Treasure dp-9

by Clive Cussler

  Fifteen minutes later, after Hala, Rubin and the flight attendant were comfortably settled inside the helicopter, Pitt stood in front of the cockpit and waved to Giordino, who acknowledged with a thumbs up sign.

  The rotors were engaged and the craft rose in the air above a swirling cloud of snow, swung around a hundred and eighty degrees and headed for the Polar Explorer. Only when it was safely airborne and on its way did Pitt hobble over to the auxiliary heating unit.

  He pulled off his waterlogged boots and soggy socks and dangled his feet over the exhaust, soaking up the heat and gratefully accepting the stabbing pain of recirculation. He became vaguely aware of Simon's approach.

  Simon stopped and stood, gazing at the wrinkled sides of the aircraft.

  It did not look forlorn any more. To him, the knowledge of the dead inside gave it a camel house appearance.

  "United Nations delegates," Simon said distantly, "is that who they were?"

  "Several were members of the General Assembly," answered Pitt. "The

  . lized agencies.

  According to Kamil, most of them were returning from a tour of their Field Service organizations."

  "Who'd gain by murdering them?"

  Pitt wrung out his socks and laid them over the heater tube. "I have no idea."

  "Middle East terrorists?" Simon persisted.

  "News to me they've taken up murder by poison."

  "How're your feet?"

  "In a state of gradual thaw. How about yours?"

  "The Navy issues foul-weather boots. Mine are dry and warm as toast."

  "Hooray for considerate admirals," Pitt muttered sardonically.

  "I'd say one of the three survivors did the dirty work."

  Pitt shook his head. "If in fact it proves to be poison, it probably was introduced into the meal at the food services kitchen before it was loaded on board the aircraft."

  "The chief steward or a flight attendant could have done it in the galley."

  "Too difficult to poison over fifty meals one at a time without being detected."

  "What about the drinks?" Simon tested again.

  "You're a persistent bastard."

  "Might as well speculate until we're relieved?"

  Pitt checked his socks. They were still damp. "Okay, drinks are a possibility, especially coffee and tea."

  Simon seemed pleased that one of his theories had been accepted. "Okay, smartass, of the three survivors who's your candidate for most duly suspect?"

  "None of the above."

  "You saying the culprit knowingly took the poison and committed suicide."

  "No, I'm saying it was the fourth survivor."

  "I only counted three."

  "After the plane crashed. Before that there were four,"

  "You don't mean the little Mexican fellow in the copilot's seat?"

  "I do."

  Simon looked totally skeptical. "What brilliant logic brought you to that conclusion?"

  "Elementary," Pitt said with a sly grin. "The killer in the best murder-mystery tradition is always the least obvious suspect.

  "Who dealt this mess?"

  Julius Schiller, Under Secretary for Political Affairs, grimaced good-naturedly as he studied his cards. His teeth clamped on a cold stogie, he looked up and peered over his hand, his intelligent blue eyes moving from player to player.

  Four men sat across the poker table from him. None smoked, and Schiller diplomatically refrained from lighting his cigar. A small bundle of cedar logs crackled in an antique mariner's stove, taking the edge off an early fall chill. The burning cedar gave an agreeable aroma to the teak-paneled dining saloon inside Schiller's yacht. The beautifully proportioned 35-meter-motor sailer was moored in the Potomac River near South Island just opposite Alexandria, Virginia.

  Soviet Deputy Chief of Mission Aleksey Korolenko, heavybodied and composed, wore a fixed jovial expression that had become his trademark in Washington's social circles.

  "A pity we're not playing in Moscow," he said in a stern but mocking tone. "I know a nice spot in Siberia where we could send the dealer."

  "I second the motion," said Schiller. He looked at the man wfio had dealt the cards. "Next time, Date, shuffle them up."

  "If your hands are so rotten," growled Dale Nichols, Special Assistant to the President, "why don't you fold?"

  Senator George Pitt, who headed up the Senate Foreign Relations Committee, stood and removed a salmon-colored sport jacket. He draped it over the back of the chair and turned to Yuri Vyhousky.

  "I don't know what these guys are complaining about. You and I have yet to will a pot."

  The Soviet Embassy's Special Adviser on American Affairs nodded. "I haven't seen a good hand since we all began playing five years ago."

  The nightly poker sessions had indeed been held on Sctfiller's boat since 1986, and went far beyond a simple card game between friends who needed one evening out of the week to unwilld. It was originally set up as a small crack in the wall separating the opposing superpowers. Alone, without an official setting and inaccessible to the news media, they could informally give and take viewpoints while ignoring bureaucratic red tape and diplomatic protocol. ideas and information were exchanged that often had a direct bearing on Soviet-American relations.

  "I open for fifty cents," announced Schiller.

  "I'll raise that a dollar," said Korolenko.

  "And they wonder why we don't trust them," Nichols groaned.

  The Senator spoke to Korolenko without looking at him. "What's the prediction from your side on open revolt in Egypt, Aleksey?"

  "I give President Hasan no more than days before his government is overthrown by Akhmad Yazid."

  :'You don't see a prolonged fight?"

  'No, not if the military throws its weight behind Yazid."

  "You in, Senator?" asked Nichols.

  "I'll go along for the ride."

  "Yujri?"

  Vyhousky dropped fifty-cent pieces in the pot.

  "Since Husan took over after Mubarak's resignation," said Schiller,

  "he's achieved a level of stability. I he'll holdon ' . 'You said the same about the Shah of Iran," Korolenko goaded.

  "No denying we called the wrong shots." Schffler paused and dropped his throwaway cards on the table. "Let me have two."

  Korolenko held up one finger and received his card. "You might as well pour your massive aid into a bottomless pit. The Egyptian masses are on the brink of starvation. A situation that fuels the surge of religious fanaticism sweeping the slums and villages. You stand as little chance of stopping Yazid as you did Khomeini."

  "And what is the Kremlin's stance?" asked Senator Pitt.

  "We wait," said Korolenko impassively. "We wait until the dust settles."

  Schiller eyed his cards and shifted them around. "No matter the outcome, nobody wills."

  "True, we all lose. You may be the great Satan in the eyes of Islamic fundamentalists, but as good Communist atheists we're not loved either.

  I don't have to tell you the biggest loser is Israel. With the disastrous defeat of Iraq by Iran and the assassination of President Saddam Husayn, the road is now open for him and Syria to threaten the moderate Arab nations into combining forces for a massive three-front attack against Israel. The Jews will surely be defeated this time."

  The Senator shook his head doubtfully. "The Israelis have the finest fighting machine in the Middle East. They've won before, and they're prepared to do it again."

  "Not against 'human wave' attacks by nearly two million Arabs," warned Vyhousky. "Assad's forces will drive south while Yazid's Egyptians attack north across the Sinai, as they did in 'sixty-seven and

  'seventy-three. Only this time h-an's army will sweep over Saudi Arabia and Jordan, crossing the River Jordan from the West. Despite their fighting skills and superior technology, the Israelis will be overwhelmed."

  "And when the slaughter finally ends," added Korolenko ominously, "the West will be thrown into a state of economic de
pression when the united Muslim governments, with total control of fifty-five percent of the world's oil reserves, drive prices to astronomical heights. As they surely will."

  "Your bet," Nichols said to Schiller.

  "Two bucks."

  "Raise you two," came Korolenko.

  Vyhousky threw his cards on the table. "I fold."

  The Senator contemplated his hand a moment. "I'll match the four and raise another four."

  "The sharks are circling," said Nichols with a tight smile. "Count me out."

  "Let's not kid ourselves," said the Senator. "It's no secret the Israelis have a small arsenal of nuclear weapons, and they won't hesitate to use them if they're down to the last roll of the dice."

  Schiller sighed deeply. "I don't even like to think about the consequences." He looked up as his boat's skipper knocked on the door and hesitantly stepped in.

  "Excuse me for interrupting, Mr. Schiller, but there's an important call for you."

  Schiller pushed his cards toward Nichols. "No sense in prolonging the agony with this hand. Would you excuse me?"

  One of the cardinal niles of the weekly get-together was no phone calls unless it was a matter of urgency that in some way concerned everyone at the table. The game continued, but the four men played automatically, their curiosity mounting.

  "Your bet, Aleksey," said the Senator.

  "Raise you another four dollars."

  "I call."

  Korolenko shrugged resignedly and laid down his cards face up. All he had was a pair of fours.

  The Senator smiled wryly and turned over his cards. He won with a pair of sixes.

  "Oh, good lord," moaned Nichols. "I dropped out with a pair of kings."

  "There goes your lunch money, Aleksey." Vyhousky laughed.

  "So we bluffed each other," said Korolenko. "Now I know why I won't buy a used car from an American politician."

  The Senator leaned back in his chair and ran a hand through a thick mane of silver hair. "As a matter of fact I worked my way through law school selling cars. Best training I ever had for running for the Senate."

  Schiller reentered the room and sat down at the table. "Sorry to leave, but I've just been notified that a chartered United Nations plane crashed on the coast of northern Greenland. Over fifty known dead. No word on survivors."

  "any Soviet representatives on board?" asked Vyhousky. ... The passenger list hasn't come through yet."

  "A terrorist bombing?"

  "Too early to tell, but first sketchy reports say it was no accident."

  "What flight was it?" Nichols asked.

  "London to New York."

  "Northern Greenland?" Nichols repeated thoughtfully. "They must have strayed over a thousand miles off course."

  "Smells of a hijacking," suggested Vyhousky.

  "Rescue units are on the site," explained Schiller. "We should know more within the hour."

  The expression on Senator Pitts face darkened. "I have a dire suspicion that Hala Kamil was on that flight. She was due back at United Nations headquarters from Europe for next week's session of the General Assembly."

  "I believe George is right," said Vyhousky. "Two of our Soviet delegates were traveling in her party."

  "Madness," said Schiller, wearily shaking his head. "Utter madness. Who would gain by murdering a planeload of U.N. people?"

  No one answered immediately. There was a long moment's silence.

  Korolenko stared, expressionless, at the center of the table. Then he spoke in a quiet voice.

  The Senator stared the Russian straight in the eye. "You knew."

  "I guessed."

  "You think Yazid ordered Kamil's death?"

  "I can only say our intelligence sources discovered there was an Islamic faction in Cairo that was planning an attempt."

  "And you stood by and said nothing while fifty innocent people died-"

  "A miscalculation," admitted Korolenko. "We did not know how or when the assassination was to take place. It was assumed Kmfl's LIFE would be in danger only if she went to Egypt-not from Yazid lf, but rather his fanatical followers. Yazid has never been tied to any terrorist acts.

  Your profile of him reads the same as ours: a brilliant man who thinkqs of himself as a Muslim Gandhi."

  "So much for KGB and CIA profiles," said Vyhousky candidly.

  "Another classic case of intelligence experts being suckered by a well-conceived public-relations campaign," sighed the Senator. "The man is a bigger psycho case than we figured."

  Schiller nodded in agreement. "Yazid has to be responsible for the tragedy. His followers would never have considered it without his blessing."

  "He had the motive," said Nichols. "Kamil has immense flair and charm.

  Her level of popularity with the people and the military far exceeds President Hasan's. She was a strong buffer. If she's dead, Egypt is only hours away from a government led by extremist mullahs."

  "And when Hasan falls?" asked Korolenko slyly. "What will be the White House position then?"

  Schiller and Nichols exchanged knowing looks. "Why, the same as the Kremlin's," said Schiller. "We're going to wait until the dust settles."

  for a moment the fixed smile faded from Korolenko's face. "And if, make that when, the combined Arab nations attack the Jewish state?"

  "We'll back Israel to the hilt, as we have in the past."

  "But will you send in American forces?"

  "Probably not."

  "Arab leaders might be less cautious if only they knew that. "

  "Be our guest. Only remember, -this time, we're not going to use our leverage to stop the Israelis from taking Cairo, Beirut and Damascus."

  "You're saying the President won't stand in their way if they resort to nuclear weapons?"

  "Something like that," Schiller said with studied indifference. He turned to Nichols. "Whose deal?"

  "I believe it's mine," said the Senator, trying his best to sound casual. This switch in the President's Middle East policy was news to him. "Shall we ante fifty cents?"

  The Russians were not about to let loose.

  "I find this most disturbing," said Vyhousky.

  "A new posture had to come sometime," Nichols confessed. "The latest projections put United States oil reserves at eighty billion barrels.

  With prices pushing fifty dollars a barrel, our oil companies can now afford to mount a massive exploration program. And, of course, we can still count on Mexican and South American reserves. The bottom line is that we no longer have to rely on the Middle East for oil. So we're cutting bait. If the Soviet government wants to inherit the Arab mess, take it as a gift."

  Korolenko couldn't believe what he was hearing. His ingrained wariness made him skeptical. But he knew the Americans too well to doubt they would bluff or mislead him, on an issue of such magnitude.

  Senator Pitt had his doubts, too, about the game plan the President was leaking to the Soviet representatives. There was a strong possibility oil would not flow over the Rio Grande when America needed it. Mexico was a revolution waiting for the starter's gun.

  Egypt was cursed with a Dark Ages fanatic like Yazid. But Mexico had its madman in a Topiltzin, a Benito JuArez/Emilio Zapata messiah who preached a return to a religious state based on Aztec culture. Like Yazid, Topiltzin was supported by millions of his nation's poor, and he was also inches away from sweeping out the existing government.

  Where were all the madmen coming from, the Senator wondered? Who was spawning these devils? He made a conscious effort to keep his hands steady as he began to deal.

  "Five card stud, gentlemen, jokers wild."

  Huge figures rose up in the eerie silence of the night and gazed through empty eyes at the barren landscape as if waiting for some unknown presence to bring them to life. The stark, rigid figures stood as tall as a two-story building, their grim, expressionless faces highlighted by a full moon.

  A thousand years ago they had supported a temple roof that sat on top of the five-step pyramid
of Quetzalcoatl in the Toltec city of Tula. The temple was gone but the pyramid remained and was reconstructed by archaeologists. The ruins stretched along a low ridge, and during the city's glory sixtythousand people lived and walked on its streets.

  Few visitors found their way to the site, and those who took the trouble were awed by TVIa's haunted desolation.

  The moon cast ghostly shadows through the dead city as a solitary man climbed the steep steps of the pyramid to the stone statues at the summit. He was dressed in a suit and tie and carried a leather attached case.

  At each of the five terraces he stopped for a few moments and peered at the macabre sculptured friezes decorating the walls. Human faces protruded from the gaping mouths of serpents while eagles shredded human hearts with their beaks. He continued, passing an altar carved with skulls and crossbones, symbols used in later centuries by pirates of the Caribbean.

  He was sweating when he finally reached the top of the pyramid and looked around. He was not alone. Two figures stepped forward and roughly searched him. They motioned at his attache case. He obligingly opened it and the men rummaged through the contents. Finding no weapons, they silently retreated to the edge of the temple platform.

  Rivas relaxed and pressed a hidden switch on the handle of the case. A small tape recorder secreted inside the lid began to roll.

  After a short minute had passed, a figure emerged from the shadows of the great stone statues. He was dressed in a floorlength robe of white cloth. His hair was long and tied at the base, giving it the look of a rooster tail. His feet were hidden under the robe, but the moon's light revealed circular bands around his arms that were carved from gold and inlaid with turquoise.

  He was short, and the smooth, oval face suggested Indian ancestry. His dark eyes studied the tall, fair-complexioned man before him, taking in the oddly-out-of-place business suit. He crossed his arms and spoke strange words that sounded almost lyrical.

  "I am Topiltzin."

  "My name is Guy Rivas, Special Representative for the President of the United States."

  Rivas had expected an older man. it was difficult to guess the Mexican messiah's age, but he didn't look a year over thirty.