Clive Cussler - Treasure

"Thank you, George, you're a good scout." The President paused, and then sprang the trap. "There is one other thing."

"There always is." The Senator sighed.

"I'd like you to inform President Hasan 'm private, under the strictest secrecy, that I will fully cooperate with him in the event he decides to remove Yazid."

The Senator's voice was shocked. "Since when does the White House deal in political assassination? I implore you, Mr. President, do not lower your office into the slime with Yazid and other terrorists."

"If someone had had the foresight to take Khomeini for a ride twelve years ago, the Middle East would be a far more peaceful place."

"King George might have said the same about George Washington and the colonies in 1778."

"Come now, George, we could spend all day making comparisons. The final decision is up to Hasan. He has to give the go-ahead."

"A bad idea," saidd the Senator resolutely. "I have grave doubts about such an offer. If this leaked out it could shatter your Presidency."

"I respect your advice and honesty. That's why you're the only man I can trust to deliver the message."

The Senator caved in. "I'll do as you ask and gladly brief Hasan on the Library proposal, but don't expect me to sell him on Yazid's murder even if it's deserved."

"I'll see that Hasan's staff is alerted to your arrival," said Nichols, stepping in diplomatically.

The President rose from behind his desk, signaling the end of the conference. He shook hands with the Senator.

"I'm grateful, old friend. I'll look forward to your report Wednesday afternoon. We'll have an early supper together."

"See you then, Mr. President."

"Have a good flight."

As Senator Pitt left the Oval Office he had a dire sense that the President might very well be dining alone Wednesday evening.

The Lady Flamborough slipped smoothly into the tiny harbor of Punta del Este just minutes before the sun fell over the western interior of the mainland. A soft breeze drifted in from the south that barely fluttered the Union Jack on her stern.

She was a beautiful cruise ship, trim and handsomely designed, with a streamlined superstructure. She broke with the traditional British black hull and more common white on her upper works. She was painted entirely in a soft slate blue with a sharply raked funnel banded in royal purple and burgundy.

One of the new breed of sleek, small cruise ships, the Lady Flamborough looked more like a posh motor yacht. Her trim 101-meter-long hull contained the most sumptuous luxuries afloat. With only fifty large suites, she carried just one hundred passengers, who were catered to by an equal number of crew members.

On this voyage, however, from her home port in San Juan, Puerto Rico, she sailed without passengers.

"Two degrees port," said the dark-skinned pilot.

"Two degrees port," acknowledged the helmsman.

The pilot stood in loose khaki shirt and shorts and kept a calculating eye on the finger of land that sheltered the bay until it slipped behind the Lady Flamborough's stern.

"Begin coming around to starboard and hold steady at zero eight zero."

The helmsman dutifully repeated the command and the ship very slowly swung on its new course.

The harbor was crowded with yachts and other cruise ships riving flocks of colorful pointed and swallowtail pennants. Some vessels were chartered as floating hotels for the economic conference, others were filled with their usual complement of vacationing passengers.

Half a kilometer from the mooring site the pilot ordered the engines on

"dead stop." The luxurious ship slipped through the calm water on her momentum, eating up the distance and gradually easing to a halt.

Satisfied, the pilot spoke into a portable transmitter. "We're in position. Slow aft and drop the hook."

The order was relayed to the bow, and the anchor payed out as the ship very slightly moved astern. When the flukes dug into the harbor silt, the slack was taken up and the order was given to ring the engines to

"off."

Captain Oliver Collins, a slim man standing straight as a plumb line in an impeccably tailored white uniform, nodded at the pilot in respect and offered his hand.

"Neatly done as always, Mr. Campos." Captain Collins had known the pilot for almost twenty years, yet he never referred to anyone, even his closest friends, by his Christian name.

"If her length stretched another thirty meters I couldn't squeeze her in." Harry Campos smiled, revealing an array of tobacco-stained teeth.

His accent was more hish than Spanish. "Sorry we can't slip her into a berth, Captain, but I was told to moor you in the harbor."

"for security reasons, I should imagine," said Collins.

Campos lit the stub of a cigar. "The bigwig meetings have the whole island turned upside down. You'd think there was a sniper behind every palm the way security police are acting."

Collins stared through the bridge windows at the popular playground of South America. "I'll not complain. This ship will be hosting the presidents of Mexico and Egypt during the conference.

"That a fact?" muttered Campos. "No wonder they wanted to keep your vessel offshore."

"May I offer you a drink in my cabin, or better yet, considering the hour, would you do the honor of dining with me?"

Campos shook his head. "My thanks for the invite, Captain." He paused and motioned at the mass of ships filling the harbor. "But she's a busy time. Maybe a rain check for your next layover."

Campos filled out his document for payment and handed it to Captain Collins, who signed. Campos looked through the aft bridge windows at the immaculate decks of the ship.

"One of these days I'll take a holiday and sail with you as a passenger."

"Let me know," said Collins. "I'll see the company covers all your expenses."

"A mighty kind offer. If I tell my wife, she'll never let up till I take advantage of it."

"A pleasure, Mr. Campos. any time you say the word."

The pilot boat came alongside and Campos jumped onto the deck from the boarding ladder. He gave a final wave as the boat pulled away and headed out to sea to pilot the next incoming vessel.

"Most enjoyable voyage I ever sailed." This from Collins's first officer, Nhchael Finney. "A frill crew and no passengers. for six days I thought I'd died and gone to heaven."

Company orders required ship's officers to spend almost as much time entertaining the passengers as sailing the ship, a duty Finney hated with a passion. A fine seaman, he stayed away from the main dining salon as much as possible, preferring to eat with his fellow officers, or making constant inspections of the ship.

Finney didn't exactly look the part of a party mixer. He was big, with a barrel chest that fought to explode from the tight confines of his uniform.

"I don't imagine you missed the joy of mingling and small talk," said Collins sarcastically.

Finney made a disagreeable face. "Wouldn't be so bad if they didn't ask the same stupid questions all the time."

"Courtesy and respect when dealing with passengers, Mr. Finney," Collins admonished. "It goes with the waters. Mind your manners in the next few days. We'll be entertaining some rather important foreign leaders and statesmen."

Finney did not reply. He gazed at the modern high-rise

"Everytime I see the old town," he said wistfully, "they ve added another hotel."

"Yes, you're from Uruguay."

"Born just west in Montevideo. My father was a sales rep for a Belfast machinery company."

"You must enjoy coming home," said Collins.

"Not really. I signed aboard a Panamanian ore carrier when I was sixteen. Mum and dad are gone. Nobody left I grew up with." He paused and pointed through the bridge window at an approaching boat. "Here come the bloody customs and immigration inspectors."