Treasure

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... A - lcotne, bt(,,there," saiki Paul Capesterre. "It's been too long.

"You look healthy, Paul. I'd say you and Akhmad Yazid have gained about eight pounds."

"Twelve."

"Almost seems strange to see you out of uniform," said Robert.

Paul shrugged. "I get tired of Yazid's Arabic gear and that stupid turban." He stood back and smiled at his brother. "You're a fine one to talk. I don't see you in your Aztec god outfit."

"Topiltzin is temporarily on holiday." Robert paused and nodded at the deck. "You've borrowed Uncle Theodore's boat, I see."

I-He hardly has use for it any more since the family left the drug business." Paul Capesterre turned and led his brother into the dining salon. "Come along, I've had lunch set. Now that I've learned you finally developed a taste for champagne, I've dusted off a bottle of Uncle Theodore's finest vintage."

Robert took an offered glass. "I thought President Hasan placed you under house arrest."

"The only reason I bought the villa is because of a hidden escape tunnel that runs underground for a hundred meters and comes up in a mechanic's repair shop."

"Also owned by you."

"Of course."

Robert raised his glass. "Here's to Mother and Father's grand scheme."

Paul nodded. "Although at the moment, your end in Mexico looks more promising than mine in Egypt."

"You're not to blame for the Lady Flamborough fiasco. The family approved the plan. No one could foretell the cunning of the Americans."

That idiot Suleiman Aziz Ammar," said Paul harswy, "he blundered the operation away."

"any news of survivors?"

"Family agents report most were killed, including Ammar and your Captain Machado. Several were taken prisoner, but they know nothing of our involvement."

"Then we should consider ourselves lucky. With Machado and Ammar dead, no intelligence agency in the world can touch us. They were the only link."

"President Hasan didn't have any trouble putting two and two together or I wouldn't be under house arrest."

"Yes," agreed Robeil, "but Hasan can't act against you without solid evidence. If he tried, your followers would rise up and prevent any trial. The family's advice is to keep a low profile while consolidating your power base. At least for another year, to see how the wind blows."

"for now the wind blows at the backs of Hasan, Hala Kaniil and Abu Hamid," said Paul wrad"lly.

"Be patient. Soon your Islamic fundamentalist movement will sweep you into the Egyptian parliament."

Paul looked at Robert with a cagey expression in his eyes. "The discovery of the Alexandria Library treasures might speed things a bit."

"You've read the latest news reportst' asked Robert'

"Yes, the Americans claim they've found the storage chamber in Texas."

"Possession of the ancient geological charts could be to your advantage.

If they point the way to rich oil and mineral reserves, you can claim credit for turning Egypt's economy around. "

"I've considered that possibility," said Paul. "If I read the White House correctly, the President will use the artifacts and scrolls as bargaining chips. While Hasan begs and haggles for a paltry share of Egypt's heritage, I can go before the people and raise the issue as an outrage against our revered ancestors." Paul hesitated, his mind leapfrogging. Then he continued, his eyes narrowing. "With the right semantics I think I can twist Muslim law and the words of the Koran into a rallying cry that will crack Hasan's government."

Robert laughed. "try and keep a straight face when you speak. The Christians may have burned most of the scrolls in A.D. 39 1, but it was the Muslims in 646 who destroyed the Library forever."

A waiter began serving Scottish smoked salmon and an caviar. They ate for a few minutes in silence.

Then Paul said, "I hope you'realize the burden of seizing the artifacts falls on your shoulders."

Robert stared over the rim of his champagne glass. "You talking to me or Topiltzin?"

Paul laughed. "Topiltzin."

Robert set down the glass and slowly raised his hands in the air as if beseeching a fly on the ceiling. His eyes took on a hypnotic look and he began to speak in a haunting tone.

"We will rise up by the tens of thousands, by the hundreds of thousands.

We will cross the river as one and take what was buried on our land, land that was stolen from us by the Americans. Many will be sacrificed, but the gods demand we take what rightfully belongs to Mexico." Then he dropped his hands and grinned. "Needs a little polishing, of course."

"I believe you've borrowed my script," said Paul, applauding "What's the difference so long as we're family?" Robert took a final forkful of salmon. "Delicious. I could eat smoked salmon by the boatload." He washed it down with the champagne. "If I can seize the treasures and hold on to them, then what?"

I only want the maps. Whatever else can be smuggled out gole's to the family to keep or sell on the black market to wealthy collectors.

Agreed?"

Robert thought a moment, and then nodded. "Agreed."

The waiter brought a tray of glasses, a bottle of brandy and a box of cigars.

Paul slowly lit a panatella. He looked questioningly through the smoke at his brother. "How do you intend to grab the Library treasures?"

"I had planned to launch a massive, unarmed invasion of the American border states after I gained power. This strikes me as a good opportunity for a test run." Robert stared at his glass as he swirled his brandy. "Once I set the wheels of my organization in motion, the poor in the cities and the peasants of the country will be gathered up and transported north to Roma, Texas. I can assemble three, perhaps as many as four hundred thousand on our side of the Rio Grande in four days."

"What about American resistance?"

"Every soldier, border patrolman and sheriff in Texas will be helpless to stop the crush. I plan to put the women and children in the first wave across the bridge and river. Americans are a maudlin lot. They may have slaughtered villagers in Vietnam, but they won't massacre unarmed civilians on their own doorstep. I can also play on White House fears of a nasty international incident. The President won't dare issue orders to shoot. Static resistance will be inundated by a human tide that will sweep up through Roma and occupy the underground vault containing the Library treasures."

"And Topiltzin will lead them?"

"And I will lead them."

"How long do you think you can hold on to the vault?" asked Paul.

"Long enough for ancient-language translators to assess and remove any scrolls pertaining to long-lost mineral deposits."

"That could take weeks. You won't have the time. The Americans will build up their forces and push your people back into Mexico within a few days."

"Not if I threaten to burn the scrolls and destroy the art objects."

Robert patted his lips with a napkin. "My jet should be refueled by now. I'd better return to Mexico and set the operation in motion."

Respect for his brother's inventive reasoning showed in Paul's eyes.

"With their backs against the wall, the American government will have no option but to deal. I like that."

"Certainly the largest horde of people to invade the United States since the British in the Revolutionary War," said Robert. "I like that even better."

They began arriving in the thousands the first day, in the tens of thousands the next. from all over northern Mexico people inspired by the unpassioned mvings of Topiltzin traveled by car, overloaded bus and truck, or walked to the dusty town of Nfiguel Ale across the river from Roma. The asphalt roads from Monterrey, Tampico, and Mexico City were glutted with a continuous stream of vehicles.

President De Lorenzo tried to stop the human wave rolling toward the border He called out the Mexican armed forces to block the roads. The military might as well have tried to stop a raging flood. Outside of Guadalupe, a squad of soldiers about to be swept away by a crush of bodies fired into the crowd, killing fifty-four, most of them women and children.

De Lorenzo had unwittingly played into Tbpiltzin's hands. It was exactly the reaction Robert Capesterre had hoped for.

Riots broke out in Mexico City, and De Lorenzo he had to back off or face mushrooming unrest and the lighted match of a possible revolution.

He sent a message to the White House with his sincere regrets for failing to stem the tide, and then he called off the soldiers, many of whom deserted and joined the crusade.

Unrestrained, the throng swarmed toward the Rio Grande.

The Capesterre family's hired professional planners and Robert's Topiltzin followers raised a five-square-kilometer tent city and set up kitchens and organized food lines. Sanitation facilities were trucked in and assembled. Nothing was overlooked. Many of the poor who flooded the area had never lived nor eaten so well. Only the clouds of dust and exhaust smoke from diesel engines swirled beyond human control.

Hand-painted banners appeared along the Mexico bank of the river proclaiming, "The U.S. stole our land,"

"We want our ancestors' land returned,"

"The antiquities belong to Mexico." They chanted the slogans in English, Spanish and Nahuatl. Topiltzin walked mnong the masses, agitating them into a frenzy rarely seen outside Iran.

Television news teams had a field day taping the colorful demonstration.

Cameras, their cables meandering to two dozen mobile field units, stood tripod to tripod on top of Roma's bluff, lenses panning the opposite shore.

Unwary correspondents who wandered through the crowds did not know that the peasant families they interviewed had been carefully planted and rehearsed. In most cases the simple, impoverished-looking people were trained actors who spoke fluent English, but answered quesfions in a stumbling, broken accent. Their tearful appeals to five permanently in California, Arizona, New Mexico and Texas drew a wave of sob-sister support across the nation when the segments ran on the evening news and the morning talk shows.

The only ones who stood grim and unimpressed were the dedicated men of the U.S. Border Patrol. Until now, the threat of a massive incursion had only been a nightmare. Now, they were about to witness the realization of their worst fears.

Border patrolmen rarely had call to draw their firearms. They treated illegal immigrants humanely and with respect before shipping them back home. They took a dim view of the Army covering the U.S. side of the river like nests of camouflaged ants. They saw only disaster and slaughter in a long line of automatic weapons and the twenty tanks whose deadly guns were trained on Mexico.

The soldiers were young and efficient as fighting units. But they were trained for combat with an enemy who fought back. They were uneasy about facing a wave of unarmed civilians.

The commanding officer, Brigadier General Curfis Chandler, had barricaded the bridge with tanks and armored cars, but Topiltzin had planned for that contingency. The riverbank was packed with every kind of small boat, wooden raft and truck inner tube gleaned within two hundred miles. Footbridges made of rope were stretched out and knotted to be carried across by the first wave and positioned.

General Chandler's intelligence officer estimated an initial rush of twenty thousand before the flotilla returned, loaded and ferried the next wave. He couldn't begin to guess the number of swimmers. One of his female agents had penetrated the dining trailer used by Topiltzin aides and reported the storm would be launched in the late evening after the Aztec messiah had whipped his devotees into near-frenzy. But she couldn't learn which evening.

Chandler had served three tours in Vietnam; he knew first-hand what it was like to kill fanatical young women and boys who struck without seaming out of the jungle. He gave orders to fire over the heads of the mob when they began their move across the water.

If the warning barrage did not stop them-Chandler was a soldier who performed his duty without question. If ordered, he would use the forces under his command to repel the peaceful invasion rrgardless of the cost in blood.

Pitt stood on the second-story sun deck of Sam Trinity's store and peered through a telescope used by the Texan to gaze at the stars. The sun had dropped over the western range of hills and daylight was fading, but the staged spectacle on the other side of the Rio Grande was about to begin. Batteries of multicolored floodlights burst out, some sweeping patterns in the sky while odiers beaxned on a tall tower that had been erected in the center of the town.

He focused on and magnified a tiny figure wearing a white ankle-length robe and colorful headdress who stood on a narrow platform atop the tower. Pitt judged it-from the upraised and brisk movement of the arms that the center of attraction was engaged in a fervent speech.

"I wonder who the character is in the jazzy costume stirring up the natives?"

Sandecker sat with Lily, examining the underground profile recordings from the survey. He looked up at Pitts question. "Probably that phony Topiltzin," he grunted.

"He can sway a crowd with the best of the Evangelists."

"any sign they'll attempt the crossing tonight?" asked Lily.

Pin leaned back from the telescope and shook his head. "They're hard at work on their fleet, but I doubt if it will come for another forty-eight hours. Topiltzin won't launch his big push until he's certain he commands the lead news story of the day. "

"Topiltzin -s an alias," Sandecker informed him. "His real name is Robert Capesterre."

"He's got himself a thriving racket."

Sandecker held up one thumb and forefinger an inch apart. "Capesterre is that far away from taking over Mexico."

"If that convention on the other side of the river is any indication, he's after the entire American Southwest too."

Lily stood up and stretched. "This sitting around is driving me crazy.

We do all the work, and the army engineers get all the glory. Preventing us from watching over the excavation and keeping us off Sam's property-I think it's rude of them."

Pitt and Sandecker both smiled at Lily's feminine choice of words. "I could put it a little stronger than rude, " said the Admiral.

Lily chewed nervously on the tip of a pen. "Why no word from the Senator? We should have heard something by now."

"I can't say," replied Sandecker. "All he told me after I explained Dirk's setup, was that he'd somehow work a deal."

"Wish we knew how it was going," Lily murmured. Trinity appeared on the stairs below wearing an apron. "Anybody care for a bowl of my famous Trinity chili?"

Lily gave him an uneasy look. "How hot is it?"

"Little lady, I can make it as mild on your stomach as a marshmallow or as fiery as battery acid. any way you like it."

"I'll go with the marshmallow," Lily decided without hesitation.

Before Pitt and Sandecker could put in their order, Trinity turned and stared through the dusk at a stream of headlights approaching up the road. "Must be another army convoy," he announced. "Been no cars or trucks come this way since that General closed off the roads and rerouted all the traffic to the north

Soon they counted five trucks led by a hunner, the vehicle that replaced the durable jeep. The truck bringing up the rear pulled a trailer with a canvas-covered piece of equipment. The convoy did not Turn off the road toward the engineers' encampment on Gongora Hill or continue into Roma as expected. The trucks followed the hummer into the driveway of Sam's Roman Circus and stopped between the gas pumps and the store. The passengers climbed from the hummer and looked around.

Pitt immediately recognized dirty faces. Two of the men were in uniform while the third wore a sweater and denims. Pitt climbed carefully over the railing and lowered himself until he was only a few feet off the ground. Then he let go and landed directly in front of them, uttering a low groan at the sudden pain from his wounded leg. They were as startled by his sudden appearance as he was by theirs.

"Where'd you drop from?" asked Al Giordino with a broad smile. He looked pale under the floodlights and his arm was in a sling, but he looked testy as ever.

"I was about to ask you the same thing."

Colonel Hollis stepped forward. "I didn't think we'd meet up again so quickly."

"Nor I," added Major Dillenger.

Pitt felt a vast wave of relief rush over him as he grasped their outstretched hands. "To say I'm glad to see you has to be the year's understatement. How is it you're here?"

"Your father used his powers of persuasion on the Joint Chiefs of Staff," explained Hollis. "I'd hardly finished my report on the Lady Flamborough mission when orders came down to assemble the teams and rush here by vehicle transportation, using back-country roads. All very hush and classified. I was told the field commander would not be apprised of our mission until I reported to him."

"General Chandler," said Pitt.

"Yes, steel-trap Chandler. I served under him in NATO eight years ago.

Still thinks armor alone can win wars. So he's got the dirty job of playing Horatio defending the bridge."

"What are your orders?" asked Pitt.

"To assist you and Dr. Sharp on whatever project you've got going.

Admiral Sandecker is to act as a direct line to the Senator and the Pentagon. That's about all I know."

"No mention of the White House?"

"None that's down on paper." He turned as Lily and the Admiral, who had taken the long way down the inside stairs, walked out the front door. As lily embraced Giordino, and Dillenger introduced Hollis to Sandecker, Hollis pulled Pitt aside.

"What the devil is going on around here?" he muttered. "A circus?"

Pitt grinned. "You don't know how close you are."

"Where do my special forces fit in?"

"When the free-for-all starts," said Pitt, g deadly serious, "your job is to blow the store."

The backhoe the Special Operations Forces had transported from Virginia was huge. Wide treads moved its massive bulk up the slope to a site marked by one of Lily's small marker flags. After ten minutes of instruction and a little practice, Pitt memorized the lever functions and began operating the steel behemoth on his own. He raised the two-and-a-half-meterwide bucket and then brought it down like a giant claw, striking the hard ground with a loud clang.

In less than an hour a trench six meters deep and twenty meters in length had been carved on the rear slope of the hill. That was as far as the excavation progressed when a Chevrolet four-wheel Blazer staff car came barreling through the underbrush with a truckload of armed soldiers following in its dust.

The wheels had not yet stopped turning when a captain with a ramrod-straight back and the eyes of a man driven by an inspired dedication to army discipline and standard operating procedure jumped to the ground.

"This is a restricted area," he snapped smartly. "I warned you people personally two days ago not to reenter. You must remove your equipment and leave immediately."

Pitt indifferently climbed down from his seat and stared into the bottom of the trench as though the officer didn't exist.

The Captain's face went red and he barked to his sergeant, "Sergeant O'Hara, prepare the men to escort these civilians from the area."

Pitt slowly turned and smiled pleasantly. "Sorry, but we're staying put."

The Captain smiled back, but his smile was scorching. "You have three minutes to leave and take that backhoe with you."

"Do you care to see papers authorizing us to be here?"

"Unless they were signed by General Chandler, you're chewing air."

"They come from a higher command than your general."

"You have three minutes," the Captain said flatly. "Then I will have you forcibly removed."

Lily, Giordino and the Admiral, who were sitting out of the sun in Trinity's borrowed Jeep Wagoneer, walked over to take in the show.

Lillie was wearing only a halter and tight shorts. She saucily paraded up and down in front of the line of soldiers.

Women who have never worked the streets as hookers cannot walk with a seductive swing and sway that appears in a natural phenomenon. They tend to exaggerate, to the point of slapstick. Lily was no exception, but the men could not have cared less. They ate up the performance.

Pitt began to tense with anger. He knew pompous people. "You have only twelve men, Captain. Twelve engineers with less than a hundred hours of combat. I have forty men behind me, any two of whom could kill your entire force in less than ten seconds with their bare hands. I'm telling you to back off."

The Captain made a casual three-hundred and sixty degree scan, but all he saw besides Pitt were Lily standing in front of the troops, a man named Sandecker, who was unconcernedly puffing a large cigar, and a man he hadn't seen before wearing an arm sling. They were both leaning against the Jeep as if they were half-asleep.

He glanced quickly at Pitt, but Pitts eyes gave no hint of emotion. He made a forward motion with his hand. "Sergeant, move people the hell out of here."

Before his men had taken two steps, Colonel Hollis seemed to appear as if by magic. The colors of his camouflaged battle fatigues and grease-blurred hands and face were incredibly faithful to the surrounding foliage. Standing less than five meters away, he blended into the underbrush nearly to the point of invisibility.

"Do we have a problem?" Hollis asked the Captain about as charitably as a sidewillder eyeing a gopher.

The Captain's mouth dropped open and his men froze in position. He took a few steps closer and gawked at Hollis more carefully, seeing no obvious sign of rank.

"Who are you?" he blurted. "What is your outfit?"

"Colonel Morton Hollis, Special Operations Forces."

"Captain Louis Cranston, sir, 486th Engineering Battalion."

Salutes were exchanged. Hollis nodded toward the line of engineers, their automatic weapons at the ready. "I think you can give the order for your men to stand at rest."

Cranston was unsure what to make of an unfamiliar colonel who appeared out of nowhere. "May I ask, Colonel, what a Special Forces officer is doing here?"

"Seeing that these people are allowed to conduct an archaeological survey without interference."

"I must remind you, sir, civilians are not permitted in a restricted military zone."

"Suppose I told you they have the authority to be here."

"Sorry, Colonel. I am under direct orders from General Chandler. He was very explicit. No one, and that includes yourself, sir, who is not a member of the battalion is to be allowed to enter-"

"Am I to understand you intend to throw me out as well?"

"If you can't present signed orders from General Chandler for your presence," Cranston said nervously, "I will obey my instructions."

"Your hardnose position won't win you any medals, Captain. I think you'd better reconsider."

Cranston knew damned well he was being toyed with and he didn't like it.

"Please, no trouble, Colonel."

"You load up your men and return to your base, and don't even think of looking back."

Pitt was enjoying the encounter, but he reluctantly turned away and climbed down into the trench. He began probing the dirt on the bottom.

Giordino and Sandecker idly strolled over to the edge and watched him.

Cranston hesitated. He was outranked, but his orders were clear, He decided his stance was firm. General Chandler would back him if there was an investigation.

But before he could order his men to clear the area, Hollis took a whistle from a pocket and blew two shrill blasts.

Like ghosts rising from the graves of a horror movie, forty forms that looked more like bushes and undergrowth than men suddenly materialized and formed a loose circle around containing Cranston and his men.

Hollis's eyes turned venomous. "Bang, you're dead."

"You called, boss?" said a bush that sounded like Dillenger.

Cranston's cockiness collapsed. "I . . . must report this . . . to General Chandler," he stammered.

"You do that," said Hollis coldly. "You can also inform him that my orders come from General Clayton Metcalf of the Joint Chiefs. This can be verified through communications to the Pentagon. These people and my team are not here to interfere with your excavation on Gongora Hill or get in the way of the General's operations along the river. Our job is to find and preserve Roman surface artifacts before they're lost or stolen. Do you'read, Captain?"

"I understand, sir," replied Cranston, gazing around uneasily at the purposeful-looking men, whose facial expressions appeared frightful under the camouflage makeup.

"Found another one!" Pitt shouted, unseen below ground.

Sandecker excitedly waved everyone to the trench. "He's got something."

The confrontation was momentarily forgotten as the Engineers and SOF men clustered around the rim of the trench. Pitt was on his hands and knees, brushing away loose dirt from a long metallic object.

In a few minutes he pulled it free and very carefully passed it up to Lily.

The flippancy was gone now as she examined the ancient relic.

"Fourth-century sword with definite Roman characteristics," she announced. "Neatly intact with little corrosion."

"May I?" asked Hollis.

She held it out to him and he gently clasped his hand around the hilt and lifted the blade above his head. "Just think," he murmured reverently, "the last man to hold this was a Roman legionary." Then he graciously passed it to Cranston. "How'd you like to fight a battle with this instead of an automatic firearm?"

"I'd prefer a bullet any day," Cranston said thoughtfully, "to being hacked to shreds."

As soon as the Engineers left on the short drive back to their encampment, Pitt turned to Hollis.

"My compliments on your camouflage. I only detected three out of your whole team."

"It was eerie," said Lily, "knowing you were all around us but not visible."

Hollis looked genuinely embarrassed. "We're more used to concealment in jungle or forest. This was a good field exercise for semi-arid terrain."

"An excellent job," added Sandecker, pumping Hollis's hand.

"Let's hope General Chandler buys the good Captain's report," said Giordino.

"If he bothers to hear it," Pitt replied. "The General's most urgent business is to stop half a million aliens from flooding across the border and grabbing the Library's art and knowledge. He doesn't have time to fool with us."

"What about the Roman sword?" asked Hollis, holding it UP "That goes back in Sam's museum collection."

Hollis looked at Pitt. "You didn't find it in the trench?"

"No."

"You get a Turn on digging holes?"

Pitt acted as though he hadn't heard Hollis. He walked a short distance to the summit of the hill and looked down the slope into Mexico. The tent city had swelled to twice what it was the previous day. Tomorrow night, he thought. Topiltzin would unleash the stampede tomorrow night.

He turned to his left and stared up at the slightly higher Gongora Hill.

The Army Engineers were digging exactly where Lily had placed her stakes four days ago. They made two separate excavations. One was at the common tunnel, complete with overhead supports. The other was an open mine, a gouged crater in the side of the hill. Work was going slowly since General Chandler had pulled away most of the Engineers to help in the border defense.

Pitt turned and came back down the trench. He walked up to Hollis.

"Who's your best demolition expert?"

"Major Dillenger is one of the best explosive ordinance men in the army."

"I need about two hundred kilograms of C-six nitroglycerin gel .

Hollis looked at him in genuine surprise. "Two hundred kilograms of C-six? Ten kilos can take out a battleship. Do you know what you're asking? The nitrogel mix is shock-hazardous."

"Also a battery of spotlights," Pitt pressed on. "We can borrow them from a rock-concert group. Spotlights, strobe lights, and eardrum-blasting audio equipment." Then he turned to Lily. "I'll leave it to you to find a carpenter who can knock together a box."

"Why in God's name do you want all that stuff ?" Lily asked, eyes wide with curiosity.

"You don't want to know," Giordino moaned.

"I'll explain later," Pitt hedged.

"Sounds crazy to me," said Lily, uncomprehending.

The lady was only half right, Pitt thought. His plan was twice as crazy as anything she could conceive. But he kept everyone in the dark. He didn't think now was the right time to tell them he planned to take his act on the stage.

The green Volvo with the taxi markings stopped at the drive of Yazid's villa near Alexandria. The Egyptian army guards, who were posted by the personal order of President Hasan, stiffened into alertness at the gate as the taxi sat there without anyone's getting out.

Ammar sat in the back seat, his eyes and jaw heavily bandaged. He wore a blue silk robe and a small red turban. His Only medical treatment since escaping Santa Inez had come during a two-hour visit to a back-street Buenos Aires surgeon before chartering a private jet to fly him across the ocean to the small airport outside the city.

He no longer felt pain in his empty eye sockets. The drugs took care of that, but it was still agony to speak through his shattered jaw. And although he felt a strange sense of tranquility, his mind functioned as ruthlessly and efficiently as ever.

"We ate here," said Ibn from the driver's seat.

Ammar visualized Yazid's vffla in his mind-every detail as if he could actually see. "I know," he said simply.

"You do not have to do this g, Suleiman Aziz."

"I have no more hopes or fears. " Ammar spoke slowly, fighting the pain of each syllable. "It is the will of Allah."

Ibn swung from behind the wheel, opened the rear door and helped Ammar to climb out. He led Ammar up the driveway and turned him so he faced the heavily guarded gate.

"The gate is five meters in front of you," Ibn spoke haltingly in a voice heavy with emotion. He gently embraced Ammar. "Goodbye, Suleiman Aziz. I will miss you."

"Do what you promised, my friend, and we will meet in Allah's gar-den."

Ibn quickly turned and retraced his steps to the car. Ammar stood without moving until he heard the sound of the engine fade in the distance. Then he approached the gate.

"Stop right there, blind man," ordered a guard.

"I have come to visit my nephew, Akhmad Yazid," said Ammar.

The guard nodded to another, who disappeared into a small office and came out with a folder containing twenty or so names.

"Uncle, you say. What's your name?"

Ammar enjoyed making his last play as an impostor. He had collected on an old debt from a colonel in Abu Haniid's Defense Ministry and received the list of names of those permitted entry into Yazid's villa. He selected one who couldn't be immediately contacted.

"Mustapha Mahfouz."

"Your name is here all light. Let's see your identification."

The guard studied Ammar's counterfeit ID, fruitlessly trying to compare the photo with the heavily bandaged features.

"What happened to your face?"

"The car bomb that exploded in the bazaar at El Mansura. I was struck by flying debris."

"Too bad," the guard said without sincerity. "You can blame your nephew. It was his followers who set it off." He gestured to a subordinate. "If he clears the metal detector, guide him up to the house."

Ammar held out his arms as if he expected to be frisked.

"No need for a body search, Mahfouz. if you're carrying a weapon, the machine will spot it."

The metal detector revealed nothing and did not sound.

The front door: Ammar gloated as the Egyptian army security guard led him up the steps to the front door. No having to sneak in a side passage this time. He sorely wished he could see the look on Yazid's face when they met.

He was guided into what he perceived to be a large entry hall by the echo of the guard's boots on the tile floor. He was helped to a stone bench, and he sat down.

"Wait here."

Ammar heard the guard mumble to someone before returning to the gate. He sat in silence for several minutes. Then he heard approaching footsteps followed by a contemptuous voice.

"You are Mustapha Mahfouz?"

Ammar recognized the voice instantly. "Yes," he answered casually. "Do I know you?"

"We have not met. I am Khaled Fawzy, leader of Akhmad's revolutionary council."

"I've heard good things about you." The arrogant jackass, thought Ammar.

He doesn't know me under the bandages or by the slow rasp of my speech.

"it is indeed an honor to meet you. "

"Come along," said Fawzy, taking Ammar by the arm. "I'll take you to Akhmad. He thought you were still on a mission for him in Damascus. I don't think he's aware of your injuries."

"The result of an assassination attempt three days ago,,, Ammar lied artfully. "I left the hospital only this morning and flew straight here to brief Akhmad first hand."

"Akhrnad will be pleased to hear of your loyalty. He will also be saddened to learn of your injuries. Unfortunately your visit is poorly timed."

"I cannot meet with him?"

"He is at prayer," Fawzy said curtly.

Despite his suffering, Ammar could have laughed. He slowly became aware of another presence in the room. "It is vital he receive me."

"You may speak freely to me, mustapha Mahfouz." The name was spoken with heavy sarcasm. "I will relay your message."

:Tell Akhmad it concerns his ally."

'Who"" Fawzy demanded. "What ally?'

"Topiltzin."

The name seemed to hang in the room for an interminable time.

The stillness became intense. And then it was broken by a new voice.

"You should have stayed and died on the island, Suleiman," said Akhmad Yazid in a menacing tone.

Ammar's calm did not desert him. He had set his genius and last bit of strength for this moment. He was not about to wait for death. He was going to step forward and embrace it. Not for him a life of perpetual darkness and disfigurement-revenge was his deliverance.

"I could not die without standing in your forgiving presence one last time."

"Save your babble and remove those stupid bandages. You're losing your touch. Your crude imitation of Mahfbuz was fourth-rate for a man of your skills."

Ammar did not reply. He slowly unwrapped the bandages until the ends came free, and he dropped them on the floor.

Yazid audibly sucked in his breath when he saw the hideous disfigurement of Ammar's face. Sadistic blood ran in Fawzy's veins: he stared with the perverted duill of one who enjoyed the sight of human wreckage.

"My payment for my service," Annnar slowly rasped.

"How is it you're alive?" Yazid asked, his voice shaken.

"My faithful friend Ibn hid me from the American Special Forces for two days until he fashioned a raft out of driftwood. After drifting with the current and paddling for ten hours, by the grace of Allah we were picked up by a Chilean fishing boat that set us ashore near a small airport at Puerto Williams. We stole an airplane and flew to Buenos Aires, where I chartered a jet to bring us to Egypt."

"That does not come easy to you," muttered Yazid. "You realize you signed your death warrant by coming here," Fawzy purred with anticipation.

"I expected little else."

"Suleiman Aziz Ammar," said Yazid with a trace of sadness. "The greatest assassin of his time, feared and respected by the CIA and the KGB, the creator of the most successful assassinations ever carried out.

And to think you should end as a filthy, pathetic beggar in the streets."

"What are you saying, Akhmad?" asked Fawzy in surprise.

"The man is already dead." Yazid's disgust was slowly turning to satisfaction. "Our financial experts will arrange for his wealth and investments to be taken over in my name. Then he will be turned out in the streets with twenty-four-hour guards to make certain he remains in the slums. He will spend the rest of his days begging to exist. that is far worse than a quick death."

"You will have me killed when I tell you what I came to say," said Ammar conversationally.

"I'm listening," said Yazid inpatiently.

"I dictated a complete fifty-page report of the entire Flamborough affair-All names, conversations, and dates were carefully itemized, everything, including my observations on the Mexican part of the operation and my opinion on the connection between you and Topiltzin.

Copies are being read at this moment by the intelligence services of western countries and members of their news media. However you deal with me, Akhmad, knowing you're finished '

He broke off abruptly, gasped as his entire head burst into excruciating agony. Fawzy's face was livid and teeth gnashed in rage, struck Ammar with his fist. The impact did not carry the solid weight of a planned punch. Fawzy's unthinking, explosive action came from complete loss of self-control. The blow glanced off one side of Ammar's injured jaw.

A man in good physical condition would have pulled it Off, but he was a wounded man on the brink of unconsciousness. Delicate scar tissue around his eyes and jaw split apart He fell backward, warding off Fawzy's blows with his hands and arms, fighting to clear ills mind of the pain, face white, blood spurting.

"Stop!" Yazid shouted at Fawzy. can't you see the man is trying to die.

He maybe lying, hoping we'll kill him here and now."

Ammar reclaimed a measure of mental control, positioning the sound of Yazid's voice, the location of Fawzy.

He reached out with his left hand and moved slowly forward until he was certmn he touched yazid's arm. Then he clutched it and made a movement that brought it up behind his neck.

The composite knife was pressed tightly into the slight indentation just to the right of Ammar's upper arm secured by white surgical tapeKnown as a utility device by undercover operatives, it was designed to pass safely through metal detectors.

Annnar tore the thin, triangular-shaped, eighteen-centimeter blade from his back, whipped back his elbow like a piston, then rammed the knife into Yazid's chest just under the rib cage.

The vicious thrust lifted the revolutionary Muslim impersonator off his feet. Paul Capesterre's eyes bulged in shock and terror. His only sound was a hoarse gurgle.

"Farewell, vermin," Ammar croaked through his bleeding mouth.

And then the knife was jerked free and he made a sweeping arc toward the spot where he sensed Fawzy was standing. The knife wasn't designed for a slashing attack, but his hand came in contact with Fawzy's face, and he felt the blade slice the cheek.

Ammar knew Fawzy was right-handed and always carried a gun, an old nine-millimeter Luger in a holster slung under the left armpit. He fell against Fawzy, attempting to clutch the arrogant fanatic, while shoving the knife upward again.

Without sight, his timing was late.

Fawzy had swiftly drawn the Luger. He pushed the barrel into Ammar's stomach and triggered two rounds before the knife drove into his heart.

He dropped the gun and clutched at his chest. He swayed a few steps to his side, staring down with a swaying quizzical look at the knife protruding on an upward angle below his sternum. Finally his eyes rolled upward and he dropped to the floor only a meter from where Capesterre had fallen.

Ammar very slowly sank to the ceramic tile floor and settled on his back. There was no more pain, none at all. He saw visions without his eyes. He could feel his life ebbing away as if it were floating down a stream.

His fate had been decided by a man he'd only met briefly. The unage came back of the tall man with the green eyes and the set grin. A wave of hate surged and just as quickly passed. Dirk Pitt-the name was etched in the darkening reaches of his mind.

He felt a euphoric contentment close over him. His last thought was that Ibn would take care of Pitt. Then the slate would be wiped clean....

The President sat in a leather armchair and stared at four television monitOrs-Three were tuned to the major networks, while the fourth was a direct feed from an ArTny communications truck at Roma. He looked , but his eyes glistened with intensity. They roved steadily from one monitor to the next; his face was set in concentration.

"I can't believe so many people can exist in so small an area," he said wonderingly.

"Their food has about run out," said Schiller, g from an up-to-the-minute CIA report. " g water is scarce, and the sanitation facilities are backed up."

"It's tonight or never," sighed Nichols wearily.

The President asked, "What kind of numbers are we looking at?"

"A computer head-wunt from an aerial photograph shows nearly four hundred and thirty-five thousand," replied Schiller.

"And they're going to pour ugh a corridor less than a kilometer wide,"

Nichols said grimly.

"Damn that murdering bastard!" the President said savagely. "Doesn't he realize or care that thousands will be killed or drowned in the crush alone?"

"A majority of them women and children," added Nichols.

"The Capesterres aren't known for charity and goodwill," muttered Schiller acidly.

"Still not too late to remove him." This from CIA director Martin Brogan. "Killing Topiltzin would be comparable to assassinating Hitler in 1930."

"Providing your hired gun got close enough," commented Nichols.

"Afterward, he'd be butchered by the crowd."

"I was thinking of a high-powered rifle from four hundred meters."

Schiller shook his head. "Not a practical solution. A clear shot could only come from an elevation on our side of the river. The Mexicans would know immediately who was responsible. Then things could Turn real ugly. Instead of a peaceful crowd, General Chandler's troops would be facing a maddened mob. They'd storm Roma with any weapons they could find, guns, knives, rocks and bottles. Then we'd have a real war on our hands."

"I concur," said Nichols. "General Chandler would have no choice but to open up with everything he had to save his men and any American citizens in the area."

The President struck the arm of the chair with his clenched fist in frustration. "Is there nothing we can do to prevent mass slaughter?"

"any way we look at it," said Nichols, "we're on the short end of the stick."

"Maybe we should say the hell with it and Turn over the Alexandria Library's treasure to President De L4orenzo. Anything to keep it out of Topiltzin's filthy hands."

"A meaningless gesture," said Brogan. "Topiltzin's only using the artifacts as an excuse for a confrontation. Our intelligence sources report he plans the same immigrant invasions from Baja into Southern California and across the border at Nogales into Arizona."

"If only we can stop this madness," muttered the President.

One of four phones buzzed, and Nichols picked it up. "General Chandler, Mr. President. He's coming through on a scrambled frequency."

The President let out a long breath. "Staring into the face of the man I may have to order to kill ten thousand people is the least I can do."

The monitor faded for a moment and then came back with the head and shoulders of a man who was in his late forties.

His face was gaunt and his heavily silvered hair was bare of helmet or cap. The stress of command showed in the lines around the blue eyes.

"Good morning, General," the President greeted him. "I regret I can see you and you can't see me, but there is no camera at this end."

"I understand, Mr. President."

"What is the situation?"

"A heavy rain is just starting to fall, which should prove a godsend for those poor people. They can replenish their water supplies, dust will be dampened, and the stench from their latrines is already beginning to diminish."

"Have there been any provocations?"

"The usual taunts and banners, but no violence."

"from what you can observe, have any of the crowd become discouraged and started drifting back to their homes?"

"No, sir," replied Chandler. "if anything, they're more enthused. They think their Aztec messiah brought the rain, and he's pounded his chest to convince them of it. Groups of Catholic priests have been circulating among the people, preaching and begging them to return to the church and their homes. But Topiltzin's goons quickly escort the good fathers out of town."

"Martin Brogan thinks they'll make their move tonight."

"My intelligence agrees with Mr. Brogan's timetable." The General hesitated before asking the fateful question. "any change in orders, Mr. President? I'm still to stop them at any cost?"

"Until I tell you different, General."

"I must state, sir, you've placed me in a very awkward situation. I cannot guarantee my men will cut down women and especially children if so ordered."

"I'm in sympathy with your position. But if the line is not held in Roma, millions of poor Mexicans will see it as an open invitation to pour into the United States unhindered."

"I can't argue the point, Mr. President. But if we let loose a wall of modern firepower into half a million people jammed shoulder to shoulder, history will convict us of committing a crime against humanity."

Chandler's words triggered the horror of Nazi vileness and the Nuremberg tnals in the President's mind, but he stiffened his resolve.

"Repugnant as the thought is, General," he said solemnly, "the consequences of unaction are unlikely. My National Security experts predict that a wave of self-preservation hysteria will sweep the country, resulting in the formation of vigilante amiies to beat back the flood of illegal immigrants. No Mexican-Americans will be safe. The death toll on both sides could climb to astronomical proportions.

Conservative legislators will rise up and demand Congress vote a formal declaration of war against Mexico. I don't even want to think about what happens after that possibility."

Everyone in the room could clearly see the confusion of conflicting thoughts and emotions that were swirling through the General's mind.

When he spoke it was in a quiet, controlled voice.

"I respectfully request we stay in close communication until the incursion."

"Understood, General," agreed the President. "My National Security advisers and I will gather in the Situation Room shortly."

"Thank you, Mr. President."

The image of General Chandler was cut to a closeup of a small barge being pulled into the water on rollers by nearly a hundred men using ropes.

"Well," said Schiller, shaking his head as if marveling at it all,

"we've done all we can to contain the bomb but failed to keep the explosion from becoming irreversible. Now all we can do is sit by and be consumed."

They came an hour after dark.

Men, women and children, some barely able to walk, all held lighted candles. The low clouds that lingered after the rainstorm glowed orange from the spraw g ocean of flickering flame.

They came in one gigantic swell toward the shoreline, voices slowly rising in an ancient chant. The sound grew from a hum to a loud drone that rolled across the river and cau windows to vibrate in Roma.

Country refugees and city poor, who had abandoned their mud hovels, corrugated tin shacks and cardboard carton shelters in destitute villages or noxious slums, came as one. They were galvanized by Topiltzin's pro se of a new dawning of the once-mighty Aztec empire on former lands in the United States. They were desperate people on the bottom rung of wrenching poverty, driven to grasp at any hope for a better life.

They moved at a snail's pace, one short step at a time to the waiting fleet of boats. They came down the roads that were muddy and puddled from the rain. Small children whined in fear as their mothers carried or led them onto unstable rafts that dipped and bobbed during the boarding.

Hundreds were fo into the river by the crush behind.

Frightened cries came from a multitude of young victims as they were pushed into water over their heads. Many went under or drifted away with the current before they could be rescued, a nearimpossible job, since most of the men were grouped farther to the rear.

Slowly, in disorganized confusion, the hundreds of boats and rafts began to pull away for the opposite shore.

The American Army's floodlights, joined by those of the television crews, brightly illuminated the turmoil swelling across the river.

The soldiers stared in uneasy fascination at the tragedy and the human wall advancing toward them.

General Chandler stood on the roof of Roma's police station in the center of the bluff. His face was gray under the lights, and there was a look of despair in his eyes. The scene was far more appalling than his worst fears.

He spoke into a small microphone clipped to his collar. "Can you see, Mr. President? Can you see the madness?"

President stared fixedly at the huge monitor in the Situation Room.

"Yes, General, the transmission is coming in clearly."

He sat at the end of a long table, flanked by his closest advisors, cabinet members and two of the four Joint Chiefs of Staff. They all gazed at the incredible spectacle that was displayed in stereophonic sound and vivid color.

The fastest boats had touched shore, and their passengers quickly scrambled out. Only when the first wave was fully across and the fleet on its way back for the next passengers did the mob assemble and press forward. The few men who had crossed over were walking up and down the shore with bullhorns, encouraging and urging the women forward.

Clutching their candles and their children while chanting in the Aztec language, the women began scrambling up the bluff like an army of ants gathering around a rock in expectation of joining again on the other side.

The terror-haunted looks of the children and the determined faces of their mothers as they stared into the muzzles of the guns were shown by the cameras. Topiltzin said his divine powers would protect them, and they fervently believed him.

"Good lord!" exclaimed Doug Oates. "The entire first wave is made up of Women and little kids."

No one commented on Oates's alarming observation. The men in the Situation Room watched with growing dread as another crowd of women began to lead their children across the bridge and toward the tanks and armored cars solidly blocking their way.

"General," said the President. "Can you fire a volley over their heads?"

"Yes, sir," replied Chandler. "I've ordered my troops to load blank rounds. The risk of hitting innocent people beyond the town is too great to use live ammo."

"A sound decision," said General Metcalf of the Joint Chiefs. "Curtis knows what he's doing."

General Chandler turned to one of his aides. "Give the command to fire a blank salvo."

The aide, a major, barked into a radio receiver. "Blank salvo, fire!"

The thunderous roar spat a wall of flame into the night. The concussion came like a gust of wind, blowing out many of the candles held by the throng. The ear-splitting clap from the tank cannon and the crackle of small-arms fire reverberated throughout the valley.

Ten seconds. Ten seconds it took between the commands to "fire" and

"cease fire," and for the rumble to echo back from the low hills behind Roma.

A paralyzing silence, pierced by the pungent smell of cordite, fell over the stunned multitude.

Then the screams of the women shattered the quiet, quickly joined by the shrieks of the terrified children. Most dropped in horror to the ground while the rest remained standing, frozen in shock. A great outcry followed from the other side as the men, held back from crossing with their wives and children, feared the fallen were dead or wounded.

Pandemonium erupted, and for the next few minutes it looked as though the immigrant invasion had been stopped dead in its tracks.

Then spotlights from the Mexican shore blazed to life and were beamed to a figure standing atop a small platform supported on the shoulders of several men in white tunics.

Topiltzin stood with arms outstretched in a parody of Christ, shouting through speakers, ordering the women who were hugging the ground to rise up and press forward. Slowly the shock diminished and everyone began to realize there were no bloody, mangled bodies. Many laughed hysterically to find they were neither injured nor dead. A rolling cheer went up that turned deafening as the throng mistakenly thought Topiltzin's powers had miraculously swept aside the destruction and shielded them from harm.

"He turned it against us," said Julius Schiller ruefully.

The President shook his head sadly. "Just as it's happened so many times in our nation's history, our humane efforts backfire."

"Chandler's in for it," said Nichols.

General Metcalf nodded very slowly. "Yes, it all falls on his shoulders now."

The time for the fateful decision had arrived. There was no dodging the agonizing issue any longer. The President, sitting safely deep in the basement of the White House, remained strangely silent. He had deftly passed the time bomb to the niiliL-uy, laying the groundwork for General Chandler to become the sacrificial scapegoat.

He was between the proverbial rock and a hard place. He could not allow an army of foreigners to simply storm across the borders unhindered, but neither could he risk the downfall of his entire administration by directly ordering Chandler to slaughter children.

No President ever felt so impotent.

The chanting women and children were only a few short meters away from the troops entrenched a short distance back of the shoreline. Those at the head of the snakelike column of candles crossing the international bridge were already close enough to look up at the gun muzzles of the tanks.

General Curtis Chandler had a long and illustrious military career to look back upon, but nothing to look forward to except a guilt-stricken conscience. His wife had died the year before from a long illness, and they had no children. A onestar Brigadier General, he had no more rank to attain in the short time before his retirement. Now he stood on the bluff watching hundreds of thousands of illegal inunigrants flood into his nativ land and wondered why his life had cruelly culmanated at this place and time.

The expression on his aide's face bordered on frantic. "Sir, the order to fire."

Chandler stared at the little children nervously clutching their mothers' hands, their candles revealing their wide, dark eyes.

"General, your orders?" the aide implored.

Chandler mumbled something, but the aide couldn't hear it over the chanting. "I'm sorry, General, did you say 'Fire'?"

Chandler turned and his eyes glistened. "Let them pass."

"Sir?"

"Those are my orders, Major. I'm damned if I'll go to my grave a baby killer. And for God's sake don't even say the words 'Don't fire,' in case some dumb platoon commander misunderstands."

The Major nodded and hurriedly spoke into his microphone. "To all commanders, General Chandler's orders; make no hostile move and allow the immigrants to pass through our lines, repeat, stand down and let them through."

With immeasurable relief, the American soldiers lowered their weapons and stood stiff and uneasy for a few minutes. Then they relaxed and began flirting with the women and, kneeling down, playing with the children and gently cajoling them to wipe away their tears.

"Forgive me, Mr. President," said Chandler, speaking into a camera. "I regret I must end my military career by refusing a direct order from my Commander-in-Chief, but I felt that under the circumstances .

"Not to worry," replied the President. "You did a magnificent job." He turned to General Metcalf. "I don't care where he stands on the seniority list; please see that Curtis receives another star."

"I'll be more than happy to take care of it, sir."

"Good call, Mr. President," said Schiller, realizing the President's silence had all been a bluff. "You certainly knew your man."

There was a faint smile in the President's eyes. "I served with Curtis Chandler when we were Lieutenants of Artillery in Korea. He would have fired on a vicious, out-of-control, armed mob, but women and babies, never."

General Metcalf also saw through the facade. "You still took a terrible chance."

The President nodded in agreement. "Now I have to answer to the American people for the unopposed invasion of their land by masses of illegal aliens."

"Yes, but your show of restraint will be a strong bargaining chip for future negotiations with President De Lorenzo and other Central American leaders," Oates consoled him.

"In the meantime," added Mercier, "our military and law enforcement agencies will be quietly rounding up Topiltzin's followers and herding them back across the border before the threat of vigilante warfare breaks out."

"I want the operation to be conducted as humanely as possible," the President said firmly.

"Haven't we forgotten something, Mr. President?" asked Metcalf.

"General?"

"The Alexandria Library. Nothing stands in the way now of Topiltzin's looting the artifacts."

The President turned to Senator Pitt, who had been sitting quietly at the end of the table. "Well, George, the Army has struck out, and you're the last man at bat. You care to enlighten everyone on your stopgap plan?"

The Senator looked down at the table. He didn't want the others to see the uneasy apprehension in his eyes. "A desperation long shot, a deception created by my son, Dirk. I don't know how else to describe it. But if everything goes right, Robert Capesterre, a.k.a. Topiltzin, won't lay his hands on the knowledge of the ancients. However, if all goes wrong, as some critics already suggest, the Capesterres will rule Mexico and the treasure will be lost forever."

Thankfully, the outpouring of religious zeal and Topiltzin's maniacal grab for power did not end in bloodshed. There was no death by misunderstanding. The only real tragedy was that of the young victim who had drowned during the first crossing.

Unbound, the massive crowd flowed past the army units and through the streets of Roma toward Gongora frill. The chanting had faded and they shouted slogans in the Aztec tongue that all American and most Mexican observers could not comprehend.

Topiltzin led the triumphal pilgrimage up the slope of the hill. The Aztec god unposter had carefully planned for his role of deliverer.

Seizing the Egyptian treasures would give him the necessary influence and forcing aside the long reigning Institutional Revolutionary Party of President De Lorenzo without the inconvenience of a free election.

The head of Mexico was within four hundred meters of falling into Capesterre family hands.

News of his brother's death in Egypt had not yet reached him. His close supporters and advisers had deserted the communications truck during the excitement and missed the urgent message. They walked behind Topiltzin's hand-carried platform, driven by curiosity to see the artifacts.

Topiltzin stood erect in a white robe with a jaguar-skin cape draped on his shoulders, clutching a raised pole that flew a banner of the eagle and the snake. A forest of portable spotlights were aimed at his platform, bathing him in a multicolored corona. The glare distracted him, and he gestured for some of the lights to sweep the slope ahead.

Except for several pieces of heavy equipment, the excavation seemed deserted. None of the Army Engineers was evident near the crater or the tunnel. Topiltzin didn't like the look of it. He spread his hands as a signal for the advancing mob to halt. The order was repeated through loudspeakers until the forward wall of people slowly came to a stop, every face turned toward Topiltzin, reverently awaiting his next command.

Suddenly, a bansheelike wail rose from the summit of the hill and increased in volume until its shrill pitch forced the crowd to cover their ears with their hands.

Then, an an aray of strobe lights sparkled and flashed across the sea of faces. A light display with the magical dazzle of the northern lights danced in the night sky. The people stood rooted, gazing entranced at the extraordinary sight.

The light show grew to an indescribable intensity while the shriek whipped the air around the countryside with the eerie timbre of a sound track from a science-fiction movie.

Together the flashing lights and the eerie sounds built to a breathtaking crescendo, and then the strobe lights went out and the silence struck with stunning abruptness.

for a full minute the sound rang in everyone's ears, and the lights skyrocketed in their eyes. Then an unseen light source very slowly highlighted a lone figure of a man standing on the peak of the hill. The effect was startling. The light rays shimmered and glistened off metallic objects surrounding his body.

When the man was fully revealed, he was seen to be wearing the fighting gear of an ancient Roman legionary.

He wore a burgundy tunic under a polished iron cuirass. The helmet on his head and the greaves protecting his shins were shined to a high gloss. A gladius-a double-edged sword-hung at his side, clasped to a leather sling that went over the opposite shoulder. One arm held an oval shield while the opposite hand gripped an uptight pilum thrusting spear.

Topiltzin stared with curious fascination. A game, a joke, a theatrical hoax? What were the Americans scheming now? His immense horde of believers stood in hushed silence and stared at the Roman as if he were a phantom. Then they slowly turned back to Topiltzin, waiting expectantly for their messiah to make the first move.

A bluff born of desperation, he decided finally. The Americans were playing their last card in an effort to block his superstitious, dirt-poor followers from approaching the treasures.

"Could be a trick to kidnap and hold you as a hostage," said one of his nearby advisers.

There was contemptuous speculation in Topiltzin's eyes. "A trick, yes.

But a kidnap, no. The Americans know this mob would go on a rampage if I was threatened. The ploy is transparent. Except for the envoy whose skin I sent back to Washington, I've denied all appeals for talks with their State Department officials. This theatrical production is simply a clumsy attempt at a final face-to-face negotiation. I'd be interested to learn what offer they've thrown on the table. "

Without uttering another word and without listening to further warnings from his advisers, he ordered the platform lowered to the ground, and he stepped off. The spotlights stayed on him as he advanced up the hill alone and arrogant. His feet did not show beneath the hem of his robe and he appeared to glide rather than walk.

He moved at a measured pace, fingering a hoistered Colt Python .357

revolver on a belt under his robe. He also kept one hand on an orange smoke bomb in case he required a visual effect to screen a quick escape.

He approached until he could clearly see that the figure in the Roman legionary costume was a department store mannequin. It wore an insipid smile, and the painted eyes stared blankly into nothingness. The plaster hands and face were faded and chipped.

An unmistakable curiosity spread on Topiltzin's face as he studied the dummy, but there was also a look of wariness. He was sweating freely, and the white robe had wrinkled and gone limp.

Then a tall man in range boots, denims and a white turtleneck sweater stepped into the spotlights from behind a thicket of mesquite. He peered through opaque green eyes that were as cold as an Arctic ice floe. He stopped when he stood beside the mannequin.

Topiltzin felt he had the advantage. He wasted no time. He spoke first in English. "What did you hope to gain with the dummy and the light show?"

"Your attention."

"My compliments. You were successful. Now if you'll kindly relate your government's message."

The stranger stared at him for a long moment. "Anybody ever tell you your outfit looks like a bed sheet the day after a college fraternity toga party?"

Topiltzin's expression hardened. "Did your President hope to insult me by sending a clown?"

"I believe this is where I'm supposed to say, 'It takes one to know one."'

"You have one minute to state your case ' he paused and made a sweeping gesture with his hand- "before I order my people to resume their march."

Pitt turned to the rear of the hill and looked questioningly toward the many kilometers of dark, open country. "March where?"

Topiltzin ignored the remark. "You can begin with your name, your title and function in the American bureaucracy."

"My name is Dirk Pitt. My title is Mister Pitt. My function is United States taxpayer, and you can go straight to hell."

Topiltzin's eyes blazed darkly. "Men have died horribly for showing disrespect to one who speaks directly to the gods."

Pitt smiled with the bored unconcern of the devil being threatened by a television evangelist. "If we have to talk, let's cut out the hype and hot air. You've misled the poor of Mexico with stage gimmicks while promising them new lifestyles over the rainbow you can't possibly deliver. You're a fraud; from top to bottom you're a fraud. So don't talk down to me. I'm not one of your garbage pickers. I'm not impressed with criminal scum like Robert Capesterre."

Capesterre opened his mouth, then snapped it shut. He took a step backward, surprise showing in his eyes, unable to fully believe what he'd heard.

Seconds passed while he stared at Pitt. At last he spoke in a hoarse whisper. "How much do you know?"

"Enough," Pitt replied casuaily- "the Capesterre family and their shiny business are the talk of Washington. Champagne corks popped all over the White House when word came in about Your grease-head brother, the one who he's a Muslim prophet. Poetic justice, him getting killed by the terrorist who ordered him to hijack the Lady Flamborough and murder the passengers.

"My brother ' Capesterre could not spit out the word "dead."

"I don't believe you."

"You didn't know?" Pitt asked, mildly surprised. "I talked to him less than twenty-four hours ago," Topilwn said adamantly. "Paul . . . Akhmad Yazid is alive and well."

"A corpse is not one of his better imitations."

"What do you or your government hope to gain by these games?"

Pitt stared at Capesterre coldly. "I'm glad you brought that up. The idea here is to save the Alexandria Library and we can't very well do that if you unleash your groupies inside the depository chamber. They'll steal whatever they can to buy or trade for food, and destroy books and what they don't value."

"You alone can stop them!"

"My followers do what I command."

"The books and artworks have to be catalogued and surveyed by Archeologists."

"I do not have to allow anything, Mr. Pitt. There will be no concessions."

"Your military wouldn't turn my people back at the river, therefore the treasure is mine.

If any attempt is made to stop our removal of the treasure to Mexico, I shall order it all burned and destroyed."

"I have to give you credit, Capesterre," Pitt muttered in disgust. "You think big. A pity you're allowed to run loose. You could make up a fifth Napoleon for a poker game in an asylum."

Irritation flickered at the edge of Capesterre's eyes. "Goodbye, Mr.

Pitt. My patience is exhausted. I will genuinely enjoy sacrificing you to the gods and sending your flayed skin to the White House."

"Forgive me for not having any decorative tattoos."

Capesterre found Pitts free-and-my indifference unnerving. No one had ever talked down to him before. He turned and raised a hand toward the hushed mass of people.

"Don't you think you should inventory your new wealth before you Turn it over to them?" Pitt asked. "Especially Alexander's golden casket."

Capesterre's hand slowly dropped. There was a flush at his temples.

"What are you saying? Alexander's casket exists?"

"And so do his remains." Pitt motioned toward the excavated runnel.

"Would you like a guided tour before you throw open the storage chamber to your adoring public?"

Capesterre nodded. With his back to the crowd he slipped the Colt revolver from the belt beneath his robe and held it out of sight under a loose, draped sleeve. His other hand gripped the smoke bomb. "The slightest move by you or anyone hidden inside the tunnel to harm me, and I will blow your spine in two."

"Why would I possibly want to harm you?" Pitt asked with mock innocence.

"Where are the engineers who were working the excavation?"

"Every man who could carry a gun was sent to the defense line at the river."

The lie seemed to satisfy Capesterre. "Raise your shirt and drop your pants below your boots."

"In front of all these people?" Pitt asked, smiling.

"I want to see if you're armed or wired for sound."

Pitt pulled his turtleneck above his shoulders and lowered the denims to his ankles. There was no sign of a bidden mutter or gun on his body or inside his boots. "Satisfied?"

Topiltzm nodded. He waved the gun toward the shaft entrance. "You lead, I'D follow."

"Mind if I carry the dummy inside? The weapons he's holding are real artifacts."

"You can leave them just inside the entrance." Then turned and waved a signal to his advisers that all was safe.

Pitt adjusted his clothing, removed the weapons from the mannequin and entered the shaft.

The roof was slightly less than two meters high, and Pitt had to duck under the support beams as he walked. He deposited the spear and sword, but kept the shield, placing it over his head as if to ward off falling rock.

knowing the shield was as useless as a sheet of cardboard against rounds from a .357-magnum handgun, Topiltzin made no protest.

The shaft sloped sharply down for twelve meters and then leveled off.

The passage was lit by a stnug of lights that hung from the beams. The Army Engineers had cut the walls and floor almost perfectly flat so the going was easy. The only discomfort was the stuffy air and the dust that rose in swirls from their footsteps.

"Are you'receiving sound and picture, Mr. President?"