengers and crew members, except the ship's engineers. See that the engine-room crew is prepared to get underway when I give the command. Assemble the rest in the main dining salon. It's time to reveal ourselves and deliver our demands."

Ibn did not respond but stood without moving, the smile spreading until every tooth showed. "Allah has blessed us with great fortune," he said at last.

Ammar looked at him. "We'll know better whether he's blessed us five

"He's already sent a good omen. She is here."

"She? Who are you talking about?"

"Hala Kan-iil."

At first Ammar could not comprehend. Then he could not believe.

"Karnil, she's here on this ship?"

"She stepped on board less than ten minutes ago," announced Ibn, beaming. "I've placed her under guard in one of the female crew members' quarters."

"Allah is indeed kind," said Ammar incredulously.

"Yes, he has sent the fly to the spider," Ibn said darkly, "and given you a second chance to kill her in the name of Akhmad Yazid.

Just as darkness was approaching, a light tropical rain cleared the sky and passed northward. Lights were blinking to life along Punta del Estes streets and on board the ships in the harbor, casting flickering reflections across the water.

Senator Pitt thought it strange that nothing showed of the Lady Flamborough except her outline against the brightly lit glow of the ship moored behind her. She looked dark and deserted as the launch swung past her bow and came alongside the boarding stairs.

Carrying only a briefcase, the Senator jumped lightly onto the narrow platform. He had hardly climbed two steps before the launch turned away and headed back to the dock area. He reached the deck and found himself standing alone. Something was terribly wrong. His first thought was that he'd boarded the wrong ship.

The only sounds, the only sounds of life were a voice somewhere within the superstructure coming through a speaker system, and the generators humming deep in the bowels of the hull.

He turned to hail the launch but it had already traveled too far for him to be heard above the exhaust of its tired old diesel engine. Then a figure in a black jumpsuit stepped out of the shadows, holding an automatic rifle leveled at the Senator's stomach.

"Is this the Lady Flamborough?" the Senator demanded.

"Who are you?" the voice came back in little more than a whisper. "What is your business here?" The guard stood there, gun held rock-steady, staring with his head cocked at an angle while the Senator explained his presence.

"Senator George Pitt, you say. An American. You were not expected."

"President Hasan was informed of my arrival," said the Senator impatiently. "Please lower your weapon and take me to his quarters."

The guard's eyes glinted suspiciously from the glare of the lights on shore. "Anyone else come with you?"

"No, I'm quite alone."

"You must return ashore."

The Senator tilted his head at the retreating launch. "My transportation has left."

The guard seemed to be thinking it over. Finally he lowered the gun and silently walked a few steps down the deck and stopped beside a doorway.

He held out a frre hand and nodded toward the briefcase.

"In here," he said softly as though it was some kind of secret. "Give me your case."

"Mese are official documents," said the Senator flatly. He clutched his briefcase in both hands and brushed past the guard.

He walked into a heavy black curtain, slapped it to one side and found himself standing in a 2,000-square-meter ballroom/ dining salon. The vast room was paneled in oak and styled after an English manor. A small army of people, some standing, some sitting, wearing either business suits or crew uniforms turned and gazed at him in unison as though he were a ball in a tennis match.

There were nine men spread around the walls, silent, deadly serious men dressed alike in the black jumpsuits and matching jogging shoes; each slowly swept the muzzle of a shoulderslung automatic weapon back and forth over their captive audience.

"Welcome," came the amplified voice of a figure standing on a stage in front of a microphone, a man indistinguishable from the others except for a comical mask covering his face -but with that any sign of humor quickly came to a halt. "Please state your identity."

Senator Pitt stared in confusion. "What's going on here?"

"You will please answer my question," said Ammar with icy politeness.

"Senator George Pitt, United States Congress. I'm here to confer with President Hasan of Egypt. I was told he was staying on board this ship."

"You'll find President Hasan seated in the front row."

"Why are these men holding guns on everyone?"

Ammar feigned weary patience. "Why, Senator, I thought it obvious.

You've blindly walked into the middle of a hijacking.

A growing incomprehension and the tentative beginnings of a dazed fear mushroomed inside Senator Pitt. He moved forward as if hypnotized, past Captain Collins and his officers, and stared at the pale, familiar faces of Presidents Hasan and De Lorenzo. He stopped short and looked down into the stricken eyes of Hala Kamil.

At that moment he realized people were going to die.

He silently put his arm around Hala's shoulder and was swept with sudden anger. "In God's name, do you know what you're doing?"

"I know very well what I'm doing," said Ammar. "Auah has worked with me every step of the way. In your poker idiom, he has sweetened the pot by raising the stakes with the unexpected arrivals of the SecretaryGeneral of the United Nations, and now a distinguished Senator from the United States."

"You've made a grave mistake," the Senator snarled defiantly. "You'll never live to get away with this and brag about it.

" , but I can and I will."

:'Impossible!"

'Not impossible at all," said Ammar with an ominous finality in his voice. "As you shall soon see."

Nichols had donned his overcoat and was stuffing papers inside his attached case before departing for home when his secretary leaned through his open door.

"A gentleman from Langley is here with a drop."

"Have him come in."

A CIA agent whom Nichols recognized entered carrying an old-fashioned leather accountant's-style briefcase.

"You caught me just in time, Keith," said Nichols. "I was on my way home."

Keith Farquar had a bushy mustache, thick brown hair, and wore horned-rimmed glasses. A large, no-nonsense type of man with contemplative eyes, he was, Nichols thought, the kind of agent who made up the solid bulwark of the Central Intelligence Agency.

Without an invitation Farquar sat down in a chair, placed the case on his lap and set the correct numbers on a combination lock that released the catch and switched off the circuit of a small incendiary explosive inside. He lifted out a thin file and placed it on the desk in front of Nichols.

"Mr. Brogan instructed me to tell you that hard data on Akhmad Yazid is extremely sparse. Biographical records regarding birth, parents and ancestors, schooling, marriage, children, or any mention in legal proceedings either criminal or civil, are virtually nonexistent. Most of what our Middle East section was able to put together comes from descriptions of people who have known him. Unfortunately, most of them, for one reason or another, became ene es of Yazid. So their accounts are somewhat biased."

"Did your psychological section make up a profile?" asked Nichols.

"They put together a rough projection. Yazid is as hard to penetrate as a desert sandstorm. A shroud of security has covered him in mystery.

Journalists' interviews with people around him are met with ambiguity and vague shrugs."

"Which adds to the mirage," commented Nichols.

Farquar smiled. "Mr. Brogan's exact description of Yazid. 'An elusive mirage."

"

"'Thank you for bringing the file by," said Nichols. "And thank everyone involved with assembling the information for me."

"Anything for a client." Farquar snapped the catches closed on his briefcase and ambled toward the door. "Have a nice evening."

"You too."

Nichols buzzed for his secretary. She appeared wearing a coat and holding a purse. "Anything I can do before I leave?"

she asked apprehensively, afraid she would be asked to work overtime for the third night in a row.

"Could you please call my wife on your way out?" asked Nichols. "And tell her not to worry. I'll make the dinner party, but will be delayed for about half an hour."

His secretary sighed thankfully. "Yes, sir, I'll tell her. Good night.

"Good night."

Nichols slipped his pipe between his teeth but didn't pack or light the bowl. He set his attache case off to the side of his desk, and, still wearing his overcoat, he sat down and examined Yazid's file.

Farquar had not exaggerated. It was slim pickings. Although the last six years were heavily reported, Yazid's life before his rapid rise from obscurity took up little more than a paragraph. His debut in the news media began with his arrest by Egyptian police during a sit-in demonstration for Cairo's starving masses inside the lobby of a luxury tourist hotel. He had distinguished himself by preaching in the worst slum areas of the country.

Akhmad Yazid stated he was born in squalid poverty in a mud hut among the decaying mausoleums of the City of the Dead that spilled into the garbage dumps of Cairo. His family lived on the thin margin between survival and death until his two sisters and father died from disease brought on by hunger and filthy living conditions.

He had no formal schooling except what was given during his adolescent years by Islamic holy men, none of whom were found to back up this assertion. Yazid claimed Muhammad the Prophet spoke through him, uttering divine revelations to the faiffiffil and urging them to return Egypt to a utopian Islamic state.

Yazid possessed a resonant speaking voice. He had the skilled mannerisms and delivery to enrapture a crowd of listenets, slowly building them to a fever pitch at the finish. He insisted Western philosophy was incapable of resolving Egypt's social/economic problems.

He preached that all Egyptians are members of a lost generation who must find themselves through his moral vision.

Though he vehemently claimed otherwise, evidence indicated he was not above using terrorism to achieve his goals. Five separate incidents, including the murder of a high-ranking Air Force general, a truck explosion outside the Soviet Embassy, and the execution-style killing of four university teachers who spoke out in favor of Western ways, were traced to Yazid's doorstep. Nothing was proven but through sketchy information gained from Muslim infomiants, CIA analysts felt certain Yazid was planning a masterstroke to eliminate president Hasan and sweep into power on a rising wave of public acclaim.

Nichols laid down the file and finally filled and lit his pipe.

A tiny, indefinable thought tugged at him from the far reaches of his mind.

Something about the report struck him as vaguely familiar. He laid aside a glossy photo of Yazid glaring malevolently at the camera.

The answer suddenly struck Nichols. It was simple and it was shocking.

He picked up his telephone and punched the coded number of a direct line, impatiently drumming the desk top with his fingers until a voice answered on the other end.

"This is Brogan."

"Martin, thank heavens you're working late. This is Dale Nichols."

"What can I do for you, Dale?" asked the Director of the CIA. "Did you get the packet on Akhmad Yazid?"

"Yes, thank you," replied Nichols. "I've gone through it and found something you can help me with."

"Sure, what is it?"

"I need two sets of blood types and fingerprints."

"Fingerprints?"

"That's right."

"We use genetic codes and DNA tracing nowadays," Brogan answered indulgently. "any particular reason in mind?"

Nichols paused to collect his thoughts. "If I tell you, I swear to God you'll think I should be fitted for a straitjacket."

Yaeger pulled off his granny reading glasses, tucked them into the pocket of a denim jacket, shuffled and stacked a pile of computer reports, then settled back in his chair and sipped from a can of diet soda.

"Zilch," he said almost sadly. "A wasted effort up and down the line. A 1,600-year-old trail is too cold to follow without solid data. A computer can't go back in time and tell you exactly how it was."

"Maybe Dr. Gronquist can determine where the Serapes made landfall after he's had a chance to study the artifacts," Lily said optimistically.

Pitt sat two rows below and off to one side from the others in NUMAs small amphitheater. "I talked to him by radio an hour ago. He's found nothing that isn't Mediterranean in origin. "

A three-dimensional projection of the Atlantic Ocean showing land folds and the irregular geology of the sea bottom filled a screen above the stage. Everyone seemed obsessed by it. Their eyes were drawn to the contoured imagery even as they spoke.

Everyone, that is, except Admiral James Sandecker. His eyes suspiciously observed Al Giordino, particularly the large cigar sprouting from one side of the Assistant Project Director's mouth as if it had grown from a seedling.

"When did you start buying Hoyo de Monterrey Excaliburs?"

Giordino looked at the Admiral with an innocent expression. "You talking to me, Admiral?"

"Since you and I are the only ones in the theater smoking Excaliburs, and I'm not in the habit of talking to myself, yes."

"Great, full flavor," said Giordino, holding up the fat cigar and expelling a gush of blue smoke. "I commend your discriminating taste."

"Where did you get it?"

"A little shop in Baltimore. I forget the name."

Sandecker wasn't fooled for an instant. Giordino had been stealing his expensive cigars for years. What drove the Admiral up the wall was that he never discovered how. No matter how well he hid or locked them away, his inventory count always showed two missing every week.

Giordino kept the secret from Pitt so his best friend would never have to lie if asked how it was done. Only Giordino and an old buddy from the Air Force who was a professional burglar for an intelligence agency knew the technicalities of Operation Stogie.

"I've a good notion to ask to see a receipt," growled Sandecker.

"We, ve been attacking this thing from the wrong angle," Pitt said, steering the meeting back on course.

"There's another angle?" asked Yaeger. "We took the only logical approach open to us."

"Without any reference to direction, it was an impossible job," Lily backed him.

"A pity Rufinus didn't log his daily positions and distance traveled,"

mused Sandecker.

"He was under strict orders not to record anything."

"Could they determine a position back then?" asked Giordino.

Lily nodded. "By positions of earth landmarks by figuring their latitude and longitude a hundred and thirty years before Christ."

Sandecker laced his hands across his trim stomach and gazed at Pitt over his reading glasses. "I know that lost look in your eyes.

Something's nagging at you."

Pitt slouched in his seat. "We've been judging facts and using guesswork without considering the man who conceived the smuggling plan."

"Junius Venator?"

"A brilliant guy," Pitt continued, "who was described by a contemporary as 'a daring innovator who struck out into areas other scholars feared to tread." The question we've overlooked is, if we were in Venator's shoes, where would we have taken and hidden the great art and litemq treasures of our time?"

"I still say Africa," volunteered Yaeger. "Preferably around the Cape somewhere up a river along the eastern coastline."

"Yet your computers couldn't make a marriage."

"They never came close," Yaeger admitted. "But God only knows how land formations have changed since Venator's day."

"Could Venator have taken the fleet northeast into the Black Sea?" Lily queried.

"Rufinus was specific about a voyage of fifty-eight days," said Giordino.

Sandecker, puffing his cigar, nodded. "Yes, but if the fleet was hit by foul weather or adverse winds, they could have traveled less than a thousand miles in that time."

"The Admiral has a point," Yaeger conceded. "Ancient ships of the period were constructed to run with the sea and before the wind. Their rigging was not efficient for willdward sailing. Heavy-weather conditions could have cut their progress by eighty percent."

"Except," Pitt said, hanging on the word, "Venator loaded his ships

'with four times their normal supply of provisions."

"

"He planned for an extended voyage," said Lily, suddenly intrigued.

"Venator never intended to land every few days and resupply his fleet."

"All that that proves to me," said Sandecker, "is that Venator wanted to keep the entire voyage as secret as possible by never coming ashore and leaving a trail."

Pitt shook his head. "As soon as the ships cleared the Straits of Gibraltar, any need for secrecy evaporated. Venator was free and in the clear. Byzantine warships sent to stop him would be as much in the dark as we are of his next course heading."

"So we put ourselves in Yaeger looked quizzically at Pitt.

Venator's shoes or sandals or whatever they wore then. What's our plan?"

"Dr. Rothberg unknowingly came up with the key to the mystery," Pitt explained. "He thought Venator buried the artifacts where no one of his day would think to look."

Yaeger looked at him blankly. "That could be anywhere in the ancient world."

"Or outside of the world as the Romans knew it."

"Charted geography didn't extend very far below North Africa or east of the Black Sea and Persian Gulf," said Lily. "Nothing was explored beyond."

"We don't know that," Pitt disagreed. "Junius Venator had access to four thousand years of man's knowledge. He knew of the existence of the African continent and the great steppes of Russia. He must have known of trade with India, which in Turn imported and exported goods from China. And he'd have studied the records of voyages that sailed far beyond the usual Roman/Byzantine trade routes."

"We're certain the Alexandria Library had an entire section devoted to geographical records," said Lily. "Venator could have worked from source maps compiled from much earlier times."

"What do you think he discovered that influenced him?" asked Sandecker.

"A direction," Pitt answered.

All had focused their curiosity on Pitt, and he did not disappoint them.

He walked down to the stage and picked up a flashlight that shone a small arrow on the three-dimensional projection.

"The only question in my mind," said Giordino, "is whether the fleet turned north or south."

"Neither." Pitt moved the lighted arrow through the Gibraltar Straits and across the Atlantic. "Venator led his fleet west to the Americas."

His statement was greeted with stunned disbelief.

"There is no archaeological evidence supporting pre-Columbian contact in the Americas," Lily stated firmly.

"The Serapes is a pretty good indicator they could have made such a voyage," said Sandecker.

"It's a heated controversy," admitted Pitt. "But there are too many similarities in Mayan art and culture that cannot be ignored. Ancient America may not have been as isolated from European and Asian influence as we once thought."

"Frankly, I buy it," said Yaeger, his enthusiasm restored. "I'd bet my Willie Nelson record collection the Phoenicians, the Egyptians, Greeks, Romans and Vikings all landed on North and South American soil before Columbus."

"No self-respecting archaeologist would take you up on it," said Lily.

Giordino grinned at her. "That's because they won't stake their precious reputations on it."

Sandecker looked at Yaeger. "Let's give the project another try Yaeger looked at Pitt. "What shorelines do you want me to cover?"

Pitt scratched his chin. He realized he badly needed a shave. "Begin at the fjord in Greenland and work south down to Panama." He paused to stare at the chart projection with thoughtful curiosity. "It has to be along there somewhere."

Captain Oliver Collins rapped a knuckle against the bridge barometer. He squinted at the needle barely visible from the lights on shore and cursed under his breath at the fair-weather reading. If only there was a storm, he thought, the ship could not have left the harbor. Captain Collins was a firstrate seaman, but a poor judge of human nature.

Suleiman Aziz Ammar would have ordered the Lady Flamborough to sea in the middle of a hurricane with ninety-knot winds. He sat tensely in the captain's seat behind the bridge windows and wiped away the sweat from around his neck that had trickled from his chin.

The mask was a torture in the humid climate, and so were the gloves he wore constantly. He suffered the discomfort stoically. If the hijacking failed and he escaped, international intelligence services could never identify him with witnesses or fingerprints.

One of his men had taken the hetm and was looking at him expectantly across the darkened bridge. Two more were guarding the bridge doorways, their guns aimed at Collins and First Officer Finney, who was standing next to Ammar's helmsman.

The tide had come in and swung the ship on her anchor until her bow was pointing toward the harbor entrance. Ammar made one final sweep of the harbor and dock area with a pair of binoculars and then motioned at Finney with his hand while speaking into a small radio.

"Now," he ordered, "get her underway and launch the labor crews."

Finney, his face twisted in anger, looked at Collins imploringly for a sign of defiance. But the Captain gave a subdued shrug and the first officer reluctantly gave the command to raise the anchor.

Two minutes later, dripping silt from the harbor bottom, the anchor rose out of the black water and was pulled tight against the hawsehole. The helmsman stood by the wheel but made no move to grasp the spokes. On modern ships manual steering is used mostly during heavy weather and while under the command of pilots upon entering and departing port. It was Finney who steered the ship and regulated the speed from a panel tied through fiber optics to the ship's automated control system. He also kept a sharp eye on the radar screen.

Once the ship was free of port the helm was placed on automatic pilot, and ringing the chief engineer down below for "Slow Ahead" on the bridge telegraph was quickly becoming more of a tradition than a necessity.

Moving wraithlike in the evening darkness, her outline visible only when she blocked off lights from the opposite shore, the Lady Flamborough slipped through the crowded harbor indistinct and unnoticed. Her diesels murmured faintly as the big bronze screws bit through the water.

Like a ghost feeling its way through the tombstones of a cemetery, the ship wove its way around the other moored ships and turned into the narrow channel for the open sea.

Ammar picked up the bridge phone and called the communications room.

"Anything?" he asked tersely.

"Nothing yet," answered his man who monitored the radio frequencies of the Uruguayan navy patrol boats.

"Patch any signal through to the bridge speakers."

"Affirmative."

"A small boat crossing our bow dead ahead," announced Finney. "We have to give way."

Ammar placed the muzzle of an automatic pistol against the base of Finney's skull. "Maintain course and speed."

"We're on a collision course," Finney protested. "The Flamborough has no lights. They can't see us."

Ammar's only reply was to increase the pressure of the gun muzzle.

They could clearly see the approaching boat now. She was a large custom-designed motor yacht. Collins guessed her dimensions at forty meters in length with a beam of eight meters. She was beautiful and elegant, and she blazed with lights. There was a party on board and people were grouped in conversation or dancing on her spacious sun decks. Collins was stricken to see the radar antenna wasn't turning.

"Give them a blast of the horn," he implored. "Warn them while they still have a chance to give way."

Anunar ignored him.

The seconds ticked away under a cloud of dread until the collision was inevitable. The people partying on the yacht and the man at its helm were completely oblivious to the steel monster bearing down on them out of the dark.

"Inhuman!" Collins gasped. "This is inhuman."

The Lady Flamborough bow-on into the starboard side of the big yacht.

There was no heavy jar or shriek of metal against metal. The men on the bridge of the cruise liner felt only a very slight tremor as the four-story bow crushed the smaller boat nearly under the water before slicing its hull in two.

The destruction was as devastating as a sledgehammer smashing a child's toy.

Collins' fists were clenched on the forward bridge panel as he gazed m horror at the disaster. He clearly heard the panicked screams of women as the yacht's shattered bow and stern sections scraped along the sides of the Lady Flamborough before they sank less than fifty meters astern.

The dark surface of the Flamborough's wake was littered with wreckage and bodies.

A few of the unfortunate passengers were thrown clear and were trying to swim clear while the injured grasped anything that would keep them afloat. Then they were lost in the night.

The bitterness and rage welled up in Finney's throat. "You murdering bastard!" He spat at Ammar "Only Ali knows the unforeseen," said Ammar, his voice remote and indifferent. He slowly pulled the automatic away from Finney's skull. "As soon as we clear the channel, bear on a heading of one-five-five degrees magnetic and engage the automatic pilot."

Gray-faced beneath his tropic tan, Couins turned and faced Ammar. "for God's sake, radio the Uruguayan sea-rescue service and give them a chance to save those poor people."

"No communications."

"They don't have to know who sent the transmission."

Ammar shook his head. "Less than an hour after the local authorities are alerted to the accident, an investigation will be underway by security forces. Our absence will quickly be discovered and a pursuit launched. I'm sorry, Captain, every nautical mile we put between our stern and Punta del Este is critical. The answer is no."

Collins stared into Ammar's eyes, stared without speaking while his stunned mind fought to orient itself. Then he said, "What price must be paid before you'release my ship?"

"If you and your crew do what I command, no harm will come to any of you."

"And the passengers, Presidents De Lorenzo and Hasan and their staffs?

What are your plans for them?"

"Eventually they will be ransomed. But for the next ten hours they're all going to get their hands dirty."

Bitter helplessness was sharp in Collins's mouth, but his voice was impassive. "You have no intention of holding them as hostages for money."

"Are you a mind reader as well as a sea captain?" asked Ammar with detached interest.

"It doesn't take an anthropologist to see your men were born in the Middle East. My guess is you intend to assassinate the Egyptians."

Ammar smiled emptily. "Allah decides man's fate. I only carry out my instructions."

"Instructions from what source?"

Before Ammar could reply, a voice broke over the bridge speakers.

"Rendezvous at approximately zero two-thirty, Commander."

Animar acknowledged on his portable transmitter. Then he looked at Collins. "There's no more reason for conversation, Captain. We have a great deal to accomplish before daylight."

"What are your plans for my ship?" demanded Collins, "You owe me the.

answer to that question."

"Yes, of course, I owe you that," Ammar muttered automatically, his mind already training on another subject. "By this time tomorrow evening, international news services will report that the Lady Flamborough has been posted missing and presumed lost with all passengers and crew in two hundred fathoms of water."

"Did you hear something, Carlos?" the old fisherman asked as he gripped the worn spokes on the wheel of an ancient fishing boat.

The younger man, who was his son, cupped his ears and peered into the darkness beyond the bow. "You have better ears than mine, Papa. All I hear is our engine."

"I thought I heard someone, like a woman screaming for help.

The son paused, listened again and then shrugged. "Sorry, I still hear nothing."

"It was there." Luiz Chavez rubbed his grizzled beard on a sleeve and then pulled the throttle on idle. "I wasn't dreaming."

Chavez was in a hearty mood. The fish catch had been good. The holds were only half-full, but the nets had pwiea in a quality and variety that would bring top prices from the chefs of the hotel and resort restaurants. The six bottles of beer that were sloshing in his stomach didn't hurt his jolly disposition either.

"Papa, I see something in the water."

"Where?"