"They were converted to oil fifty years ago," said Gunn. "The engines are still in remarkable shape. Her cruising speed is twenty miles an hour."
"Don't you mean knots or kilometers?" said Loren.
"Ferryboat speeds are measured in miles," answered Gunn knowledgeably.
"Doesn't look like she's going anywhere," said Pitt. "Not unless you dig her keel out of the muck."
"She'll be floating like a cork by midnight," Gunn assured him. "The tide runs four to five meters in this section of the Gulf."
Though he made a show of disapproval, Pitt already felt great affection toward the old ferry. It was love at first sight. Antique automobiles, aircraft, or boats, anything mechanical that came from the past, fascinated him. Born too late, he often complained, born eighty years too late.
"And the crew?"
"An engineer with one assistant and two deckhands." Gunn paused and gave a wide boyish smile. "I get to man the helm while you and Al cavort around the Gulf in your flying machine."
"Speaking of the helicopter, where have you hidden it?"
"Inside the auto deck," replied Gunn. "Makes it convenient to service it without worrying about the weather. We push it out onto the loading deck for flight operations."
Pitt looked at Giordino. "Have you planned a daily search pattern?"
The stocky Italian shook his head. "I worked out the fuel range and flight times, but left the search pattern for you."
"What sort of time frame are we looking at?"
"Should be able to cover the area in three days."
"Before I forget," said Gunn. "The admiral wants you to contact him first thing in the morning. There's an Iridium phone in the forward pilothouse."
"Why not call him now?" asked Pitt.
Gunn looked at his watch. "We're three hours behind the East Coast. About now he's sitting in the Kennedy Center watching a play."
"Excuse me," interrupted Loren. "May I ask a few questions?"
The men paused and stared at her. Pitt bowed. "You have the floor, Congresswoman."
"The first is where do you plan to park the Pierce Arrow? It doesn't look safe enough around here to leave a hundred-thousand-dollar classic car sitting unattended on a fishing dock."
Gunn looked surprised that she should ask. "Didn't Dirk tell you? The Pierce and the trailer come on board the ferry. There's acres of room inside."
"Is there a bath and shower?"
"As a matter of fact, there are four ladies' restrooms on the upper passenger deck and a shower in the crew's quarters."
"No standing in line for the potty. I like that."
Pitt laughed. "You don't even have to unpack."
"Make believe you're on a Carnival Lines cruise ship," said Giordino humorously.
"And your final question?" inquired Gunn.
"I'm starved," she announced regally. "When do we eat?"
In autumn, the Baja sun has a peculiar radiance, spilling down through a sky of strange brilliant blue-white. This day, there wasn't a cloud to be seen from horizon to horizon. One of the most arid lands in the world, the Baja Peninsula protects the Sea of Cortez from the heavy swells that roll in from the dim reaches of the Pacific Ocean. Tropical storms with high winds are not unknown during the summer months, but near the end of October the prevailing winds turn east to west and generally spare the Gulf from high, choppy swells.
With the Pierce Arrow and its travel trailer safely tied down on the cavernous auto deck, Gunn at the wheel in the pilothouse, and Loren stretched on a lounge chair in a bikini, the ferry moved out of the breakwater harbor and made a wide turn to the south. The old boat presented an impressive sight as black smoke rose from her stack and her paddlewheels pounded the water. The walking beam, shaped like a flattened diamond, rocked up and down, transmitting the power from the engine's huge piston to the shaft that cranked the paddlewheels. There was a rhythm to its motion, almost hypnotic if you stared at it long enough.
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 flash 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.