Clive Cussler - Treasure

Ammar rapped five times on Finney's door and waited. The door was cracked slightly and the guard stood back. Arnniar took a quick look up and down the carpeted passageway and entered.

He nodded toward the Captain. The guard moved forward and stripped the tape from Collins's mouth. "I regret the inconvenience, Captain. But I suppose it would be a waste of words to ask you to give me your word you won't attempt to escape and warn your crew."

Collins sat stiffly in a chair, his arms and legs chained together, and glared at Ammar with murder in his eyes. "You sordid sewer filth."

"You British have a literary quality to your insults that is quite amusing. An American would have simply used a fourletter word meaning the same thing."

"You'll get no cooperation from me or my officers."

"Not even if I order my men to slit the throats of your female crew members one by one and throw their bodies to the sharks?"

Finney lunged at Ammar but the guard swiftly swung the butt end of his automatic rifle into the first officer's groin. Finney fell back into his chair with a muffled groan, his eyes glazed in pain.

Collins's eyes never left Ammar. "I'd expect as much from a band of subhuman terrorists."

"We are not ignorant juveniles out to butcher infidels," Ammar explained patiently. "We are top-line professionals. This is not a repeat of the unfortunate Achille Lauro episode of a few years back. We do not intend to murder anyone. Our purpose is simply to hold Presidents Hasan and De Lorenzo and their staffs for ransom. If you do not stand in our way, we shall make our deal with their respective governments and be on our way."

Collins studied Ammar's mirrored face, searching for the lie, but the Arab's eyes reflected genuine honesty. He could not know Ammar was a master at theatrical deception.

"But you wouldn't hesitate to butcher my crew otherwise."

"And you too, of course."

"What do you want from me?"

"You, actually nothing. Mr. Parker and Mr. Jones have accepted me as Oliver Collins. It's First Officer Finney whose services I require. You will order him to obey my commands."

"Why Finney?" asked Collins.

"I opened the desk file in your cabin and read the officers' personal records. Finney knows these waters."

"I don't see what you're getting at."

"We cannot afford the risk of calling for a pilot," explained Animar.

"Tomorrow after dark, Finney will take the helm and steer the ship through the channel into the open sea."

Collins considered that. Then he slowly shook his head. "Once the port authorities get on to you they'll block the harbor entrance whether you threaten to kill everyone on board or not."

"A darkened ship can slip out on a dark night," Ammar assured him.

"How far do you expect to go? Every patrol boat within a hundred miles will have you boxed in by daylight."

... They won't find us."

Collins looked slightly dazed. "That's crazy. You can't hide a ship like the Lady Flamborough."

"Quite true," said Ammar, a cold, knowing smile forming on his lips.

"But I can make her invisible."

Jones was bent over a desk in his cabin making notes for the morning's welcoming ceremonies when Parker knocked on the door and entered. He looked tired and his uniform was damp with sweat.

Jones turned and looked at him. "Loading duty finished?"

"Yes, thank God."

"How about a nightcap?"

"A glass of your good Scottish malt whiskey?"

Jones rose and lifted a bottle from a dresser drawer. He poured two glasses and handed one to Parker.

"Look at it this way," he said. "You were relieved of standing early-morning anchor watch."

"I'd have preferred that to cargo loading," said Parker tiredly. "What about you?"

"Just got off duty."

"I wouldn't have bothered you if I hadn't seen a light through your port."

"Burning the midnight oil, making sure everything runs tick-tock smooth tomorrow."

"Finney isn't about and I felt I had to talk to someone.

for the first time Jones noticed the confused expression in Parker's eyes. "What's bothering you?"

Parker downed the Scotch and stared at the empty glass.

"We've just taken on the damnedest cargo I've ever seen come on board a cruise liner."

"What did you load?" asked Jones, his curiosity aroused.

Parker sat quite still, shaking his head. "Painting gear. Air compressors, brushes, rollers and fifty drums of what I assumed was paint."

Jones couldn't resist asking, "What color?"

Parker shook his head. "Can't say. The drums were marked in Spanish."

"Nothing odd about that. The company must want them on hand when the Lady Flamborough goes in for a refit."

"That's only the half of it. We transshipped huge rolls of plastic. "

"Plastic?"

"And great sheets of fiberboard," Parker continued. "We must have loaded kilometers of the stuff. We barely squeezed it ugh the loading doors. Mucked around a good three hours just trying to stow it."

Jones stared at his glass through half-open eyes. "What do you suppose the company plans to do with it?"

Parker looked up at Jones with a puzzled frown. "I haven't the foggiest idea."

"The Egyptian and Mexican security agents came on board soon after sunup and proceeded to inspect the ship for hidden explosives and make cursory checks of the crew members' records for any hint of a possible assassin.

Except for a sprinkling of Indians and Pakistanis, the members of the crew were British, and had no quarrel with the governments of either Egypt or Mexico.

Animar's terrorist team all spoke fluent English and acted very cooperative, showing their counterfeit British passports and insurance-security documents when asked, and offering their assistance in the ship's inspection.

President De Lorenzo came on board later in the morning. He was a short man in his early sixties, physically robust, with wind-blown gray hair, mournful dark eyes, and the suffering look of an intellectual condemned to a mental institution.

He was welcomed by Ammar impersonating Captain Collins in an award-winning performance. The ship's orchestra played the Mexican national anthem, and then the Mexican leader and his staff were escorted to their suites on the starboard side of the Lady Flamborough.

In the middle of the afternoon a yacht belonging to a wealthy Egyptian exporter came alongside and President Hasan climbed onto the ship. The Egyptian leader was the complete opposite of his Mexican counterpart. He was younger, just past his fifty-fourth birthday, with thinning, black hair. He stood slim and tall, yet he moved with the halting movements of a man who was ill. His dusky eyes were watery and seemed to stare through a filter of suspicion.

The ceremony was repeated and President Hasan along with his staff were quartered in the suites running the length of the port side.

Over fifty Third World heads of state had arrived in Punta del Este for the economic summit. Some chose to stay in palatial estates owned by their nation's citizens or at the exclusive Cantegril Country Club.

Others preferred the offshore quiet of the cruise ships.

Visiting diplomats and journalists soon crowded the streets and restaurants. Uruguayan officials worried whether they could cope with the sudden mass of important foreigners combined with the routine influx of tourists. The nation's military force and police units did their best to control the situation, but they were soon overwhelmed by the human tidal wave sweeping the streets, and they gave up all attempts at traffic control, concentrating their efforts on guarding the summit meeting leaders.

Ammar stood on the starboard bridge wing and surveyed the teeming city through binoculars. He lowered them for a moment and checked his watch for the fifth time.

His close friend studied him carefully. "Are you counting the minutes until nightfall, Suleiman Aziz?"