"Are you'receiving sound and picture, Mr. President?"
asked General Chandler
"Yes, General," answered the President. "Their conversation is coming in quite clear, but they walked out of camera range when they entered the tunnel."
"We'll pick them up again in the casket chamber, where we have another concealed camera."
"How is Pitt wired?" asked Martin Brogan.
"The microphone and transmitter are inserted in the front seam of the old shield."
"Is he armed?"
"We don't believe so."
All those in the Situation Room became silent as their eyes moved to a second monitor that was displaying the excavated chamber under Gongora Hill. The camera was focused on a gold coffin raised in the center of the chamber.
But not all eyes were on the second monitor. One pair had not left the first.
"Who was that?" Nichols blurted.
Brogan's eyes narrowed. "Who do you mean?"
Nichols pointed at the monitor whose camera was still aimed at the underground entrance of the hill. "A shadow passed in front of the camera and moved into the tunnel."
"I didn't see anything," said General Metcalf.
"I saw it too," the President agreed. He leaned toward the microphone sitting on the table in front of him. "General Chandler?"
"Mr. President," the General replied swiftly.
"Dale Nichols swears he saw someone enter the tunnel after Pitt and Topiltzin."
"One of my aides thought he caught someone too."
"So I'm not seeing things," Nichols sighed.
"Do you have any idea who it might be?"
"Whoever it was," Chandler said, alarm showing on his face, "he wasn't one of ours."
"I see that you limp," said Capesterre.
"A little memento of your brother's mad scheme to murder President Hasan and Hala K l."
Capesterre gave Pitt a questioning look but he did not pursue the subject. His mind was taken up with keeping an eye on Pitt's every move while staying alert for the least sign of in trigue.
A little farther on the tunnel broadened into a circular gallery. Pitt slowed and came to a stop in front of a coffin supported on four legs that were carved in what looked like erect Chinese dragons. The entire work gleamed gold under the overhead lights. A stack of Roman legionary weapons leaned against one wall.
"Alexander the Great," Pitt announced. "The art and scrolls are stored in an adjoining chamber."
Capesterre moved closer in awe. He hesitantly reached out and touched the top of the casket. Then suddenly, he jerked his hand back and spun to face Pitt, his face a mask of rage.
"A trick!" he shouted, his voice echoing through the tunnels. "This is no two-thousand-year-old coffin. The paint isn't dry. " 'The Greeks were very advanced-"
"Shut up!" Capesterre's right sleeve fell away, exposing the revolver.
"No more smart talk, Mister Pitt-Where is the treasure?"
"Give me a break," Pitt begged. "We haven't hit the main depository chamber yet." He began to edge away from the coffin, feigning fear. He backed up until his shoulders touched the wall holding the ancient swords and spears. His eyes darted to the casket as if expecting its resident to sit up.
Capesterre caught the furtive glance and his lips glazed into a knowing smile. He pointed the revolver at the coffin. He pulled the trigger and four holes appeared on one side but exited in great shredded gouges on the opposite. The reports were deafening inside the rock chamber.
They sounded as if the gun was fired under a giant bell.
Capesterre took hold of the rid over the coffin's upper half. "Your backup, Mr. Pitt?" he snarled. "How simple-minded of YOU."
"There was no place to hide him," Pitt breathed regretfully. The green eyes showed no fear and his voice was tightly controlled.
Capesterre threw open the lid and stared inside. His face went deathly pate and he shuddered in horror before letting the lid drop with a loud thump. A low moan escaped his lips, growing into a long, drawn-out "no"
sound.
Pin turned slightly so the shield covered the movement of his right hand. He edged away from the chamber wall until he stood facing Capesterre's left side. Then he glanced uneasily at the hands of his watch. He was almost past his deadline.
Capester stepped fearfully toward the coffin again and lifted the lid; this time he let it fall open and backward. He forced himself to stare inside.
"Paul . . . it really is Paul," he stammerrd in shock.
"from what I was told," said Pitt, "President Hasan wasn't about to allow Akhmad Yazid's followers to entomb him in a shrine as a martyr. So the cadaver was led here where you two can lie together."
Grief slowly replaced shock as Capesterre stared at his brother. Then his face twisted in bitterness and he asked in a vicious undertone,
"What was your part in all this?"
"I headed the team that found the key to the Library treasure site. That was a dedicated effort. Then your brother's hired terrorists tried to kill me and my friends but only succeeded ravaging my classic car. That was a big mistake. Next, you and your brother took my father as a hostage on the Lady Flamborough. YOu know the ship I'm talking about.
Now that was really a blunder. I decided not to get mad, but get even.
You're going to die, CaPesterre. In another minute you're going to lie as cold and stiff as your brother. A damned small payment for the men whose hearts you cut out and all those children who drowned because of your insane power grab."
Capesterre's body tautened and the grief cleared from his eyes. "But not before I kill you!" he said savagely as he spun around and crouched.
Pitt had prepared for the attack. The sword he'd snatched from the stack by the wall was already raised above his head. He brought it down in a slashing sideways arc, Capesterre it-antically lifted the Colt. The muzzle was only centimeters from lining up on Pitts head. The gleaming blade sliced through the air, glinting under the hanging lights. The gun, with Capesten-e's hand clutching the grip, finger tightening on the trigger, seemed to detach from his arm and sail toward the ceiling. They rotated through the air, end over end, before dropping to the limestone floor, still locked together.
Capestet's mouth sagged open and a thin scream echoed through the excavation. Then he sank to his knees, staring dumbly at the severed limb, unable to believe it was no longer a part of him, oblivious to the spreading stream of blood.
He knelt there, swaying side to side, the pain tightly held in check by shock. He slowly looked up at Pitt with dazed eyes. "Why this?" he whispered. "Why not a bullet?"
"A small payment for a man by the name of Guy Rivas."
"You knew Rivas?"
Pitt shook his head. "Friends of his told me how you mutilated him. How his family stood at the grave site not knowing they were burying only his skin."
"Friends?" Capesterre asked blankly.
"MY father and a man who lives in the White House," Pitt said coldly. He glanced at his watch again. He stared down at Robeii Capesterre, but there was no pity on his face. "Sorry I can't stay and help with the mess, but I have to run." Then he turned and headed for the exit tunnel.
He took only two steps before he came to an abrupt halt-A short, swarthy man, wearing a pair of old and worn army combat fatigues, stood in the center of the chamber entrance holding a four-shot pistolized shotgun that was pointed at Pitts stomach.
"No need to hurry, Mr. Pitt," he said with a heavy accent, his voice maner-of-fact. "No one is going anywhere."
Though they had been aware of a third party entering the tunnel, the sudden appearance of the menacing stranger still took everyone by surprise in the Situation Room. Calamity began to loom as they helplessly watched the scene being played out deep under Gongora Hill.
"General Chandler," said the President sharply, "what in hell is going on? Who is the intruder?"
"We're viewing him from our monitoring unit too, Mr. President, but the best guess is he's one of Topiltzin's men. He must have penetrated from the north, where our security line is spread thin."