Nichols sat there as if in a nightmare, shocked by the sick sight in the other room. He could not bring himself to grips with the reality of Rivas's horrible death.
Gerhail came back carrying an attached case. He set it on a low table.
'This was dropped off at the mail reception room. The body skin was tightly folded inside. At first I thought it was the work of some psycho. Then I made a thorough search and found a miniature tape recorder mounted beneath the interior lining.'
'You played it?'
'Lot of good it did. Sounds like a conversation between two men in some kind of code.'
'How did you trace Rivas to me?'
'Rivas's government ID card had been placed inside his flayed skin.
Whoever murdered him wanted to make sure we'd put a make on the remains.
I went to Rivas's office and interrogated his secretary. I wormed it out of her that he met with you and the President for two hours before leaving for the airport and a flight to an unknown destination. I thought it unusual that his own secretary didn't know his destination, so I reckoned he'd been sent on a classified mission. That's why I contacted you first.'
Nichols looked at him narrowly. 'You say there's a conversation on the tape?'
Gerhart nodded gravely. 'That and Rivas's screams as he was cut apart.'
Nichols closed his eyes, trying to force the vision from his mind.
'His next of kin will have to be notified,' Gerhart continued. 'He have a wife?'
'And four kids.'
'You know him well?'
'Guy Rivas was a nice man, One of the few people with integrity I've met since coming to Washington. We worked together on several diplomatic missions.'
for the first time Gerhart's stony face went soft. 'I'm sorry. '
Nichols didn't hear him. His eyes slowly turned bitter and cold. The nightmarelike expression had gone. He no longer tasted the vomit or felt sickened by the horror. The brutal savagery inflicted on someone close to him had triggered a floodgate of anger, anger such as Nichols had never known before.
The professor whose scope of power was limited to the walls of a classroom no longer existed. In his place was a man close to the President, one of a small elite group of Washington power brokers with the muscle to shape events or create havoc around the globe.
By whatever means and power that were his in the White House, with or without Presidential favor or official sanction, Nichols was set on avenging the murder of Rivas. Topiltzin had to die.
The small Beechcraft executive jet touched down with a faint squeal from the tires and turned off the crushed- rock runway of a privately owned airport twenty kilometers south of Alexandria, Egypt. Less than a minute after it rolled to a halt beside a green Volvo with TAXI lettered on the doors in English, the whine from the engines ceased and the passenger door raised open.
The man that stepped to the ground was wearing a white suit with matching tie over a dark blue shirt. Slightly under six feet, with a slim body, he paused a moment and dabbed a handkerchief around a receding hairline, and then smugly brushed a large black mustache with one forefinger. His eyes were hidden by dark glasses and his hands covered by white leather gloves.
Suleiman Aziz Ammar did not resemble in the slightest the pilot who had boarded Flight 106 in London.
He walked over to the Volvo and greeted the short, muscular dxiver who emerged from behind the wheel. 'Good morning, Ibn. Find any problems on your return?'
'Your affairs are in good order,' Ibn replied, opening the rear door and making no effort to conceal a pisto shotgun in a shoulder holster.
'Take me to Yazid.'
Ibn nodded silently as Ammar settled into the rear seat.
The exterior of the taxi was as deceptive as Ammar's many disguises. The darkly tinted windows and body panels were bulletproof. Inside, Ammar sat in a low, comfortable leather chair in front of a compact desk cabinet containing a compact array of electronics that included two telephones, a computer, radio transmitter and TV monitor. There were also a bar and a rack with two automatic rifles.
As the car skirted the crowded central section of Alexandria and turned onto the a1-Beach road, Annnar busied himself by monitoring his far-flung investment operations. His wealth, known only to him, was enormous. His financial success was accomplished more by ruthlessness than shrewdness. If any corporate executive or government official stood in Ammar's way on a profitable business deal, he was simply eliminated.
At the end of a twenty-kilometer drive, Ibn slowed the Volvo and stopped at a gate leading up to a small villa squatting on a low hill overlooking a wide sandy beach.
Ammar shut down the computer and stepped from the car. Four guards in desert sand-colored fatigues surrounded him and efficiently searched his clothing. As a backup safeguard he was directed to walk through an airport-type X-ray detector.
He was then led up a stone stairway to the villa past crudely built concrete compounds manned by a small army of Yazid's elite bodyguards.
Ammar smiled as they bypassed the ornate front archway, open to honored visitors, and entered through a small side door. He brushed off the insult, knowing it was Yazid's shallow-minded way of humbling those who did his dirty work but were not accepted to his inner circle of fanatic grovelers.
He was ushered into a stark and empty room furnished with only one wooden stool and a large Persian Kashan carpet that hung from one wall.
