Cabrillo estimated the drum was ten feet tall, and when the bottom of it finally passed over his head it stopped in line with the top of the niche. It had to have hit another small projection from the shaft wall that he had overlooked on his way down. He marveled at the engineering it took to make this work.

He swam out of the niche and looked up. There was a handle on the underside of the float. He grabbed it and tugged. The buoyancy had been so perfectly calculated that he was able to pull the enormous contraption downward a bit. He knew he could get out by tying his lead weight belt to the handle and letting the float settle back to the bottom while he waited in the niche. He assumed that's what the Ronishes had done, only their weight had dropped away. He descended past where the bottom of the shaft had been and sank lower still.

In the exact center of the real floor of the Treasure Pit he found a pile of rocks from the beach. The Ronish brothers' counterweight. The bag that had once held them had long since been dissolved by the Pacific's salt water. The other discovery Juan made was far more intriguing. There was a low tunnel off the main vertical shaft.

Cabrillo entered it, his tanks tapping on the ceiling because the fit was so tight. The tunnel angled up sharply, forcing him to pause several times in order to let the excess nitrogen dissolve out of his system. He checked his air supply. If he didn't dawdle, he'd be okay.

His light suddenly flashed on a reflection above him. He was approaching the surface, though he was still many hundreds of feet belowground. He also estimated that a person could swim from the niche to this point on a single held breath if the tide was low enough.

Juan rose slowly, his arms extended over his head to probe for any unseen obstructions above him. His head emerged in a bedroom-sized grotto with a ceiling about seven feet high. He realized that all of this had to be a natural rock formation, otherwise it would have taken years to excavate.

His light zigged and zagged across the dank stone until settling on an object hanging from the wall.

What the hell is that? Cabrillo asked aloud, his voice muffled by awe and the surrounding rock.

Just above the waterline was a plaque made of some metal. Bronze, he supposed. On it were lines of characters that looked to him like Chinese and the outline of a coast showing a deep bay. He had surmised since the Argentines had shown up at James Ronish's house that the Treasure Pit had nothing to do with an eighteenth-century privateer, but he hadn't expected this. What was Chinese writing doing in this place?

More important, why did anyone else care?

Cabrillo had always known to trust his instincts. They had served him well with the CIA and even better when he formed the Corporation. For reasons unknown, someone had gone to great lengths to hide the plaque and yet made it possible to be found. Their logic eluded him, and he could only hope that the writing would explain their motivations. Juan knew he was onto something, and, while he didn't know what, he felt certain it went far beyond lost blimps and downed satellites.

With the fiber-optic severed, he couldn't use video to record an image of the bronze plaque, so he pulled a small digital camera from a bag tied around his waist and removed it from its waterproof case. He snapped dozens of pictures, the flash searing his eyes after so much time in the pit.

He ducked back under the surface and followed his light as he retraced his way back to the main shaft. He had to force himself not to think about the enigma and concentrate on the dive i nstead.

Once he reached the big floating plug, Juan unclasped his weight belt and buckled it around the handle the Chinese? had left just for that purpose. The mystery of the Treasure Pit went back more than a hundred years, he thought. When had the Chinese been to Washington State long enough to reshape the cave system to suit their needs?

Concentrate, Juan.

With the belt in place, the well-balanced hollow drum began to sink ever so slowly. He pushed himself into the niche and waited for the contraption to sink past him. He helped it along by pressing downward against its flank with his hands. In a few moments, he was clear to make his ascent to the surface. It was awkward without the weight belt, and he had to fight his positive buoyancy, especially at the decompression stops. By the time his head thrust clear of the water, he was sucking on empty tanks.

He stripped off his helmet and gulped the salty air greedily. The sun's angle had changed, and the tiny amount of light filtering down from the surface was a welcome sight. He swept the beam of his torch around, vainly trying to find the tow cable. The implications were too horrible to consider if something had happened to Max. A two-hundred-foot climb without the proper equipment would tax even his abilities. Worse, though, would be losing his best friend.

Juan yelled up the shaft. It didn't feel like he had the lung capacity to throw his voice that far upward. He struggled out of his gear and let the tanks sink into the pit. The dry suit flipped him so he was floating on his back. He shouted again and again. The thought occurred to him that if Hanley had failed, he was calling the Argentines right to him. Not that they wouldn't have figured it out anyway. The fact that he hadn't been sprayed with rifle fire from above boded well that Max had taken care of them.

Hello, a distant voice shouted back.

Max?

No. I am the Argentine Major.

It was Max. Get me out of here! Juan demanded.

One second.

It took a few minutes to lower the cable and a further couple to haul the Chairman out of the Treasure Pit, but it was one of the best rides of his life. When he reached the surface, Max was there to give him a hand as he clambered out of the shaft. He quickly killed the winch so it wouldn't drag Cabrillo across the rocks.

Well, this sure has been an interesting afternoon, Hanley said with nonchalance.

What happened?

They tried to land near the beach, but their pilot got cold feet when I fired off a few clips at him. I got one of them, too. Care to tell me where the hell you've been?

You wouldn't believe it if I did.

Try me.

Cabrillo explained what he had found while they were packing up their gear and driving back to the beach. The last big item in the Ford's cargo area was an inflatable raft and an outboard. While Hanley got it ready for the crossing back to the mainland, Juan used his dive knife to spear the SUV's gas tank. The vehicle had been rented using an untraceable false ID, but there was forensic evidence on the truck so it would have to burn.

They waited on the beach to make sure nothing remained of the Explorer but a charred husk. It took less time to motor to shore and reach the native village of La Push than it did to find a ride back to a good-sized town. They ended up bumming a ride in the cab of a semi transporting a load of timber, which made Juan remember his recent adventure in the Argentine jungle with a nearly identical rig.

THE ROAR OF A BIG diesel engine outside signaled that the Argentines had fired up their snowcat and were leaving Wilson/ George Station. Fifteen minutes had passed since Linda had taken refuge in the ceiling crawl space. Now that she felt confident they had gone, she broke out a chemical heat pad and applied it to her face. She'd managed to keep her toes and fingers from going numb by curling them repetitively in her boots and gloves. However, the apples of her cheeks and her nose were moments away from frost-bite. The pain when sensation started rushing back was excruciating but welcome because it meant there had been no permanent damage.

And since she'd heard no more gunfire, she knew the rest of her team had remained safely hidden.