wary of him. The assassin's habit of talking to Moslem leaders as

though they were mortal equals did not sit well with Yazid. He insisted

that Ammar carry out his death missions under the guarded eye of Ismail.

Ammar had accepted his watchdog without protest. He was a master at the

game of deceit. He quickly reversed Ismail's role into that of a dupe

for his own intelligence purposes.

But the stupidity of Arabs was a constant irritation to Ammar. Cold,

analytical reasoning was beyond them. He shook his head wearily and

then patiently explained the situation to Ismail.

"Events can happen beyond our control. An updraft, a malfunction in the

automatic pilot or altimeters, a sudden change in the wind. A hundred

different variables could have caused the plane to miss the peak. But

all probabilities were considered. The automatic pilot is locked on a

course toward the pole. No more than ninety minutes of air time is

left."

"And if someone discovers the bodies in the cockpit and one of the

passengers knows how to fly?" Ismail persisted.

"The dossiers of all on the plane were carefully examined. None

indicated any pilot experience. Besides, I smashed the radio and

navigation instruments. Anyone attempting to take control will be lost.

No compass, no landmarks to give them a direction. Hala Kamil and her

U.N. bedfellows will vanish in the cold waters of the Arctic sea."

"Is there no hope for survival?" asked Ismad. "None," said Ammar firmly.

"Absolutely none."

Dirk Pitt relaxed and slouched in a swivel chair, stretching out his

legs until his six-foot-three-inch body was on a near horizontal plane.

Then he yawned and ran his hands through a thick mat of wavy black hair.

Pitt was a lean, firm-muscled man in prime physical shape for someone

who didn't run ten miles every day or look upon the exertion and sweat

of bodybuilding as a celestial tonic against old age. His face wore the

tanned, weathered skin of an outdoorsman who preferred the sun to the

fluorescent lighting of an office. His deep green, opaque eyes radiated

a strange combination of warmth and cruelty while his lips seemed

eternally locked in a friendly grin.

He was a smooth article who moved easily among the rich and powerful,

but preferred the company of men and women who drank their liquor

straight up and liked to get their hands dirty.

A product of the Air Force Academy, he was listed on active status with

the rank of Major, although he had been on loan to the National

Underwater & Marine Agency (NUMA) for nearly six years as their Special

Projects Director, Along with Al Giordino, his closest friend since

childhood, he had lived and adventured in every sea, on the surface and

in the depths, encountering in half a decade more wild experiences than

most men would see in ten lifetimes. He had found the vanished

Manhattan Limited express train after swimming through an underground

cavern in New York, salvaged a few passengers before being sent to the