Inca Gold dp-12 Page 31

Moore squirmed sideways in his seat and peered down. "They don't look promising to me--" He stopped talking and grabbed Sarason's binoculars again. "That island down there."

  "Which one?" queried Sarason irritably. "There are six of them."

  "The one that looks like a floating duck looking backward."

  "Isla Bargo. Fits the profile. Steep walls on three sides, rounded crest. There is also a small beach in the crook of the neck."

  "That's it," Moore said excitedly. "That must be it."

  Oxley was skeptical. "How can you be so sure?"

  A curious look crossed Moore's face for a fleeting instant. "A gut feeling, nothing more."

  Sarason snatched back the glasses and studied the island. "There, on the crown. It looks like something carved in the rock."

  "Don't pay any attention to that," said Moore, wiping a trickle of sweat from his forehead. "It doesn't mean a thing."

  Sarason was no fool. Could it be a signpost cut by the Incas to mark the passageway to the treasure, he wondered in silence.

  Moore sank back in his seat and said nothing.

  "I'll land and taxi to that little beach," said Oxley. "From the air, at least, it looks like a relatively easy climb to the summit."

  Sarason nodded. "Take her down."

  Oxley made two passes over the water off the island's beach, making certain there were no underwater reefs or rocks that could tear out the bottom of the aircraft. He came into the wind and settled the plane on the blue sea, striking the light swells and riding them like a speedboat across a choppy lake. The propellers flashed in the sun as they whipped sheets of spray over the wing.

  The plane quickly slowed from the drag of the water as Oxley eased back on the throttles, keeping just enough power to move the plane toward the beach. Forty-six meters (151 feet) from shore, he extended the wheels into the water. The tires soon touched and gripped the sandy shelf that sloped toward the island. Two minutes later the plane rose from a low surf and rolled onto the beach like a dripping duck.

  Two fishermen wandered over from a small driftwood shack and gawked at the aircraft as Oxley turned off the ignition switches and the propellers swung to a stop. The passenger door opened and Sarason stepped down to the white sand beach, followed by Moore and finally Oxley, who locked and secured the door and cargo hatch. As an added security measure, Samson generously paid the fishermen to guard the plane. Then they set off on a scarcely defined footpath leading to the top of the island.

  At first the trail was an easy hike but then it angled more steeply the closer they came to the summit. Gulls soared over them, squawking and staring down at the sweating humans through indifferent beady eyes. Their flight was majestic as they steered by the feathers in their tails, wings outstretched and motionless to catch the warm updrafts. One particularly curious bird swooped over Moore and splattered his shoulder.

  The anthropologist, appearing to suffer from the effects of alcohol and exertion, stared dumbly at his stained shirt, too tired to curse. Samson, a wide grin on his face, saluted the gull and climbed over a large rock blocking the trail. Then the blue sea came into view and he looked across the channel to the white sand beach of Playa el Coyote and the Sierra el Cardonal mountains beyond.

  Moore had stopped, gasping for air, sweat flowing freely. He looked on the verge of collapse when Oxley grabbed his hand and heaved him onto the flat top of the summit.

  "Didn't anybody ever tell you booze and rock climbing don't mix?"

  Moore ignored him. Then suddenly, the exhaustion washed away and he stiffened. His eyes squinted in drunken concentration. He brushed Oxley aside and stumbled toward a rock the size of a small automobile that was crudely carved in the shape of some animal. Like a drunk who had witnessed a vision, he staggered around the rock sculpture, his hands fluttering over the rough, uneven surface.

  "A dog," he gasped between labored breaths, "it's only a stupid dog."

  "Wrong," said Samson. "A coyote. The namesake of the bay. Superstitious fishermen carved it as a symbol to protect their crews and boats when they go to sea."

  "Why should an old rock carving interest you?" asked Oxley.

  "As an anthropologist, primitive sculptures can be a great source of knowledge."

  Samson was watching Moore, and for once his eyes were no longer filled with distaste. There was no question in his mind that the drunken professor had given away the key to the treasure's location.

  He could kill Moore now, Samson thought icily. Throw the little man over the edge of the island's west palisade into the surf that crashed on the rocks far below. And who would care? The body would probably drift out with the tide and become shark food. Any investigation by local Mexican authorities was doubtful.

  "You realize, of course, that we no longer require your services, don't you, Henry?" It was the first time Sarason had uttered Moore's given name, and there was an unpleasant familiarity about it.

  Moore shook his head and spoke with an icy composure that seemed unnatural under the circumstances. "You'll never do it without me."

  "A pathetic bluff," Samson sneered. "Now that we know we're searching for an island with a sculpture, an ancient one I presume, what more can you possibly contribute to the search?"

  Moore's drunkenness had seemingly melted away, and he abruptly appeared as sober as a judge. "A rock sculpture is only the first of several benchmarks the Incas erected. They all have to be interpreted."

  Samson smiled. It was a cold and evil smile. "You wouldn't lie to me now, would you, Henry? You wouldn't deceive my brother and me into thinking Isla Bargo isn't the treasure site so you can return later on your own and dig it up? I sincerely hope that little plot isn't running through your mind."

  Moore glared at him, simple dislike showing where there should have been fear. "Blow off the top of the island," he said with a shrug, "and see what it gets you. Level it to the waterline. You won't find an ounce of Huascar's treasure, not in a thousand years. Not without someone who knows the secrets of the markers."

  "He may be right," Oxley said quietly. "And if he's lying, we can return and excavate on our own. Either way, we win."

  Sarason smiled bleakly. He could read Henry Moore's thoughts. The anthropologist was playing for time, waiting and scheming to use the ultimate end of the search to somehow claim the riches for himself. But Samson was a schemer too and he had considered every option. At the moment he could see no avenue open for Moore to make a miraculous escape with tons of gold. Certainly not unless Moore had a plan that he had not yet fathomed.

  Leniency and patience, they were the watchwords for now, Samson decided. He patted Moore on the back. "Forgive my frustration. Let's get back to the plane and call it a day. I think we could all use a cool bath, a tall margarita, and a good supper."

  "Amen," said Oxley. "We'll take up tomorrow where we left off today."

  "I knew you'd see the light," said Moore. "I'll show you the way. All you boys have to do is keep the faith."

  When they arrived back at the aircraft, Samson entered first. On a hunch, he picked up Moore's discarded martini shaker and shook a few drops onto his tongue. Water, not gin.

  Sarason silently cursed himself. He had not picked up on how dangerous Moore was. Why would Moore act the role of a drunk if not to lull everyone into thinking he was harmless? He slowly began to comprehend that Henry Moore was not entirely what he seemed. There was more to the famous and respected anthropologist than met the eye, much more.

  As a man who could kill without the slightest remorse, Sarason should have recognized another killer when he saw one.

  Micki Moore stepped out of the blue-tiled swimming pool below the hacienda and stretched out on a lounge chair. She was wearing a red bikini that did very little to conceal her thin form. The sun was warm and she did not dry herself, preferring to let the water drops cling to her body. She glanced up at the main house and motioned to one of the servants to bring her another rum collins. She acted as though she were the mistress of the manor, t
otally disregarding the armed guards who roamed the grounds. Her behavior was hardly in keeping with someone who was being held hostage.

  The hacienda was built around the pool and a large garden filled with a variety of tropical plants. All major rooms had balconies with dramatic views of the sea and the town of Guaymas. She was more than happy to relax around the pool or in her skylit bedroom with its own patio and Jacuzzi while the men flew up and down the Gulf in search of the treasure. She picked up her watch from a small table. Five o'clock. The conniving brothers and her husband would be returning soon. She sighed with pleasure at the thought of another fabulous dinner of local dishes.

  After the servant girl brought the rum collins, Micki drank it down to the ice cubes and settled back for a brief nap. Just before she drifted off, she thought she heard a car drive up the road from town and stop at the front gate of the hacienda.

  When she awoke a short time later, her skin felt cool and she sensed that the sun had passed behind a cloud. But then she opened her eyes, and was startled to see a man standing over her, his shadow thrown across the upper half of her body.

  The eyes that stared at her looked like stagnant black pools. There was no life to them. Even his face seemed incapable of expression. The stranger appeared emaciated, as if he been sick for a long time. Micki shivered as though an icy breeze suddenly swept over her. She thought it odd that he took no notice of her exposed body, but gazed directly into her eyes. She felt as if he were looking inside her.

  "Who are you?" she asked. "Do you work for Mr. Zolar?"

  He did not reply for several seconds. When he spoke, it was with an odd voice with no inflection. "My name is Tupac Amaru."

  And then he turned and walked away.

  Admiral Sandecker stood in front of his desk and held out his hand as Gaskill and Ragsdale were ushered into his office. He gave a friendly smile. "Gentlemen, please take a seat and get comfortable."

  Gaskill looked down at the little man who stood slightly below his shoulders. "Thank you for taking the time to see us."

  "NUMA has worked with Customs and the FBI in the past. Our relations were always based on cordial cooperation."

  "I hope you weren't apprehensive when we asked to meet with you," said Ragsdale.

  "Curious is more like it. Would you like some coffee?"

  Gaskill nodded. "Black for me, thank you."

  "Whatever artificial sweetener that's handy in mine," said Ragsdale.

  Sandecker spoke into his intercom, and then looked up and asked, "Well, gentlemen, what can I do for you?"

  Ragsdale came straight to the point. "We'd like NUMA's help settling a thorny problem dealing with stolen artifacts."

  "A little out of our line," said Sandecker. "Our field is ocean science and engineering."

  Gaskill nodded. "We understand, but it has come to Customs' attention that someone in your agency has smuggled a valuable artifact into the country illegally."

  "That someone was me," Sandecker shot back without batting an eye.

  Ragsdale and Gaskill glanced at each other and shifted uneasily in their chairs. This turn of events was not what they had expected.

  "Are you aware, Admiral, that the United States prohibits the importing of stolen artifacts under a United Nations convention that seeks to protect antiquities worldwide?"

  "I am."

  "And are you also aware, sir, that officials at the Ecuadorian embassy have filed a protest?"

  "As a matter of fact, I instigated the protest."

  Gaskill sighed and visibly relaxed. "I had a feeling in my bones there was more to this than a simple smuggling."

  "I think Mr. Gaskill and I would both appreciate an explanation," said Ragsdale.

  Sandecker paused as his private secretary, Julie Wolff, entered with a tray of coffee cups and set them on the edge of his desk. "Excuse me, Admiral, but Rudi Gunn called from San Felipe to report that he and Al Giordino have landed and are making final preparations for the project."

  "What is Dirk's status?"

  "He's driving and should be somewhere in Texas about now."

  Sandecker turned back to the government agents after Julie had closed the door. "Sorry for the interruption. Where were we?"

  "You were going to tell us why you smuggled a stolen artifact into the United States," said Ragsdale, his face serious.

  The admiral casually opened a box of his cigars and offered them. The agents shook their heads. He leaned back in his desk chair, lit a cigar, and graciously blew a cloud of blue smoke over his shoulder toward an open window. Then he told them the story of Drake's quipu, beginning with the war between the Inca princes and ending with Hiram Yaeger's translation of the coiled strands and their knots.

  "But surely, Admiral," questioned Ragsdale, "you and NUMA don't intend to get into the treasure hunting business?"

  "We most certainly do." Sandecker smiled.

  "I wish you'd explain the Ecuadorian protest," said Gaskill.

  "As insurance. Ecuador is in bitter conflict with an army of peasant rebels in the mountains. Their government officials were not about to allow us to search for the quipu and then take it to the United States for decoding and preservation for fear their people would think they had sold a priceless national treasure to foreigners. By claiming we stole it, they're off the hook. So they agreed to loan the guipu to NUMA for a year. And when we return it with the proper ceremony, they'll be applauded as national heroes."

  "But why NUMA?" Ragsdale persisted. "Why not the Smithsonian or National Geographic?"

  "Because we don't have a proprietary interest. And we're in a better position to keep the search and discovery out of the public eye."

  "But you can't legally keep any of it."

  "Of course not. If it's discovered in the Sea of Cortez, where we believe it lies, Mexico will cry `finders keepers.' Peru will claim original ownership, and the two countries will have to negotiate, thereby assuring the treasures will eventually be displayed in their national museums."

  "And our State Department will get credit for a public relations coup with our good neighbors to the south," added Ragsdale.

  "You said it, sir, not me."

  "Why didn't you notify Customs or the FBI about this?" inquired Gaskill.

  "I informed the President," Sandecker replied matter-of-factly. "If he failed to filter the information from the White House to your agencies, then you'll just have to blame the White House."

  Ragsdale finished his coffee and set the cup on the tray. "You've closed the door on one problem that concerned us all, Admiral. And believe me when I say we are extremely relieved at not having to put you through the hassle of an investigation. Unfortunately, or fortunately, depending on your viewpoint, you've opened the door to another dilemma."

  Gaskill looked at Ragsdale. "The coincidence is nothing short of astonishing."

  "Coincidence?" Sandecker asked curiously.

  "That after almost five hundred years, two vital clues to the mystery of Huascar's treasure surfaced from two different sources within five days of each other."

  Sandecker shrugged. "I'm afraid I don't follow you."

  In turn, Gaskill filled the admiral in on the Golden Body Suit of Tiapollo. He finished by giving a brief summary of the case against Zolar International.

  "Are you telling me that another party is searching for Huascar's treasure at this very minute?" Sandecker asked incredulously.

  Ragsdale nodded. "An international syndicate that deals in art theft, antiquity smuggling, and art forgery with annual profits running into untold millions of untaxed dollars."

  "I had no idea."

  "Regrettably, our government and news media have not seen the benefit in educating the general public on a criminal activity that is second only to the drug trade."

  "In one robbery alone," explained Gaskill, "the dollar estimate of the masterpieces stolen from the Gardner Museum in Boston in April 1990 came to two hundred million."

  "When you throw in the combin
ed theft, smuggling, and forgery operations taking place in nearly every country of the world," Ragsdale continued, "you can understand why we're looking at a billion-dollar industry."

  "The list of art and antiquities stolen over the past hundred years would equal the number of names in the New York phone book," Gaskill emphasized.

  "Who buys such a staggering amount of illegal goods?" asked Sandecker.

  "The demand far exceeds the supply," answered Gaskill. "Wealthy collectors are indirectly responsible for looting because they create a strong market demand. They stand in line to purchase historically significant hot goods from underground dealers. The list of clients reads like a celebrity register. Heads of state, high-level government officials, motion picture personalities, top business leaders, and even curators of major museums who look the other way while negotiating for black market goods to enhance their collections. If they have a buck, they'll buy it."

  "Drug dealers also buy untold amounts of illegal art and antiquities as a fast and easy way of laundering money while building an investment."

  "I can see why unrecorded artifacts are lost in the shuffle," said Sandecker. "But surely famous art paintings and sculptures turn up and are recovered."

  Ragsdale shook his head. "Sometimes we get lucky, and a tip leads us to stolen property. Occasionally honest art dealers or museum curators will call us when they recognize pieces the thieves are trying to sell. All too often missing art remains lost from lack of leads."

  "A tremendous number of antiquities obtained by grave robbers are sold before archaeologists have a chance to study them," Gaskill said. "For example, during the desert war against Iraq in the early nineties, thousands of artifacts, including untranslated clay tablets, jewelry, textiles, glass, pottery, gold and silver coins, and cylinder seals, were plundered from both Kuwaiti and Iraqi museums by anti-Hussein opposition forces and Shiite and Kurdish rebels. Much of it had already passed through dealers and auction houses before any of the pieces could be catalogued as missing or stolen."

  "Hardly seems possible that a collector would pay big money for art he knows damn well belongs to someone else," said Sandecker. "He certainly can't put it on display without risking exposure or arrest. What does he do with it?"