Treasure

Ammar's lips drew back in anger. "How could you let this happen?"

Osman's black eyes registered panic. "We had . . . no warning," he stammered. "They must have come down from the mountain. They subdued the sentries, seized the train and shot up our living quarters. When we launched our counterattack they fired on us from the crushing-mill building."

"Casualties?" Ammar demanded coldly.

"There are seven of us left."

The nightmare was worse than Ammar thought. "How many in their assault party?"

"Twenty, maybe thirty."

"Seven of you have of them under siege," snarled Ammar, his tone heavy with sarcasm. "Their number. This time the truth, or Ibn here will slit your throat."

Osman averted Ammar's eyes. He was frozen in fear. "There is no way of knowing for certain," he mumbled. "Perhaps four or more."

"Four men did all this?" said Ammar, aghast. He was seething but too disciplined to allow his anger to take control. "What of the helicopter?

Is it damaged?"

Osman seemed to brighten a degree. "No, we were careful not to fire at the section of the building where it is parked. I'd stake my father's honor it has not been hit."

"Only Allah knows whether the commandos have sabotaged it," said Ibn.

"We'll all see Allah soon if we don't recapture it in flying condition,"

Ammar said quietly. "The only way we can overpower the defenders is to strike hard and penetrate from all sides and crush them by sheer weight of numbers."

"Perhaps we can use the hostages to bargain our way out," said Ibn hopefully.

Ammar nodded. "A possibility. Americans are weak when it comes to death threats. I'll parley with our unknown scourge while you position the men for the assault."

"Take care, Suleiman Aziz."

"Be ready to attack when I remove my mask."

Ibn gave a slight bow and immediately began giving orders to the men.

Ammar ripped a tattered curtain from one window. The fabric had once been white, but was now faded to a dingy yellow.

It would have to do, he thought. He tied it to an old broom and stepped from the shed.

He moved along a row of miners' bunkhouses, keeping out of sight of the crushing mill until he was across from it.

Then he extended the curtain around a corner and waved it UP and down.

No gunfire tore through the ragged flag of truce, but nothing else happened either. Ammar tried shouting in English.

"We wish to talk!"

After several moments a voice yelled back. "No hablo inglgs. "

Ammar was taken back momentarily. Chilean secret police? They were far more efficient than he thought. He could speak fluently in English and get by in French, but he knew little Spanish. Hesitation would get him nowhere. He had to see who stood in his way of a successful escape.

He held up the makeshift flag, raised free hand and stepped out onto the road in front of the crushing mill.

The word for peace he knew was paz. So he shouted it several times.

Finally a man opened the main door and slowly limped Onto the road, stopped a few paces away and faced him.

The stranger was tall, with intensely green eyes that never flickered and yet ignored the dozen gunbarrels poking through windows and doorways in his direction. The eyes locked on Ammar only. The black hair was long and wavy, skin weathered a deep copper from long exposure to sun, slightly bushy eyebrows with firm lips fixed in a slight grin-all lent the masculine but not quite handsome face a deceptive look of humorous detachment, with only a trace of cold hardness.

There was a cut in one cheek that oozed blood and a wound on one thigh that was heavily bandaged under the slashed fabric.

The shape might have been lean under the bulky, out-of place ski suit, but Ammar could not e a clear assessment. One hand was bare while the other was gloved and hung loosely beneath one sleeve of the ski jacket.

Three seconds were all Ammar needed to read this devilthree seconds to know he was facing a dangerous man. He searched his mind for the few meager words of Spanish stored there. "Can we talk?" Yes, that would do for openers.

"Podemos hablar?" he shouted.

The suggestion of a grin widened into a casual smile. "Porque no?"

Ammar translated that as Why not? "Hacer capitular usted?"

"Why don't we cut the crap?" Pitt said suddenly in English "Your Spanish is worse than mine. The answer to your question is No, we're not going to surrender."

Ammar was too much a pro not to recover immediately, yet he was confounded by the fact that his adversary wore expensive skiing clothes instead of battle gear. The first possibility that crossed his mind was CIA.

"May I ask your name?"

"Dirk Pitt."

"I am Suleiman Aziz Ammar ,

"I don't really give a damn who you are," Pitt said coldly.

"As you wish, Mr. Pitt," Ammar remarked calmly. Then one of his eyebrows lifted rightly. "You by chance related to Senator George Pitt?"

"I don't travel in political circles."

"But you know him. I can see a resemblance. The son perhaps?"

"Can we get on with this? I had to interrupt a perfectly good champagne brunch to come out here in the rain."

A

I'd like it returned in firstrate condition."

"You're speaking, of course, of one ummarked helicopter."

"Of course."

"Finders keepers. You want it, pal, you come and get it."

Ammar clenched and unclenched his fists impatiently. This was not going as he had hoped. He continued in a silky voice.

"Some of my men will die, you will die, and your father will most likely die if you do not turn it over to me."

Pitt didn't blink. "You forgot to throw in Hala Kamfl and Presidents De Lorenzo and Hasan. And don't neglect to include yourself. No reason you shouldn't fertilize the grass too.

Ammar stared at Pitt, his anger slowly rising.

"I can't believe your stubborn stupidity. What will you gain by more bloodletting?"

"To put the skids under scumbags like you," said pitt harshly. "You want a war, you declare it. But don't sneak around butchering women and children and taking i

"I didn't come out here in the wet to discuss our political differences!" said Ammar, fighting to control his wrath. "Tell me if the helicopter has been damaged."

"Doesn't have a scratch. And I might add that your pilots are still fit to fly. That make you happy?"

"You would be wise to surrender your weapons and Turn over my craft and flight crew."

Pitt shrugged. "Screw you."

Ammar was shaken by his failure to intimidate Pitt. His voice turned abrupt and cold. "How many men do you have, four, perhaps five? We outnumber you eight to one."

Pitt nodded his head at the bodies scattered beside the crushing mill.

"You're going to have to play catch-up ball. The way I see it, you're about nine strikes down on the scoreboard." Then as an afterthought he said, "Before I forget-I give you my word I won't sabotage your chopper.