Inca Gold

  "These evil men you speak of. They are the same ones who sold our sacred idols?"

  "As I suggested, it's very possible."

  Billy Yuma studied him for a moment. "Then we do not have to trouble ourselves with their trespass onto our sacred ground."

  Pitt did not understand. "May I ask why?"

  Reality slowly faded from Billy's face and he seemed to enter a dreamlike state. "Because those who have taken the idols of the sun, moon, earth, and water are cursed and will suffer a terrible death."

  "You really believe that, don't you?"

  "I do," Yuma answered somberly. "In my dreams I see the thieves drowning."

  "Drowning?"

  "Yes, in the water that will make the desert into the garden it was for my ancestors."

  Pitt considered making a contrary reply. He was not one to deposit his money in the bank of dreams.

  He was a confirmed skeptic of the metaphysical. But the intractable gaze in Yuma's eyes, the case-hardened tone of his voice, moved something inside Pitt.

  He began to feel glad that he wasn't related to the Zolars.

  Amaru stepped down into the main sala of the hacienda. One wall of the great room was filled by a large stone fireplace removed from an old Jesuit mission. The high ceiling was decorated with intricate precast plaster panels. "Please excuse me for keeping you waiting, gentlemen."

  "Quite all right," said Zolar. "Now that the fools from NUMA have led us directly to Huascar's gold, we made good use of your tardiness by discussing methods of bringing it to the surface."

  Amaru nodded and looked around the room. There were four men there besides himself. Seated on sofas around the fireplace were Zolar, Oxley, Sarason, and Moore. Their faces were expressionless, but there was no concealing the feeling of triumph in the air.

  "Any word of Dr. Kelsey, the photographer Rodgers, and Albert Giordino?" Sarason inquired.

  "My contacts over the border believe Pitt told you the truth on the ferry when he said he dropped them off at the U.S. Customs compound in Calexico," answered Amaru.

  "He must have smelled a trap," said Moore.

  "That was obvious when he returned to the ferryboat alone," Samson said sharply to Amaru. "You had him in your hands and you let him escape."

  "Not forgetting the crew," added Oxley.

  "I promise you, Pitt did not escape. He was killed when my men and I threw concussion grenades into the water around him. As to the ferryboat's crew, the Mexican police officials you've paid to cooperate will ensure their silence for as long as necessary."

  "Still not good," said Oxley. "With Pitt, Gunn, and Congresswoman Smith gone missing, every federal agent between San Diego and Denver will come nosing around."

  Zolar shook his head. "They have no legal authority down here. And our friends in the local government would never permit their entry."

  Samson looked angrily at Amaru. "You say Pitt's dead. Then where is the body?"

  Amaru stared back nastily. "Pitt is feeding the fishes. Take my word for it."

  "Forgive me if I'm not convinced."

  "There is no way he could have survived the underwater detonations."

  "The man has survived far worse." Sarason walked across the room to a bar and poured himself a drink. "I won't be satisfied until I see the remains."

  "You also botched the scuttling of the ferryboat," Oxley said to Amaru. "You should have sailed her into deep water before opening the seacocks."

  "Or better yet, set her on fire, along with Congresswoman Smith and the deputy director of NUMA,"

  said Zolar, lighting a cigar.

  "Police Comandante Cortina will conduct an investigation and announce that the ferryboat along with Congresswoman Smith and Rudi Gunn was lost in an unfortunate accident," said Sarason.

  Zolar glared at him. "That won't solve the problem of interference from American law enforcement officials. Their Justice Department will demand more than a local investigation if Pitt survives to expose the blundering actions of your friend here."

  "Forget Pitt," Amaru said flatly. "Nobody had a stronger reason for seeing him dead than me."

  Oxley glanced from Amaru to Zolar. "We can't gamble on speculation. No way Cortina can hold off a joint investigation by the Mexican and American governments for more than a few days."

  Sarason shrugged. "Time enough to remove the treasure and be gone."

  Even if Pitt walks out of the sea to tell the truth," said Henry Moore, "it's your word against his. He can't prove your connection with the torture and disappearance of Smith and Gunn. Who would believe a family of respected art dealers was involved with such things? You might arrange for Cortina to accuse Pitt of committing these crimes so he could grab the treasure for himself."

  "I approve of the professor's concept," said Zolar. "Our influential friends in the police and military can easily be persuaded to arrest Pitt if he shows his face in Mexico."

  "So far so good," said Sarason. "But what about our prisoners? Do we eliminate them now or later?"

  "Why not throw them in the river that runs through the treasure cavern?" suggested Amaru.

  "Eventually, what's left of their bodies will probably turn up in the Gulf. By the time the fish get through with them, about all a coroner will be able to determine is that they died from drowning."

  Zolar looked around the room at his brothers and then to Moore who looked oddly uneasy. After a moment he turned to Amaru. "A brilliant scenario. Simple, but brilliant nonetheless. Any objections?"

  There were none.

  "I'll contact Comandante Cortina and brief him on his assignment," Sarason volunteered.

  Zolar waved his cigar and flashed his teeth in a broad smile. "Then it's settled. While Cyrus and Cortina lay a smoke screen for American investigators, the rest of us will pack up and move from the hacienda to Cerro el Capirote and begin retrieving the gold at first light tomorrow."

  One of the hacienda's servants entered and handed Zolar a portable telephone. He listened without replying to the caller. Then he switched off the phone and laughed.

  "Good news, brother?" asked Oxley.

  "Federal agents raided our warehouse facilities again."

  "That's funny?" asked a puzzled Moore.

  "A common occurrence," explained Zolar. "As usual, they came up dry and stood around like idiots with no place to go."

  Sarason finished his drink. "So it's business as usual, and the treasure excavation goes on as scheduled."

  The great room went silent as each man conjured up his own thoughts of what incredible riches they would find under Cerro el Capirote. All except Samson. His mind turned back to the meeting with Pitt on the ferry. He knew it was ridiculous, but it gnawed at his mind that Pitt had claimed to have led him and his brothers to the jackpot. And what did he mean when he said they had been set up?

  Was Pitt merely lying or trying to tell him something, or was it sheer bravado from a man who thought he was going to die? The answers, Sarason decided, were not worth his time to ponder. The warning bells should have been clanging away in the back of his head, but there were more important issues at hand. He swept Pitt from his thoughts.

  He never made a bigger mistake.

  Micki Moore stepped carefully down the steep steps into the cellar beneath the hacienda as she balanced a tray. At the bottom, she approached one of Amaru's thugs who was guarding the door of a small storeroom that held the captives. "Open the door," she demanded.

  "No one is allowed in," muttered the guard unpleasantly.

  "Step aside, you stupid cretin," Micki snarled, "or I'll cut your balls off."

  The guard was startled by the abusive coarseness from an elegant woman. He stepped back a pace. "I have my orders from Tupac Amaru."

  "All I have is food, you idiot. Let me in or I'll scream and swear to Joseph Zolar you raped me and the woman inside."

  He peered at the tray and then gave in, unlocking the door and stepping aside. "You do not tell Tupac of this."

  "Don'
t worry," Micki snapped over her shoulder as she entered the dark and stuffy cubicle. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the dim light. Gunn was lying on the stone floor. He struggled to a sitting position. Loren was standing as if to protect him.

  "Well, well," murmured Loren testily. "This time they sent a woman to do their filthy work."

  Micki pushed the tray into Loren's hands. "Here is some food. Fruit and sandwiches, and four bottles of beer. Take it!" Then she turned and slammed the door shut in the guard's face. When she refaced Loren, her eyes had become more accustomed to the dark. She was stunned at Loren's appearance. She could make out puffy bruises on her lips and around the eyes. Most of Loren's clothing had been torn away and she had knotted what little remained to cover her torso. Micki also saw livid red welts across the top of her breasts and discolorations on her arms and legs. "The bastards!" she hissed. "The no-good sadistic bastards. I'm sorry, if I had known you'd been beaten, I would have brought medical supplies."

  Loren knelt and set the tray on the floor. She gave one of the bottles of beer to Gunn, but his injured hands could not twist off the cap. She removed it for him.

  "Who is our Florence Nightingale?" asked Gunn.

  "I'm Micki Moore. My husband is an anthropologist, and I'm an archaeologist hired by the Zolars."

  "To help them find Huascar's golden treasure?" Gunn rightly guessed.

  "Yes, we deciphered the images--"

  "On the Golden Body Suit of Tiapollo," finished Gunn. "We know all about it."

  Loren didn't speak for a few moments while she ravenously consumed one of the sandwiches and downed a beer. Finally, feeling almost as if she had been reborn, she stared at Micki curiously. "Why are you doing this? To build up our spirits before they come back and use us for punching bags again?"

  "We're not part of your ordeal," Micki replied honestly. "The truth is, Zolar and his brothers are planning to kill my husband and me as soon as they've recovered the treasure."

  "How could you know that?"

  "We've been around people like these before. We have a feel for what's going on."

  "What do they plan on doing with us?" asked Gunn.

  "The Zolars and their bribed cronies with the Mexican police and military intend to make it look as if you drowned while attempting to escape your sinking ferryboat. Their plan is to throw you in the underground river the ancients mentioned that runs through the treasure chamber and empties into the sea. By the time your bodies surface, there won't be enough left to prove otherwise."

  "Sounds feasible," Loren muttered angrily. "I give them credit for that."

  "My God," said Gunn. "They just can't murder a representative of the United States Congress in cold blood."

  "Believe me," said Micki, "these men have no scruples and even less conscience."

  "How come they haven't killed us before now?" asked Loren.

  "Their fear was that your friend Pitt might somehow expose your kidnapping. Now they no longer care. They figure their charade is strong enough to stand against one man's accusations."

  "What about the ferryboat's crew?" asked Loren. "They were witnesses to the piracy."

  "They'll be kept from raising the alarm by local police." Micki hesitated. "I'm sorry to have to tell you why they are no longer concerned about Pitt. Tupac Amaru swears that after you were transported to the hacienda, he and his men crushed Pitt to jelly by throwing concussion grenades at him in the water."

  Loren's violet eyes were grief-stricken. Until now she had harbored a hope Pitt had somehow escaped. Now her heart felt as though it had fallen into the crevasse of a glacier. She sagged against one wall of the stone room and covered her face with her hands.

  Gunn pushed himself to his feet. There was no grief in his eyes, only iron-hard conviction. "Dirk dead?

  Scum like Amaru could never kill a man like Dirk Pitt."

  Micki was startled by the fiery spirit of a man so sorely tortured. "I only know what my husband told me," she said as if apologizing. "Amaru did admit he failed to retrieve Pitt's body, but there was little doubt in his mind that Pitt could not have survived."

  "You say you and your husband are also on Zolar's death list?" asked Loren.

  Micki shrugged. "Yes, we're to be silenced too."

  "If you'll pardon me for saying so," said Gunn, "you seem pretty damned indifferent."

  "My husband also has plans."

  "To escape?"

  "No, Henry and I can break out any time it's convenient. We intend to take a share of the treasure for ourselves."

  Gunn stared at Micki incredulously. Then he said cynically, "Your husband must be one tough anthropologist."

  Perhaps you might better understand if I told you we met and fell in love when working on an assignment together for the Foreign Activities Council."

  "Never heard of it," said Gunn.

  Loren gave Micki a bemused stare. "I have. FAC is rumored to be an obscure and highly secret organization that works behind the scenes in the White House. No one in Congress has ever been able to come up with solid proof of its existence or its financing."

  "What is its function?" asked Gunn.

  "To carry out covert activities under the direct supervision of the President outside the nation's other intelligence services without their knowledge," replied Micki.

  "What kind of activities?"

  "Dirty tricks on foreign nations considered hostile to the United States," replied Loren, studying Micki for some kind of sign. But her expression was aloof and remote. "As a mere member of Congress I'm not privy to their operations and can only speculate. I have a suspicion their primary directive is to carry out assassinations."

  Micki's eyes turned hard and cold. "I freely admit that for twelve years, until we retired from service to devote our time to archaeology, Henry and I had few peers."

  "I'm not surprised," Loren said sarcastically. "By passing yourselves off as scientists, you were never suspected of being the President's hired killers."

  "For your information, Congresswoman Smith, our academic credentials are not counterfeit. Henry has his doctorate from the University of Pennsylvania and I have mine from Stanford. We have no misgivings about the duties we performed under three former Presidents. By eliminating certain heads of foreign terrorist organizations, Henry and I saved more American lives than you can imagine."

  "Who are you working for now?"

  "Ourselves. As I said, we retired. We felt it was time to cash in our expertise. Our government service is a thing of the past. Though we were well paid for our services, we weren't considered for a pension."

  "Tigers aren't known for changing stripes," mocked Gunn. "You can never achieve your objective without killing off Amaru and the Zolars."

  Micki smiled faintly. "We may very well have to do unto them before they can do unto us. But only after enough of Huascar's gold is brought to the surface for us to carry out."

  "So the trail will be littered with bodies."

  Micki passed a weary hand over her face. "Your involvement in the treasure hunt came as a complete surprise to everybody. Stupidly, the Zolars overreacted when they discovered another party was on the trail to the gold. They ran amok, murdering or abducting everyone their greed-crazed minds saw as an obstacle. Consider yourselves lucky they didn't murder you on the ferryboat like your friend Pitt.

  Keeping you alive temporarily is the hallmark of rank amateurs."

  "You and your husband," murmured Loren caustically, "you would have--"

  "Shot you and burned the boat down around your bodies?" Micki shook her head. "Not our style.

  Henry and I have only terminated those foreign nationals who have indiscriminately gunned down unfortunate women and children or blew them to pieces without blinking an eye or shedding a tear. We have never harmed a fellow American, and we don't intend to start now. Despite the fact your presence has hamstrung our operation, we will do everything in our power to help you escape this affair in one piece."

  "The Z
olars are Americans," Loren reminded her.

  Micki shrugged. "A mere technicality. They represent what is perhaps the largest art theft and smuggling ring in history. The Zolars are world-class sharks. Why should I have to tell you? You've experienced their brutality firsthand. By leaving their bones to bleach in the Sonoran Desert, Henry and I figure to save the American taxpayers millions of dollars that would be spent on a complicated and time-consuming investigation into their criminal activities. And then there are the court and prison costs if they're caught and convicted."

  "And once a portion of the treasure is in your hands?" asked Gunn. "What then?"

  Micki smiled like a wily shrew. "I'll send you a postcard from whatever part of the world we're in at the time and let you know how we're spending it."

  A small army of soldiers set up a command post and sealed off the desert for two miles around the base of Cerro el Capirote. No one was allowed in or out. The mountain's peak had become a staging area with all treasure recovery operations conducted from the air. Pitt's stolen NUMA helicopter, repainted with Zolar International colors, lifted into a clear sky and dipped on a course back to the hacienda. A few minutes later, a heavy Mexican army transport helicopter hovered and settled down. A detachment of military engineers in desert combat fatigues jumped to the ground, opened the rear cargo door and began unloading a small forklift, coils of cable, and a large winch.

  Officials of the state of Sonora who were on the Zolars' payroll had approved all the necessary licenses and permits within twenty-four hours, a process that would normally have taken months and perhaps years. The Zolars had promised to fund new schools, roads, and a hospital. Their cash had greased the palms of the local bureaucracy and eliminated the usual rivers of red tape. Full cooperation was given by an unwitting Mexican government misled by corrupt bureaucrats. Joseph Zolar's request for a contingent of engineers from a military base on the Baja Peninsula was quickly approved. Under the terms of a swiftly drawn up contract with the Ministry of the Treasury, the Zolars were entitled to 25