'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.'
