Treasure (Dirk Pitt 9)

The President looked at Senator Pitt darkly. "George, if the crowd begins to surge forward, we'll have to end the operation before your son can escape."

The Senator passed a hand in front of his eyes and nodded solemnly. Then he looked up at the monitor.

"Dirk will make it," he said with quiet confidence.

Nichols suddenly came to his feet and pointed at the monitor. "The mob!" he rasped despairingly. "They're moving!"

While others debated his chances of survival 2,500 kilometers away, Pitts main concern was the black mouth of the shotgun pistol. He didn't doubt for a second it was held in the hand of a man who had killed many times. The face behind the gun wore a bored expression. Ho-hum, another one, Pitt thought. If he didn't have his insides splashed against a wall in a few seconds, he would be crushed by tons of earth.

He wasn't keen on either choice.

"You mind telling me who you are?" Pitt asked.

"I am Ibn Telmuk, close friend and servant to Suleiman Aziz Ammar."

Yes, thought Pitt, yes. The sight of the terrorist on the road in front of the crushing mill came back to him. "You guys go to any length for revenge, don't you?"

"It was his last wish that I kill you."

Pitt very slowly dropped his right arm so the sword hung down pointing at the chamber floor. He made the show of a brave man accepting defeat and relaxed his body, shoulders sagging, knees slightly bent. "Were you on Santa Inez?"

"Yes, Suleiman Aziz and I escaped back to Egypt together."

Pitts dark eyebrows came together. He hadn't thought it possible Ammar had lived after the shootout. God, time was running out.

Ibn should have shot him without a word, but Pitt knew the Arab was only toying with him. The blast of fifty pellets would come in the middle of a sentence.

There was no reward in stalling. Pitt stared at Ibn, measuring the distance between them, figuring what direction he would leap. With casual ease, he edged the shield across his body.

Capesterre wrapped part of his robe around the bleeding stump, moaning from the increasing pain. Then he held up the blood soaked cloth in front of Ibn. "Get him!" he cried. "Look what he did to me. Shoot him down!

I am Topiltzin."

"His real name is Robert Capesterre," said Pitt. "He's a colossal fraud."

Capesteffe scrambled over to Ibn until he was sitting at the Arab's feet. "Don't listen to him," pleaded Capesterre. "He is a common criminal."

for the first time Ibn grinned. "Hardly that. I've studied a file on Mr. Pitt. He's not common at anything."

Looking better, Pitt thought. Ibn was momentarily distracted by Topiltzin. He slipped sideways a few centimeters at a time, trying to place himself so that Capesterre lay between him and Ibn.

"Where is Ammar?" Pitt asked abruptly.

"Dead," replied Ibn. The grin was quickly replaced with lip-tightening anger. "He died after killing that pig Akhmad Yazid."

The bombshell stunned Capesterre. His gaze automatically turned to his brother's body in the coffin.

"So it was the man my brother hired to hijack the ship," Capesteffe uttered in a hoarse croak.

Pitt fought the urge to say "I told you so," and moved another centimeter.

Ibn's eyes registered incomprehension. "Akhmad Yazid was your brother?"

"Two peas in a pod," said Pitt. "Would you'recognize Yazid if you saw him?"

"Of course. His appearance is as familiar as the Ayatollah Khomeini or Yasir Arafat."

Pitts mind raced with new modifications to his desperation plan, taking advantage of the few crumbs thrown his way. Everything hinged on how well he could read Ibn's mind and predict the killer's reaction to seeing Yazid.