Inca Gold dp-12 Page 34

  While Giordino made a preflight inspection of the helicopter and topped off the fuel tank, Pitt was briefed on the latest developments by Sandecker in Washington over the Motorola Iridium satellite phone. Not until an hour later, as the ferry steamed off Point Estrella, did Pitt switch off the phone and descend to the improvised flight pad on the open forward deck of the ferry. As soon as Pitt was strapped in his seat, Giordino lifted the turquoise NUMA craft off the ferry and set a parallel course along the coastline.

  "What did the old boy have to say before we left the Alhambra?" asked Giordino as he leveled the chopper off at 800 meters (2600 feet). "Did Yaeger turn up any new clues?"

  Pitt was sitting in the copilot's seat and acting as navigator. "Yaeger had no startling revelations. The only information he could add was that he believes the statue of the demon sits directly over the entrance to the passageway leading to the treasure cavern."

  "What about the mysterious river?"

  "He's still in the dark on that one."

  "And Sandecker?"

  "The latest news is that we've been blindsided. Customs and the FBI dropped in out of the blue and informed him that a gang of art thieves is also on the trail of Huascar's treasure. He warned us to keep a sharp eye out for them."

  "We have competition?"

  "A family that oversees a worldwide empire dealing in stolen and forged works of art."

  "What do they call themselves?" asked Giordino.

  "Zolar International."

  Giordino looked blank for a moment, and then he laughed uncontrollably.

  "What's so hilarious?"

  "Zolar," Giordino choked out. "1 remember a dumb kid in the eighth grade who did a corny magician act at school assemblies. He called himself the Great Zolar."

  "From what Sandecker told me," said Pitt, "the guy who heads the organization is nowhere close to dumb. Government agents a mate his annual illicit take in excess of eighty million dollars. A tidy sum when you consider the IRS is shut out of the profits."

  "Okay, so he isn't the nerdy kid I knew in school. How close do the Feds think Zolar is to the treasure?"

  "They think he has better directions than we do."

  "I'm willing to bet my Thanksgiving turkey we find the site first."

  "Either way, you'd lose."

  Giordino turned and looked at him. "Care to let your old buddy in on the rationale?"

  "If we hit the jackpot ahead of them, we're supposed to fade into the landscape and let them scoop up the loot."

  "Give it up?" Giordino was incredulous.

  "Those are the orders," said Pitt, resentment written in his eyes.

  "But why?" demanded Giordino. "What great wisdom does our benevolent government see in making criminals rich?"

  "So Customs and the FBI can trail and trap them into an indictment and eventual conviction for some pretty heavy crimes."

  "I can't say this sort of justice appeals to me. Will the taxpayers be notified of the windfall?"

  "Probably not, any more than they were told about the Spanish gold the army removed from Victorio Peak in New Mexico after it was discovered by a group of civilians in the nineteen thirties."

  "We live in a sordid, unrelenting world," Giordino observed poetically.

  Pitt motioned toward the rising sun. "Come around on an approximate heading of one-one-o degrees."

  Giordino took note of the eastern heading. "You want to check out the other side of the Gulf on the first run?"

  "Only four islands have the geological features similar to what we're looking for. But you know I like launching the search on the outer perimeters of our grid and then working back toward the more promising targets."

  Giordino grinned. "Any sane man would begin in the center."

  "Didn't you know?" Pitt came back. "The village idiot has all the fun."

  It had been a long four days of searching. Oxley was discouraged, Sarason oddly complacent, while Moore was baffled. They had flown over every island in the Sea of Cortez that had the correct geological formations. Several displayed features on their peaks that suggested man-made rock carvings. But low altitude reconnaissance and strenuous climbs up steep palisades to verify the rock structures up close revealed configurations that appeared as sculpted beasts only in their imaginations.

  Moore was no longer the arrogant academic. He was plainly baffled. The rock carving had to exist on an island in an inland sea. The pictographs on the golden mummy suit were distinct, and there was no mistaking the directions in his translation. For a man so cocksure of himself, the failure was maddening.

  Moore was also puzzled by Sarason's sudden change in attitude. The bastard, Moore mused, no longer displayed animosity or anger. Those strange almost colorless eyes always seemed to be in a constant state of observation, never losing their intensity. Moore knew whenever he gazed into them that he was facing a man who was no stranger to death.

  Moore was becoming increasingly uneasy. The balance of power had shifted. His edge was dulled now he was certain that Sarason saw beyond his credentials as an insolent schoolteacher. If he had recognized the killer instinct in Sarason, it stood to reason Sarason had identified it in him too.

  But there was a small measure of satisfaction. Sarason was not clairvoyant. He could not have known, nor did any man alive know except the President of the United States, that Professor Henry Moore, respected anthropologist, and his equally respected archaeologist wife, Micki were experts in carrying out assassinations of foreign terrorist leaders. With their academic credentials they easily traveled in and out of foreign countries as consultants on archaeological projects. Interestingly, the CIA was in total ignorance of their actions. Their assignments came directly from an obscure agency calling itself the Foreign Activities Council that operated out of a small basement room under the White House.

  Moore shifted restlessly in his seat and studied a chart of the Gulf. Finally he said, "Something is very, very wrong."

  Oxley looked at his watch. "Five o'clock. I prefer to land in daylight. We might as well call it a day."

  Sarason's expressionless gaze rested on the empty horizon ahead. Untypically, he acted relaxed and quiet. He offered no comment.

  "It's got to be here, "Moore said, examining the islands he had crossed out on his chart as if he had flunked a test.

  "I have an unpleasant feeling we might have flown right by it," said Oxley.

  Now that he saw Moore in a different light, Sarason viewed him with the respect one adversary has for another. He also realized that despite his slim frame, the professor was strong and quick. Struggling up the rocky walls of promising islands, gasping from aggravated exhaustion and playing drunk, was nothing more than an act. On two occasions, Moore leaped over a fissure with the agility of a mountain goat. On another, with seemingly little effort, he cast aside a boulder blocking his path that easily equaled his weight.

  Sarason said, "Perhaps the Inca sculpture we're looking for was destroyed."

  In the rear seat of the seaplane Moore shook his head. "No, I'd have recognized the pieces."

  "Suppose it was moved? It wouldn't be the first time an ancient sculpture was relocated to a museum for display."

  "If Mexican archaeologists had taken a massive rock carving and set it up for exhibit," said Moore doggedly, "I'd have known about it."

  "Then how do you explain that it is not where it is supposed to be?"

  "I can't," Moore admitted. "As soon as we land back at the hacienda, I'll review my notes. There must be a seemingly insignificant clue that I missed in my translation of the golden suit."

  "I trust you will find it before tomorrow morning," Sarason said dryly.

  Oxley fought the urge to doze off. He had been at the controls since nine o'clock in the morning and his neck was stiff with weariness. He held the control column between his knees and poured himself a cup of coffee from a thermos. He took a swallow and made a face. It was not only cold but tasted as strong as battery acid. Suddenly, his eye caught a f
lash of green from under a cloud. He pointed out the window to the right of the Baffin flying boat.

  "Don't see many helicopters in this part of the Gulf," he said casually.

  Sarason didn't bother to look. "Must be a Mexican navy patrol plane."

  "No doubt looking for a drunken fisherman with a broken engine," added Moore.

  Oxley shook his head. "I can't ever recall seeing a turquoise military aircraft."

  Sarason looked up, startled. "Turquoise? Can you make out its markings?"

  Oxley lifted the binoculars and peered through the windscreen. "American."

  "A Drug Enforcement Agency patrol working with Mexican authorities, probably."

  "No, it belongs to National Underwater and Marine Agency. I wonder what they're doing in the Gulf?"

  "They conduct ocean surveys all over the world," said Moore unconcernedly.

  Sarason stiffened as though he'd been shot. "Two scum from NUMA wrecked our operation in Peru."

  "Hardly seems likely there's a connection," said Oxley.

  "What operation did NUMA wreck in Peru?" asked Moore, sniffing the air.

  "They stepped outside their jurisdiction," answered Sarason vaguely.

  "I'd like to hear about it sometime."

  "Not a subject that concerns you," Sarason said, brushing him off. "How many people in the craft?"

  "Looks like a model that seats four," replied Oxley, "but I only see a pilot and one passenger."

  "Are they approaching or headed away?"

  "The pilot has turned onto a converging course that will cross about two hundred meters above us."

  "Can you ascend and turn with him?" asked Sarason. "I want a closer look."

  "Since aviation authorities can't take away a license I never applied for--" Oxley smiled-- "I'll put you in the pilot's lap."

  "Is that safe?" Moore asked.

  Oxley grinned. "Depends on the other pilot."

  Sarason took the binoculars and peered at the turquoise helicopter. This was a different model from the one that had landed at the sacrificial well. That one had a shorter fuselage and landing skids. This one had retractable landing gear. But there was no mistaking the color scheme and markings. He told himself it was ridiculous to think the men in the approaching helicopter could possibly be the same ones who appeared out of nowhere in the Andes.

  He trained the binoculars on the helicopter's cockpit. In another few seconds he would be able to discern the faces inside. For some strange, inexplicable reason his calm began to crack and he felt his nerves tighten.

  "What do you think?" asked Giordino. "Could they be the ones?"

  "They could be." Pitt stared through a pair of naval glasses at the amphibian seaplane flying on a diagonal course below the helicopter. "After watching the pilot circle Estanque Island for fifteen minutes as if he were looking for something on the peak, I think it's safe to say we've met up with our competition."

  "According to Sandecker, they launched their search two days ahead of us," said Giordino. "Since they're still taking in the sights, they can't have experienced any success either."

  Pitt smiled. "Sort of gladdens the heart, doesn't it?"

  "If they can't find it, and we can't find it, then the Incas must have sold us a wagon load of hocus pocus."

  "I don't think so. Stop and consider. There are two different search efforts in the same area, but as far as we know both teams are using two unrelated sets of instructions. We have the Inca quipu while they're following the engravings on a golden mummy suit. At the worst, our separate sets of clues would have led us to different locations. No, the ancients haven't misled us. The treasure is out there. We simply haven't looked in the right place."

  Giordino always marveled that Pitt could sit for hours analyzing charts, studying instruments, mentally recording every ship on the sea below, the geology of the offshore islands, and every variance of the wind without the slightest sign of fatigue, his concentration always focused. He had to suffer the same muscle aches, joint stiffness, and nervous stress that plagued Giordino, but he gave no indication of discomfort. In truth, Pitt felt every ache and pain, but he could shut it all from his mind and keep going as strongly as when he started in the morning.

  "Between their coverage and ours," said Giordino, "we must have exhausted every island that comes anywhere close to the right geological features."

  "I agree," said Pitt thoughtfully. "But I'm convinced we're all on the right playing field."

  "Then where is it? Where in hell is that damned demon?"

  Pitt motioned down at the sea. "Sitting somewhere down there. Right where it's been for almost five hundred years. Thumbing its nose at us."

  Giordino pointed at the other aircraft. "Our search buddies are climbing up to check us out. You want me to ditch them?"

  "No point. Their airspeed is a good eighty kilometers per hour faster than ours. Maintain a steady course toward the ferry and act innocent."

  "Nice-looking Baffin seaplane," said Giordino. "You don't see them except in the North Canadian lake country."

  "He's moving in a bit close for a passing stranger, wouldn't you say?"

  "Either he's being neighborly or he wants to read our name tags."

  Pitt stared through the binoculars at the cockpit of the plane that was now flying alongside the NUMA helicopter no more than 50 meters (164 feet) away.

  "What do you see?" asked Giordino, minding his flying.

  "Some guy staring back at me through binoculars," replied Pitt with a grin.

  "Maybe we should call them up and invite them over for ajar of Grey Poupon mustard."

  The passenger in the seaplane dropped his glasses for a moment to massage his eyes before resuming his inspection. Pitt pressed his elbows against his body to steady his view. When he lowered the binoculars, he was no longer smiling.

  "An old friend from Peru," he said in cold surprise.

  Giordino turned and looked at Pitt curiously. "Old friend?"

  "Dr. Steve Miller's imposter come back to haunt us."

  Pitt's smile returned, and it was hideously diabolic. Then he waved.

  If Pitt was surprised at the unexpected confrontation, Sarason was stunned. "You!" he gasped.

  "What did you say?" asked Oxley.

  His senses reeling at seeing the man who had caused him so much grief, uncertain if this was a trick of his mind, Sarason refocused the binoculars and examined the devil that was grinning fiendishly and waving slowly like a mourner at graveside bidding goodbye to the departed. A slight shift of the binoculars and all color drained from his face as he recognized Giordino as the pilot.

  "The men in that helicopter," he said, his voice thick, "are the same two who wreaked havoc on our operation in Peru."

  Oxley looked unconvinced. "Think of the odds, brother. Are you certain?"

  "It's them, there can be no others. Their faces are burned in my memory. They cost our family millions of dollars in artifacts that were later seized by Peruvian government archaeologists."

  Moore was listening intently. "Why are they here?"

  "The same purpose we are. Someone must have leaked information on our project." He turned and glared at Moore. "Perhaps the good professor has friends at NUMA?"

  "My only connection with the government is on April fifteenth when I file my income tax return," Moore said testily. "Whoever they are, they're no friends of mine."

  Oxley remained dubious. "Henry's right. Impossible for him to have made outside contact. Our security is too tight. Your assertion might make more sense to me if they were Customs officials, not scientists or engineers from an oceanographic research agency."

  "No. I swear it's the same men who appeared out of nowhere and rescued the archaeologist and photographer from the sacred well. Their names are Dirk Pitt and Al Giordino. Pitt is the most dangerous of the two. He was the one who killed my men and emasculated Tupac Amaru. We must follow them and find out where they're operating from."

  "I have only enough fuel to
make it back to Guaymas," said Oxley. "We'll have to let them go."

  "Force them down, force them to crash," Sarason demanded.

  Oxley shook his head. "If they're as dangerous as you suggest, they may well be armed, and we're not. Relax, brother, we'll meet up with them again."

  "They're scavengers, using NUMA as a cover to beat us to the treasure."

  "Think what you're saying," snapped Moore. "It is absolutely impossible for them to know where to search. My wife and I were the only ones ever to decode the images on the golden mummy suit. Either this has to be a coincidence or you're hallucinating."

  "As my brother can tell you," said Sarason coldly, "I am not one to hallucinate."

  "A couple of NUMA underwater freaks who roam the world fighting evil," muttered Moore sharply. "You'd better lay off the mescal."

  Sarason did not hear Moore. The thought of Amaru triggered something inside Sarason. He slowly regained control, the initial shock replaced by malevolence. He could not wait to unleash the mad dog from the Andes.

  "This time," he murmured nastily, "they will be the ones who pay."

  Joseph Zolar had finally arrived in his jet and was waiting in the dining room of the hacienda with Micki Moore when the searchers entered wearily and sat down. "I guess I don't have to ask if you've found anything. The look on your faces reflects defeat."

  "We'll find it," said Oxley through a yawn. "The demon has to be out there somewhere."

  "I'm not as confident," muttered Moore, reaching for a glass of chilled chardonnay. "We've almost run out of islands to search."

  Sarason came over and gave Zolar a brotherly pat on both shoulders. "We expected you three days ago."

  "I was delayed. A transaction that netted us one million two hundred thousand Swiss francs."

  "A dealer?"

  "A collector. A Saudi sheik."

  "How did the Vincente deal go?"

  "Sold him the entire lot, with the exception of those damned Indian ceremonial idols. For some inexplicable reason, they scared the hell out of him."