Treasure

"In the interests of secrecy he booked passage on a commercial airliner and flew coach class as a tourist on vacation."

"I understand," the President agreed. "If President De Lorenzo learned I sent a personal representative behind his back to make contact with his opposition, he'd take it as an insult and scratch our Arizona conference next week."

"Our primary concern," Nichols assured him.

"Have you been briefed on the U.N. charter crash?" the President asked, suddenly changing tack.

"No, sir," replied Nichols. "My only information is that Hala Kamil survived."

"She and two crew members. The rest died from poison."

"Poison?" Nichols blurted incredulously.

"That's the word from the investigators. They believe the pilot tried to poison everyone on board before parachuting from the plane over Iceland."

"The pilot must have been an imposter."

"We won't know till a body is found, warm or cold."

"Christ, what terrorist movement would have a motive for murdering over fifty U.N. representatives?"

"So far none have claimed credit for the disaster. According to Martin Brogan at CIA, if it is the work of terrorists, they stepped out of character on this one."

"Hala Karnil might have been the target," suggested Nichols. "Akhmad Yazid has sworn to eliminate her."

"We can't ignore the possibility," the President admitted.

"Have the news media gotten wind of it?"

"The story will be all over the papers and TV in the next hour. I saw no reason to hold it back."

"Is there anything you'd like me to do, Mr. President?"

"I'd appreciate it, Dale, if you'd monitor reaction from President De Lorenzo's people. There were eleven delegates and agency representatives from Mexico on the flight. Offer condolences in my name and any cooperation within limits. Oh, yes, you'd better keep Julius Schiller over at the State Department informed so we don't stumble over each other."

"I'll get my staff right on it."

"And let me know the minute you hear from Rivas."

"Yes, Mr. President."

Nichols hung up and forced his attention back to the file. He began to wonder if Topiltzin was somehow co

Nichols was not a detective. He had no talent for coldly dissecting a prime suspect layer by layer until he knew what made the man tick. His academic specialty was in systems projections of international political movements.

Topiltzin was an enigma to him. Hitler had a misguided vision of Aryan supremacy. Driven by religious fervor, Khomeini wanted to return the Middle East to the Muslim fulldamentals of the Dark Ages. Lenin preached a crusade of world Communism.

What was Topiltzin's objective?

A Mexico of the Aztecs? A return to the past? No modern society could function under such archaic rules. Mexico was not a nation to be run on the fantasies of a Don Quixote. There had to be another driving force behind the man. Nichols was conjecturing in a vacuum. He glimpsed Topiltzin only as a caricature, a villain in a cartoon series.

His secretary entered una

"The report you asked for from the CIA-and you have a call on line three."

"Who is it?"

"A James Gerhart," she replied.

"White House security," said Nichols. "Did he say what he wanted?"

"Only that it was urgent."

Nichols became curious. He answered the call. "This is Dale Nichols."

"Jim Gerhart, sir, in charge of-"

"Yes, I know," Nichols interrupted. "Yy'hat's the problem?"

"I think you better come down to the pathology lab at George Washington."

"The University Hospital?"

"Yes, sir."

"What in hell for?"

"I'd rather not say too much over the phone."

"I'm very busy, Mr. Gerhart. You'll have to be more specific."

There was a short silence. "This is a matter concerning you and the President. That's all I can say."

"Can't you at least give me a clue?"

Gerhart ignored the probe. "One of my men is waiting outside your office. He will drive you to the lab. I'll meet you in the waiting room."

"Listen to me, Gerhart-" That was as far as Nichols got when the snarl of the dial tone struck his ear.

The drizzle had turned to rain and Nichols's disposition rrored the dismal weather as he was led through the University Hospital's entrance to the pathology laboratory. He hated the etherlike smells that permeated the halls.

True to his word, Gerhart waited in the anteroom. The two men knew each other by sight and name but had never spoken. Gerhart came forward but made no effort to shake hands.

"Thank you for coming," he said in an official tone.

"Why am I here?" Nichols asked directly.

"for an identification."

Nichols was suddenly flooded with foreboding. "Who?"

"I'd prefer you tell me."

"I don't have the stomach for looking at dead bodies.

"This isn't exactly a body, but you will need a strong stomach."

Nichols shrugged. "All right, let's get it over with."

Gerhart held the door open and guided him down a long corridor and into a room with large white tiles inlaid on the walls and floor. The floor was slightly concave with a drain in its center. A stainless steel table stood in stark solitude in the middle of the room. A white, opaque plastic sheet covered a long object that rose no more than an inch above the surface of the table.

Nichols looked at Gerhart in bewilderment. "What am I supposed to identify?"

Without a word Gerhart lifted the sheet and pulled it away, letting it drop in a crumpled wad on the floor.

Nichols stared at the thing on the table, uncomprehendingAt first he thought it was a paper outline of a man's figure. Then he shuddered as the gory truth struck him. He leaned over the floor drain and threw up.

Gerhart stepped from the room and quickly returned with a folding chair and a towel.

He steered Nichols to the chair and passed him the towel. "Here," he said without sympathy, "use this."

Nichols sat for nearly two minutes, clutching the towel against his face and dry-retching. At last he recovered enough to look up at Gerhart and stammer.

"Good lord . . . that's nothing but .

"Skin," Gerhart finished for him, "flayed human skin."

Nichols forced himself to stare at the grisly thing stretched out on the table.

He was reminded of a deflated balloon. That was the only way he could describe it. An incision had been made from the back of the head down to the ankles, and the skin peeled away from the body like a pelt from an animal. There was a long vertical slit in the chest that had been crudely sewn. The eyes were missing, but the entire denmis was there, including both shriveled hands and feet.

"Can you tell me who you think he might be?" asked Gerhart softly.

Nichols made a conscious effort, but the grotesque, misshapen facial features made it all but impossible. Only the hair seemed vaguely familiar. Yet he knew.

"Guy Rivas," he murmured.

Gerhart said nothing. He took Nichols by the arm and helped him to another room that was comfortably shed with soft chairs and a coffee urn. He poured a cup of coffee and handed it to Nichols.