He steered Nichols to the chair and passed him the towel. "Here," he said without sympathy, "use this."
Nichols sat for nearly two minutes, clutching the towel against his face and dry-retching. At last he recovered enough to look up at Gerhart and stammer.
"Good lord . . . that's nothing but .
"Skin," Gerhart finished for him, "flayed human skin."
Nichols forced himself to stare at the grisly thing stretched out on the table.
He was reminded of a deflated balloon. That was the only way he could describe it. An incision had been made from the back of the head down to the ankles, and the skin peeled away from the body like a pelt from an animal. There was a long vertical slit in the chest that had been crudely sewn. The eyes were missing, but the entire denmis was there, including both shriveled hands and feet.
"Can you tell me who you think he might be?" asked Gerhart softly.
Nichols made a conscious effort, but the grotesque, misshapen facial features made it all but impossible. Only the hair seemed vaguely familiar. Yet he knew.
"Guy Rivas," he murmured.
Gerhart said nothing. He took Nichols by the arm and helped him to another room that was comfortably shed with soft chairs and a coffee urn. He poured a cup of coffee and handed it to Nichols.
"I'll be back in a minute."
Nichols sat there as if in a nightmare, shocked by the sick sight in the other room. He could not bring himself to grips with the reality of Rivas's horrible death.
Gerhail came back carrying an attached case. He set it on a low table.
"This was dropped off at the mail reception room. The body skin was tightly folded inside. At first I thought it was the work of some psycho. Then I made a thorough search and found a miniature tape recorder mounted beneath the interior lining."
"You played it?"
"Lot of good it did. Sounds like a conversation between two men in some kind of code."
"How did you trace Rivas to me?"
"Rivas's government ID card had been placed inside his flayed skin.
Whoever murdered him wanted to make sure we'd put a make on the remains.
I went to Rivas's office and interrogated his secretary. I wormed it out of her that he met with you and the President for two hours before leaving for the airport and a flight to an unknown destination. I thought it unusual that his own secretary didn't know his destination, so I reckoned he'd been sent on a classified mission. That's why I contacted you first."
Nichols looked at him narrowly. "You say there's a conversation on the tape?"
Gerhart nodded gravely. "That and Rivas's screams as he was cut apart."
Nichols closed his eyes, trying to force the vision from his mind.
"His next of kin will have to be notified," Gerhart continued. "He have a wife?"
"And four kids."
"You know him well?"
"Guy Rivas was a nice man, One of the few people with integrity I've met since coming to Washington. We worked together on several diplomatic missions."
for the first time Gerhart's stony face went soft. "I'm sorry. "
Nichols didn't hear him. His eyes slowly turned bitter and cold. The nightmarelike expression had gone. He no longer tasted the vomit or felt sickened by the horror. The brutal savagery inflicted on someone close to him had triggered a floodgate of anger, anger such as Nichols had never known before.
The professor whose scope of power was limited to the walls of a classroom no longer existed. In his place was a man close to the President, one of a small elite group of Washington power brokers with the muscle to shape events or create havoc around the globe.
By whatever means and power that were his in the White House, with or without Presidential favor or official sanction, Nichols was set on avenging the murder of Rivas. Topiltzin had to die.
The small Beechcraft executive jet touched down with a faint squeal from the tires and turned off the crushed-rock runway of a privately owned airport twenty kilometers south of Alexandria, Egypt. Less than a minute after it rolled to a halt beside a green Volvo with TAXI lettered on the doors in English, the whine from the engines ceased and the passenger door raised open.
The man that stepped to the ground was wearing a white suit with matching tie over a dark blue shirt. Slightly under six feet, with a slim body, he paused a moment and dabbed a handkerchief around a receding hairline, and then smugly brushed a large black mustache with one forefinger. His eyes were hidden by dark glasses and his hands covered by white leather gloves.
Suleiman Aziz Ammar did not resemble in the slightest the pilot who had boarded Flight 106 in London.
He walked over to the Volvo and greeted the short, muscular dxiver who emerged from behind the wheel. "Good morning, Ibn. Find any problems on your return?"
"Your affairs are in good order," Ibn replied, opening the rear door and making no effort to conceal a pisto shotgun in a shoulder holster.
"Take me to Yazid."
Ibn nodded silently as Ammar settled into the rear seat.
The exterior of the taxi was as deceptive as Ammar's many disguises. The darkly tinted windows and body panels were bulletproof. Inside, Ammar sat in a low, comfortable leather chair in front of a compact desk cabinet containing a compact array of electronics that included two telephones, a computer, radio transmitter and TV monitor. There were also a bar and a rack with two automatic rifles.
As the car skirted the crowded central section of Alexandria and turned onto the a1-Beach road, Annnar busied himself by monitoring his far-flung investment operations. His wealth, known only to him, was enormous. His financial success was accomplished more by ruthlessness than shrewdness. If any corporate executive or government official stood in Ammar's way on a profitable business deal, he was simply eliminated.
At the end of a twenty-kilometer drive, Ibn slowed the Volvo and stopped at a gate leading up to a small villa squatting on a low hill overlooking a wide sandy beach.
Ammar shut down the computer and stepped from the car. Four guards in desert sand-colored fatigues surrounded him and efficiently searched his clothing. As a backup safeguard he was directed to walk through an airport-type X-ray detector.
He was then led up a stone stairway to the villa past crudely built concrete compounds manned by a small army of Yazid's elite bodyguards.
Ammar smiled as they bypassed the ornate front archway, open to honored visitors, and entered through a small side door. He brushed off the insult, knowing it was Yazid's shallow-minded way of humbling those who did his dirty work but were not accepted to his inner circle of fanatic grovelers.
He was ushered into a stark and empty room furnished with only one wooden stool and a large Persian Kashan carpet that hung from one wall.
The interior was hot and stuffy. There were no windows and the only illumination came from an overhead skylight. Without a word the guards retreated and closed the door.
Annnar yawned, casually held up his wristwatch as if checking the time.
Next he removed his dark glasses and rubbed his eyes. The practiced gestures enabled him to locate the tiny lens of a TV camera within the design of the hanging carpet without giving his discovery away.
He stewed for nearly an hour before the carpet was pulled aside and Akhmad Yazid strutted through a small archway into the room.
The spiritual leader of the Egyptian Muslims was young, no more than thirty-five. He was a small man; he had to look up to meet Ammar's eyes. His face did not have the precise features of most Egyptians, the chin and cheekbones were softer, more rounded. His head was covered by a white lace cloth wound in an abbreviated turban, and his broom handle-dun body was draped in a white silk caftan. When moving from shadow to light, his eyes seemingly altered from black to dark brown.
As a sign of respect, Ammar gave a slight nod without looking Yazid in the eye.
"Ah, my friend," Yazid said warmly. "Good to have you back."
Ammar looked up, smiled and began playing the game
. "I'm honored to stand in your presence, Akhmad Yazid."
"Please sit," Yazid said. It was an order rather than an invitation.
Ammar complied, sitting on the small wooden stool so Yazid could look down on him. Yazid also added another form of humiliation. He circled the room as he lectured without prologue, forcing Amrnar to twist around the stool to follow him.
"Every week brings a major challenge to President Hasan's fragile authority. All that prevents his fall is the loyalty of the military.
He can still rely on the 350,000-strong army for support. for the moment, Defense Minister Abu Hamid straddles the fence. He has assured me he will throw his support to ouir movement for an Islamic republic, but only if we will a national referendum without bloodshed."
"Is that bad?" asked Ammar with an innocent expression.
Yazid gave him a cold stare. "The man is a pro-Western charlatan, too cowardly to give up American aid. All that matters to him are his precious jets, helicopter gunships and tanks. He fears Egypt will go the way of Iran. The idiot insists on an orderly transition of governments so loans from world banks and financial aid from America will keep pouring in,"
Them He paused, gazing directly into Ammar's eyes, as if daring his prize assassin to contradict him again. Ammar remained silent. The stifling room began to close in on him.
"Abu Hamid also demands my promise that Hala Kamil will remain SecretaryGeneral of the United Nations," Yazid added.
"Yet you ordered me to eliminate her," Ammar said, curious.
Yazid nodded. "Yes, I wanted the bitch dead because she is using her position in the U.N. as a platform to voice her opposition to our movement and turn world opinion against me. Abu Haniid, however, would have slammed the door in my face if she'd been openly assassinated-the reason why I counted on you, Suleiman, to remove her with an unquestionable accident. Regrettably, you failed. You managed to kill everyone on board the aircraft except Kamil."
The last words fell like a hammer. Ammar's outward calm disintegrated.
He looked up at Yazid in blank confusion.
"She lives?"
Yazid's eyes went cold. "The news broke in Washington less than one hour ago. The plane crashed in Greenland. Every U.N. passenger except Kamil and all but two of the crew were found dead from poison."
"Poison?" Ammar murmured skeptically.
"Our paid sources in the American news media have confirmed the report.
What were you thinking of, Suleiman? You assured me the plane was supposed to vanish in the sea."
"Do they say how it reached Greenland?"
"A flight steward discovered the bodies of the flight crew. With help from a Mexican delegate, he took over the controls and managed to crash-land in a fjord on the coast. Kamil might have died from exposure, cutting you off the hook, but an American naval vessel happened to be crusing nearby. They responded almost immediately and saved her life."
Ammar was stunned. He was not used to failure. He could not imagine how his exactingly conceived plan had gone so far off track. He closed his eyes, seeing the plane clear the summit of the glacier. Almost instantly he gleaned the imponderables, focusing on a piece of the puzzle that didn't fit.
Yazid stood qtuetly for a few moments, then broke Ammar's concentration.
"You realize, of course, I will be accused of this mess."
"There is no evidence tying me to the disaster or me to you," Ammar said firmly.
"Perhaps, but call it guilt by motive. Speculation and rumor will convict me in the Western news media. I should have you executed. "
Ammar wiped his mind clear and shrugged indifferently. "That would be a sad waste. I'm still the best eliminator in the Middle East."
"And the highest paid."
"I'm not in the habit of charging for unfinished projects."
"I would hope not," said Yazid acidly. He abruptly spun and walked toward the hanging carpet. He reached out and pulled it back with his left hand, paused and turned back to Ammar. "I must prepare my mind for prayer. You may go, Suleiman Aziz Ammar."
"And Hala Kaniil? The job is unfinished."
"I am turning her removal over to Muhammad Ismail."
"Ismail," Ammar grunted. "The man is a cretin."
"He can be trusted."
"for what, cleaning sewers?"
Yazid's hard, cold eyes stared at Ammar menacingly. "Kamil is no longer your concern. Remain here in Egypt near my side. My faithful advisers and I have another project to advance our cause. You will have an opportunity to redeem yourself in the eyes of Allah."
Before Yazid could enter the archway, Ammar rose to his feet. "The Mexican delegate who helped fly the aircraft. Was he also poisoned?"
Yazid turned and shook his head. "The report states he was killed in the crash."
Then he was gone and the carpet dropped back.
Ammar settled on the stool again. Slowly the revelation broke through the mists of the enigma. He should have been maddened, but there wasn't the slightest feeling of anger. Instead, an amused smile curled under his mustache.
"So there were two of us," he mused aloud to the empty room. "And the other one poisoned the in-flight meal service." Then he shook his head in wonderment. "Poison in the Beef Wellington. My god, how quaint."
At first no one paid any attention to the tiny blur that crept across the outer edge of the sidescan sonar's recording paper.
Six hours into the search they had found several manmade objects. Parts of the downed aircraft that were pinpointed for retrieval, a sunken fishing trawler, bits and pieces of junk thrown over by fishing fleets seeking shelter in the fjord from storms, all were identified by video camera and eliminated.
The last anomaly was not resting on the bottom of the fjord as expected.
It sat inside a small inlet encircled by sheer cliffs. Only one end protruded into clear water; the rest was buried under a wall of ice.
Pitt was the first to realize its significance. He was sitting in front of the recorder, surrounded by Giordino, Commander Knight and the archaeologists. He spoke into a transmitter.
"Swing the fish, bearing one-five-zero degrees."
The Polar Explorer was still stationary in the icebound fjord. Outside on the pack a team led by Cork Simon had augered through the ice and lowered the sensing unit into the water. Very slowly they swung the fish, as they called it, scanning a 360-degree grid. After searching one area, they unreeled more cable and tried again at another site farther away from the ship.
Simon acknowledged Pitts command and twisted the cable until the fish's sonar probes were trained at 150 degrees.
"How's this?" he queried.
"You're right on target," Pitt replied from the ship.
Seen from a better angle the target became more distinct. Pitt circled it with a black felt pen.
"I think we've got something."
Gronquist moved in closer and nodded. "Not much showing to identify.
What do you make of it?"
"Pretty vague," answered Pitt- "You have to use some imagination since most of the object is covered by ice that has fallen from the surrounding cliffs. But the part that shows underwater suggests a wooden ship. There's a definite angular shape coming together at what might be a high, curving sternpost. "
"Yes," said Lily excitedly. "High and graceful. Typical of a fourth-century merchant ship."
"Don't get carried away," cautioned Knight. "She could be an old sail-rigged fisherman."
"Possibly." Giordino looked thoughtful. "But if my memory serves me correctly, the Danes, Icelanders and Norwegians who have fished these waters over the centuries sailed in more narrow beamed double-enders."
"You're right," said Pitt. "The sharp bow and stern were handed down from the Vikings. What we're seeing here might also be a double-ender, but with a broader sweep."
"Can't get a clear picture through the ice-covered section of the hull,"
said Gronquist. "But we could drop a camera back of the stern in clear water for
a better identification."
Giordino looked doubtful. "A camera might confirm the stern section of a wrecked ship, but little else."
"We've plenty of strong male backs on the ship," said Lily. "We could tunnel down through the ice and inspect her at first hand."
Gronquist took a pair of binoculars and walked out of the electronics compartment to the bridge. He returned in half a minute. "I make the ice cover over the wreck to be a good four meters thick. Take at least two days to cut through."
"You'll have to dig without us, I'm afraid," said Knight. "My orders are to get under way before 1800 hours. We've no time left for a lengthy excavation."
Gronquist was taken aback. "That's only five hours from now."
Knight made a helpless gesture. "I'm sorry, I have no say in the matter."
Pitt studied the dark spot on the recording paper. Then he turned to Knight. "If I proved positively that's a fourth-century Roman ship out there, could you persuade North Atlantic command to keep us on station for another day or two?"
Knight's eyes took on a foxy look. "What are you cooking up?"
"Will you go along?" Pitt crowded him.
"Yes," Knight stated firmly. "But only if you prove, without a shadow of a doubt, that's a thousand-year-old shipwreck. " ... Then it's a deal."
"How are you going to do it?"
"Simple," said Pitt, reeling Knight in. "I'm going to dive under the ice and come up into the hull."
Cork Simon and his crew worked quickly at cutting an access hole through the one-meter-thick ice sheet with chain saws. They quarried multiple squares until they reached the final layer. They broke through with a sledgehammer mounted on a long pipe and then removed the ice fragments with grappling hooks so Pitt could safely submerge.
When he was satisfied the hole was clear, Simon walked a few steps and entered a small canvas-covered shelter. The interior was heated and warm and crowded with men and diving equipment. An air compressor sat next to the heating unit, chugging away, its exhaust vented to the outside.
Lily and the other archaeologists were sitting at a folding table in one corner of the shelter, making a series of drawings and discussing them with Pitt as he suited up for the dive.