The Lucifer Gospel by Paul Christopher Page A

because there was a ragged hole in the right temple big enough to put a fist inside. Part of the jaw was missing as well, showing off a mouthful of yellow teeth. The tongue had shrunken to a black lump. Lying between the legs of the naturally mummified corpse was a copper urn like the one being gripped by the dead man near the cave entrance. Finn reached into the box and took out the small vase. Like the one in the dead archaeologist’s hands, this one was empty. Hilts began going through the pockets of the brass-buttoned fatigue jacket the corpse was wearing.
    “Looks like a uniform,” said Finn.
    “It is,” Hilts answered. “Italian Desert Forces. No insignia or anything. No rank.”
    “There’s a ring,” said Finn. Gingerly she lifted the right hand. A gold band still shone on the leathery hook of the index finger. It fell off into her palm. “There’s a crest engraved into it.”
    “Five will get you ten it’s Pedrazzi. Hold on.”
    “Find something?”
    “He was a smoker.” Hilts grunted. “Lung cancer would have gotten him if somebody hadn’t blown his head off.” He tossed her a small faded cigarette tin. She could still see the enameled illustration of a reclining woman and the name Fatima.
    Faintly, more a sense of vibration than a sound, Finn heard something in the distance, rising over the moaning of the wind.
    “What’s that?” she asked nervously.
    Hilts paused in his examination and listened, frowning in concentration.
    “Shit!” It was the first time Finn had heard him swear.
    “What?”
    “Chopper.”
    “Adamson?”
    “It’s some kind of gunship.” He ran to the cave entrance and peered out. Finn joined him. She couldn’t see anything except the blowing sand and the old vehicles on the floor of the valley. The sound was getting louder, a deep throbbing tone now. Hilts nodded grimly. “Russian. A Mil-24. It’s the creep in the beret.”
    “Colonel Nasif.”
    “Must be.”
    “What’s he doing here?”
    “I doubt if we’re going to be given the opportunity to ask.”
    “What do we do?”
    “Run.”
     
     
     

16
     
     
    They made it to the ruined Italian Sahariane before the insect-like Russian-built helicopter gunship appeared. The Mil-24 slipped suddenly over the canyon wall like some mechanical horror from a science-fiction film, a hovering steel mantis, twisting beneath its main rotor, searching for its prey, bland in its pale camouflage. It moved into the valley with agonizing slowness, tilted slightly, nose down, swinging left to right.
    “They haven’t seen us,” said Hilts.
    “They must know we’re here; they would have seen the plane,” said Finn. They were crouched together behind the huge fender of the old truck.
    “They know we’re in the valley, but that’s all,” the pilot said, shouting into her ear over the thundering roar of the Mil’s jet engine. “We’ve still got a chance.”
    As the helicopter cruised slowly along above the valley, they moved behind the Sahariane, keeping the bulk of the vehicle between them as a shield. Reaching the rear of the blasted desert vehicle, Finn looked over her shoulder. The entrance to the canyon was at least a hundred feet away; too much exposure.
    “We need a distraction,” she shouted.
    Hilts nodded. He reached into the deep pocket of his fatigue jacket and pulled out one of the old Mills grenades from the cave.
    “Think it’ll work?!”
    “Only one way to find out!” He pulled the pin and waited, keeping the spring lever tightly enclosed in his fist. He waited until the Mil had settled onto the ground, facing away from them, then hurled the baseball-sized grenade. The scored steel fragmentation bomb sailed up and out, the lever spinning away, glinting in the sun as it popped off the side of the grenade.
    “Count to four, then head for the canyon,” Hilts instructed. “I’ll be right behind you!” He pulled a second grenade from his pocket and threw that one as well, aiming for the other side