Treasure dp-9

by Clive Cussler

  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?"

  asked General Chandler

  "Yes, General," answered the President. "Their conversation is coming in quite clear, but they walked out of camera range when they entered the tunnel."

  "We'll pick them up again in the casket chamber, where we have another concealed camera."

  "How is Pitt wired?" asked Martin Brogan.

  "The microphone and transmitter are inserted in the front seam of the old shield."

  "Is he armed?"

  "We don't believe so."

  A
ll those in the Situation Room became silent as their eyes moved to a second monitor that was displaying the excavated chamber under Gongora Hill. The camera was focused on a gold coffin raised in the center of the chamber.

  But not all eyes were on the second monitor. One pair had not left the first.

  "Who was that?" Nichols blurted.

  Brogan's eyes narrowed. "Who do you mean?"

  Nichols pointed at the monitor whose camera was still aimed at the underground entrance of the hill. "A shadow passed in front of the camera and moved into the tunnel."

  "I didn't see anything," said General Metcalf.

  "I saw it too," the President agreed. He leaned toward the microphone sitting on the table in front of him. "General Chandler?"

  "Mr. President," the General replied swiftly.

  "Dale Nichols swears he saw someone enter the tunnel after Pitt and Topiltzin."

  "One of my aides thought he caught someone too."

  "So I'm not seeing things," Nichols sighed.

  "Do you have any idea who it might be?"

  "Whoever it was," Chandler said, alarm showing on his face, "he wasn't one of ours."

  "I see that you limp," said Capesterre.

  "A little memento of your brother's mad scheme to murder President Hasan and Hala K l."

  Capesterre gave Pitt a questioning look but he did not pursue the subject. His mind was taken up with keeping an eye on Pitt's every move while staying alert for the least sign of in trigue.

  A little farther on the tunnel broadened into a circular gallery. Pitt slowed and came to a stop in front of a coffin supported on four legs that were carved in what looked like erect Chinese dragons. The entire work gleamed gold under the overhead lights. A stack of Roman legionary weapons leaned against one wall.

  "Alexander the Great," Pitt announced. "The art and scrolls are stored in an adjoining chamber."

  Capesterre moved closer in awe. He hesitantly reached out and touched the top of the casket. Then suddenly, he jerked his hand back and spun to face Pitt, his face a mask of rage.

  "A trick!" he shouted, his voice echoing through the tunnels. "This is no two-thousand-year-old coffin. The paint isn't dry. " 'The Greeks were very advanced-"

  "Shut up!" Capesterre's right sleeve fell away, exposing the revolver.

  "No more smart talk, Mister Pitt-Where is the treasure?"

  "Give me a break," Pitt begged. "We haven't hit the main depository chamber yet." He began to edge away from the coffin, feigning fear. He backed up until his shoulders touched the wall holding the ancient swords and spears. His eyes darted to the casket as if expecting its resident to sit up.

  Capesterre caught the furtive glance and his lips glazed into a knowing smile. He pointed the revolver at the coffin. He pulled the trigger and four holes appeared on one side but exited in great shredded gouges on the opposite. The reports were deafening inside the rock chamber.

  They sounded as if the gun was fired under a giant bell.

  Capesterre took hold of the rid over the coffin's upper half. "Your backup, Mr. Pitt?" he snarled. "How simple-minded of YOU."

  "There was no place to hide him," Pitt breathed regretfully. The green eyes showed no fear and his voice was tightly controlled.

  Capesterre threw open the lid and stared inside. His face went deathly pate and he shuddered in horror before letting the lid drop with a loud thump. A low moan escaped his lips, growing into a long, drawn-out "no"

  sound.

  Pin turned slightly so the shield covered the movement of his right hand. He edged away from the chamber wall until he stood facing Capesterre's left side. Then he glanced uneasily at the hands of his watch. He was almost past his deadline.

  Capester stepped fearfully toward the coffin again and lifted the lid; this time he let it fall open and backward. He forced himself to stare inside.

  "Paul . . . it really is Paul," he stammerrd in shock.

  "from what I was told," said Pitt, "President Hasan wasn't about to allow Akhmad Yazid's followers to entomb him in a shrine as a martyr. So the cadaver was led here where you two can lie together."

  Grief slowly replaced shock as Capesterre stared at his brother. Then his face twisted in bitterness and he asked in a vicious undertone,

  "What was your part in all this?"

  "I headed the team that found the key to the Library treasure site. That was a dedicated effort. Then your brother's hired terrorists tried to kill me and my friends but only succeeded ravaging my classic car. That was a big mistake. Next, you and your brother took my father as a hostage on the Lady Flamborough. YOu know the ship I'm talking about.

  Now that was really a blunder. I decided not to get mad, but get even.

  You're going to die, CaPesterre. In another minute you're going to lie as cold and stiff as your brother. A damned small payment for the men whose hearts you cut out and all those children who drowned because of your insane power grab."

  Capesterre's body tautened and the grief cleared from his eyes. "But not before I kill you!" he said savagely as he spun around and crouched.

  Pitt had prepared for the attack. The sword he'd snatched from the stack by the wall was already raised above his head. He brought it down in a slashing sideways arc, Capesterre it-antically lifted the Colt. The muzzle was only centimeters from lining up on Pitts head. The gleaming blade sliced through the air, glinting under the hanging lights. The gun, with Capesten-e's hand clutching the grip, finger tightening on the trigger, seemed to detach from his arm and sail toward the ceiling. They rotated through the air, end over end, before dropping to the limestone floor, still locked together.

  Capestet's mouth sagged open and a thin scream echoed through the excavation. Then he sank to his knees, staring dumbly at the severed limb, unable to believe it was no longer a part of him, oblivious to the spreading stream of blood.

  He knelt there, swaying side to side, the pain tightly held in check by shock. He slowly looked up at Pitt with dazed eyes. "Why this?" he whispered. "Why not a bullet?"

  "A small payment for a man by the name of Guy Rivas."

  "You knew Rivas?"

  Pitt shook his head. "Friends of his told me how you mutilated him. How his family stood at the grave site not knowing they were burying only his skin."

  "Friends?" Capesterre asked blankly.

  "MY father and a man who lives in the White House," Pitt said coldly. He glanced at his watch again. He stared down at Robeii Capesterre, but there was no pity on his face. "Sorry I can't stay and help with the mess, but I have to run." Then he turned and headed for the exit tunnel.

  He took only two steps before he came to an abrupt halt-A short, swarthy man, wearing a pair of old and worn army combat fatigues, stood in the center of the chamber entrance holding a four-shot pistolized shotgun that was pointed at Pitts stomach.

  "No need to hurry, Mr. Pitt," he said with a heavy accent, his voice maner-of-fact. "No one is going anywhere."

  Though they had been aware of a third party entering the tunnel, the sudden appearance of the menacing stranger still took everyone by surprise in the Situation Room. Calamity began to loom as they helplessly watched the scene being played out deep under Gongora Hill.

  "General Chandler," said the President sharply, "what in hell is going on? Who is the intruder?"

  "We're viewing him from our monitoring unit too, Mr. President, but the best guess is he's one of Topiltzin's men. He must have penetrated from the north, where our security line is spread thin."

  "He's wearing a uniform," said Brogan. "Can he be one of your men?"

  "Not unless our quartermaster is issuing Israeli Army battle fatigues."

  "Get some men down there to help Pitt," ordered General Metcalf.

  "Sir, if I sent a squad of men anywhere near the excavation, the mob would think we were out to either harm or capture Topiltzin. They'd go berserk."

  "He's right," said Schiller. "The crowd is getting edgy."

  "The intruder stole inside the tun
nel under their noses,"

  Metcalf persisted. "Why can't a couple of your men do the same? '

  "it was possible ten minutes ago, but not now," replied Chandler.

  "Topiltzin's crew have set up more floods. The whole slope is swimming in bright light. A rat couldn't run in there without being seen."

  "The excavations face south toward the people," explained Senator Pitt.

  "There are no exits behind the hill."

  "We're lucky as it is," Chandler continued. "The gunfire echoing from the tunnel sounded like distant thunder and no one was sure where it came from."

  The President looked at Senator Pitt darkly. "George, if the crowd begins to surge forward, we'll have to end the operation before your son can escape."

  The Senator passed a hand in front of his eyes and nodded solemnly. Then he looked up at the monitor.

  "Dirk will make it," he said with quiet confidence.

  Nichols suddenly came to his feet and pointed at the monitor. "The mob!" he rasped despairingly. "They're moving!"

  While others debated his chances of survival 2,500 kilometers away, Pitts main concern was the black mouth of the shotgun pistol. He didn't doubt for a second it was held in the hand of a man who had killed many times. The face behind the gun wore a bored expression. Ho-hum, another one, Pitt thought. If he didn't have his insides splashed against a wall in a few seconds, he would be crushed by tons of earth.

  He wasn't keen on either choice.

  "You mind telling me who you are?" Pitt asked.

  "I am Ibn Telmuk, close friend and servant to Suleiman Aziz Ammar."

  Yes, thought Pitt, yes. The sight of the terrorist on the road in front of the crushing mill came back to him. "You guys go to any length for revenge, don't you?"

  "It was his last wish that I kill you."

  Pitt very slowly dropped his right arm so the sword hung down pointing at the chamber floor. He made the show of a brave man accepting defeat and relaxed his body, shoulders sagging, knees slightly bent. "Were you on Santa Inez?"