"Cost?"

Pitt limped painfully to the opening and peered inside. "Oh, no," he groaned.

"What is it?" Pat demanded in exasperation.

"The motorcycle," said Pitt. "It crashed into the wine cellar of the hotel restaurant. There must be a hundred broken bottles of vintage wine flowing down a drain in the floor."

6

SHERIFF JAMES EAGAN, JR., was directing the rescue operation at the Paradise Mine when he received the call from his dispatcher informing him that Luis Marquez was being held in custody by the Telluride town marshal's deputies at the New Sheridan hotel for breaking and entering. Eagan was incredulous. How was this possible? Marquez's wife had been adamant in claiming her husband and two others were trapped inside the mine by the avalanche. Against his better judgment, Eagan turned over command of the rescue operation and drove down the mountain to the hotel.

The last thing he expected to find was a mangled motorcycle sitting amid several cases of smashed bottles of wine. His astonishment broadened when he stepped into the hotel's conference room to confront the confessed culprits and found three damp, dirty, and bedraggled people, two men and one woman, one of them wearing a torn and tattered diver's wet suit. All were in handcuffs and in the custody of two deputy marshals, who stood with solemn expressions on their faces. One of them nodded at Pitt.

"This one was carrying an a.r.s.enal."

"You have his weapons?" Eagan asked officially.

The deputy nodded and held up three Para-Ordnance .45-caliber automatics.

Satisfied, Eagan turned his attention to Luis Marquez. "How in h.e.l.l did you get out of the mine and wind up here?" he demanded in complete bewilderment.

"It doesn't matter!" Marquez snapped back. "You and your deputies have got to go down the tunnel. You'll find two dead bodies and a college professor, Dr. Ambrose, who we left guarding a killer."

There was a genuine feeling of skepticism, almost total disbelief, in Sheriff Jim Eagan's mind as he sat down, tipped his chair back on two legs, and pulled a notebook from the breast pocket of his shirt. "Suppose you tell me just what is going on here."

Desperately, Marquez gave a brief account of the cave-in and flooding, Pitt's fortuitous appearance, their escape from the mysterious chamber, the encounter with the three murderers, and their forced entry into the wine cellar of the hotel.

At first the details came slowly, as Marquez fought off the effects of strain and exhaustion. Then his words flowed faster as he sensed Eagan's obvious doubt. Frustration swelled and was replaced by urgency, as Marquez pleaded with Eagan to rescue Tom Ambrose. "Dammit, Jim, stop being stubborn. Get off your b.u.t.t and go see for yourself."

Eagan knew Marquez and respected him as a man of integrity, but his story was too far-fetched to buy without proof. "Black obsidian skulls, indecipherable writings in a chamber carved a thousand feet into the mountain, murderers roaming mine shafts on motorcycles. If what you tell me is true, it will be the three of you who will be under suspicion for murder."

"Mr. Marquez has told you the honest truth," said Pat slowly, speaking for the first time. "Why can't you believe him?"

"And you are?"

"Patricia O'Connell," she said wearily. "I'm with the University of Pennsylvania."

"And what is your reason for being in the mine?"

"My field is ancient languages. I was asked to come to Telluride and decipher the strange inscriptions Mr. Marquez found in his mine."

Eagan studied the woman for a moment. She might have been pretty when attractively dressed and made up. He did not find it easy to believe she was a Ph.D. in ancient languages. Sitting there with her wet, stringy hair and mud-smeared face, she looked like a homeless bag lady.

"All I know for sure," said Eagan slowly, "is that you people destroyed a motorcycle, which might be stolen, and vandalized the wine cellar of the hotel."

"Forget that," pleaded Marquez. "Rescue Dr. Ambrose."

"Only when I'm sure of the facts will I send my men into the mine."

Jim Eagan had been sheriff of San Miguel County for eight years and worked in harmony with the marshals who policed the town of Telluride. Homicides were far and few between in San Miguel County. Law-enforcement problems usually centered around auto accidents, petty theft, drunken fights, vandalism, and drug arrests, usually involving young transients who pa.s.sed through Telluride during the summer season and attended various affairs such as the bluegra.s.s and jazz festivals. Eagan was respected by the citizens of his small but beautifully scenic domain. He was a congenial man, serious in his work, but quick to laugh when having a beer at one of the local watering holes. Of medium height and weight, he often wore a facial expression that could berate and intimidate. One look was generally all it took to cower any suspect he had arrested.

"May I ask you a small favor?" said the bruised and fatigued man in the torn diver's wet suit, who looked as though he had been dragged through the impellers of a water pump.

At first glance, he looked to Eagan to be forty-five, but he was probably a good five years younger than the tanned and craggy face suggested. The sheriff guessed him to be about six feet three inches, weight 185 pounds, give or take. His hair was black and wavy, with a few strands of gray at the temples. The eyebrows were dark and bushy and stretched over eyes that were a vivid green. A straight and narrow nose dropped toward firm lips, with the corners turned up in a slight grin. What bothered Eagan wasn't so much the man's indifferent att.i.tude-he'd known many felons who displayed apathy-but his bemused kind of detached interest. It was obvious that the man across the table was not the least bit impressed with Eagan's dominating tactics.

"Depends," Eagan answered finally, his ballpoint pen poised above a page in the notebook. "Your name?"

"Dirk Pitt."

"And what is your involvement, Mr. Pitt?"

"I'm special projects director for the National Underwater and Marine Agency. I was just pa.s.sing by and thought it might be fun to prospect for gold."

Inwardly, Eagan seethed at being at a disadvantage. "We can do without the humor, Mr. Pitt."

"If I give you a phone number, will you do me the courtesy of calling it?" Pitt's tone was polite, with no trace of hostility.

"You want to speak to an attorney?"

Pitt shook his head. "No, nothing like that. I thought a simple call to confirm my position and presence might be helpful."

Eagan thought a moment, then pa.s.sed his pen and notebook across the table. "Okay, let's have the number."

Pitt wrote it in the sheriff's notebook and handed it back. "It's long distance. You can call collect if you wish."

"You can pay the hotel," Eagan said, with a tight smile.

"You'll be talking to Admiral James Sandecker," said Pitt. "The number is his private line. Give him my name and explain the situation."

Eagan moved to a phone on a nearby desk, asked for an outside line, and dialed the number. After a brief pause, Eagan said, "Admiral Sandecker, this is Sheriff Jim Eagan of San Miguel County, Colorado. I have a problem here concerning a man who claims to work for you. His name is Dirk Pitt." Then Eagan quickly outlined the situation, stating that Pitt would probably be placed under arrest and charged with second-degree criminal trespa.s.s, theft, and vandalism. From that point on, the conversation went downhill, as his face took on a dazed expression that lasted nearly ten minutes. As if talking to G.o.d, he repeated, "Yes, sir," several times. Finally, he hung up and stared at Pitt. "Your boss is a testy b.a.s.t.a.r.d."

Pitt laughed. "He strikes most people that way."

"You have a most impressive history."

"Did he offer to pay for damages?"

Eagan grinned. "He insisted it come out of your salary."

Curious, Pat asked, "What else did the admiral have to say?"

"He said, among other things," Eagan spoke slowly, "that if Mr. Pitt claimed the South won the Civil War, I was to believe him."