Treasure (Dirk Pitt 9)

"This is Mustapha Osman," said Ibn. "He says an armed group of commandos have killed their group leader and barricaded themselves in the crushing mill with our helicopter."

Ammar's lips drew back in anger. "How could you let this happen?"

Osman's black eyes registered panic. "We had . . . no warning," he stammered. "They must have come down from the mountain. They subdued the sentries, seized the train and shot up our living quarters. When we launched our counterattack they fired on us from the crushing-mill building."

"Casualties?" Ammar demanded coldly.

"There are seven of us left."

The nightmare was worse than Ammar thought. "How many in their assault party?"

"Twenty, maybe thirty."

"Seven of you have of them under siege," snarled Ammar, his tone heavy with sarcasm. "Their number. This time the truth, or Ibn here will slit your throat."

Osman averted Ammar's eyes. He was frozen in fear. "There is no way of knowing for certain," he mumbled. "Perhaps four or more."

"Four men did all this?" said Ammar, aghast. He was seething but too disciplined to allow his anger to take control. "What of the helicopter?

Is it damaged?"

Osman seemed to brighten a degree. "No, we were careful not to fire at the section of the building where it is parked. I'd stake my father's honor it has not been hit."

"Only Allah knows whether the commandos have sabotaged it," said Ibn.

"We'll all see Allah soon if we don't recapture it in flying condition,"

Ammar said quietly. "The only way we can overpower the defenders is to strike hard and penetrate from all sides and crush them by sheer weight of numbers."

"Perhaps we can use the hostages to bargain our way out," said Ibn hopefully.

Ammar nodded. "A possibility. Americans are weak when it comes to death threats. I'll parley with our unknown scourge while you position the men for the assault."

"Take care, Suleiman Aziz."

"Be ready to attack when I remove my mask."

Ibn gave a slight bow and immediately began giving orders to the men.

Ammar ripped a tattered curtain from one window. The fabric had once been white, but was now faded to a dingy yellow.

It would have to do, he thought. He tied it to an old broom and stepped from the shed.

He moved along a row of miners' bunkhouses, keeping out of sight of the crushing mill until he was across from it.

Then he extended the curtain around a corner and waved it UP and down.

No gunfire tore through the ragged flag of truce, but nothing else happened either. Ammar tried shouting in English.

"We wish to talk!"

After several moments a voice yelled back. "No hablo inglgs. "

Ammar was taken back momentarily. Chilean secret police? They were far more efficient than he thought. He could speak fluently in English and get by in French, but he knew little Spanish. Hesitation would get him nowhere. He had to see who stood in his way of a successful escape.

He held up the makeshift flag, raised free hand and stepped out onto the road in front of the crushing mill.

The word for peace he knew was paz. So he shouted it several times.