Clive Cussler - Treasure

"But the port authorities would have blown the whistle when the container ship was overdue," insisted Giordino.

"Don't underestimate this guy. What do you want to bet he signaled the San Pablo Harbor Master and said the General Bravo was running late due to engine breakdown?"

"A neat touch," agreed Giordino. "He could easily gain another forty-eight hours."

"Okay," said Gunn. "What's left? Where does he go? There are a thousand uninhabited islands he could get lost in around the Straits of Magellan."

"Or ' Giordino hung on the "or7-"he might sail to the Antarctic, where he figures no one will search."

"We're all talking in the present tense," said Pitt. "for all we know, he's already moored in some deserted cove."

"We're on to his tricks now," said Gunn. "The Landsat cameras will be activated on its next pass over, and the Lady Flamborough, alias General Bravo, will be revealed in all her glory. "

Giordino looked at Pitt for comment, but his old friend was staring off into space. He had picked up on Pitts habit of tuning out and knew the signs all too well.

Pitt was no longer on the Sounder, he was on the bridge of the Lady Flamborough, attempting to get inside the head of his adversary. It wasn't an easy chore. The man who ramrodded the hijacking had to be the shrewdest customer Pitt had ever come up against.

"He's aware of that," Pitt said finally.

"Aware of what?" Gunn asked curiously.

"The fact he can be detected by satellite photographs."

"Then he knows he can run, but he can't hide."

"I think he can."

"I'd like to know how."

Pitt stood and stretched. "I'm going to take a little walk."

"You didn't answer my question." Gunn was anxious now, impatient.

Pitt swayed and balanced his body with the rock of the ship and looked down at Gunn with a half grin. "If I were him," he said as if talking about a man he knew well, "I'd make the ship disappear a second time."

Gunn's mouth dropped open as Giordino gave him an "I told you so" look.

But before he could probe further, Pitt had exited the dining room.

Pitt made his way aft and dropped down a ladder to the moon pool. He walked around the Deep Rover and stopped in front of the large roll of plastic sheeting they had pulled up from the bottom. It stood on end nearly as tall as Pitt and was secured by ropes against a stanchion.

He stared at it for nearly five minutes before he rose and patted it with one hand. Intuition, an intuition that grew into a certainty, put a look that could be best described as pure Machiavellian in his eyes.

He spoke a single word, uttered under his breath so softly that an engineer standing only a few meters away at a workbench didn't hear him.

"Gotcha!"

A flood of information on what became known as the Flamborough crisis poured through teletype and computer into the Pentagon's Military Command Center, the State Department's seventh floor Operations Center, and the War Games room in the old Executive Office Building.

from each of these strategy tanks, the data were assembled and analyzed with almost lightning speed. Then the condensed version, fused with recommendations, was rushed to the Situation Room located in the White House basement for final assessment.

The President, dressed casually in slacks and a woolen turtleneck, entered the room and sat at one end of the long conference table. After being updated on the situation, he would ask for options from his advisers for appropriate action. Though final decisions were his alone, he was heavily reinforced by crisis-management veterans who labored in search of a policy consensus and stood ready to carry it out once he gave it his stamp of approval despite dissenting opinions.

The intelligence reports from Egypt were mostly all bad. A state of anarrhy was in full swing; the situation was deteriorating by the hour.

The police and military forces remained in their barracks while thousands of Akhmad Yazid's followers staged strikes and boycotts throughout the country. The only shred of good news was that the demonstrations were not marked by violence.

Secretary of State Douglas Oates briefly examined a report that was placed in front of him by an aide. "That's all we need," he muttered.

The President looked at him expectantly in silence.

"The Muslim rebels have just stormed and taken Cairo's major TV

station."

"A-ny appearance by Yazid?"

"Still a no-show." CIA chief Brogan walked over from one of the computer monitors. "The latest intelligence says he's still holed up in his villa outside Alexandria, waiting to form a new government by acclamation."

"Shouldn't be long now." The President sighed wearily. "What stance are the Israeli ministers taking?"

Oates neatly stacked some papers as he spoke. "Strictly a wait-and-see attitude. They don't picture Yazid as an immediate threat."

"They'll change their tune when he tears up the Camp David Peace Accord." The President turned and coldly stared into Brogan's eyes. "Can we take him out?"

"Yes."

Brogan's answer was flat, emphatic.

"How?"

"In the event it comes back to haunt your administration, Mr.

President, I respectfully suggest you don't know."

The President bowed his head slightly in agreement.

"You're probably right. Still, you can't do the job unless I give the order."

"I strongly urge you not to resort to assassination," said Oates.

"Doug Oates is right," said Julius Schiller. "It could boomerang. If word leaked out, you'd be considered fair game by middle East terrorist leaders."

"Not to mention the uproar from Congress," added Dale Nichols, who sat midway down the table. "And the press would murder you."

The President thoughtfully weighed the consequences. Then he finally nodded. "All right, so long as Yazid hates Soviet Premier Antonov as much as he does me, we'll put his demise on the back burner for now. But bear this in mind, gentlemen,

I'm not about to take half the crap from this nut that Khomeini dished out to my predecessors."

Brogan scowled, but an expression of relief was exchanged between Oates and Schiller. Nichols merely puffed contentedly on his pipe.

The actors in the drama were strong men with definite and often conflicting viewpoints. Victory came easy, but defeat smoldered.

The President shifted the agenda. "any late word on Mexico?"

"The situation is uncomfortably quiet," answered Brogan. "No demonstrations, no rioting. Topiltzin appears to be playing the same waiting game as his brother."

The President looked up, puzzled. "Did I hear you correctly? You said

'brother'?"

Brogan tilted his head toward Nichols. "Dale made a good call. Yazid and Topiltzin are brothers who are neither Egyptian nor Mexican by birth."

"You've definitely proven a family connection?" Schiller interrupted in astonishment. "You have proof?"

"Our operatives obtained and matched their genetic codes."

"This is the first I've heard about it," said a stunned President. "You should have informed me sooner."

"The final documentation is still being evaluated and will be sent over from Langley shortly. I'm sorry, Mr. President. At the risk of sounding overly cautious, I didn't want to throw out such a shocking discovery until we had gathered solid evidence."

"How in hell did you get their genetic codes?" asked Nichols.

"Both those guys are vain promoters," explained Brogan. "Our forgery department sent a Koran to Yazid, and a photograph to Topiltzin showing him in full Aztec regalia, along with requests begging them in each to inscribe a short prayer on both items and return them. Actually, it was a bit more complicated, writing the requests in the handwriting of known adoring followers-influential followers with financial and political clout, I might add. Both fell for it. The tricky part was intercepting the return mail before it reached the correct addresses. The next problem was sifting out the several sets of fingerprints which accompanied each object. Aides, secret agents, whoever. One thumbprint on the Koran matched with a known set of Yazid's prints that were on file with Egyptian police when he was arrested several years ago. We then traced his DNA from his fingerprint oils.