Treasure dp-9 Read online

  Ismail's henchmen in the second Mercedes didn't pause. Dutifully they plunged after their leader.

  The Cord hurtled across the hard-packed snow like a runaway freight , gaining speed at a terrifying rate. There was no slowing the heavy car.

  Pitt steered with a light touch and feathered the brakes, cautious not to lock them and send the Cord into an uncontrollable spin. A sideways slide down the steep incline would only result in the car's overturning and ending up at the base of the mountain in a scattered trail of metal and broken bodies.

  "Is this a good time to raise the question of seat belts?" asked Giordino with his feet raised and wedged against the dashboard.

  Pitt shook his head. "Not optional equipment in this model."Pitt sensed a tiny bit of luck as the bullet-shredded rubber tore off the rear wheel. Free of the deflated tire, the double edges of the rim gave him a small measure of control as they bit into the icy surface, throwing up fanlike sheets of ice particles.

  The speedometer was hovering at sixty when Pitt saw a field of moguls coming up. Expert skiers found the rounded snow bumps a favorite obstacle course. So did Pitt when he schussed down a slope at that speed. But not now, not playing downhill racer with a weighty 2,120

  kilograms of automobile.

  With a deft touch, he gently nudged the car off to the side of the road where the path ran smooth. He felt as though he were trying to thread a needle with an Olympic bobsled. Subconsciously Pitt tensed himself for the violent shock and crashing impact should he make the slightest wrong move and hurl the car into a tree, smashing everyone to bloody pulp.

  But there was no crushing impact. The Cord somehow shot through the narrow slot, the moguls on one side and the trees on the other flashing by like blurred stage sets.

  As soon as Pitt was on a wide, unobstructed run, he snapped his head around to check the status of his pursuers.

  The driver of the lead Mercedes was savvy. He'd followed in the Cord's tire tracks around the moguls. The second driver either didn't see them or didn't consider them dangerous. He realized his mistake too late and compounded it by throwing the Mercedes wildly from side to side in a desperate effort to dodge the meter-high humps.

  The Arab actually slipped past three or four before he took one head-on.

  The front end dug in and the rear rose up and appeared to hang on a minety-degree angle. The car stood poised there for an instant, and then it flipped end over end as if a child had flipped a short stick. It struck the hard snowpack again and again with the splitting sound of crashing metal and glass, The occupants might have survived if they'd been thrown clear, but the jarring series of impacts had jammed the doors. The car began to disintegrate. The engine tore from its mountings and tumbled crazily into the woods. Wheels, front suspension, rear-drive train, none of it was built to take this destructive tomm-It all wrenched away from the chassis, bouncing in mad gyrations down the hill.

  Pitt could not spare the time to watch the Mercedes cartwheel and crumple into an indistinguishable heap before finally grinding to a halt on its squashed roof in a small ravine.

  "Would it sound gauche," said Giordino for the first time since they plunged off the crest, "if I said, One down?"

  "I wish you wouldn't use that term," Pitt muttered through gritted teeth. "The score is about to escalate." He briefly took one hand from the wheel and motioned ahead.

  Giordino tensed as he observed the ski run fork and merge with another trail crowded with people in vividly colored ski suits. He jerked himself to a standing position by grabbing the remains of the windshield frame, shouting and waving frantically as Pitt laid on the Cord's twill horns.

  The startled skiers turned at the honking and saw the two speeding cars barreling down the ski trail. With seconds to spare, they traversed to the sides and gaped in astonishment as the Cord, with the Mercedes right behind, sped past.

  A ski jump rose from the trail and dropped off a hundred meters away.

  Pitt hardly had time to distinguish the snowy ramp blending in with the hillside. Without hesitation he aimed the radiator ornament at the starting drop-off.

  "You wouldn't?" blurted Giordino.

  "Plan four," Pitt assured him. "Brace yourself. I may lose control. "

  "I thought you've been doing that right along."

  Far smaller than the structures built for Olympic competition, the jump was used only for acrobatic and hot-dog skiing exhibitions. The ramp was wide enough to take the Cord and then some. It extended thirty meters into a concave dip before abruptly ending twenty meters above the ground.

  Pitt lined up on the starting gate, using the Cord's wide body to hide the ski jump from the view of the Mercedes. The tricky part depended on exact timing and a nimble twist of the steering wheel.

  At the last instant, before the front wheels rolled across the starting line, Pitt flicked the steering wheel and spun the Cord's rear end, whipping the car away from the ramp down the ski jump. Alert to the sudden antics of the Cord, Ismail's driver swung to avoid a collision and made a perfect entry through the starting gate.

  As Pitt wrestled the Cord back on a straight path, Giordino looked back at the Mercedes and stared into a face masked with a weird expression of frightened rage. Then it was gone as the car shot down the steep slant out of all control. It should have soared into the sky like a fat bird with no wings. But the rear end broke loose and it slipped on a slight angle, dropping the right wheels off the ramp's side a few meters before the final edge and sending the car spiraling through the air like a well-thrown football.

  The Mercedes must have been hitting close to 120 kilometers when it lifted off. Impelled by tremendous momentum, it twirled through sky for an incredible distance before curving earthward and striking the snowpack with a tremendous impact on its four wheels. As if in slow motion, it bounced and sailed into a tall ponderosa pine, smashing against the thick trunk. The grinding screech of mangled metal split the thin air as the chassis and body wrapped around the tree until the front and rear bumpers met like a pitched horseshoe against a steel stake. Glass exploded like confetti and the bodies inside were twisted and mashed like flies under a swatter.

  Giordino shook his head in wonder. "That's the danmedest sight I've ever seen."

  "More to come," said Pitt. He had straightened out the Cord's wild slide, but there was no slowing its velocity. The brakes had burned out halfway down the slope and the steering tie rod was bent and hanging by a thread. The Cord's path was un stakable. It was heading toward the large ski facility and restaurant building at the base of the chair lifts. All Pitt could do was keep blowing the horns and struggle to avoid skiers too dumb to scramble out of the way.

  The women had watched the destruction of the last Mercedes with morbid curiosity and vast relief. The relief was short-lived. They turned and stared aghast at the rapidly approaching building.

  "Can't we do something?" Hala demanded.

  "I'm open for suggestions," Pitt fired back. tie became quiet as he managed to dodge a ski class made up of young children by careening up a snowbank and curling around them. The main mass of skiers had either heard or witnessed the crash of the Mercedes and were galvanized into action at the sight and sound of the Cord. They quickly moved to the side of the I and stared in utter incomprehension as the Cord rocketed by.

  Warnings of the runaway vehicles had been phoned from the upper end of the chair lift, and ski instructors had cleared most of the crowd away it-from the base area. There was a shallow, frozen pond to the right of the ski center. Pitt hoped to angle in that direction and run onto the ice until it cracked open sinking the car to the running boards and bringing it to an abrupt halt. The only problem was, the onlookers had unwittingly formed a corridor leading to the restaurant.

  "I don't suppose there's a plan five," said Giordino, bracing himself for the collision.

  "Sorry," said Pitt. "We're all sold out."

  Lily and Hala watched, helpless and horror-stricken. Then they dived behind the division be
hind the chauffeur's seat, closed their eyes and clutched each other.

  Pitt stiffened as they struck several long racks holding skis and poles.

  The skis seemed to explode as they were sent flying through the air like toothpicks. for an instant the Cord seemed buried, but then it burst clear and bored up the concrete stairway, missing the restaurant but splintering through the wooden wall of the cocktail lounge.

  The room had been emptied except for the piano player, who sat paralyzed at his keyboard, and a bartender, who elected discretion and frantically took refuge behind the bar just as the Cord exploded into the room and bulldozed its way through a sea of chairs and tables.

  The Cord almost broke ugh the far wall and down a two-story drop.

  Miraculously, its momentum finally spent, the mutilated car stopped short, leaving only its badly distorted front bumper protruding through the wall. The cocktail lounge looked like the recipient of an artillery barrage.

  Except for the hiss of the radiator and the crackling of the overheated engine, an eerie silence filled the room. Pitt had banged his head against the windshield frame and blood was streaming down his face from a cut above the hairline. He looked over at Giordino, who sat staring at the wall as if turned to stone. Pitt turned and stared down at the women behind. They were wearing their best "are we still alive?" look, but seemed none the worse for wear.

  The bartender was still huddled out of sight behind the bar, so Pitt turned to the piano player, who sat in a daze on a three-legged stool.

  He was wearing a derby hat and the cigarette that dangled from the side of his mouth hadn't even lost its ash. His hands were poised above the keys, his body rigid as if he was locked in suspended animation. He stared, shaken, at the bloody apparition who insanely smiled back.

  "Pardon me," sir Pitt asked politely. "Can you play 'Fly Me to the Moon'?"

  October 19, 1991

  Uxmal; Yucatdn

  The stonework on the massive structure reflected an unearthly glow under the battery of multicolored floodlights. Blue dyed the walls of the great pyramid, while orange highlighted the Temple of the Magician on the top. Red spotlights swept up and down the wide staircase, giving the effect of cascading blood. Above, on the roof of the temple, a slender figure stood haloed in white.

  Topiltzin spread his arms and open hands in a divine gesture and stared down at the hundred thousand upraised faces surrounding the temple/pyramid in the ancient Mayan city of Uxmal on the YucatAn peninsula. He ended his speech, as he always did, with a chant in the lilting Aztec tongue. The vast audience picked up the phrases and repeated them in unison.

  "The strength and courage of our nation lies in us who will never be great or wealthy. We starve, we toil for leaders who are less noble and honest than ourselves. There can be no glory or greatness in Mexico until the false government is dead. No longer will we endure slavery.

  The gods are gathering again to sacrifice the corrupt for the decent.

  Their gift is a new civilization. We must accept it."

  As the words died away, the colored lights slowly dimmed until only Topiltzin remained brightly lit. Then the white spotlights blinked out and he was gone.

  Great bonfires were lit, and a truck caravan began handing out boxes of food to the grateful mass of people. Each container held the same amount of flour and canned goods, and a cartoonUe booklet, heavy on illustrations, light on captions. President De Lorenzo and his cabinet ministers were drawn to resemble demons being driven out of Mexico and into the open arms of an evil-looking Uncle Sam by Topiltzin and four major Aztec gods.

  A list of instructions was also included, describing peaceful but effective methods of eroding government influence.

  During the food handout, men and women worked the crowd, recruiting new followers for Topiltzin. The event was staged and oiled with the professionalism of a rock concert organization. Uxmal was only one stop from Toppling the campaign to subvert the government in Mexico City.

  He preached to the masses only at the great stone centers of the past-Teotihuacdn, Monte Albdn, ?"ula and Chichdn It7A. He never appeared in Mexico's modern cities.

  The people cheered Topiltzin and shouted his name. But he no longer heard them. The instant the spotlights went off, his bodyguards hustled him down a ladder on the backside of the pyramid and into a large truck and semitrailer. The engine was started and the truck, led by one car and followed by another slowly wound its way through the crowd until it met the high' way. Then it turned toward the Yucatdn state capital of Mdrida and picked up speed.

  The interior of the trailer was expensively decorated and divided between a conference room and Topiltzin's private living quarters.

  Topiltzin briefly discussed the next day's schedule with his close worshipers. When the meeting broke up, the truck was stopped, and everyone bid him a good night. The two cars collected the weary followers and drove them to hotels in MA-rida.

  Once Topiltzin closed the door and shut off one world, he entered another.

  He removed a feathered headdress and stripped off his white robe, revealing a pair of expensive slacks and a sports shirt underneath. He opened a hidden cabinet, removed a chilled bottle of Schramsberg Blanc de Blanc sparkling wine and swiftly extracted the cork. The first glass was downed for thirst, but the second was slowly savored.

  Relaxed, Topiltzin entered a small cubicle containing communications equipment, punched in a numbered code on a holographic telephone and turned to face the center of the room. He sipped at the California champagne and waited. Slowly an indistinct figure began to materialize in three dimensions. At the same time, Topiltzin was visible thousands of miles away.

  When the details cleared, another man sat on an ottoman couch and stared back at Topiltzin. His complexion was dark, and the thin brushed-back hair gleamed with oil. His eyes had a hard-jeweled gleam. The visitor was dressed in a silk paisley robe over pajamas. He studied Topiltzin's shirt and slacks for a moment and frowned when he noticed the glass in one hand.

  "You live dangerously," he said sternly in American English. "Designer clothing, champagne-next it will be women."

  Topiltzin laughed. "Don't tempt me. Acting like the Pope and wearing a bizan-e costume eighteen hours a day is bad enough without practicing celibacy."

  "I endure the same inconvenience."

  "We both have our own cross to bear," Topiltzin said in a bored tone.

  "Do not get careless so close to success."

  "I don't intend to. None of my people would dare disturb my privacy.

  Whenever I'm alone, they think I'm communicating with the gods."

  The other man smiled. "The routine sounds familiar."

  "Shall we get down to business?" said Topiltzin.

  "All right, what's the status?"

  "The arrangements are sealed. Everyone will be in his place at the right moment. I paid out over ten million pesos in bribes to set up the rendezvous. Once the fools on the take did their job, they were sacrificed, not only to guarantee their silence but also as a warning to those who are waiting to carry out our instructions. "

  "My congratulations. You're very thorough."

  "I leave the cleverness to you."

  There was a friendly silence after this remark, which lasted several moments while both men rested on their thoughts. At last the caller smiled craftily and produced a small brandy snifter from beneath a fold of his gown. "Your health."

  Topiltzin gave a satiric laugh and raised his champagne glass. "To a successful venture."

  The ethereal visitor paused. "A successful venture," he repeated, and then added, "with no snags." After an even longer pause he said pensively, "It will be interesting to see how our efforts alter the fumm."

  The roar of the engines lessened as the uinnarked Beechcraft jet lifted away from Buckley Field outside Denver and rose toward its crusing altitude. The snowcapped rockies fell away behind as the aircraft set its nose across the great plains.

  "The President sends his best wis
hes for a speedy recovery," said Dale Nichols. "He was quite angered when briefed on your ordeal '

  "Madder than hell is a better description," Schiller cut in.

  "Let's say he wasn't happy," Nichols continued. "He asked me to express his apologies for not providing stronger security measures and promised he will do everything within his power to ensure your safety while you remain in the United States."

  "Tell him I'm grateful," Hala replied, "and please beg him for me to give every consideration to the families of the men who died saving my life."

  "They'll be well taken care of," Nichols assured her.

  Hala was lying propped in a bed, wearing a white velour sweatsuit striped in jade with a knit polo collar. Her right ankle was in a plaster cast. She looked at Nichols, then toward Julius Schiller and Senator Pitt, who were all seated opposite her bed. "I'm honored that three such distinguished gentlemen took time from their busy schedules to fly to Colorado and accompany me back to New York."

  "If we can do anything-"

  "You've done much more than any foreigner on your soil could expect."

  "You have the lives of a cat," said Senator Pitt.

  Her lips parted in a slight smile. "I owe two of them to your son. He has a capacity for appearing in the right place when you least expect him."

  "I saw Dirk's old car. It's a miracle you all survived."

  "A truly beautiful machine," Hala sighed. "A pity it was destroyed. "

  Nichols cleared his throat. "If we may touch on the subject of your address to the U.N. tomorrow . . ."

  "Have your people turned up any solid data leading to the Alexandria missing artifacts?" Hala asked sharply.

  Nichols glanced at the Senator and Schiller with the look of a man who suddenly stepped in quicksand. The Senator threw him a rope and gave the reply.

  "We haven't had time to launch a massive search," he said honestly. "We know little more than we did four days ago."

  Nichols began hesitantly. "The President . . . he hoped . . ."