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Pitt turned to the rear of the hill and looked questioningly toward the many kilometers of dark, open country. "March where?"
Topiltzin ignored the remark. "You can begin with your name, your title and function in the American bureaucracy."
"My name is Dirk Pitt. My title is Mister Pitt. My function is United States taxpayer, and you can go straight to hell."
Topiltzin's eyes blazed darkly. "Men have died horribly for showing disrespect to one who speaks directly to the gods."
Pitt smiled with the bored unconcern of the devil being threatened by a television evangelist. "If we have to talk, let's cut out the hype and hot air. You've misled the poor of Mexico with stage gimmicks while promising them new lifestyles over the rainbow you can't possibly deliver. You're a fraud; from top to bottom you're a fraud. So don't talk down to me. I'm not one of your garbage pickers. I'm not impressed with criminal scum like Robert Capesterre."
Capesterre opened his mouth, then snapped it shut. He took a step backward, surprise showing in his eyes, unable to fully believe what he'd heard.
Seconds passed while he stared at Pitt. At last he spoke in a hoarse whisper. "How much do you know?"
"Enough," Pitt replied casuaily- "the Capesterre family and their shiny business are the talk of Washington. Champagne corks popped all over the White House when word came in about Your grease-head brother, the one who he's a Muslim prophet. Poetic justice, him getting killed by the terrorist who ordered him to hijack the Lady Flamborough and murder the passengers.
"My brother ' Capesterre could not spit out the word "dead."
"I don't believe you."
"You didn't know?" Pitt asked, mildly surprised. "I talked to him less than twenty-four hours ago," Topilwn said adamantly. "Paul . . . Akhmad Yazid is alive and well."
"A corpse is not one of his better imitations."
"What do you or your government hope to gain by these games?"
Pitt stared at Capesterre coldly. "I'm glad you brought that up. The idea here is to save the Alexandria Library and we can't very well do that if you unleash your groupies inside the depository chamber. They'll steal whatever they can to buy or trade for food, and destroy books and what they don't value."
"You alone can stop them!"
"My followers do what I command."
"The books and artworks have to be catalogued and surveyed by Archeologists."
"I do not have to allow anything, Mr. Pitt. There will be no concessions."
"Your military wouldn't turn my people back at the river, therefore the treasure is mine.
If any attempt is made to stop our removal of the treasure to Mexico, I shall order it all burned and destroyed."
"I have to give you credit, Capesterre," Pitt muttered in disgust. "You think big. A pity you're allowed to run loose. You could make up a fifth Napoleon for a poker game in an asylum."
Irritation flickered at the edge of Capesterre's eyes. "Goodbye, Mr.
Pitt. My patience is exhausted. I will genuinely enjoy sacrificing you to the gods and sending your flayed skin to the White House."
"Forgive me for not having any decorative tattoos."
Capesterre found Pitts free-and-my indifference unnerving. No one had ever talked down to him before. He turned and raised a hand toward the hushed mass of people.
"Don't you think you should inventory your new wealth before you Turn it over to them?" Pitt asked. "Especially Alexander's golden casket."
Capesterre's hand slowly dropped. There was a flush at his temples.
"What are you saying? Alexander's casket exists?"
"And so do his remains." Pitt motioned toward the excavated runnel.
"Would you like a guided tour before you throw open the storage chamber to your adoring public?"
