Clive Cussler - Treasure

"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."