Without uttering another word and without listening to further warnings from his advisers, he ordered the platform lowered to the ground, and he stepped off. The spotlights stayed on him as he advanced up the hill alone and arrogant. His feet did not show beneath the hem of his robe and he appeared to glide rather than walk.
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.