"What about the Roman sword?" asked Hollis, holding it UP "That goes back in Sam's museum collection."
Hollis looked at Pitt. "You didn't find it in the trench?"
"No."
"You get a Turn on digging holes?"
Pitt acted as though he hadn't heard Hollis. He walked a short distance to the summit of the hill and looked down the slope into Mexico. The tent city had swelled to twice what it was the previous day. Tomorrow night, he thought. Topiltzin would unleash the stampede tomorrow night.
He turned to his left and stared up at the slightly higher Gongora Hill.
The Army Engineers were digging exactly where Lily had placed her stakes four days ago. They made two separate excavations. One was at the common tunnel, complete with overhead supports. The other was an open mine, a gouged crater in the side of the hill. Work was going slowly since General Chandler had pulled away most of the Engineers to help in the border defense.
Pitt turned and came back down the trench. He walked up to Hollis.
"Who's your best demolition expert?"
"Major Dillenger is one of the best explosive ordinance men in the army."
"I need about two hundred kilograms of C-six nitroglycerin gel .
Hollis looked at him in genuine surprise. "Two hundred kilograms of C-six? Ten kilos can take out a battleship. Do you know what you're asking? The nitrogel mix is shock-hazardous."
"Also a battery of spotlights," Pitt pressed on. "We can borrow them from a rock-concert group. Spotlights, strobe lights, and eardrum-blasting audio equipment." Then he turned to Lily. "I'll leave it to you to find a carpenter who can knock together a box."
"Why in God's name do you want all that stuff ?" Lily asked, eyes wide with curiosity.
"You don't want to know," Giordino moaned.
"I'll explain later," Pitt hedged.
"Sounds crazy to me," said Lily, uncomprehending.
The lady was only half right, Pitt thought. His plan was twice as crazy as anything she could conceive. But he kept everyone in the dark. He didn't think now was the right time to tell them he planned to take his act on the stage.
The green Volvo with the taxi markings stopped at the drive of Yazid's villa near Alexandria. The Egyptian army guards, who were posted by the personal order of President Hasan, stiffened into alertness at the gate as the taxi sat there without anyone's getting out.
Ammar sat in the back seat, his eyes and jaw heavily bandaged. He wore a blue silk robe and a small red turban. His Only medical treatment since escaping Santa Inez had come during a two-hour visit to a back-street Buenos Aires surgeon before chartering a private jet to fly him across the ocean to the small airport outside the city.
He no longer felt pain in his empty eye sockets. The drugs took care of that, but it was still agony to speak through his shattered jaw. And although he felt a strange sense of tranquility, his mind functioned as ruthlessly and efficiently as ever.
"We ate here," said Ibn from the driver's seat.
Ammar visualized Yazid's vffla in his mind-every detail as if he could actually see. "I know," he said simply.
"You do not have to do this g, Suleiman Aziz."
"I have no more hopes or fears. " Ammar spoke slowly, fighting the pain of each syllable. "It is the will of Allah."
Ibn swung from behind the wheel, opened the rear door and helped Ammar to climb out. He led Ammar up the driveway and turned him so he faced the heavily guarded gate.
"The gate is five meters in front of you," Ibn spoke haltingly in a voice heavy with emotion. He gently embraced Ammar. "Goodbye, Suleiman Aziz. I will miss you."
"Do what you promised, my friend, and we will meet in Allah's gar-den."
Ibn quickly turned and retraced his steps to the car. Ammar stood without moving until he heard the sound of the engine fade in the distance. Then he approached the gate.
"Stop right there, blind man," ordered a guard.
"I have come to visit my nephew, Akhmad Yazid," said Ammar.
The guard nodded to another, who disappeared into a small office and came out with a folder containing twenty or so names.
"Uncle, you say. What's your name?"
Ammar enjoyed making his last play as an impostor. He had collected on an old debt from a colonel in Abu Haniid's Defense Ministry and received the list of names of those permitted entry into Yazid's villa. He selected one who couldn't be immediately contacted.
"Mustapha Mahfouz."
"Your name is here all light. Let's see your identification."
The guard studied Ammar's counterfeit ID, fruitlessly trying to compare the photo with the heavily bandaged features.
"What happened to your face?"
"The car bomb that exploded in the bazaar at El Mansura. I was struck by flying debris."
"Too bad," the guard said without sincerity. "You can blame your nephew. It was his followers who set it off." He gestured to a subordinate. "If he clears the metal detector, guide him up to the house."
Ammar held out his arms as if he expected to be frisked.
"No need for a body search, Mahfouz. if you're carrying a weapon, the machine will spot it."
The metal detector revealed nothing and did not sound.
The front door: Ammar gloated as the Egyptian army security guard led him up the steps to the front door. No having to sneak in a side passage this time. He sorely wished he could see the look on Yazid's face when they met.
He was guided into what he perceived to be a large entry hall by the echo of the guard's boots on the tile floor. He was helped to a stone bench, and he sat down.
"Wait here."
Ammar heard the guard mumble to someone before returning to the gate. He sat in silence for several minutes. Then he heard approaching footsteps followed by a contemptuous voice.
"You are Mustapha Mahfouz?"
Ammar recognized the voice instantly. "Yes," he answered casually. "Do I know you?"
"We have not met. I am Khaled Fawzy, leader of Akhmad's revolutionary council."
"I've heard good things about you." The arrogant jackass, thought Ammar.
He doesn't know me under the bandages or by the slow rasp of my speech.
"it is indeed an honor to meet you. "
"Come along," said Fawzy, taking Ammar by the arm. "I'll take you to Akhmad. He thought you were still on a mission for him in Damascus. I don't think he's aware of your injuries."
"The result of an assassination attempt three days ago,,, Ammar lied artfully. "I left the hospital only this morning and flew straight here to brief Akhmad first hand."
"Akhrnad will be pleased to hear of your loyalty. He will also be saddened to learn of your injuries. Unfortunately your visit is poorly timed."
"I cannot meet with him?"
"He is at prayer," Fawzy said curtly.
Despite his suffering, Ammar could have laughed. He slowly became aware of another presence in the room. "It is vital he receive me."
"You may speak freely to me, mustapha Mahfouz." The name was spoken with heavy sarcasm. "I will relay your message."
:Tell Akhmad it concerns his ally."
'Who"" Fawzy demanded. "What ally?'
"Topiltzin."
The name seemed to hang in the room for an interminable time.
The stillness became intense. And then it was broken by a new voice.
"You should have stayed and died on the island, Suleiman," said Akhmad Yazid in a menacing tone.
Ammar's calm did not desert him. He had set his genius and last bit of strength for this moment. He was not about to wait for death. He was going to step forward and embrace it. Not for him a life of perpetual darkness and disfigurement-revenge was his deliverance.
"I could not die without standing in your forgiving presence one last time."
"Save your babble and remove those stupid bandages. You're losing your touch. Your crude imitation of Mahfbuz was fourth-rate for a man of your skills."
Ammar did not reply. He slowly un
wrapped the bandages until the ends came free, and he dropped them on the floor.
Yazid audibly sucked in his breath when he saw the hideous disfigurement of Ammar's face. Sadistic blood ran in Fawzy's veins: he stared with the perverted duill of one who enjoyed the sight of human wreckage.
"My payment for my service," Annnar slowly rasped.
"How is it you're alive?" Yazid asked, his voice shaken.
"My faithful friend Ibn hid me from the American Special Forces for two days until he fashioned a raft out of driftwood. After drifting with the current and paddling for ten hours, by the grace of Allah we were picked up by a Chilean fishing boat that set us ashore near a small airport at Puerto Williams. We stole an airplane and flew to Buenos Aires, where I chartered a jet to bring us to Egypt."
"That does not come easy to you," muttered Yazid. "You realize you signed your death warrant by coming here," Fawzy purred with anticipation.
"I expected little else."
"Suleiman Aziz Ammar," said Yazid with a trace of sadness. "The greatest assassin of his time, feared and respected by the CIA and the KGB, the creator of the most successful assassinations ever carried out.
And to think you should end as a filthy, pathetic beggar in the streets."
"What are you saying, Akhmad?" asked Fawzy in surprise.
"The man is already dead." Yazid's disgust was slowly turning to satisfaction. "Our financial experts will arrange for his wealth and investments to be taken over in my name. Then he will be turned out in the streets with twenty-four-hour guards to make certain he remains in the slums. He will spend the rest of his days begging to exist. that is far worse than a quick death."
"You will have me killed when I tell you what I came to say," said Ammar conversationally.
"I'm listening," said Yazid inpatiently.
"I dictated a complete fifty-page report of the entire Flamborough affair-All names, conversations, and dates were carefully itemized, everything, including my observations on the Mexican part of the operation and my opinion on the connection between you and Topiltzin.
Copies are being read at this moment by the intelligence services of western countries and members of their news media. However you deal with me, Akhmad, knowing you're finished '
He broke off abruptly, gasped as his entire head burst into excruciating agony. Fawzy's face was livid and teeth gnashed in rage, struck Ammar with his fist. The impact did not carry the solid weight of a planned punch. Fawzy's unthinking, explosive action came from complete loss of self-control. The blow glanced off one side of Ammar's injured jaw.
A man in good physical condition would have pulled it Off, but he was a wounded man on the brink of unconsciousness. Delicate scar tissue around his eyes and jaw split apart He fell backward, warding off Fawzy's blows with his hands and arms, fighting to clear ills mind of the pain, face white, blood spurting.
"Stop!" Yazid shouted at Fawzy. can't you see the man is trying to die.
He maybe lying, hoping we'll kill him here and now."
Ammar reclaimed a measure of mental control, positioning the sound of Yazid's voice, the location of Fawzy.
He reached out with his left hand and moved slowly forward until he was certmn he touched yazid's arm. Then he clutched it and made a movement that brought it up behind his neck.
The composite knife was pressed tightly into the slight indentation just to the right of Ammar's upper arm secured by white surgical tapeKnown as a utility device by undercover operatives, it was designed to pass safely through metal detectors.
Annnar tore the thin, triangular-shaped, eighteen-centimeter blade from his back, whipped back his elbow like a piston, then rammed the knife into Yazid's chest just under the rib cage.
The vicious thrust lifted the revolutionary Muslim impersonator off his feet. Paul Capesterre's eyes bulged in shock and terror. His only sound was a hoarse gurgle.
"Farewell, vermin," Ammar croaked through his bleeding mouth.
And then the knife was jerked free and he made a sweeping arc toward the spot where he sensed Fawzy was standing. The knife wasn't designed for a slashing attack, but his hand came in contact with Fawzy's face, and he felt the blade slice the cheek.
Ammar knew Fawzy was right-handed and always carried a gun, an old nine-millimeter Luger in a holster slung under the left armpit. He fell against Fawzy, attempting to clutch the arrogant fanatic, while shoving the knife upward again.
Without sight, his timing was late.
Fawzy had swiftly drawn the Luger. He pushed the barrel into Ammar's stomach and triggered two rounds before the knife drove into his heart.
He dropped the gun and clutched at his chest. He swayed a few steps to his side, staring down with a swaying quizzical look at the knife protruding on an upward angle below his sternum. Finally his eyes rolled upward and he dropped to the floor only a meter from where Capesterre had fallen.
Ammar very slowly sank to the ceramic tile floor and settled on his back. There was no more pain, none at all. He saw visions without his eyes. He could feel his life ebbing away as if it were floating down a stream.
His fate had been decided by a man he'd only met briefly. The unage came back of the tall man with the green eyes and the set grin. A wave of hate surged and just as quickly passed. Dirk Pitt-the name was etched in the darkening reaches of his mind.
He felt a euphoric contentment close over him. His last thought was that Ibn would take care of Pitt. Then the slate would be wiped clean....
The President sat in a leather armchair and stared at four television monitOrs-Three were tuned to the major networks, while the fourth was a direct feed from an ArTny communications truck at Roma. He looked , but his eyes glistened with intensity. They roved steadily from one monitor to the next; his face was set in concentration.
"I can't believe so many people can exist in so small an area," he said wonderingly.
"Their food has about run out," said Schiller, g from an up-to-the-minute CIA report. " g water is scarce, and the sanitation facilities are backed up."
"It's tonight or never," sighed Nichols wearily.
The President asked, "What kind of numbers are we looking at?"
"A computer head-wunt from an aerial photograph shows nearly four hundred and thirty-five thousand," replied Schiller.
"And they're going to pour ugh a corridor less than a kilometer wide,"
Nichols said grimly.
"Damn that murdering bastard!" the President said savagely. "Doesn't he realize or care that thousands will be killed or drowned in the crush alone?"
"A majority of them women and children," added Nichols.
"The Capesterres aren't known for charity and goodwill," muttered Schiller acidly.
"Still not too late to remove him." This from CIA director Martin Brogan. "Killing Topiltzin would be comparable to assassinating Hitler in 1930."
"Providing your hired gun got close enough," commented Nichols.
"Afterward, he'd be butchered by the crowd."
"I was thinking of a high-powered rifle from four hundred meters."
Schiller shook his head. "Not a practical solution. A clear shot could only come from an elevation on our side of the river. The Mexicans would know immediately who was responsible. Then things could Turn real ugly. Instead of a peaceful crowd, General Chandler's troops would be facing a maddened mob. They'd storm Roma with any weapons they could find, guns, knives, rocks and bottles. Then we'd have a real war on our hands."
"I concur," said Nichols. "General Chandler would have no choice but to open up with everything he had to save his men and any American citizens in the area."
The President struck the arm of the chair with his clenched fist in frustration. "Is there nothing we can do to prevent mass slaughter?"
"any way we look at it," said Nichols, "we're on the short end of the stick."
"Maybe we should say the hell with it and Turn over the Alexandria Library's treasure to President De L4orenzo. Anything to keep it out of
Topiltzin's filthy hands."
"A meaningless gesture," said Brogan. "Topiltzin's only using the artifacts as an excuse for a confrontation. Our intelligence sources report he plans the same immigrant invasions from Baja into Southern California and across the border at Nogales into Arizona."
"If only we can stop this madness," muttered the President.
One of four phones buzzed, and Nichols picked it up. "General Chandler, Mr. President. He's coming through on a scrambled frequency."
The President let out a long breath. "Staring into the face of the man I may have to order to kill ten thousand people is the least I can do."
The monitor faded for a moment and then came back with the head and shoulders of a man who was in his late forties.
His face was gaunt and his heavily silvered hair was bare of helmet or cap. The stress of command showed in the lines around the blue eyes.
"Good morning, General," the President greeted him. "I regret I can see you and you can't see me, but there is no camera at this end."
"I understand, Mr. President."
"What is the situation?"
"A heavy rain is just starting to fall, which should prove a godsend for those poor people. They can replenish their water supplies, dust will be dampened, and the stench from their latrines is already beginning to diminish."
"Have there been any provocations?"
"The usual taunts and banners, but no violence."
"from what you can observe, have any of the crowd become discouraged and started drifting back to their homes?"
"No, sir," replied Chandler. "if anything, they're more enthused. They think their Aztec messiah brought the rain, and he's pounded his chest to convince them of it. Groups of Catholic priests have been circulating among the people, preaching and begging them to return to the church and their homes. But Topiltzin's goons quickly escort the good fathers out of town."
"Martin Brogan thinks they'll make their move tonight."