Treasure

  "If the Library treasures and their valuable geological data can be located, Yazid will demand they be returned to Egypt."

  "We understand," said Schiller. "That's the purpose behind our meeting here in Breckinridge-The President wishes you to announce the imminent discovery in your address to the United Nations."

  Hala looked at Schiller thoughtfully for a moment. Then her eyes turned and anger came into her voice.

  "How can I say the discovery is just around the corner when a search may take years and never be successful? I find it most distasteful that the President and his advisers insist on creating a lie and using me to speak it. Is this another one of your stupid Middle East foreign policy games, Julius? A last-ditch gamble to keep President Hasan in power and erode Akhmad Yazid's influence? Am I the tool to mislead the Egyptian people into believing rich mineral deposits are about to be found in their country that will Turn around our depressed economy and eliminate the terrible poverty?"

  Schiller sat silently and made no denials.

  "You have come to the wrong woman, Julius. I'll see my government fall, and face death from Yazid's executioners, before I deceive my people with false hope."

  "Noble sentiments," Schiller said quietly. "I admire your principles; however, I firmly believe the plan is sound."

  "The risk is too great. If the President fails to provide the Library's great knowledge, he will be inviting a political disaster. Yazid will take advantage with a propaganda campaign that will broaden his power base and make him stronger than your experts on Egypt can ever conceive.

  for the tenth time in as many years, United States foreign policy experts will look like amateurish clowns in the eyes of the world."

  "Mistakes have been made," Schiller admitted.

  "If only you hadn't interfered in our affairs."

  "I didn't come here to debate Middle eastern policy, Hala. I came to ask your help."

  She shook her head and turned away. "I'm sorry. I can't go on record with a lie."

  Schiller looked at her with compassion in his eyes. He didn't push her, but thought it better to back off.

  "I'll tell the President of your response," he said, picking up his attache case and making for the doorway. "He'll be most disappointed."

  "Wait!"

  He turned expectantly.

  Hala rose and came to him. "Prove to me that your people have a positive lead to the location of the Library artifacts and not a foggy clue, and I'll do as the White House wishes."

  "You'll make the announcement?"

  "Yes.

  "Four days until your address is not much time."

  "Those are my terms," Hala said bluntly. Schiller nodded gravely

  "Accepted."

  Then he turned and walked out the door.

  Muhammad Ismail watched Schiller's limousine come off the private road leading to Senator Pitts lodge and Turn onto Highway 9 toward the ski town of Breckenridge. He did not see who was seated in the rear seat, and he did not care.

  The sight of the official car, men patrolling the grounds who spoke into radio transmitters at regular intervals, and the two armed guards inside a Dodge van at the road's enumce were all he needed to confirm the information purchased by Yazid's agents in Washington.

  Ismail leaned casually against a large Mercedes-Benz diesel sedan, shielding a man sitting inside peeling out an open window through a pair of binoculars. A rack on the roof held several sets of skis. lsmail was dressed in a white ski suit. A matching ski mask hid his perpetually scowling face.

  "Seen enough?" he asked while seemingly adjusting the ski rack.

  "Another minute," answered the observer. He was staring at the lodge, which was partially visible through the trees. All that could be seen around the binoculars was a heavy black beard and a mass of uncombed hair.

  "Make it quick. I'm freezing out here just standing around."

  "Bear with me another minute."

  "How does it look?" asked Ismail.

  "No more than a five-man detail. Three in the house. Two in the van.

  Only one man patrols around the grounds at a time, not a second more than thirty minutes. They don't dally. The cold gets to them too. They walk the same trail through the snow. No sign of TV cameras, but they probably have one mounted in the van that is monitored inside the house."

  "We'll move in two groups," said Ismail. "One takes the house, the other kills the guard patrolling outside and destroys the van from the road, where they least expect an attack."

  The observer dropped the glasses. "Do you plan to move in tonight, Muhammad?"

  "No," answered ismail. "Tomorrow, when the American pigs are stuffing their mouths with their morning meal."

  "A daylight raid will be dangerous."

  "We will not sneak around in the dark like women."

  "But our only escape route to the airport is through the center of town," the observer protested. "The streets will be crowded with traffic and hundreds of skiers. Suleiman Ammar would not risk such an adventure."

  lsmail suddenly spun and slapped the observer with his gloved hand. "I am in charge here!" he snapped. "Suleiman is an overrated jackal. Do not speak his name in my presence."

  The observer did not cower. His dark eyes flashed with hostility. "You'll kill us all," he said quietly.

  "So be it," Ismail hissed, his voice as cold as the snow. "If we die so Hala Kamil can die, the price will be cheap."

  "Magnificent," said Pitt.

  "Gorgeous, simply gorgeous," Lily murmured.

  Giordino nodded in agreement. "A real winner."

  They were standing in an antique and classic automobile restoration shop, and their admiring stares were directed toward a 1930 L-29 Cord town car, a model with an open front for the chauffeur. The body was painted burgundy while the fenders were a buff that was matched by the leather-covered roof over the passenger's compartment. Elegantly styled, long and graceful, the car had front-wheel drive that helped to give it a low silhouette. The original coachmaker had stretched the chassis until it measured nearly five-and-a-half meters from front to rear bumper. Almost half the length was hood, beginning with a race-car-type grill and ending with a sharply raked windshield.

  It was big and sleek, a thing of beauty that belonged to an era fondly revered by older generations but unknown to those who followed.

  The man who had found Pitts car stored in an old garage, hidden under forty years of trash, and had restored it from a mangled hulk, was proud of his handiwork. Robert Esbenson, a tall man with a pixie face and limpid blue eyes, gave the hood a final, loving wipe with a dust cloth and turned the car over to Pitt.

  "I hate to see this one go."

  "You've done a remarkable job," said Pitt.

  "Are you going to ship it home?"

  "Not just yet. I'd like to drive it for a few days."

  Esbenson nodded. "Okay, let me adjust the carburetor and distributor for our high altitude. Then, when you return to the shop, I'll have it detailed and arrange for an auto transporter to ship it to Washington."

  "Can I ride in it?" Lily asked anxiously.

  "All the way to Breckenridge," Pitt replied. He turned to Giordino.

  "Coming with us, Al?"

  "Why not? We can leave the rental car outside in the parking lot."

  They switched the luggage, and ten minutes later Pitt turned the Cord onto Interstate 70 and aimed the long hood toward the foothills leading into the snow-peaked Rocky Mountains.

  Lily and Al sat warmly in the luxurious passenger compartment separated from Pitt by the divider window. Pitt did not pull out the transformable top that protected the chauffeur's seat, but sat in the open bundled up in a heavy sheepskin coat, savoring the cold air on his face.

  for the moment his mind was on his driving, scanning the instruments to make sure the sixty-year-old car was performing as it was designed to do. He held to the right lane, allowing most of the traffic to pass and gawk.

  Pitt felt exhilarated and content b
ehind the wheel, listening to the smooth purr of the eight-cylinder engine and the mellow tone of the exhaust. It was as though he had control over a living thing.

  if he had had any inkling of the mess he was driving into, he would have turned around and headed straight back to Denver.

  Darkness had fallen over the Continental Divide when the Cord rolled into the legendary Colorado mining town turned ski resort. Pitt drove up the main street, whose old buildings retained their historic western flavor. The sidewalks were crowded with people coming from the slopes, carrying their skis and poles over one shoulder.

  Pitt parked near the entrance of the Hotel Breckenridge. He signed the register and took two phone messages from the desk clerk. He read both slips of paper and slipped them into a pocket.

  "from Dr. Rothberg?" asked Lily.

  "Yes, he's invited us for dinner at his condo. It's just across the street from the hotel."

  "What time?" Giordino queried.

  "Seven-thirty."

  Lily glanced at her watch. "Only forty minutes to shower and do my hair. I'd better get with it."

  Pitt gave her the room key. "You're in two twenty-one. Al and I have rooms adjoining yours on each side."

  As soon as Lily disappeared with the porter into an elevator, Pitt motioned Giordino into the cocktail lounge. He waited until the barmaid took their drink order before passing the second message across the table.

  Giordino read it aloud softly. " 'Your library project takes top priority. Most urgent you find a permanent address for Alex in the next four days. Luck, Dad."

  " He looked up, utterly confused. "Do I read this right? We have only four days to identify the location?"

  Pitt nodded positively. "I read panic between the lines and smell something rumbling in Washington power circles."

  "They might as well ask us to invent a common cure for herpes, AIDS and acne," Giordino grumbled. "We can kiss off our skiing trip."

  "We'll stay," said Pitt resolutely. "Nothing we can do until Yaeger gets lucky." Pitt rose from his chair. "And speaking of Yaeger, I'd better give him a call."

  He found a public telephone in the hotel lobby and made a call on his credit card. After four rings a voice answered in what sounded like the middle of a yawn.

  "Yaeger here."

  "Hiram, this is Dirk. How's your search going?"

  "It's going."

  "Run onto anything?"

  "My babies sifted through every piece of geological data in their little banks from Casablanca around the horn to Zanzibar. They failed to find a hot spot along the coast of Africa that matched your drawing. There were three vague possibilities.

  But when I programmed profiles on land-mass transformations that might have occurred over the past sixteen hundred years, none proved encouraging. Sorry."

  "What's your next step?"

  "I'm. already in the process of heading north. This will take more time because of the extensive shoreline encompassing the British Isles, the Baltic Sea and the Scandinavian countries as far as Siberia."

  "Can you cover it in four days?"

  "Only if you insist I put the hired help on a twenty-four-hour schedule."

  "I insist," said Pitt sternly. "Word has just come down that the project has become an urgent priority."

  "We'll hit it hard," Yaeger said, his voice more jovial than serious.

  "I'M in Breckenridge, Colorado. if you strike on something, call me at the Breckenridge Hotel." Pitt gave Yaeger the hotel phone and his room number.

  Yaeger dutifully repeated the digits. "Okay, got it."

  "You sound like you're in a good mood," said Pitt.

  "Why not? We accomplished quite a lot."

  "Like what? You still don't know where our river lies."

  "True," replied Yaeger cheerfully. "But we sure as hell know where it ain't."

  Snowflakes the size of cornflakes were falling as the three trudged across the street from the hotel to a two-story cedarsided condominium.

  A floodlighted sign read SKIQUEEN. They climbed a stairway and knocked on the door to unit 22B.

  Bertram Rothberg greeted them with a jolly smile beneath a splendid gray beard and sparkling blue eyes. His ears rose in full sail through a swirling sea of gray hair. A red plaid shirt and corduroy trousers clad his beefy body. Put an ax in one hand -and a crosscut saw in the other, and he could have reported for duty as a lumberjack.

  He shook hands warmly and without introductions as if he'd known everyone for years. He led them up a narrow stairwell to a combination living-dining room beneath a high-peaked ceiling with skylights.

  "How does a gallon bottle of cheap burgundy sound before dinner," he asked with a sly grin.

  Lily laughed. "I'm game."

  Giordino shrugged. "Makes no difference as long as it's wet."

  "And you, Dirk?"

  "Sounds good."

  Pitt didn't bother asking Rothberg how he recognized each of them. His father would have provided descriptions. The performance was nearly flawless. Pitt suspected the historian had worked for one of the government's many intelligence agencies at some time in the past.

  Rothberg retired to the kitchen to pour the wine. Lily followed.

  "Can I help you with anything-?" She suddenly stopped and peered at the empty counters and the cold stove.

  Rothberg caught her curious look. "I'm a lousy cook so our dinner will be catered. It should show up around eight." He pointed at the sectional couch in the living room. "Please get comfortable around the fire."

  He passed the glasses and then lowered his rotund figure into a leather easy chair. He raised his glass.

  "Here's to a successful search."

  "Hear, hear," said Lily.

  Pitt got off the mark. "Dad tells me you've made the Alexandria Library a life study."

  "Thirty-two years. Probably been better off to have taken a wife all that time instead of rummaging around dusty bookshelves and straining my eyes over old manuscripts. The subject has been like a mistress to me.

  Never asking, only giving. I've never fallen out of love with her."

  Lily said, "I can understand your attraction."

  Rothberg smiled at her. "As an archaeologist, you would."

  He rose and jabbed in the fireplace with a poker. Satisfied that the logs were burning evenly, he sat down again and continued.

  "Yes, the Library was not only a glorious edifice of learning, but it was the chief wonder of the ancient world, containing vast accumulations of entire civilizations." Rothberg spoke almost as if he was in a trance, his mind seeing shadows from the past. "The great art and literature of the Greeks, the Egyptians, the Romans, the sacred writings of the Jews, the wisdom and knowledge of the most gifted men the world has ever known, the divine works of philosophy, music of incredible beauty, the ancient best-sellers, the masterworks of medicine and science, it was the finest storehouse of materials and knowledge ever assembled in antiquity."

  "Was it open to the public?" asked Giordino.

  "Certainly not to every beggar off the street," answered Rothberg. "But researchers and scholars pretty much had the run of the place to examine, catalog, translate and edit, and to publish their findings. You see, the Library and its adjoining museum went far beyond being mere depositories. Their halls launched the true science of creative scholarship. The Library became the first true reference library, as we think of today, where books were systematically catalogued. In fact the complex was known as the Place of the Muses."

  Rothberg paused and checked his guests' glasses. "You look like you can use another shot of wine, Al."

  Giordino smiled. "I never Turn down a free drink."

  "Lily, Dirk?"

  "I've hardly touched mine," said Lily.

  Pitt shook his head. "I'm fine."

  Rothberg refilled Giordino's glass and poured his own before continuing.

  "Later empires and nations owe a staggering debt to the Alexandria Library. Few institutions of knowledge have produced so much.
Pliny, a celebrated Roman of the first century A.D., invented and wrote the world's first encyclopedia. Aristophanes, head of the Library two hundred years before Christ, was the father of the dictionary.

  Callimachus, a famous writer and authority on Greek tragedy, compiled the earliest Who's Who. The great mathematician Euclid devised the first known textbook on geometry. Dionysius organized grammar into a coherent system and published his 'Art of Grammar,' which became the model text for all languages, written and spoken. These men, and thousands of others, labored tutu piuduced their epoch achievements while working at the Library.

  "You're describing a university," said Pitt.

  "Quite right. Together the library and museum were considered the university of the Hellenistic world. The immense structures of white marble contained picwm galleries, statuary halls, theaters for poetry reading and lectures on everything from astronomy to geology. There were also dormitories, a dining hall, cloisters along colonnades for contemplation, and an animal park and botanical garden. Ten great halls housed different categories of manuscripts and books. Hundreds of thousands of them were handwritten on either papyrus or parchment, and then rolled into scrolls and stored in bronze tubes. "

  "What's the difference between the two?" asked Giordino.

  "Papyrus is a tropical plant. The Egyptians made a paperlike writing material out of its stems. Parchment, also called vellum, was produced from the skins of animals, especially young calves, kids or lambs."

  "Is it possible they could have survived the centuries?" Pitt asked.

  "Parchment should last longer than papyrus," answered Rothberg. Then he looked at Pitt. "Their condition after sixteen hundred years would depend on where they've been stored. Papyrus scrolls from Egyptian tombs are still readable after three thousand years."

  "A hot and dry atmosphere."

  "Yes. "

  "Suppose the scrolls were buried somewhere along the northern coast of Sweden or Russia?"

  Rothberg bent his head thoughtfully. "I suppose the freeze would preserve them, but during the summer thaw they would rot from the dampness."

  Pitt could smell defeat looming down the road. This was one more nail in the coffin. Hope of finding the Library manuscripts intact seemed farther than ever.