Treasure

  "Who is the likeness on the face?"

  "A standing figure of Theodosius the Great, Emperor of the Roman and Byzantine Empires. His position is a common motif found on the face of coins from that era. if you look closely, you can make out captives at his feet while his hands hold a globe and a labarum."

  "A labarum?"

  "Yes, a banner bearing the Greek letters XP and forming a kind of monogram meaning the the name of Christ." The Emperor Constantine adopted it after his conversion to Christianity and it was handed down through his successors."

  "What do you make of the lettering on the reverse?" asked Gronquist.

  Graham's eyeball enlarged out of proportion through the glass as he studied the coin. "Three words. First one looks like TRIVMFATOR. Can't make out the other two. They're nearly worn smooth. A collector's catalogue should give a description and Latin translation. I'll have to wait until we return to civilization before I can look them up."

  "Can you date it?"

  Graham stared at the ceiling thoughtfully. "Coined during the reign of Theodosius, which, if I remember correctly, was from A.D. 379 to 395."

  Lily stared at Gronquist- "Right in the ballpark."

  He shook his head. "Sheer fantasy, to suggest fourth-century Eskimos had contact with the Roman Empire."

  "We can't rule out the infinity of chance," Lily persisted.

  "Once this gets out, there will be a flood of speculation and hype by the news media," said Hoskins, inspecting the coin for the first time.

  Gronquist took a swallow of his brandy. "Ancient coinage has turned up in odd places before. But the date and source of its deposit could rarely be proven to the full satisfaction of the archaeologists'

  community."

  "Perhaps," said Graham slowly. "But I'd give my Mercedes convertible to know how it turned up here."

  They all gazed at the coin for a few moments without speaking, each lost in their own thoughts.

  Finally Gronquist broke the silence. "It seems the only thing we know for certain is that we have a real mystery on our hands.

  Shortly before midnight, the imposter began his practiced drill to abandon the jetliner. The air was sparkling clear and the dim smudge that was Iceland rose above the flat, black horizon line of the sea. The small island country was outlined by a faint but eerie display of greenish rays from the Aurora Borealis.

  He was oblivious to the dead men around him. He had grown used to the smell of blood and it no longer sickened him. Death and gore simply went with the job. He was as indifferent to mutilated bodies as a pathologist or the neighborhood butcher.

  The imposter was quite clinical about killing. Numbers of dead were merely mathematical sums. He was paid well; he was a mercenary, as well as a religious fanatic who murdered for a cause. Oddly, the only part of his work that offended him was being called an assassin or a terrorist. He detested the words. They had a political ring about them, and he nurtured a passionate dislike for politicians.

  He was a man of a thousand identities, a perfectionist who rejected random gunfire in crowds or sloppy car bombs, considering them tools for juvenile idiots. His methods were far more subtle. He never left anything to chance. International investigators found it difficult to separate many of his hits from what appeared to be accidents.

  The death of Hala Kamil was more than an assigned task. He considered it a duty. His elaborate plan had taken five months to perfect, followed by the patient wait for the opportune moment.

  Almost a waste, he mused. Kamil was a beautiful woman. But she was a threat that had to be nullified.

  He gently eased back on the throttles and nudged the control column forward, beginning a shallow rate of descent. To anyone but another pilot the slight drop in speed and altitude was imperceptible.

  The main cabin crew had not troubled him. By now the passengers were dozing, attempting but failing to fall into the deep sleep so elusive on long aircraft flights.

  for the twentieth time he re-checked his heading and studied the computer he had reprogrammed to indicate the time and distance to his drop zone.

  Fifteen minutes later the jetliner crossed over an uninhabited section of Iceland's southern coastline and headed inland. The landscape below became a montage of gray rock and white snow. He lowered the flaps and reduced speed until the Boeing 720-B was flying at 352 kilometers an hour.

  He reengaged the auto pilot on a new radio frequency transmitted from a beacon placed on the Hofsjokull, a glacier rising 1,737 meters from the center of the island. Then he set the altitude so the aircraft would impact 150 meters below the peak.

  Methodically he smashed and disabled the communication and direction indicators. He also began dumping fuel as a backup in case a flaw somehow marred his carefully conceived plan.

  Eight minutes to go.

  He dropped through the trapdoor into the hell hole. He already wore a pair of French paraboots with thick, elastic soles. He hurriedly removed a jumpsuit from the duffel bag and slipped into it. There had been no room for a helmet so he pulled on a ski mask and stocking cap.

  Next came a pair of gloves, goggles and an altimeter, which he strapped to one wrist.

  He clipped the harness snaps and checked the straps for snugness. He wore a piggyback rig where the reserve sat on his shoulder blades and the main chute fit into the small of his back. He relied on a ram air canopy, a square air foil that is more flown than jumped.

  He glanced at the dial of his watch. One minute, twenty seconds. He opened the escape door and a rush of air swept through the hell hole. He studied the sweep second hand on the watch and began counting down.

  When he reached zero he launched his body through the narrow opening feet first, facing in the direction of flight. The velocity of the airstream struck him with the icy force of an avalanche, crushing the breath from his lungs. The plane soared past with a deafening roar. for a brief instant he felt the heat from the turbine's exhaust, and then he was away and falling.

  Face down in a stable arched and spread position, knees slightly flexed, hands spread in front, Lemk looked down and saw only blackness. No lights burned on the ground.

  He assumed the worst; his crew had failed to reach the correct rendezvous point. Without a defined target zone he could not gauge his wind drift or direction. He might land kilometers away, or worse, impact in the middle of jagged ice with serious injury and never be found in time.

  In ten seconds he had already dropped nearly 360 meters. The needle on the luminous dial of his altimeter was crossing into the red. He could not wait any longer. He pulled the pilot chute from a pouch and threw it into the wind. It anchored to the sky and strung out the main canopy.

  He heard the chute open with a satisfying thump, and he was jerked into an upright position. He took his penlight and aimed the narrow beam over his head. The canopy blossomed above him.

  Suddenly a small circle of lights blinked on about one Mile away to his right. Then a flare went up and hung for several seconds, just long enough for him to judge wind direction and speed. He pulled on the right steering toggle and began gliding toward the lights.

  Another flare went up. The wind held steady with no fluctuation as he neared the ground. He could clearly see his crew now. They had laid out another line of lights leading to the previously lit circle. He jockeyed the steering toggles and made a 180-degree bank into the wind.

  Lemk prepared to strike the ground. His crew had chosen the terrain well. The balls of his feet made contact with soft tundra, and he made a perfect stand-up landing in the center of the circle.

  Without a word, he unsnapped the harness and walked outside the glare of the lights. He looked up at the sky.

  The aircraft with its unsuspecting crew and passengers flew straight toward the glacier that gradually rose, closing the gap between ice and metal.

  He stood there watching as the faint sound of the jet engines died and the blinking navigation lights melted into the black 4 night.

  Back in the gall
ey, one of the flight attendants tilted her head, listening.

  "What's that tinny noise coming from the cockpit?" she asked.

  Gary Rubin, the chief steward, stepped into the aisle and faced toward the bow of the plane. He could hear what sounded like a continuous, muffled roar, almost like rushing water in the distance.

  Ten seconds after the imposter's exodus, the timer on the actuator set the hydraulic arm in motion, closing the hatch in the hell hole and cutting off the strange sound.

  "It stopped," he said. "I don't hear it any more."

  "What do you suppose it was?"

  "Can't say. I've never heard anything quite like it. for a moment I thought we might have suffered a pressure leak."

  A passenger call light came on and the flight attendant brushed back her blond hair and stepped into the main cabin.

  "Maybe you better check it out with the captain," she said over her shoulder.

  Rubin hesitated, remembering Lemk's order not to bother the flight crew except for a matter of importance. Better safe than sorry. The welfare of the passengers came first. He lifted the intercom phone to his ear and pressed the cockpit call button.

  "Captain, Chief Steward here. We've just experienced a weird noise forward of the main cabin. Is there a problem?"

  He received no reply.

  He tried three times, but the receiver remained dead. He stood there at a loss for several moments, wondering why the flight cabin did not respond. In twelve years of flying, this was a new experience for him.

  He was still trying to fathom the mystery when the flight attendant rushed up and said something. At first he ignored her, but the urgency in her voice got through to him.

  "What . . . what did you say?"

  "We're over land!"

  "Land?"

  "Directly beneath us," she said, eyes blank with confusion. "A passenger pointed it out to me."

  Rubin shook his head doubtfully. "Impossible. We have to be over the middle of the ocean. He probably saw lights from fishing boats. The captain said we might spot them during our descent for the meteorology study."

  "See for yourself," she pleaded. "The ground is coming up fast. I think we're landing."

  He stepped over to the galley window and looked down. Instead of the dark waters of the Atlantic there was a glimmer of white. A vast sheet of ice was slipping under the aircraft no more than 240 meters below. It was near enough for the ice crystals to reflect the strobe flashes from the navigation lights. He froze, uncomprehending, trying to make some sense out of what his eyes told him was true.

  If this was an emergency landing, why hadn't the captain alerted the main cabin crew? The "Fasten Seat Belts" and "No Smoking" signs had not been turned on.

  Almost all of the U.N. passengers were awake, reading or engaged in conversation. Only Hala Kamil was sound asleep. Several representatives from Mexico, returning from an economic mission to the World Bank headquarters, were huddled around a table in the tail section. Director of Foreign Financing Minister Salazar talked in grim undertones. The atmosphere around the table was dampened by defeat. Mexico had suffered a disastrous economic collapse and was going through technical bankruptcy with no monetary aid in sight.

  Dread flared within Rubin, and the words rustled from his mouth: "What in hell is going on?"

  The flight attendant muttered as Her face paled and her eyes widened.

  "Shouldn't we begin emergency procedures?"

  "Don't alarm the passengers. Not yet anyway. Let me check with the captain first."

  "Is there time?"

  "I don't know."

  Controlling his fear, Rubin walked quickly, almost at a jog, toward the cockpit, faking a bored yawn to divert any curiosity at his rapid step.

  He whipped the curtain closed that shielded the boarding entryway from the main cabin.

  When he tried the door. It was locked.

  He frantically rapped his knuckles against the door. No one answered from inside. He stared dumbly at the thin barrier that blocked the cockpit, his mind an incredulous blank; and then, in a flash of desperation, he lashed out his foot and kicked in the door.

  The panel was built to open outward, but the blow smashed it against the inner wall. . Rubin stared into the cramped space of the cockpit.

  Disbelief, bewilderment, fear, they swirled through his mind like a flood hurtling down a shattered dam.

  One swift glance took in the slumped form of the men, Oswald's head on the floor, face up, ever, staring sightlessly at the cabin roof. Lemk had seemingly vanished.

  Rubin stumbled over Oswald's body, leaned across the panel-staring through the wind The massive summit of the Hofsjokull loomed beyond the bow of the plane no more than ten miles away The flickering n lights silhouetted against the rising ice, the uneven surface with ghostly shades of gray and green.

  Driven by panic, the steward climbed into the pilot's seat and firmly clutched the control column.

  He pulled the wheel toward his chest.

  Nothing happened.

  The column refused to give.

  Glancing at the panel, he observed that it showed a slow but steady increase in altitude. He yanked at the wheel again, but harder this time. It gave slightly. He was stunned by the unyielding pressure.

  There was no time to think straight. He was too inexperienced to realize he was trying to override the automatic pilot with brute strength when only twenty-five pounds of pressure was required to overpower it.

  The sharp, cold air made the glacier appear near enough to reach out and touch. He pushed the throttles forward and hauled back on the control column again. It gave sluggishly, like the wheel of a speeding car that lost its power steering, and inched back.

  With agonizing slowness the Boeing lifted its nose and swept past the icy peak with less than a hundred feet to spare.

  Down on the glacier, the man who had murdered the bona fide Flight 106

  pilot, Date Lemk, in London and taken his place, peered into the distance through a pair of night glasses. The northern lights had faded to a dim glow, but the uneven rim of the Hofsjokull still showed against the sky.

  The air was hushed with expectancy. The only sounds came from the two-man crew who were loading the flights transmitter beacon into the hull of a helicopter.

  Suleiman Aziz Arnmar's eyes became accustomed to the darkness, and he could make out the broken ridges scarring the wall of the ice floe.

  Ammar stood like a statue, counting the seconds, waiting for the small speck of flame that would mark the crash of Flight 106. But the distant fireball did not materialize.

  Finally Ammar lowered the glasses and sighed. The stillness of the glacier spread around him, cold and remote. He pulled off the gray-haired wig and threw it into the darkness. Next he removed a pair of specially handcrafted boots and took out the four-inch risers in the heels. He became aware of his servant and friend, Ibn Telmuk, standing beside him.

  "Good makeup job, Suleiman, I wouldn't recognize you," said Ibn, a swarthy type with a curly mass of ebony hair. "The equipment loaded?"

  Ammar asked.

  "All secured. Was the mission a success?"

  "A minor miscalculation. The plane somehow cleared the crest. Allah has given Miss Kamil a few more minutes of life."

  "Akhmad Yazid will not be pleased."

  "Kamil will die as planned," Annnar said confidently. "Nothing was left to chance."

  "The plane still flies."

  "Even Allah can't keep it in the air indefinitely."

  "You have failed," said a new voice.

  Ammar swung and stared into the frozen scowl of Muhammad Ismail. The Egyptian's round face was a curious blend of malevolence and childish innocence. The beady black eyes gazed with evil intensity over a heavy mustache, but they lacked the power of penetration. Bravado without substance, a facade of toughness, pulling a trigger was his only skill.

  Ammar had had little choice in working with lsmail. The obscure village mullah had been forced on him by Ak
hmad Yazid. The Islamic idol hoarded his trust Re a miser, rationing it out only to those he believed possessed a fighting spirit and a traditionalist's devotion to the original laws of Islam. Firm religious traits meant more to Yazid than competency and professionalism.

  Ammar professed to being a true believer of the faith, but Yazid was wary of him. The assassin's habit of talking to Moslem leaders as though they were mortal equals did not sit well with Yazid. He insisted that Ammar carry out his death missions under the guarded eye of Ismail.

  Ammar had accepted his watchdog without protest. He was a master at the game of deceit. He quickly reversed Ismail's role into that of a dupe for his own intelligence purposes.

  But the stupidity of Arabs was a constant irritation to Ammar. Cold, analytical reasoning was beyond them. He shook his head wearily and then patiently explained the situation to Ismail.

  "Events can happen beyond our control. An updraft, a malfunction in the automatic pilot or altimeters, a sudden change in the wind. A hundred different variables could have caused the plane to miss the peak. But all probabilities were considered. The automatic pilot is locked on a course toward the pole. No more than ninety minutes of air time is left."

  "And if someone discovers the bodies in the cockpit and one of the passengers knows how to fly?" Ismail persisted.

  "The dossiers of all on the plane were carefully examined. None indicated any pilot experience. Besides, I smashed the radio and navigation instruments. Anyone attempting to take control will be lost.

  No compass, no landmarks to give them a direction. Hala Kamil and her U.N. bedfellows will vanish in the cold waters of the Arctic sea."

  "Is there no hope for survival?" asked Ismad. "None," said Ammar firmly.

  "Absolutely none."

  Dirk Pitt relaxed and slouched in a swivel chair, stretching out his legs until his six-foot-three-inch body was on a near horizontal plane.

  Then he yawned and ran his hands through a thick mat of wavy black hair.

  Pitt was a lean, firm-muscled man in prime physical shape for someone who didn't run ten miles every day or look upon the exertion and sweat of bodybuilding as a celestial tonic against old age. His face wore the tanned, weathered skin of an outdoorsman who preferred the sun to the fluorescent lighting of an office. His deep green, opaque eyes radiated a strange combination of warmth and cruelty while his lips seemed eternally locked in a friendly grin.