Capestet's mouth sagged open and a thin scream echoed through the excavation. Then he sank to his knees, staring dumbly at the severed limb, unable to believe it was no longer a part of him, oblivious to the spreading stream of blood.
He knelt there, swaying side to side, the pain tightly held in check by shock. He slowly looked up at Pitt with dazed eyes. "Why this?" he whispered. "Why not a bullet?"
"A small payment for a man by the name of Guy Rivas."
"You knew Rivas?"
Pitt shook his head. "Friends of his told me how you mutilated him. How his family stood at the grave site not knowing they were burying only his skin."
"Friends?" Capesterre asked blankly.
"MY father and a man who lives in the White House," Pitt said coldly. He glanced at his watch again. He stared down at Robeii Capesterre, but there was no pity on his face. "Sorry I can't stay and help with the mess, but I have to run." Then he turned and headed for the exit tunnel.
He took only two steps before he came to an abrupt halt-A short, swarthy man, wearing a pair of old and worn army combat fatigues, stood in the center of the chamber entrance holding a four-shot pistolized shotgun that was pointed at Pitts stomach.
"No need to hurry, Mr. Pitt," he said with a heavy accent, his voice maner-of-fact. "No one is going anywhere."
Though they had been aware of a third party entering the tunnel, the sudden appearance of the menacing stranger still took everyone by surprise in the Situation Room. Calamity began to loom as they helplessly watched the scene being played out deep under Gongora Hill.
"General Chandler," said the President sharply, "what in hell is going on? Who is the intruder?"
"We're viewing him from our monitoring unit too, Mr. President, but the best guess is he's one of Topiltzin's men. He must have penetrated from the north, where our security line is spread thin."
"He's wearing a uniform," said Brogan. "Can he be one of your men?"
"Not unless our quartermaster is issuing Israeli Army battle fatigues."
"Get some men down there to help Pitt," ordered General Metcalf.
"Sir, if I sent a squad of men anywhere near the excavation, the mob would think we were out to either harm or capture Topiltzin. They'd go berserk."
"He's right," said Schiller. "The crowd is getting edgy."
"The intruder stole inside the tunnel under their noses,"
Metcalf persisted. "Why can't a couple of your men do the same? '
"it was possible ten minutes ago, but not now," replied Chandler.
"Topiltzin's crew have set up more floods. The whole slope is swimming in bright light. A rat couldn't run in there without being seen."
"The excavations face south toward the people," explained Senator Pitt.
"There are no exits behind the hill."
"We're lucky as it is," Chandler continued. "The gunfire echoing from the tunnel sounded like distant thunder and no one was sure where it came from."
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.
"Then take a good look in the coffin."
"Do not even think of making a move, Mr. Pitt," said Ibn. His eyes hung warily on Pitt as he shuffled toward the coffin. When his right hip touched the pallbearer's handle he stopped and took a quick glance inside, and then back at his quarry.