Treasure dp-9

by Clive Cussler

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  "Unless someone looks closely enough."

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

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

  said Ibn, "we must begin now."

  "Your weapons are heavily silenced?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  "Consider the ship secure."

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

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

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

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

  "She? Who are you talking about?"

  "Hala Kan-iil."

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

  "Karnil, she's here on this ship?"

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

  "Allah is indeed kind," said Ammar incredulously.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  "No, I'm quite alone."

  "You must return ashore."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  "Why are these men holding guns on everyone?"

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

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

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

  At that moment he realized people were going to die.

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

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

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

  " , but I can and I will."

  :'Impossible!"

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

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

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

  "Have him come in."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  "Which adds to the mirage," commented Nichols.

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

  "

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

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

  "You too."

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

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

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

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

  "Good night."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  "This is Brogan."

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

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

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

  "Sure, what is it?"

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

  "Fingerprints?"

  "That's right."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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