Treasure

PART IV

October 27, 1991

Washington D.C.

Dale Nichols and Martin Brogan stood waiting on the White House steps as the President stepped from his helicopter and walked swiftly across the lawn.

"You have something for me?" the President asked expectantly as he shook hands.

Nichols could not contain his excitement. "We've just received a report from General Dodge. His Special Operations Forces have retaken the Lady Flamborough intact in Southern Chile. Senator Pitt, Hala Kamil and Presidents De Lorenzo and Hasan were rescued in good condition."

The President was weary from a series of nonstop conferences with the Canadian Prime Minister in Ottawa, but he brightened like a streetlight.

"Thank God. That is good news. Were there any casualties?"

"Two SOF men were wounded, neither seriously, but three NUMA people were shot up pretty badly," reported Brogan.

"NUMA people were on the scene?"

"Dirk Pitt was responsible for tracking down the cruise ship. He and three others kept the hijackers from escaping along with their hostages."

"So he helped save his own father."

"He certainly deserves a major share of the credit."

The President rubbed his hands together happily. "It's al most noon, gentlemen. Why don't we celebrate with a bottle of wine over lunch, and you can give me a full report."

Secretary of State Douglas Oates, Alan Mercier, the President's National Security Adviser, and Julius Schiller also joined the group for lunch.

After dessert, Mercier passed around copies of the transcribed report from General Dodge.

The President toyed with his fork as he read the transcript. Then he looked up, a mixture of surprise and triumph on his face.

"Topiltzin!"

"He's in it up to his ears," said Brogan. "Topiltzin provided the Mexican terrorist crew and die vessel for the switch with the cruise ship."

"So he did conspire with his brother on the Lady Flamborough hijacking,"

the President said confidentially.

Nichols nodded. "The facts add up that way, but it won't be easy to prove."

"any idea as to the identity of the mastermind behind the operation?"

"We have a make," replied Brogan briefly. This is a condensed file on the man." He paused to hand the President another folder. "He did a remarkable job of disguising himself to look like the Captain of the ship during the capture, and then he changed to a mask. Later, Dirk Pitt met face to face with him during a truce before the fighting. The name he gave was Suleiman Aziz Ammar."

"Seems odd this Ammar got lax and dropped his name," mused Schiller.

"Must be an alias."

Brogan shook his head. "The name is real enough. We have a comprehensive packet on him. So does Interpel. Ammar must have figured Pitt was as good as dead, and had nothing to lose by identifying himself."

The President's eyes narrowed. "According to your file he's suspected of being directly or indirectly involved with over fifty murders of prominent government officials. Is this possible?"

"Suleiman Aziz Ammar is rated at the very top of his profession."

"A diehard terrorist."

"Assassin," Brogan corrected the President. "Ammar specializes only in political assassination. Cold-blooded as they come. Big on disguise and detailed planning. As the words of the song go, 'Nobody does it better." Half his hits were so clean they were written off as accidents.

He's a Muslim, but he's taken on jobs for the French and Germans and even the Israelis. Gets top dollar. He's amassed a considerable fortune for his successful operations in and around the Mediterranean."

"Was he captured?"

"No, sir," Brogan admitted. "He was not among the dead or wounded."

"The man escaped?" the President asked sharply.

"If he still lives, Ammar cannot get far," Brogan assured him. "Pitt he pumped at least three bullets into him. An extensive manhunt has been activated. There is no escape from the island. He should be found in a few hours."

"He'll be a major intelligence coup if he can be persuaded to talk,"

said Nichols.

"General Dodge has already alerted his field commander, Colonel Morton Hollis, to take every precaution in capturing Animar alive. But the Colonel thinks there is good reason to believe Ammar will kill himself when cornered. "

Nichols shrugged resignedly. "Hollis is probably right."

"There were no other survivors among the hijackers?" the President asked Brogan.

"Eight we can interrogate. But they appear to be only Ammar's hired mercenaries and not radical Yazid followers."

"We'll need their confessions to prove Ammar was working for Yazid and Topiltzin," said the President without optimism.

Schiller did not feel there was a setback. "Look on the bright side, Mr. President. The ship and hostages have been rescued without injury.

President Hasan knows damn well Yazid wanted him dead and was behind the hijacking. He'll go after Yazid now with a vengeance."

The President looked at him, and then his eyes traveled from face to face. "Is that the way you gentlemen see it?"

"Julius has a good grasp of Hasan," said Mercier. "He can be real nasty if he's crossed."

Doug Oates nodded in agreement. "Barring unforeseen developments, I think Julius's projection is right on the money. Hasan may not go so far as to risk riots and ignite a revolution by arresting Yazid and trying him for treason. But he'll certainly take off the gloves and do everything short of murder to destroy Yazid's credibility."

"There will be a backlash against Yazid," Brogan predicted. "Egypt's Muslim fundamentalist moderates do not condone terrorist tactics.

They'll Turn their backs on Yazid while the country's parliament gives President Hasan overwhelming support. Also, in my best rose-colored view, the military will climb down out of its ivory tower and reaffirm its loyalty to Hasan."

The President took a final swallow of wine and set the glass on the table. "I must confess, I like what I hear."

"The crisis in Egypt is far from over," warned Secretary Oates. "Yazid may be pushed out of the limelight for a while, but in President Hasan's absence the Moslem Brotherhood of fundamentalist fanatics has formed an alliance with the Liberal and Socialist Labor parties. Together, they'll work to undemiine Hasan's nile, to bring Egypt under Islamic ties with the United States and scuttle Israeli peace agreements."

The President tilted his head at Schiller. "Do you subscribe to Doug's doomsday canvas, Julius?"

Schiller nodded grimly. "I do."

"Martin?"

Brogan's solemn expression told it all. "The inevitable has only been stalled off. Hasan's government must eventually fall. The military's support will be here today and gone tomorrow. My best brains at Langley project a fairly bloodless coup eighteen to twenty-four months from now."

"I recommend we take a hands-off, wait-and-see attitude, Mr. President,"

said Oates. "And study our options in dealing with another Muslim government."

"You're suggesting an isolationist approach," said the President.

"Maybe it's time we took that stance," suggested Schiller. "Nothing of substance your predecessors attempted in the last twenty years worked."

"The Russians will lose too," added Nichols. "And our big consolation is in keeping Paul Capesterre, also known as Akhmad Yazid, from creating another Iranian disaster. He would have worked to destroy our Middle East interests at any cost.

"I do not entirely agree with your overall picture," said Brogan. "But in the time we have left we still have the opportunity to cultivate the next man to rule Egypt."

A questioning frown crossed the President's face. "What do you have in mind?"

"Egypt's Defense Minister, Abu Hamid."

"You think he'll seize the government?'

"When the time is ripe, yes," Brogan explained patiently. "He has the power of the military in his pocket, and he's shrewdly sought strong support from the moderate Muslim fundamentalists. In my opinion, Abu Hamid is a shoo-in."

"We could do much worse," murmured Oates with a thin smile. "He hasn't been above accepting favors and tapping some of the billions of dollars we've poured into Egypt. Abu Hamid would not be the type to kick a gift horse in the mouth. Oh, sure, he'd make the required noises condemning Israel and cursing the U.S., for the sake of the religious fanatics, but underneath the rhetoric he'd keep a friendly line of communications open."

"The fact that he's on close terms with Hala Kamfl won't hurt us either," Nichols said flatly.

The President was silent, staring into the glass of zinfandel as if it was a crystal ball. Then he raised the glass.

"To a continued friendly union with Egypt."

"Hear, hear," said Mercier and Brogan in unison.

"To Egypt," murmured Oates.

"And Mexico," added Schiller.

The President glanced at his watch and rose, followed by his advisers.

"Sorry to cut this short, but I have a meeting with a group of Treasury people. Congratulate everyone involved in rescuing the hostages for me." He turned to Oates. "I want to meet with you and Senator Pitt the minute he returns."

"To discuss any words he had with President Hasan during their ordeal?"

"I'd be more interested in hearing what he learned from President De Lorenzo on the crisis south of our border. Egypt is of secondary importance compared to Mexico. We can safely assume Akhmad Yazid has been benched for the rest of the season, but Topiltzin is a far worse threat. Concentrate on him, gentlemen. God help us if we can't stabilize the upheaval in Mexico."

Slowly, reluctantly, Pitt rose from the black depths of a sound sleep to the brightly lit surface of consciousness only to find it was accompanied by stiff, aching pain. He tried to go back and reenter the comforting void, but his eyes blinked open, and it was too late. The first thing he focused on was a smiling red face.

"Well, well, he's back among the living," said First Officer Finney cheerfully. "I'll go and inform the Captain."

As Finney passed through the door, Pitt moved his eyes without moving his head and found a little baldheaded sitting in a chair beside the bed. The ship's doctor, Pitt recognized, but the name escaped him.

"I'm sorry, Doctor, but I can't recollect your,

"Henry Webster," he second-guessed Pitt, smiling warmly. "And if you're wondering where you are, you're in the finest suite on board the Flamborough, which is currently under tow by the Sounder for Punta Arenas."

"How long have I been unconscious?"

"While you weremaking your report to Colonel Hollis, I was tending to your wounds. Soon afterward, I put you under heavy sedation. You've been out for about twelve hours."

"No wonder I'm starving."

"I'll see our chef personally sends down one of his specialties."

"How are Giordino and Findley?"

"Most admirable of you to inquire of your friends before yourself.

Giordino is a very durable man. I took four bullets from him, none in critical areas. He should be ready to party by New Year's Eve.

Findley's wounds were far more serious. Bullets entered his right side and lodged in a lung and kidney. I did what I could for him on the ship.

He and Giordino were airlifted to Punta Arenas and flown to Washington soon after I put you out. Findley will be operated on by bullet-wound specialists at the Walter Reed Medical Center. If there are no complications, he should pull through in fine shape. By the way, your friend Rudi Gunn felt they needed him more than you did, so he accompanied them home."

Before Pitt could make a reply, a digital thermometer was slipped in and out of his mouth.

Dr. Webster studied the reading and nodded. "As for you, Mr.

Pitt-you'll mend nicely. How are you feeling?"

"I don't think I'm up to entering a triathlon, but except for a throb in my head and a stinging sensation in my neck, I'll manage."

"You're a lucky man. None of the bullets struck a bone, internal organ or artery. I stitched up your leg and neck, or, more accurately, your trapezius muscle. Also your cheek. Plastic surgery should hide the scar, unless of course your women find it adds to your sex appeal. The smack on your head caused a concussion. X-rays showed no sign of a hairline fracture. My prognosis is that you'll be swimming the English Channel and playing the violin within months."

Pitt laughed. Almost immediately he tensed as the pain struck from every side. Webster's look became one of quick concern.

"I am sorry. My bedside manner tends to get a bit too jolly, I'm afraid."

Pin relaxed and the agony soon subsided. He loved English phrasing and humor. They were a class act, he thought. He smiled grimly and stared at Webster with unconcealed respect. He knew the doctor had down played his skill and labors out of modesty.

"If that hurt," said Pitt, "I can't wait to get your bill."

It was Webster's turn to laugh. "Careful, I wouldn't want you to ruin my beautiful needlework."

Pitt gingerly eased himself to a sitting position and held out his hand.

"I'm grateful for what you did for the four of us."

Webster rose and shook Pitts outstretched hand. "An honor doctoring you, Mr. Pitt. I'll take my leave now. It seems you're the man of the hour. I think you have some distinguished visitors gathering outside."

"Goodbye, Doc, and thank you."

Webster gave a willk and a nod. Then he walked over to the door, opened it and motioned everyone inside.

Senator Pitt entered followed by Hala, Colonel Hollis and Captain Collins. The men shook hands, but Hala leaned down and lightly kissed Pitt.

"I hope you've found our ship's service satisfactory," said Captain Collins jovially.

"No man ever recuperated in a fancier hospital," Pitt replied. "I'm only sorry I can't bask in such luxury for another month."

"Unfortunately, your presence is required up north by tomorrow," said Hollis.

"Oh, no," Pitt moaned.

"Oh, yes," said the Senator, holding up his watch. "The Sounder will be towing us into dock at Punta Arenas in another ninety minutes. An Air Force transport is waiting to fly you and Ms. Kaniil and me to Washington."

Pitt made a helpless gesture with both hands. "So much for my luxury cruise."

Next came the usual round of solicitous questions concerning his condition. After a few minutes Hollis turned the conversation to his current problem.

"Would you know Ammar if you saw him again?" he asked Pitt.

"I could pick him out of a lineup easily enough. Didn't you find him? I gave you a detailed description of his height, weight and looks before Doc Webster knocked me out."

Hollis handed him a small stack of photos. "Here are pictures taken and processed by the ship's photographer of the hijackers' bodies, including those taken prisoner. Do you see Suleiman Aziz Ammar among them?"

Pitt slowly sifted through the photographs, studying the closeup features of the dead. They had seemed faceless during the battle, he recalled. He wondered with morbid curiosity which ones were dead by his hands. Finally he looked up and shook his head.

"He's not in here among the living or the dead."

"You're sure?" asked Hollis. "The wounds and deathlike expressions can badly alter facial features."

"I stood closer to him than I am to you under conditions that aren't easily forgotten. Believe me, Colonel, when I say Ammar isn't among those pictures."

Hollis pulled a larger photo from an envelope and passed it to Pitt without comment.

After a few seconds, Pitt gave Hollis a questioning look. "What do you want me to say?"

"Is that Suleiman Aziz Ammar?"

Pitt handed the photograph back. "You know damn well it is, or you wouldn't magically produce a picture taken of him at a different time in a different place."

"I think what Colonel Hollis is holding back," said Dirk's father, "is that Anunar or his remains have yet to be found."

"Then his men must have hidden his body," Pitt said firmly. "I didn't miss. He took a shot in the shoulder and two in the face. I saw one of his men drag him to cover after he fell. No way he's running around."

"It's possible his body was buried," admitted Hollis. "An extensive air and land search failed to detect any sign of him on the island."

"So the fox hasn't been run to ground," Pitt said softly to himself.

The Senator looked at him. "What was that?"

"Something Ammar said about a coyote and a fox when we met," Pitt replied pensively. Then he looked around at his audience. "I bet he's eluded the net. Anyone care to give me odds?"

Hollis gave Pitt a dark look instead. "You better hope he's deader than a barracuda in the desert, because if he isn't, the name of Dirk Pitt will head his next hit list."

Hala swept gracefully to the head of Pitts bed, wearing a gold silk dressing gown with a modernized hieroglyphic design. She placed her hand lightly around his shoulder.

"Dirk is very weak," she said in an even voice. "He needs a good meal and rest until it comes time to debark the ship. I suggest we leave him alone for the next hour."

Hollis slipped the photos back in the envelope and rose. "I'll have to say my goodbyes. A helicopter is waiting to take me back to Santa Inez to continue the search for Ammar."

"Give my best to Major Dillenger."

"I shall." Hollis seemed uneasy for a moment; then he approached the bed and shook hands. "I apologize, Dirk, to you and your friends. I sadly underrated you all. Anytime you want to transfer from NUMA to Special Operations Forces, I'll be the first to sign a recommendation."

"I wouldn't fit in too well." Pitt grinned. "I have this allergy to taking orders."

"Yes, so you've demonstrated," Hollis said, smiling faintly.

The Senator walked over and squeezed Pitts hand. "See you on deck."

"I'll bid my farewell there also," said Captain Collins.

Hala said nothing. She herded the men from the room. Then she slowly closed the door and turned the lock. She walked back until she stood beside the bed. The folds of the gown plunged and there was something in the casual way it draped her body that convinced Pitt she was naked beneath.

She proved it by loosening the sash and shrugging the gown from her shoulders. He heard the whisper of the silk as it slid down her soft flesh. She posed like a bronze statue, breasts thrust out, hands flattened against her thighs, one leg slightly in front of the otherShe reached down and pulled back the bedcovers.

"I owe you something," she said huskily.

Pitt caught his reflection in the mirrors on the closet doors. He wore only white gauze. top of his head and the side of his face were swathed in bandages, as was one side of his neck and the wounded leg. He hadn't shaved in a week and the whites of his eyes were red. In his mind he looked like a derelict any self-respecting bag lady would re-ject.

"I'm a sorry excuse for Don Juan," he murmured

"You're handsome in my eyes," Hala whispered as she gently lay beside him and gently entwine her fingers through the hairs of his chest. "We must hurry. We have less than an hour."

Pitt let out a long sigh. He would catch hell from Doc Webster if he overexerted and pulled out his stitches. Abject surrender. Why is it, he wondered, men plan more covert schemes than an intelligence agency to seduce women, only to have them Turn on under crazy circumstances when you least expect it? He was more convinced than ever that James Bond really didn't have it all that great.

When Ammar awoke, he saw only blackness. His shoulder felt as though a piece of coal were burning inside his flesh. He tried to lift his hands to his face but one hand exploded with pain. Then he remembered bullets slamming into his wrist and shoulder. He raised his good hand to touch his eyes but the fingertips felt only a tightly bound cloth that wrapped around his head, covering his face from forehead to chin.

He knew his eyes were beyond saving. Not for him a life of blindness, he thought. He groped around for a weapon, anything to kill himself.

All he touched was a damp, flat rock surface.

Ammar became desperate, unable to repress the fear of helplessness. He struggled to his feet, stumbled and fell.

Then two hands gripped his shoulders.

"Do not move or make a cry, Suleiman Aziz," came the whispered words of Ibn. "The Americans are searching for us ."

Ammar clutched Ibn's hands for assurance. He tried to speak, but could no longer utter coherent words. Only animallike guttural sounds came through the blood-caked wrapping supporting his shattered jaw.

"We are in a small chamber inside one of the mine tunnels."

Ibn spoke softly into his ear. "They came very close, but I had time to build a wall that concealed our hiding place."

Ammar nodded and desperately tried to make himself understood.

It was as though Ibn could reach through the pitch ess and read Ammar's thoughts. "You wish to die, Suleiman Aziz? No, you will not die. We will go together but not one minute before Allah decides."

Ammar slumped in despair. He had never felt so disoriented, so completely out of control. The pain was unbearable, and the thought of living out his days in a maximum-security jail cell, blind and mutilated, devastated him. All instinct for self--preservation had deserted him. He could not stand being dependent on anyone for his hourly existence-not even Ibn.

"Rest, my brother," said Ibn gently. "You will need all your strength when it comes time for us to escape the island."

Annnar collapsed and rolled to his side. His shoulders came against the tunnel's uneven floor. It was wet, and the moisture seeped through his clothing, but he was suffering too much pain to notice the added discomfort.

He became more and more despondent. His failure had become a horror. He saw Akhmad Yazid standing over him, smirking; then a curtain slowly formed and parted deep in the recesses of Ammar's mind. A faint glow appeared, a glow that bloomed and then burst in a blinding flash, and in that one chilling moment he glimpsed the future.

He would survive through revenge.

Mentally he spoke the word over and over until at last his self-discipline returned.

The first decision he came to grips with was who should die at his own hands, Yazid or Pitt? He could not act alone. He was no longer physically capable of assassinating both men himself. Already a plan was forming. He would have to trust Ibn to share in the revenge.

Ammar anguished over the decision, but in the end he had no choice.

Ibn would draw the coyote, while Ammar's final act would be to slay the viper.

Pitt refused to fly home on a stretcher. He sat in a comfortable executive chair, leg propped on the seat of a facing chair, and stared out the window at the snowcapped spires of the Andes. Far off to the right he could see the green plateaus that marked the beginning of the Brazilian highlands. Two hours later a distant gray haze advertised the crowded city of Caracas, and then he was gazing at the horizon line where the turquoise of the Caribbean met a cobalt-blue sky. from 12,000

meters the wind-mased water looked like a flat sheet of crepe paper.

The Air Force VIP transport jet was cramped-Pitt could not stand to his full height-but quite luxurious. He felt as though he were sitting inside a rich kid's high-priced toy.

His father was not in a talkative mood. The Senator spent most of the flight working out of a briefcase, making notes for his briefing to the President.

What little conversation took place was one-sided. When Pitt asked how he happened to be on the Lady Flamborough at Punta del Este, the Senator didn't bother to look up when he responded.

"A Presidential mission," he said tersely, closing off any further questions on the subject.

Hala also kept to herself and attended to business. She had the aircraft's in-flight telephone in constant use, firing off in structions to her aides at the United Nations building in New York. Her only acknowledgment of Pitts presence was a brief smile when their eyes happened to meet.

How quickly they forget, Pitt thought idly.

He turned his mind to the search for the Alexandria Library treasures.

He considered cutting in on Hala's phone monopoly for a progress report from Yaeger. But he drowned his curiosity with a dry martini, courtesy of the aircraft steward, instead, deciding to wait and learn whatever there was to learn at first hand from Lily and Yaeger.

What river had Venator sailed before burying the priceless objects? it could be any one of a thousand that course into the Atlantic between the Saint Lawrence in Canada to the Rfo de la Plata of Argentina. No, not quite. Yaeger theorized the Serapes had taken on water and made repairs off what was to become New Jersey. The unknown river had to be south, much further south than the rivers that flow into Chesapeake Bay.

Could Venator have led his fleet into the Gulf of Mexico and up the Mississippi? Today's stream must be far different from what it was sixteen hundred years ago. Perhaps he had sailed into the OTinoco in Venezuela, which could be navigated for two hundred miles. Or maybe the Amazon?

He let his mind wander through the irony of it all. If Junius Venator's voyage to the Americas was absolutely proved by the discovery of the buried Library artifacts, history books needed to be revised and new chapters written.

Poor Leif Eriksson and Christopher Columbus would be relegated to footnotes.

Pitt was still daydreaming when he was interrupted by the steward telling him to fasten his seat belt.

It was dusk and the aircraft had dipped its nose and was dropping into the long glide toward Andrews Air Force Base. The twinkling sprawl of Washington slid past, and Pitt soon found himself hobbling down the steps on a cane hastily bent from an aluminum tube and presented by the grateful crew of the Lady Flamborough. He set foot on the concrete at almost exactly the same spot as on his arrival from Greenland.

Hala came down and bid him goodbye. She was continuing on with the plane to New York.

"You've become a treasured memory, Dirk Pitt."

"We never did make our dinner date."

"The next time you're in Cairo, it's on me."

The Senator overheard and came over. "Cairo, Ms. Kamil. Not New York?"

Hala gave him a smile worthy of the beautiful Aphrodite. "I am resigning as SecretaryGeneral and returning home. Democracy is dying in Egypt. I can do more to keep it alive by working in the midst of my people."

"What of Yazid?"

"President Hasan has vowed to place him under house arrest."

A frown crossed Senator Pitts face. "Be careful. Yazid is still a dangerous man."

"if not Yazid, there is always another maniac waiting in the wings." Her soft dark eyes belied the fear that rode in her heart. She gave him a daughterly hug. "tell your President Egypt will not become a nation of insane fanatics."

"I'll pass along your words."

She turned back to Pitt. She was on the brink of falling in love with him but fought her feelings with every bit of will she possessed. Her legs felt weak as she took both his hands and stared upward into his ageless face. for an instant, in her mind's eye, she saw herself entwilled with his body, caressing his muscled skin, and then just as quickly she erased the thought. She had found brief fulfillment with him, long denied, but she knew she could never divide her love for one man with that for Egypt.

Her life belonged to those who had no life except misery and poverty.

She kissed him tenderly.

"Do not forget me."

Before Pitt could answer, Hala had turned and hurried up the steps into the aircraft. He stood looking at the empty entrance for a long moment.

The Senator read his thoughts and interrupted them. "They've sent an ambulance to take you to the hospital."

"Hospital?" Pitt said vacantly, still watching as the door closed. The jet engines whistled as the pilot increased the rpm and began to taxi toward the main strip.

Pitt tore the bandages from around his head and face and threw them into the jet's exhaust, where they were caught and sent swirling through the air like airborne snakes.

Only when the plane was airborne did he make his reply. "I'm not going to no damned hospital."

"Over doing it a bit, don't you ?" think?" the Senator said with paternal concern, full knowing it was a waste of breath to preach to his independent-minded son.

"How are you getting to the White House?" asked Pitt. The Senator nodded toward a waiting helicopter about a hundred meters away. "the President arranged my transportation."

"Mind dropping me at NUMA?"

His father looked at him slyly. "You're speaking figuratively, of course."

Pitt grinned. "You never let me forget which side of the family my sadistic sense of humor came from."

The Senator slapped his arm around Pitts waist. "Come on, you crazy nut, let me help you over to the helicopter."

The tension built like a twisting knot in his stomach as Pitt stood in the elevator, watching the numbers rise toward NUMAs computer complex.

Lily was standing in the foyer as the doors parted and he stepped out.

She wore a big smile that froze when she saw the , bedraggled look, the long scab on his cheek, the hump of the bandage beneath a knit fisherman's turtleneck sweater borrowed from his father, the dragging leg and cane. Then she bravely broke out the smile again.

"Welcome home, sailor."

She stepped forward and threw her arms around his neck. He winced and groaned under his breath. She jumped back.

"Oh, I'm sorry."

Pin clutched her. "Don't be." Then he mashed his lips against hers. His beard scraped against her skin and he smelled of gin-and delightfully masculine.

"There's something to be said for men who only come home once a week,"

she said finally.

"And for women who wait," he said, stepping back. He glanced around.

"What have you and Hiram found out since I left?"

"I'll let Hiram tell you," she answered airily, taking him by the hand and leading him across the computer installation.

Yaeger charged out of his office. Without a word of greeting or sympathy for Pitts wounds, he came straight to the heart of the breakthrough.

"We've found it!" he announced grandly.

"The river?" Pitt asked anxiously.

"Not only the river, but I think I can put you within two square miles of the artifacts' cavern."

+"Where?"

"Texas. A little border town called Roma."

Yaeger had the smug, complacent look of a Tyrannosaurus rex that had just dined on a brontosaurus. "Nwned for seven hills, just like the capital of Italy. Pretty low, insignificant hills, I admit. But there are also reports of Roman artifacts supposedly having been dug up in the area. Scoffed at by accredited archaeologists, of course, but what do they know?"

"Then the river is?"

"The Rio Bravo, as it's called in Spanish." Yaeger nodded. "Better known on this side as the Rio Grande."

"The Rio Grande." Pitt repeated the words slowly, savoring each syllable to the full, finding it difficult to accept the truth after dozens of missed hunches, wild guesses and dead-end speculations.

"It's really a great shame," Yaeger suddenly said morosely.

Pitt glanced at him in faint surprise. "Why do you say that?"

Yaeger shook his head heavily. "Because there'll be no living with the Texans as soon as they learn what they've been sitting on for the last sixteen centuries."

At noon the next day, after landing at the Corpus Christi Naval Air Station, Pitt and Lily, along with Admiral Sandecker, were driven by a Seaman First Class to NUMA!s ocean research center on the bay. Sandecker directed the driver to stop beside a helicopter squatting on a concrete pad beside a long dock. There were no clouds, the sun was alone in the sky. The temperature was mild but the humidity high, and they quickly began to sweat after exiting the car.

NUMAs chief geologist, Herb Garza, gave a friendly wave and approached.

He was short, plump, brown-skinned, with a few pockmarks on his cheeks and gleaming black hair. Garza wore a California Angels baseball cap and a fluorescent orange shirt that was so blasting Pitt could still see it after he momentarily closed his eyes.

"Garza," said Sandecker curtly. "Good to see you again."

"I've looked forward to your arrival," Garza said warmly. "We can take off as soon as you board." He turned and introduced the pilot, Joe Mifflin, who wore "Smiling Jack" sunglasses and struck Pitt as being about as animated as a door knob.

Pitt and Garza had worked together on a project along the western desert stretch of coast in South Africa. "How long has it been, Herb?" said Pitt. "Three, four years?"

"Who counts?" Garza said with a broad smile as they shook hands. "Good to be on the same team with you again."

"May I introduce Dr. Lily Sharp."

Garza graciously bowed. "One of the ocean sciences?" he asked.

Lily shook her head. "Land archaeology."

Garza turned and stared at Sandecker with a curious expression. "This isn't a sea project, Admiral?"

"No, I'm sorry you weren't fully informed, Herb. But I'm afraid we'll have to keep the real purpose of our work a secret for a little longer."

Garza shrugged indifferently. "You're the boss."

"All I need is a direction," said Mifflin.

"South," Pitt told him. "South to the Rio Grande."

They dropped down the coast along the Intercoastal Waterway, passing over the hotels and condominiums of South Padre Island. Then Mifflin ducked the green helicopter with the NUMA letters on the side under a layer of popcorn puffed clouds and swung west below Port Isabel where the waters of the Rio Grande spilled into the Gulf of Mexico.

The land below was a strange blend of marsh and desert, flat as a parking lot, with cactus growing amid tall grass. Soon the city of Brownsville appeared through the windshield. The river narrowed as it flowed under the bridge connecting Texas to Matamoros, Mexico.

"Can you tell me what we're supposed to survey?" asked Garza.

"You grew up in the Rio Grande Valley, didn't you," Sandecker queried without answering.

"Born and raised up river at Laredo. Took my undergraduate courses at Texas Southernmost College in Brownsville. We just passed over it."

"Then you're familiar with the geology around Roma?"

"I've conducted a number of field trips in the area, yes."

It was Pitts Turn. "Compared to now, how did the river flow a few centuries after Christ?"

"The stream wasn't much different then," answered Garza.

"Oh, sure, the course has shifted during earlier flooding, but seldom more than a couple of miles. Quite often over the centuries it returned to its previous course. The major change is that the Rio Grande would have been considerably higher then. Until the war with Mexico the width ran from two hundred to four hundred meters. The main channel actually was much deeper."

"When was it first seen by a European?"

"Alonzo de Pineda sailed into the river's mouth in 1519."

"How did it stack up to the Mississippi back then?"

Garza thought a moment. "The Rio Grande was more akin to the Nile."

"Nile?"

"The headwaters begin in the Rocky Mountains of Colorado. During the spring flooding season, as the winter snows melted, the water swept down the lower reaches in huge surges. The ancient Indians, like the Egyptians, dug ditches so the high water ran to their crops. That's why the river you see now is a mere trickle of its former self. As the Spanish and Mexican settlers moved in, followed by the Texas Americans, new irrigation works were built. After the Civil War, railroads brought in more families and ranchers, who siphoned off more water. By 1894, shallow and dangerous shoals put an end to steamboating. If there had been no irrigation, the Rio Grande might have been the Mississippi River of Texas."

"Steamboats ran on the Rio Grande?" asked Lily.

for a short time traffic was quite heavy as trade developed upland down and on both sides of the river. Fleets of paddle steamers made regular runs from Brownsville to Laredo for over thirty years. Now, since they built the Falcon Dam, about the only craft you see on the lower river are outboard boats and inner tubes."

Could sailing vessels have navigated as far as Roma?"

asked Pitt.

"With room to spare. The river was easily wide enough for tacking. All a ship with sails had to do was wait for easterly offshore breezes. One keelboat made it as far northwest as Santa Fe in 1850. "

They fell quiet for a few minutes as Mifflin followed the meandering turns of the river. A few low, rolling hills appeared. On the Mexican side, little towns first settled nearly three hundred years ago sat in dusty seclusion. Some houses were built of stone and adobe and topped by red tile, while the outskirts were dotted with small primitive huts having thatched roofs. The agricultural part of the valley, with its citrus groves and fields of vegetables and aloe vera, gave way to and plains of mesquite trees and white thistle. Pitt expected a muddy brown river, but the Rio Grande pleasantly surprised him by running a deep green.

"We're coming up on Roma now," announced Garza. "The sister city across the river is called Miguel AlemAn. Not much of a town. Except for sonic tourist curio stores it's mostly a border crossing on the road to Monterrey."

Mifflin pulled up and soared over the international bridge, and then dropped low on the river again. On the Mexican side men and women were washing cars, mending fishing nets and swimming. Along the bank a few pigs wallowed in the silt. On the American side a yellowish sandstone bluff rose from the riverbank up to the main section of downtown Roma.

The buildings appeared to be quite old and some were rundown, but all seemed in sound condition. One or two were in stages of reconstruction.

"The buildings look very quaint," said Lily. "There must be a lot of history behind their walls."

"Roma was a busy port during the commercial and military boating era,"

Garza lectured. "Prosperous merchants hired architects to design some very interesting homes and business structures. And they've lasted quite well."

"any one more famous than the others?" asked Lily.

"Famous?" Garza laughed. "My pick would be a residence built in the middle 1800s that was used as 'Rosita's Cantina' when the movie Viva Zapata was filmed in Roma with Marlon Brando."

Sandecker gestured for Mifflin to circle the hills above the town. He turned to Garza. "Is Roma named after Rome because it's surrounded by seven hills?"

"Nobody really knows for sure," replied Garza. "You'd be hard-pressed to pick out seven distinctive hills. A couple have noticeable peaks, but mostly they just run into each other."

"What's the geology?" Pitt inquired as he stared downward.

"Cretaceous debris for the most part. This whole area was once under the sea. Fossil oyster shells are common. Some have been found that measure half a meter. There's a nearby gravel pit that, illustrates the various geological periods. I can give you a quick lecture if you care to have Joe set us down."

"Not just yet," said Pitt. "Are there any natural caves in the region?"

"None visible on the surface. But that doesn't mean they aren't down there. No way of knowing how many caves, formed by the ancient seas, are hidden under the upper layer. Go deep enough in the tight spot and you'll likely strike a good-size limestone deposit. Old Indian legends tell of spirits living underground."

"What sort of spirits?"

Garza shrugged. "Ghosts of the ancients who died in battle with evil gods."

Lily unconsciously clutched Pitts arm. "Have any artifacts been discovered near Roma?"

"A few arrow and spear flints, stone knives and boatstones. "

"What are boatstones?" asked Pitt.

"Hollow stones in the shape of boat hulls," answered Lily with mounting excitement. "Their exact on'gin or purpose is obscure. It's thought they were used as charms. They supposedly warded off evil, especially if an Indian feared a witch or power of a shaman. An effigy of the witch was tied to a boatstone and thrown into a lake or river, destroying the evil forever."

Pitt put another question to Garza. "any objects Turn up that confound the historic time scale?"

"Some, but they were considered to be fake."

Lily put on her best casual expression. "What sort of objects?"

"Swords, crosses, bits and pieces of armor, spear shafts, mostly made of iron. I also recall the story of an old stone anchor that was dug out of the bluff beside the river."

"Probably Spanish in origin," ventured Sandecker guardedly.

Garza shook his head. "Not Spanish, but Roman. State Museum officials were justifiably skeptical. They wrote them off as a nineteenth-century hoax."

Lily's hand bit deeper into Pitts arm. "any possibility of my having a look at them?" she asked in an anxious voice.

"Or have they been lost and forgotten, packed away in the dust of a state university basement?"

Garza pointed out the window toward the road running north from Roma.

"As a matter of fact, the artifacts are right down there. They've been kept and collected by the man who found most of them. A good old Texan boy named Sam Trinity, or Crazy Sam as he's known by the locals. He's poked around this area for fifty years, swearing a Roman army camped here. Makes a living by running a small gas station and store. Has a shack in the rear he grandly calls a museum of antiquity."

Pitt smiled slowly. "Can you set us down beside his place?"

he asked Mifflin. "I think we ought to have a talk with Sam."

The sign stretched nine meters in length behind the highway turnoft. The giant horizontal board was supported by sunbleached, weather-cracked mesquite posts that uniformly leaned backward at a drunken angle. Garish red letters on a faded silver background proclaimed SAM'S ROMAN CIRCUS

The gas pumps out front were shiny and new and advertised methanol-blended fuel for forty-eight cents a liter. The store was built from adobe and designed like the Indian mesa dwellings of Arizona with the roof poles protruding through the walls. The interior was clean and the shelves were neatly stacked with curios, groceries and soft drinks. It was an echo of a thousand other small, isolated oases that stood beside the nation's highways.

Sam, though, didn't match the decor.

No baseball cap advertising Caterpillar tractors. No scuffed cowboy boots or straw range hat or faded Levi's. Sam was attired in a bright green Polo shirt, yellow slacks and expensive custom lizard golf shoes complete with cleats. His evenly trimmed white hair lay flat beneath a sporty plaid cap.

Sam Trinity stood in the doorway of his store until the dust from the helicopter's rotor blades slowly rolled away under a light breeze. Then he stepped past the asphalt drive, holding a two iron Bob Hope-style and came to a halt about six meters from the opening door.

Garza dropped out first and walked up to him. "Hello there, dirt-kicker."

Trinity's dark calfskin face stretched into a big Texas smile. "Herb, you old taco. Good to see you."

He pulled up his sunglasses, revealing blue eyes that squinted under the bright Southern Texas sun. Then he dropped them again like a curtain.

He was very tall, skinny as a fence pole, arms slender, shoulders narrow, but his voice had vigor and resonance.

Garza made the introductions, but it was obvious the names were hardly absorbed by Trinity. He simply waved and said, "Glad to meet yaal.

Welcome to Sam's Roman Circus." Then he noticed Pitts face, cane and limp. "Fall off your motorcycle?"

Pitt laughed. "The short end of a saloon brawl."

"I think I like you."

Sandecker stood jauntily with legs apart and nodded at the two iron.

"Where do you play golf around here?"

"Just down the road in Rio Grande City," Trinity replied genially.

"Several courses between here and Brownsville. I just got back from a quick round with some old army buddies."

"We'd like to poke around your museum," said Garza.

"Be an honor. Help yourself. Not every day someone drops in by whirlybird to look at my artifacts (he pronounced it 'arteefacts'). You folks like something to drink, sody pop, beer? I've got a pitcher of margaritas in the icebox."

"A margarita would taste wonderful," said Lily, dabbing her neck with a bandanna.

"Show our guests around to the museum, Herb. The door's unlocked. I'll join you in a minute."

A truck and trailer pulled in for gas, and Trinity pau sed to chat a moment with the driver before entering his living quarters adjoining the store.

"A friendly cuss," muttered Sandecker.

"Sam can be friendlier than a down-Texas ranch wife," said Garza. "But get on his bad side and he's tougher than a ninety-cent steak."

Garza led them into an adobe building behind the store. The interior was no larger than a two-car garage, but was crowded with glass display cases and wax figures in Roman legionary dress. The artifact room was spotless; no dust layered the glass walls. The artifacts were rust-free and highly burnished.

Lily carried an attached case. She carefully laid it on a display case, unsnapped the latches and pulled out a thick book with illustrations and photographs that resembled a catalogue. She began to compare the artifacts with those pictured in the book.

"Looking good," she said after a few minutes of study. "The swords and spearheads match Roman weapons of the fourth Century."

"Don't get excited," said Garza seriously. "Sam fabricated what you see here and probably aged them with acid and the sun."

..He didn't fabricate them," Sandecker said flatly.

Garza regarded him with skeptical interest. "How can you say that, Admiral? There's no record of pre-Columbian contact in the gulf."

"There is now."

That's news to me."

"'The event occurred in the year A.D. 391," explained Pitt. "A fleet of ships ed up the Rio Grande to where Roma now stands. Somewhere, in one of the hills behind town, Roman mercenaries, their slaves and Egyptian scholars buried a vast collection of artifacts from the Alexandria Library in Egypt '

"I knew it!" burst Sam Trinity from the open doorway. He was so excited he almost dropped the tray of glasses and pitcher he was carrying. "By glory, I knew it! The Romans really walked the soil of Texas."

"You've been right, Sam," said Sandecker, "and your doubters wrong."

I-All these years no one believed me," Sam muttered dazedly. "Even after they read the stone, they accused me of chiseling the inscription myself."

"Stone, what stone?" Pitt asked sharply.

"The one standing over in the corner. I had it translated at Texas A and M, but all they told me was, 'Nice job, Sam. Your Latin ain't half bad." They've kidded me for years for dreaming up a firstrate fish story."

"Is there a copy of the translated message?" asked Lily' re, on the wall. I had it typed and hung in a glassed frame. I cut off the part where they panned it."

Lily peered at the wording and read it aloud as the others crowded around her.

"This stone marks the way to where I ordered buried the works from the great Hall of the Muses.

"I escaped the slaughter of our fleet by the barban'ans and made my way south, where I was accepted by a primitive pyramid people as a sage and a prophet.

"I have taught them what I know of the stars and science, but they put little of my teachings to practical use. They prefer to worship pagan gods and follow ignorant priests' demands for human sacrifice.

"Sevenyearshavepassedsincemy arrival. My return here is filled with sorrow at the sight of the bones of my former comrades. I have seen to their burial. My ship is ready and I shall soon set sail for Rome.

"If Theodosius still lives I shall be executed but accept the risk gladly to see my family one last time.

"To those who read this, should I perish, the entrance to the storage chamber is buried under the hill. Stand north and look straight south to the liver cliff."

Junius Venator 10 August 398

"So Venator survived the massacre only to die seven years later on the return voyage to Rome," said Pitt.

"Or perhaps he made it and was executed without talking," added Sandecker.

"No, Theodosius died in 395," said Lily in wonder. .,To think the message was here all this time and ignored as a counterfeit. "

Trinity's eyebrows lifted. "You know this Venator guy?"

"We've been tracking him," admitted Pitt.

"Have you searched for the chamber?" Sandecker asked.

Trinity nodded. "Dug all over these hills, but found nuthin' but what you see here."

"How deep?"

"Used a backhoe about ten years ago. Made a pit six meters down, but only found that sandal over there in the case,"

"Could you show us the site where you discovered the stone and other artifacts?" Pitt asked him.

The old Texan looked at Garza. "Think it's okay, Herb?"

"Take my word, Sam, you can trust these people. They're not artifact robbers."

Trinity nodded vigorously. "All right, let's take a ride. We can go in my Jeep."

Trinity steered the Jeep Wagoneer up a dirt road past several modern homes and stopped in front of a barbed-wire fence. He got out, unhooked a section of the wire and pulled it aside. Then he climbed back behind the wheel and continued on over a trail that was grown over and barely perceptible.

When the four-wheeled Jeep crested a long, sloping rise, he stopped and turned off the ignition. "Well, here it is, Gongora Hill. A long time ago somebody told me it was named after a seventeenth-century Spanish poet. Why they named this dirt heap for a poet beats grits out of me."

Pitt gestured at a low hill four hundred meters to the north. "What do they call that ridge over there?"

"Has no name I ever heard of," replied Trinity.

"Where did you discover the stone?" asked Lily.

"Hold on, just a little further."

Trinity restarted the engine and slowly edged the Jeep down the slope, dodging the mesquite and low underbrush. After a two-minute bumpy ride, he braked beside a shallow wash.

He stepped from the car and walked to the edge and looked down.

"Right here I found a corner of it sticking out of the bank."

"This dry wash," observed Pitt, "winds between Gongora and the far hill."

Trinity nodded. "Yeah, but no way the stone traveled from there to the slope below Gongora unless it was dragged."

"This is hardly a flood plain," agreed Sandecker. "Erosion and heavy rains over a long time period might have carried it fifty meters from the summit of Gongora, but not half a kilometer from the next summit."

"And the other artifacts," asked Lily, "where did they lie?"

Trinity swept a hand on an arc toward the river. "They were scattered a little further down the slope and continued almost through the center of town."

"Did you conduct a survey with transits and mark each location?"

"Sorry, miss, not being an archaeologist, I didn't think to pinpoint the holes."

Lily's eyes flashed disappointment, but she made no reply.

"You must have used a metal detector," said Pitt.

"Made it myself," Trinity answered proudly. "Sensitive enough to read a penny at half a meter."

"Who owns the land?"

"Twelve hundred acres hereabouts have been in my family since Texas was a republic."

"That saves a lot of legal hassle," Sandecker said approvingly.

Pitt looked at his watch. The sun was beginning to fall beyond the string of hills. He tried to visualize the running fight between the Indians and the Roman-Egyptians toward the river and the fleet of ancient ships. He could almost hear the shouting, the screams of pain, the clash of weapons. He felt as if he had been present that fateful day so long ago. He returned to the present as Lily continued her questioning of Trinity.

"Strange that you didn't find any bones on the battlefield."

"Early Spanish sailors who were shipwrecked on the Texas Gulf Coast and managed to make their way to Veracruz and Mexico City," Garza answered her, "told of Indians who practiced cannibalism."

Lily made an expression of utter distaste. "You can't know for certain the dead were eaten."

"Perhaps a small number," said Garza. "And what remains that weren't dragged off by tribal dogs or wild animals were later buried by this guy Venator. any they missed turned to dust. "

"Herb's right," said Pitt. "any bones that remained on surface ground would disintegrate in time."

Lily became very still. She gazed almost mystically at the nearby crest of Gongora Hill. "I can't begin to believe we're actually standing within a few meters of the treasures."

An icy calm seemed to settle over them for a few moments. Then Pitt finally echoed the other's thoughts.

"A lot of good men died sixteen centuries ago to preserve the knowledge of their time," he said softly, eyes staring into the past. "I think it's time we dig it free."

The next morning Admiral Sandecker was passed through the compound gate by Secret Service guards. He drove along a winding lane to the President's hideaway cottage on the Lake of the Ozarks in Missouri. He stopped his commercial rental car in the drive and removed his briefcase from the trunk. There was a crisp chill in the air, and he found it invigorating after the steamy temperatures along the Rio Grande.

The President, dressed in a warm sheepskin jacket, came down the steps from the porch and greeted him. "Admiral, thank you for coming. "

"I'd rather be here than in Washington."

"How was your trip?"

"Slept most of it."

"Sorry to bring you up here in a mad rush."

"I'm fully aware of the urgency."

The President put a hand on Sandecker's back and steered him up the steps toward the cottage door. "Come in and have some breakfast. Dale Nichols, Julius Schiller and Senator Pitt are already attacking the eggs and smoked ham."

"Assembled the brain trust, I see," Sandecker said with a cagey smile.

"We spent half the night discussing the political impact of your discovery."

"Little I can tell you in person that wasn't in the report I sent by courier."

"Except you neglected to include a diagram of your proposed excavation."

"I would have gotten around to it," Sandecker said, standing his ground.

The President was not put off by Sandecker's attitude. "You can show everyone over but."

They broke off the conversation for a few moments as the President led him through the log-constructed house. They walked through a cozy living room decorated more for modern living than a hunting lodge. A small fire crackled away in a large rock fireplace. They entered the dining room, where Schiller and Nichols, dressed as fishermen, rose as one to shake hands. Senator Pitt merely waved. He wore a sweatsuit.

The Senator and the Admiral were close friends because of their closeness to Dirk. Sandecker caught a hint of warning from the elder Pitts somber expression.

There was one other man the President hadn't mentionedHarold Wismer, an old crony and adviser of the President who enjoyed enormous influence and worked outside the White House bureaucracy. Sandecker wondered why he was present.

The President pulled out a chair. "Sit down, Admiral. How do you like your eggs?"

Sandecker shook his head. "A small bowl of fruit and a glass of skim milk will do me fine."

A white-coated steward took Sandecker's order and disappeared into the kitchen.

"So that's how you keep that wiry shape," said Schiller.

"That and enough exercise to keep me in a perpetual state of sweat."

"All of us wish to congratulate you and your people on a magnificent find," Wismer began without hesitation. He stared through glasses with pink lenses. A snarled beard almost hid his lips. He was bald as a basketball; brown eyes wide to give a slight popped look. "When do you expect to move dirk?"

"Tomorrow," Sandecker answered, suspecting the rug was about to be pulled out from under him. He pulled a blowup of a geological survey map showing the topography above Roma from his briefcase. Then he followed it with a cutaway drawing of the hill indicating the planned excavation shafts. He laid them out on a free section of the table. "We intend to dig two exploratory tunnels into the main hill eighty meters below the summit. "

"The one labeled 'Gongora Hill'?"

"Yes, the tunnels will enter on opposing sides of the slope facing the river and then angle toward each other, but on different levels. One or both should strike the grotto Junius Venator inscribed on Sam Trinity's stone, or, with luck, one of the original entry shafts."

"You're absolutely sure a treasure trove of artifacts from the Alexandria Library is at this place," Wismer said, tightening the noose.

"You have no doubts."

"None," asserted Sandecker in a salty tone. "The map from the Roman stup in Greenland led to the artifacts found in Roma by Trinity. The pieces slot together nicely."

"But could the-?"

"No, the Roman objects have been authenticated." Sandecker cut Wismer off abruptly. This is no hoax, no attempt at fraud, no wild stunt or game. We know it's there. The only question is how extensive is the hoard."

"We don't mean to suggest the Library's treasures do not exist," said Schiller quickly, a little too quickly. "But you must understand, Admiral, the international repercussions of such an enormous discovery might be difficult to predict, much less control."

Sandecker stared at Schiller unblinking. "I fail to see how bringing the knowledge of the ancient world to light will cause Armageddon. Also, aren't you a little late? The world already knows about the treasure.

Hala Kamfl announced our search in her address to the United Nations."

"There are considerations," said the President seriously, you may not be aware of. President Hasan may claim the entire trove of relics belongs to Egypt. Greece will insist on the return of Alexander's gold casket.

Who can say what claims Italy will put forth?"

"Maybe I took the wrong tack, gentlemen," said Sandecker. "It was my understanding we promised to share in the discovery with President Hasan as a means of propping up his government."

"True," admitted Schiller. "But that was before you nailed down the location beside the Rio Grande-Now you've brought Mexico into the picture. The fanatic Topiltzin can make a case on the fact that the burial site originally belonged to Mexico."

"That's to be expected," said Sandecker. "Except that possession is nine tenths of the law. Legally the artifacts belong to the man who owns the property they're buried on."

"Mr. Trinity will be offered a substantial sum of money for his land and the rights to the relics," said Nichols. "I might also add, his payment will be tax-free.,'

Sandecker regarded Nichols skeptically. "The hoard might be worth hundreds of millions. Is the government prepared to go that high?"

Of course not."

"And if Trinity won't take your offer?"

"There are other methods of making a deal," Wismer said with cold determination.

"Since when is the government in the art business?"

"The art, sculpture and the remains of Alexander the Great are only of historic interest," said Wismer. "The knowledge in the scrolls, that's the area of vital interest."

"That depends on the eye of the beholder," Sandecker said philosophically.

"The information contained in the scientific records, particularly the geological data, could have enormous influence on Our future dealings with the Middle East," Wismer continued doggedly. "And there is the religious angle to consider."

"What's to consider? The Greek umslation of the original Hebrew text of the Old Testament was made at the Library. This translation is the basis for all books of the Bible."

"But not the New Testament," Wismer corrected Sandecker.

"There may be historic facts that dispute the founding of Christianity locked away under that hill in Texas. Facts that would be better left hidden."

Sandecker gave Wismer a cold stare, then turned his eyes to the President. "I smell a conspiracy, Mr. President. I'd be grateful for the reason behind my presence here."

Nothing sinister, Admiral, I assure you. But we all agree, this has to be conducted within stringent guidelines."

Sandecker was not slow; the trap had sprung. He'd known almost from the beginning what was going down. "So after NUMA-" he paused and stared at Senator Pitt 'and especially your son, Senator, have done all the dirty work, we're to be pushed aside."

"You must admit, Admiral," said Wismer in an official tone, this is hardly a job for a governmental agency whose bureaucratic responsibilities lie underwater."

Sandecker shrugged off Wismer's words. "We've taken the project this far. I see no reason why we can't see it through to the end."

"I'm sorry, Admiral," said the President slowly, "but I'm taking the project out of your hands and turning it over to the Pentagon."

Sandecker was stunned. "The military!" he blurted. "Whose harebrained idea was that?"

An embarrassed look came into the President's eyes. Then they flicked to Wismer for an instant. "It makes no difference who conceived the new plan. The decision is mine."

"I don't think you understand, Jim," said the Senator quietly. "What you stumbled upon goes far beyond mere archaeology. The knowledge under that hill could very well reshape our Middle East foreign policy for decades to come."

"Reason enough why we have to approach this thing as if it was a highly secret intelligence operation," said Wismer. "We must keep the discovery classified until all documents are thoroughly examined and their data analyzed."

"That could take twenty or even a hundred years, depending on the number and condition of the scrolls after underground storage for sixteen hundred years," Sandecker protested.

"If that's what it takes. . . ." The President shrugged.

The steward brought the Admiral's fruit bowl and glass of milk, but Sandecker had lost his appetite.

"In other words, you need time to add up the value of the windfall,"

Sandecker said acidly. "Then negotiate political bargains for the ancient charts showing the locations of lost mineral and oil deposits around the Mediterranean. If Alexander hasn't turned to dust, his bones will be traded to the Greek government toward renewed leases for our naval bases. All this before the American people find out you've given away the store."

"We cannot afford to go public," Schiller explained patiently. "Not until we're prepared to move. You fail to realize the tremendous foreign policy advantages you've laid in the government's lap. We can't simply throw them away in the name of public curiosity about historic objects."

"I'm not naive, gentlemen," said Sandecker. "But I do confess to being a sentimental old patriot who believes the people deserve better from their government than they receive. The treasures from the Library of Alexandria do not belong to a few politicians to barter away. They belong to all America by right of possession."

Sandecker didn't wait for them to answer. He took a quick swallow of milk, then retrieved a newspaper out of his briefcase and casually tossed it on the center of the table.

"Because everyone is so wrapped up with the big picture, your aides missed a small item from Reuters wire service that was carried in most of the newspapers around the world. Here's a copy of a St. Louis paper I picked up at the car-rental agency. I circled the piece on page three."

Wismer picked up the folded paper, opened it and turned to the page indicated by Sandecker. He read the heading aloud, and then began the text.

"Romans land in Texas?

"According to top-level administration sources in Washington, the search for a vast underground depository of ancient relics from the famed Library of Alexandria, Egypt, has ended a few hundred meters north of the Rio Grande River in Roma, Texas. Artifacts found over the years by a Mr. Samuel Trinity have been acknowledged as authentic by archaeologists.

"The search began with the discovery of a Roman merchant ship, dated from the fourth century A.D., in the ice of Greenland '

Wismer stopped, his face reddening with anger. "A leak! A goddamned leak!"

"But how . . . who?" wondered Nichols in shock.

"Top-level administration sources," Sandecker repeated. "That can only mean the White House." He looked at the President, then at Nichols.

"Probably a disgruntled aide one of your supervisors either passed over for promotion or sacked."

Schiller looked glumly at the President. "A thousand people will be swarming over the place. I suggest you order out a military force to secure the area."

"Julius is right, Mr. President," said Nichols. "Treasure hunters will dig those hills to pieces if they're not stopped."

The President nodded. "Alright, Dale. Open a Wx to General Metcalf of the Joint Chiefs."

Nichols quickly left the table and entered the study, which was manned by Secret Service and White House communications technicians.

"I strongly advise we clamp a lid on the entire operation said Wismer tensely. "We should also spread a story that the discovery is a hoax."

"Not a good idea, Mr. President," counseled Schiller wisely. "Your predecessors found out the hard way; it doesn't pay to lie to the American people. The news media would smell a coverup and chew you to bits."

"I'll side with Julius," said Sandecker. "Close off the area, but go through with the excavation, hiding nothing and keeping the public informed. Believe me, Mr. President, your administration will be far better off putting the Library artifacts out in the open as they're recovered."

The President turned and looked at Wismer. "Sorry, Harold. Perhaps it's all for the best."

"Let us hope so," said Wismer, solemnly staring at the newspaper story.

"I don't want to think about what might happen if that lunatic Topiltzin decides to make an issue of it."

Sam Trinity stood and watched Pitt connect a pair of electrical leads from two metal boxes that sat on the open tailgate of his Jeep. One had a small viewing monitor and the other a wide slot with paper unreeling from it like a flattened tongue.

"A wild-looking rig," observed Trinity. "What do you call it?"

"The fancy name is electromagnetic reflection profiling system for subsurface exploration," Pitt replied as he jacked in the leads to a strange double-humped contraption with four wheels and a push bar. "In plain speech, it's a ground-probing radar unit, the Georadar One, manufactured by the Oyo Corporation."

"I didn't know radar could go through dirt and rock."

"It can provide a good profile down to ten meters, and deep as twenty under ideal conditions."

"How's it work?"

"As the portable probe moves across the land a transmitter sends an electromagnetic pulse into the ground. The reflecting signals are picked up by a receiver and then relayed to the color processor and graphic recorder here in the Jeep. That's pretty much the gist of it."

"Sure you don't want me to tow the mitter buggy?"

"I have better control if I push it by hand."

"What are we looking for?"

"A cavity."

"You mean cavern."

Pitt grinned and shrugged. "Same thing."

Trinity gazed across the ridge of hills they were standing on toward the summit of Gongora Hill, four hundred meters away. "Why are we looking on the backside of the wrong hill?"

"I want to run some tests on the unit before we tackle the prime site,"

Pitt replied vaguely. "Also, there's the slight possibility Venator buried more artifacts someplace else." He paused and waved to Lily, who was peering through a surveyor's transit a short distance away. "We're ready," he shouted.

She waved back and approached, carrying a board with sheet of graph paper tacked to it. "Here's your search grid,! she said, pointing a pencil at the markings on the paper. "The boundary stakes are set in place. I'll walk behind the Jeep and monitor the transmissions. Every twenty meters or so I'll plant a small flag marker so we can keep our lanes straight."

Pitt nodded at her. "Ready, Sam?"

Sam moved behind the steering wheel and started the Jeep's engine. "Say the word."

Pitt turned on the machine and made a few adjustments. Then he took the handle of the probe wagon in his hands and pointed ahead.

Sam dropped the Jeep into drive and crawled forward while Pitt followed, pushing the transmitter-receiver unit five meters from the rear.

A light cloud overcast dulled the sun to a dim yellow ball. 'Thankfully, the day was mild and comfortable. Back and forth, they traveled, dodging rocks and bushes. The morning wore into afternoon as the monotony associated with search and surveys stretched out of all proportion.

They ignored lunch, stopping only at Lily's command as she studied the recordings and made notations.

"A good reading?" Pitt asked, taking a breather, sitting on the back of the tailgate.

"We're on the edge of something that looks interesting," answered Lily, engrossed in the recordings. "Maybe nothing, though. I'll know better after we cover the next two lanes."

Trinity graciously passed around bottles of Mexican Bohemia beer from an ice chest in the Jeep. It was during these short breaks that Pitt noticed a growing number of cars parked at the bottom of Gongord Hill.

people were fanning out over the slope with metal detectors.

Sam noticed too. "A lot of good my 'No Trespassing' signs did," he grumbled. "You'd think they was advertising free

"Where are they coming from?" asked Lily. "How did they find out about the project so soon?"

Trinity peered over the rims of his sunglasses. "Mostly local folks.

Somebody must have blabbed. By this time tomorrow they'll be rolling in from every state in the Union."

The telephone in the Jeep buzzed, and Trinity answered. Then he passed the receiver out the window to Pitt.

"for you. Admiral Sandecker."

Pi" took the call. "Yes, Admiral."

"We've been backstabbed; we're no longer on the excavation," Sandecker informed him. "The President's advisers have talked him into turningng the operation over to the Pentagon.

"It was to be expected, but I'd have preferred the Park Service. They're better equipped for an archaeological dig."

"The White House wants to break into the storage chamber and remove the scrolls for study as quickly as possible. They fear a nasty confrontation with countries that might demand to share in the discovery."

Pitt struck his fist against the roof of the Jeep. "Damnit! They can't go down there and throw everything into trucks as though it was secondhand merchandise. The scrolls could crumble to dust if not handled properly."

"The President has accepted responsibility for the gamble."

"The past has no priority over politics, is that it?"

Not the only problem," said Sandecker tersely. "Some aide inside the White House leaked everything to a foreign wire service. Word is spreading like the plague."

"Crowds are already converging on the site."

"They're not wasting any time."

"How does the government get around the fact the property belongs to Sam?"

"Let's just say Sam is going to get an offer he can't refuse," Sandecker replied angrily. "The President and his cronies have a grand scheme to make a political bonanza out of the information contained in the Library scrolls."

"My father among them?" asked Pitt.

"I'm afraid so."

"Who exactly is taking over?"

"A company of Army engineers from Fort Hood. They and their equipment are being transported by truck. A security force should be dropping in on you any time by helicopter to seal off the perimeters."

Pitt thought a moment, then: "Could you use your clout to arrange for us to hang around?"

"Give me a cover story."

"Except for Hiram Yaeger, Lily and I know more about the search than anyone who will be excavating. Claim we're vital to the project as consultants. Use Lily's academic credentials as a backup. Say we're conducting an archaeological survey for surface artifacts. Say anything, Admiral, but con the White House into allowing us to remain on the site."

"I'll see what I can do," Sandecker said, warming to the idea, although he didn't have the vaguest idea of what Pitt was shooting for. "Harold Wismer should be the only barrier. If the Senator throws his support our way I think we can handle it."

"Let me know if my dad drags his feet. I'll get on him."

"I'll be in touch."

Pitt handed the receiver back to Trinity and turned to Lily. "We're off the case," he informed them. "The Army is taking over the excavation.

They're going to haul the artifacts away as fast as they can throw them in the back of a truck."

Lily's eyes widened in shock. "The scrolls will be destroyed," she gasped. "After sixteen hundred years in an underground vault the parchment and papyrus manuscripts must be treated delicately. They could disintegrate from a sudden temperature change or the slightest touch."

"You heard me give the Admiral the same appraisal," Pitt said helplessly.

Trinity looked washed out. "Waal," he drawled, shall we call it a day?"

Pitt looked at the stakes that marked the outer limit of the search grid. "Not yet," he said slowly, deliberately. "Let's finish the job.

The show is never over till it's over."

The Mercedes stretch limousine stopped at the yacht club dock in the harbor of Alexandria. The chauffeur opened the door and Robert Capesteffe climbed from the back seat. Wearing a tailored white linen suit with a powder-blue shirt and matching tie, he no longer looked like Topiltzin.

He was guided down a stone stairway to a waiting launch. He sat back in the soft cushions and enjoyed the ride across the harbor and through the enwmce where one of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World, the famed lighthouse known as the Pharos of Alexandria, once stood, a towering 135

meters high. Only a few stones built into an Arab fort were all that remained of its ruins.

The launch headed for a large yacht that was moored around the harbor and off the long wide beach. Capesteffe had walked her decks on previous occasions. He knew her length to be forty-five meters. She was Dutch-built, with sleek, aircraftstyle lines. She had transoceanic range and a cruising speed of thirty knots.

The pilot eased back on the throttle and slipped the launch into reverse at it approached the boarding steps. Capesterre was met on deck by a man dressed in an open silk shirt, shorts and sandals. They embraced.