life in his mind. He'd already pictured himself on the covers of most of

the archaeology magazines; now he was formulating an acceptance

speech for what, in his mind at least, was something akin to the Academy

Awards of archaeology.

This find was huge, like the modern-day opening of a pyramid, like

finding an untouched, perfectly preserved shipwreck. Magazine articles,

books, television shows loomed. If Ackerman played his cards right, he

could ride this find into a lifelong career. He could become the acknowledged

grandmaster of archaeology, the man the media always called for

comment. He could become a celebrity-and nowadays that was a career

in and of itself. With just a little manipulation, the name John Ackerman

would be synonymous with great discovery.

Then his computer chirped to report an incoming message.

The message was succinct.

Don't tell anyone yet. We need more proof before the announcement.

I'm sending a man up there to check it out. He

will arrive in a day or two. Just continue documenting the find.

Super work, John. But mum's the word.

34 CLIVE CUSSLER

At first reading Ackerman was irritated by the message. Then he reflected

and was able to convince himself that his benefactor was probably

taking the time to build a media storm for the find. Maybe he was

planning to give one of the major networks an exclusive and needed time

to set up the interview. Maybe he was planning a simultaneous blitz of

magazines, newspapers and television.

Soon Ackerman was awash with these thoughts and his ego started

to run wild.

The larger the shower of publicity, the greater his future fame.

For Ackerman, ego tinged with self-aggrandizing would prove a

deadly combination.

4

SOMETIMES IT IS better to be lucky than smart. High atop a hotel in a

city know for risk takers, a middle-aged man named Halifax Hickman

stared at the digital pictures on the computer and smiled. Reading a separate

report he had printed out a few hours before, he did a few calculations

on a pad of paper then stared at the images again. Unbelievable. The

solution to his problem had arrived-and it had come with a tax write-off

for the donation.

It was as if he had slid a quarter in a slot machine and hit a milliondollar

jackpot.

Hickman started laughing-but it was not a laugh of happiness. The

laugh was evil and came from a place without joy. Tinged in revenge and

shaded by hatred, it rose from a recess deep in the man's soul.

When the laugh had subsided, he reached for the telephone and dialed.

CLAY HUGHES LIVED in the mountains north of Missoula, Montana,

in a cabin he'd built himself, on a plot of land 160 acres in size that he

36 CLIVE CUSSLER ^ SACRED STONE 37

owned free and clear. A hot springs on his property provided heat for papers. Hughes was nothing if not paranoid. He hoisted the bag onto his